 
### RABBI SOUL

CREATED BY

RON L. ROLLINS

Copyright © 2018 Ron L. Rollins

All rights reserved.

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# ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First, I must thank GOD for having enough faith in me to finish what I started. For my beloved Pajet, the center of my heart. I dedicate this to you for believing in me. Paige and Peyton, the left and right side of my heart, Daddy lives and breathes for you two... I love you more. Mother, I thank you for allowing me to be a dreamer; you never pulled me down from the clouds. Instead, you would only smile as I pretended to be the brave Prince racing in to save his Queen and her kingdom. Thank you and your King, "Pops". No better older brother exists than mine. Kermit Solomon, you always told me that I was different. You always wanted me to be better. I hope this makes you proud Big Brother. For the breeze that joined my grandmother and I as our chairs rocked away another marvelous afternoon on the porch in Martha's Vineyard. My grandmother in her infinite wisdom said. "Son, write the book, and I don't want to hear another word about it until you do." This is for you Mama Jack. I pray that you always feel the soft caress of a Vineyard breeze. This book has been a labor of love. It would be a loss if I did not thank my small circle of friends and family. Rob and Ronnie, you guys never once doubted me. You said it's taking you forever to finish, but you never doubted I would. Stan thanks for reading the first draft; I'm sure that it was a very challenging task. Piper, just keep smiling and we will all be just fine. Mr. and Mrs. Cannon (Mom and Dad) what can I say? I love you guys. You too Shane. Kendall Mills. I thank you for your time and your expertise, but most importantly, I thank you for the wonderful spirit you brought to accompany me on this dream. You're the best. What is life without family? I proudly dedicate this story to all my family. It's funny, I almost lost sight of this book on many occasions, but it burned inside my heart, yearning for its freedom and by God's grace here it is. Ladies and Gentlemen, without further ado, I give you... RABBI SOUL

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

"Folks say that God took paper and traced Rabbi's face, and then upon my body this work of art was placed."

\- Jason Goodman

### FOR LOVE

### FOR LIFE

### WE DREAM

#

### INTRO

"Can you spare some change?" Humbled by life's failures, his head remains bowed as he extends his hand with hope. He grasps at my sleeve as I push forward. I pull away to remain on task. Suddenly, the elderly man looks up and through recognition, the lights power up in his eyes. His mouth opens as his silver tongue releases words captured by my unwelcoming ears. "For a second I thought I'd seen his ghost! It's uncanny, simply uncanny."

It was then that I recognized this man to be none other than my grandfather's dear friend, Teardrop.

"The thing is, your grandpa Rabbi always looked after me even if it meant great sacrifice. You know... I was kind of hoping that you would do the same." Teardrop showcased a toothless, yet pleasant smile.

Through his street presentation, I couldn't help but to notice the countless storied lines and expressions about his face. Time can alter a man, distorting his priorities and bending predestined realities. These days for Teardrop, a bottle of cheap whiskey a day kept the demons at bay.

Born Alex Lansing in a small town forty-five miles north of Chicago Illinois, Teardrop is one of three remaining survivors of the "Legendary Goodman Boys," my late grandfather's gang. My grand old man was once referred to as Chicago royalty around these parts. A title bestowed upon him in part from the various connections and large profits he amounted. In short, grandpa Rabbi was one of the first self made men around these parts, during a time where few in the area were capable of prosperity. His very blood was a purified mixture of oil and water, a gift to this world brought about by forbidden love; within a country that ridiculed the cultural status of both his father and mother.

My great-grandfather, Sid Goodman, saved each day's earnings for five years time, while living the most meager of existence, so that he could achieve his life's dream of going to the Americas. Sid eventually bought passage on a trade ship set out from the old country, in search of all that inspired that dream. He would have a good Jewish life favorable within the eyes of God. A good home filled with good, loving Jewish children, raised wholeheartedly by a good Jewish wife. Sid came to realize his dream, and in doing so learned the infinite boundaries of love. He fell into eternity with a beautiful, loving woman named Jessica Riley, the granddaughter of a slave. After three years of marital bliss, she gave birth to a miracle child- Johnny Goodman...AKA Rabbi.

Rabbi and Teardrop were inseparable. Old stories traveled about the neighborhood would often reference them as legends...On a good day. As legend would have it, on a particular eve inside a rural town located just outside of Chicago, young Johnny was racing home for dinner when the sound of human screams froze him in his tracks. Curious by nature, he advanced toward its origination. There, through the brush before him, stood five human figures dressed in all white, from the hoods covering their forbidden faces to their ankle high, mud ridden bootstraps. Two silent figures holding fire breathing sticks stood to the rear, while the remaining three each held rifles horizontally pointed at two adults. One, a brown skinned male dipped in red, until burgundy tinted his flesh. The other, a beautiful fire skin toned female. Blindfolded, they sat bareback and bound tightly on top a midnight steed. While Johnny examined the scene more closely, the haunting sight he was presently cursed to witness began etching itself into his evermore nightmares. From each of their necks extended individual ropes, lassoed securely around the large tree branch stabbing at the night sky high above them.

Suddenly the female spoke, her voice the very epitome of fear.

"Please don't harm my son...Please!"

It was only then that Johnny noticed in the dirt, tied at the hands, lay the skinniest kid he ever gave sight. Instantly he felt that poor boy's strife. There came a brief and awkward silence, abruptly pushed aside by the thunderous roar of three rifles simultaneously shooting for the stars. The horse, startled by the thunder from the black cannons, galloped off into the night's embrace. The world spun swiftly, spilling red upon her earth. The female stronger in bond with her child spoke miraculously through her inevitable ending.

"Run Alex, flee son, and don't you stop!"

With great difficulty, yet still within her final breath she requested that he not cry, not ever. Only run.

Alex didn't look back as his mother and father became motionless in the Illinois wind. Like a rabbit being pursued by a fox, the young boy dashed into the woods. Johnny knew he had to help. Familiar with the area he headed the boy off and tackled him. The boy's screams were relentless; everything his heart once beat for was no more.

"Be quiet, boy! They'll hear you!" Johnny embraced Alex's frail frame.

Alex could not silence himself; the love loss continued to overwhelm his senses, dominating his ability to rationalize the situation. He continued to both cry and scream, until Johnny laid down a smack across his right cheek. Johnny bound him to the ground and in doing so repeated the words of the boy's brave mother to him.

"Don't cry...you hear! Don't you shed one teardrop!"

Thus, on the darkest of nights, my grandfather, Rabbi not only met his forever friend, but also named him; Teardrop, according to legend, on a good day.

BONG! BONG! The clock struck, jarring me from my reflective state. Five o'clock had arrived. The town square's faithful clock tower explodes, reminding everyone of their momentary commitments. My family was home awaiting my return. And so, I continue on without giving Teardrop even the courtesy of a verbal acknowledgment.

I thought to myself, as I headed home, "God please watch over that foolish old man." Ironically, everyone that knew Teardrop understood that the only reason Teardrop's over expired body still walked these streets was in fact because God was constantly, without break, watching over him.

#

### JASON

Responsibility is the one attribute in which I have always taken pride, not that I'd always seen the best examples of it. I, Jason Goodman, pride myself in being a man of my word. The clock strikes ten after the hour before I finally reach the walkway that leads to my front door.

Mind-shattering anticipation overtakes me as I envision my remarkable wife, Olivia, setting the table. My home welcomes me; its open gates act as open arms. I notice the side gate has also been left ajar. My dog, Hero, is more than likely two states away by now, but still my concentration does not falter. She will no doubt find her way home, she always does. The brass handle to our entry door is as familiar as it is comforting. My daughter, Daniela, startles me with a sudden hug as I enter our home.

"Daddy, what took you so long? You know I can't have Italian spaghetti without the French bread!" She grasps the brown paper bag from my arms and runs off toward the dinner table. My attention turns toward our kitchen where Olivia stands with her back facing me. Her beautiful red hair seemingly adds tint to the entire room, calming shades of love. Forever I will remain in wonder of her exquisiteness.

My wife is a true experiment of love. Sadly, her parents never wed. They were from separate worlds that would have inevitably collided if they had married. Her mother was a nurse working with the Red Cross during the Vietnam War. Her father was a promising doctor, who extended from a wealthy WASP Massachusetts family. She believes within her heart that he cherished her mother dearly, but his family could not replicate this love. Not because of her being a nurse, but due to their difference in cultural being.

Living within the moment often reveals only the possibility of true love and for Olivia's parents; their moment represented a world inside the harsh expectations of modern man's realities. Olivia's father may have attempted to reveal his desire to his family for a life complete with her mother?

For Olivia it's a simple speculation of the heart. The fact remains that Olivia's mother stood freezing in the cold rain, pleading for acceptance before her father's family, while holding tightly within her womb their bridge to eternity, still, the door remained closed, therefore forcing her mother to endure the cycle of birth alone. She soon gave life to a beautiful baby-girl. He promised he would come for her after the birth of their daughter, but the young doctor never came, ultimately depriving himself of the most precious of gifts, fatherhood.

"Daddy, wash your hands. Dinner is ready."

I follow Daniela's orders as always. We three sit together and give thanks. I am overwhelmingly pleased. There exists no man wealthier than I at this very moment, and it shows from the shine in my smile to the diamond fragment visible beneath my left eye. These precious, stolen moments we spend together at dinner are easily the highlight of each day. Here we laugh, while breaking bread within each other's presence. Here they are not simply passing thoughts during my hectic day, but live and important factors of my life. Close enough for me to touch, should I feel the need to express my love for them without the use of words. I listen with anticipation to the details of their day's events, basking in the joy of hearing each personal accomplishment they attained. They enlighten me to the strength of both woman and girl, during open scribed adventures of their independent daily pursuits. Personal moments that took place without me, yet still they bring them home to share.

The phone rings unexpectedly, interrupting our melody of life. Its tone is off key, disturbing a family masterpiece. Two rings escape into our symphony before Olivia excuses herself from the table.

"I will be right back, and Jason, don't you dare touch my French bread!" She glances in my direction. A slight scowl establishes itself on her face. A bit of theatrical intimidation to assure that her plate stays intact until her return. Daniela and I immediately lock eyes from across the table.

"Well, Dad, she did say for you not to touch her bread. There was no mention of me."

I explode into laughter as Daniela breaks off a small section of her mother's bread. I am outwardly jubilant, until Olivia's voice carries out from our kitchen, quickly acquiring my attention.

"Yes, I know Alex Lansing. What do you mean he has us listed as his next of kin? Is he all right? Is everything ok?"

My fork falls from my hand, striking the hardwood floor beneath me. The sudden clunk startles Daniela, but she doesn't react. Her expression remains blank, as the innocence that is her very essence leaves her momentarily confused. Teardrop means the world to Daniela. When time does allow for the chance to happen upon him, his spirits are grand, often energetic and regularly amusing, He represents a sort of grandfatherly figure to her. I sit within an awkward silence while processing Olivia's every word. My mind begins to drift through an array of possible realities or causes for this warranted intrusion to our family meal.

"Jason!" Olivia calls out for me. "Honey you should have this call."

My eyes refocus from the world of thought, back to certainty, as Olivia hands the phone to me.

The voice from the other end or our phone line quickly identifies himself as Dr. Wong, M.D. and present caretaker of a Mr. Alex Lansing. The good doctor describes, in full detail, the local police account of how his new patient came to be in his care, unconscious, and heavily bandaged on the eleventh floor of St. Luke hospital. Dr. Wong informs me that Mr. Lansing is currently listed in critical condition. Teardrop was assaulted by a group of youths, using what eyewitnesses described as a large iron rod. He had sustained multiple injuries to the head, spinal cord, and chest cavity, leading Dr. Wong to further express to me his concern for the possibility of internal bleeding. A series of tests were being administered as we spoke. I thanked the doctor for his explanation, as well as for his sense of urgency to this matter, and then politely ended our call. Teardrop reached for me, but I pushed him away. I could have extended an olive branch. I could have lent a hand.

• • •

No questions followed, only understanding. Olivia and Daniela understood as only family can. They both offered to accompany me to St. Luke Hospital, but the day had aged well into the night and they each had a very large agenda tomorrow. We bid goodnight with a reassuring kiss that everything would be just fine.

#

### ARRIVAL

Music can assist the soul in reaching its freedom. A small passageway provided by my car's moonroof reveals the night sky. Its starry occupants sparkle, while their brilliance struggles for release. Remarkable is their shimmer; all that is free to me. I feel compelled to soar into the night sky, well above any boundaries preset by man. Instead, I am denied my transport to a state of serenity. It is off to Teardrop's side I go, held at bay by tender thoughts of a toothless smile. I decrease the car radios volume to a minimum, until only my thoughts remain vocal.

"Teardrop really does hold a special place in my life."

Suddenly, I am burdened with regret. Never have I told him of his worth to me. I have taken the countless opportunities provided me over the years for granted. Upward my prayers ascend into the night sky, in search of redemption, in quest of another opportunity.

The ride to St. Luke Hospital seems to last an eternity, though my watch only lists it at twenty minutes. Time moves swiftly when matters of the heart are at play. The closest open parking space is marked "Emergency only."

Olivia's words echo inside my head as I depart from my car, "He listed us as his next of kin in case of emergency." A smile manages to slash its way through my otherwise traumatic facial expression as I greet the tall blonde haired gentleman at the reception desk with the necessary pleasantries.

"Good evening sir, can you please direct me to the closest elevator leading to the eleventh floor?"

He politely requests that I give him the nature of my visit to the hospital's eleventh floor. I explain that someone very dear to me is a patient here.

"May I have the patient's name? I will be better able to assist you then."

"Alex Lansing" I reply.

The receptionist then turns to the monitor to the left of him. His fingers move effortlessly across the keyboard below it, until he looks back to me.

"Mr. Lansing is in room 1107, Sir, just take this corridor all the way down, and then make a left. The elevator leading to the eleventh floor will be directly on your right hand side, after you turn the corner."

He seems very eager to assist me at this point. I glance at the name plate held up magnetically to one of the three metal walls that complete his cubicle. "Lionel Solomon."

"Lionel, is it? Great name, thank you very much for your assistance."

Upon reaching the elevator, I am greeted by an elderly woman, who is busy repeatedly pushing the up button.

"Darn thing must be broken." Once she releases the button, the elevator doors open. Her cheeks flush, filled with a brief rush of embarrassment; yet as she enters the elevator she still manages to muster a short bit of comic relief.

"Well, are you coming or not? You know this thing has a mind of its own."

We pause shortly to share a moment of laughter and then ascend to the eleventh floor. The elevator trip is a fast one. We stop first at the seventh floor, where my new friend, the extremely talkative elderly woman departs to visit her neighbor's niece, whom has just been blessed with twins. The stainless steel elevator doors interrupt her as she bids me farewell. A blink of the eye later, the number eleven lights up on the panel before me, followed by a buzzer that ironically reminds me of our oven timer at home. I have reached my destination. A large oval shaped sign hanging on the wall exhibits arrows pointing right for rooms 1102 - 1120, and left for rooms 1101 - 1119. A half moon shaped desk positions itself directly beneath those numbers.

"ALL VISITORS MUST SIGN IN HERE," is posted in bold black print on top of the desk. I sign my name. A young female nurse emerges from the file cabinets located behind the sign-in desk. She greets me with a smile, then looks on to the book, so that she may verify that all the information needed is filled in correctly.

"Mr. Goodman, may I please see some form of identification?"

I marvel at her level of professionalism. It gives me a false sense of security in having someone near, safe and under such thorough care. The nurse returns my ID and then directs me to her left.

"The room is four doors down sir." She says this with a reassuring smile. I take her smile with me for strength, just a little insurance that everything will turn out fine. Nothing but cold silence meets me at the entrance to Teardrop's hospital room. I stand there immobilized, confined to a simple doorway, until the spell breaking song of a life support machine frees me to advance. There are two patients in room 1107. On the table next to the first bed is a beautiful floral arrangement. A young man rests peacefully, in a medicated slumber, beside the flowered well wishes of his family and friends. Casts fully surround his right and left arms. Two chrome hangers bolt his right leg, also encased in a cast, high above his hospital bed. He appears to either be asleep or heavily sedated. A large metallic colored balloon, filled with helium floats at the foot of his bed. The words "Get Well Soon," cover both sides of the balloon in large blue lettering. These tokens are, no doubt, from his loved ones.

Beyond the metallic balloon rests Teardrop. There are no flowers beside him, only a large picture window in which he receives the night. He lays there snuggled inside the shadow's grasp, revealing himself ever so peaceful. For countless years, he has been a willing slave to his vice, alcohol. I pause momentarily, daring to venture into the jaded reality of him being better off leaving us. He would then be able to join my grandfather, his forever friend. Together they could once again challenge time, all while intriguing the heavens above. I shake my head in disbelief of such thoughts and then take a seat at his bedside. Here together, we remain until the night grows old.

With his head covered in bandages, only one curl from his trademark silver hair remains visible. The simple things find their way into my thoughts. For years, Teardrop wore his hair wrapped tightly in a ponytail. It grew long as the summer's bluegrass and strong as the spirit of his Narragansett Indian ancestry. When folks unfamiliar to him questioned whether he had American Indian in his blood? Teardrop was notorious for replying, "Nothing's inside me but some good Whiskey." I recall almost despising him for those types of comments. Many occasions I simply walked away, desiring an escape from his self indulged ignorance, yet now within this moment I would give almost anything to hear even a little of that ridiculous humor.

"Excuse me sir." A tiny voice comes from behind me. When I turn to greet its origin a petite nurse with sandy brown, shoulder length hair stands before me, dressed in all white. She holds an IV bag in her left hand and a rather large needle in her right.

"I despise needles." I blurt out.

The tiny nurse chuckles loudly, displaying shiny, silver braces across her teeth. She then explains how the needle is in fact for Mr. Lansing and not me. I sigh in relief, over extending the joke.

The nurse first removes the empty IV bag, replacing it with the one from her left hand. The clear liquid contents from a syringe are then injected through the needle into the long tube hanging from under the bandages on Teardrop's right forearm.

"There, that wasn't so bad." The nurse continues to entertain me as she disposes of the needle inside a red plastic container. She then releases a well-trained smile in farewell, and exits the room.

"Now, that wasn't so bad." I echo her final statement to Teardrop as his body rests beside me, confirming my belief in the mythical tale, that the unconscious can hear the words of their loved ones, while drifting through purgatory. He does not answer and I can't be certain that my words have actually traveled to the place that holds him captive. Still, selfishly I ask that he hold on.

Though the night quiet comes for me, the refuge of tranquility that often accompanies her was absent. Therefore, I welcome the morning light as it strikes the tinted glass of Teardrop's hospital window.

Together, Teardrop and I have achieved a victory. Beside me he still remains, breathing ever so softly, presenting hope to me each time he exhales.

The morning contradicts the night. The sight of a hospital room can stifle a man at first light. The life support machines appear to have multiplied. An awkward stillness surrounds us. Dust particles, trapped inside a wayward sunray, frolic freely, through its beam of light. The fear of loss heavily weighs down the rest of the room. Yesterday took a toll on me. I cipher enough strength from the sunbeam to pull myself to my feet. Running water breaks the silence, as I dampen a white washcloth. The damp coolness from the cloth, wiped across my neck and face assists in resurrecting most of my senses.

I decide to check in with my family, but my cell phone call only reaches our answering machine. I leave a detailed message, just like Daniela's voice instructs me to do, and then I set out for a quick caffeine fix. Doctors, nurses and patients occupy the halls of the hospital. Some politely greet me in passing; others do not. At this particular moment, I prefer not to be social. Emotionally, I am unstable, and in no condition to interact with strangers mentally; so, I lower my gaze as to avoid any form of connection until I reach the hospital cafeteria.

The magical aroma of freshly brewed coffee arouses my senses. I begin calculating all recent events. Everything has summed up to tragedy, and whatever the cost I don't want Teardrop to pay with his life. Smoke from my coffee rises into the hospital corridor, capturing me inside the moment. I began to envision the face of Georgia Downing. Her eyes are cat like, majestic marbles, gleaming vividly through my brief hypnotic state. I am returned to all that is sensible with a simple thought of Georgia, Teardrop's one true companion in this world. They exist as one. A shared past conjoins these two discarded souls. She will come for him, her soul mate. Georgia's eyes continue to look upon me until the smoke dissipates from my Styrofoam cup. Confusion fills my slow walk back to Teardrop's room. When Georgia does arrive, how will I keep such a fragile creature together? Surely, her heart she will crumble at the first sight of him in his present condition. There is so little of Georgia's heart remaining. Teardrop represents her core, her stability. Life is lived by most and experienced by the rest. Georgia, in her resolve of life's true meaning has retired, along with Teardrop, to simply watch this hallucination of existence unfold.

#

### GEORGIA

Her voice is low and distinctively raspy. There is a slight roll of Georgia's tongue whenever she pronounces words beginning with the letter "R". Well spoken and well mannered, she once possessed more elegance than even the worthiest of Chicago's socialites. Today, it is neither her signature monotone that freezes me at the entrance of Teardrop's hospital room, nor the element of surprise stemming from her sudden arrival. Instead, it's the unexpected response, generating from her forever friend that renders me physically inept. Though his voice is still weakened from the incident, I can still make out Teardrop's words.

"Didn't I tell you Georgia Downing, you're stuck with me forever?"

I race into the room excited, only to find my favorite nurse administering another IV. We acknowledge one another with a customary head nod as she exits. Georgia sits beside Teardrop, holding an array of flowers similar to the ones that make up the beautiful landscape of Worthington Park. Her deep almond shaped eyes appear heavy from not receiving proper rest. She attempts to stay focused, as her upper and lower lashes fight fiercely to hold each other. Instantly, an awakening occurs inside her. Filled with newly acquired energy, Georgia leaps to her feet and rushes uncontrollably in my direction.

Her words though spoken through whispers, fall profoundly unto my ears. "Rabbi, how has this come to be?"

The day's first light has temporarily altered her view of me, changing my appearance, until she pictures only her heart's desire. She pauses just short of my touch. The light seems to have played a cruel trick on both Georgia's sight and her heart. A coarse touch from her fingers upon my cheek further validates the hard knock lifestyle in which she dwells. I look upon Georgia Downing; her soul hides from me, only emptiness stares back, as we continue to stand face to face.

Emotionally charged is her testimony as it enters the room.

"I waited Jason, alone on our favorite bench in Worthington Park, but he never came. I fed the pigeons without him for the first time in ten years, until my spirit froze up inside with the setting of the sun. It was only then that old Georgia knew something had to be terribly wrong. Teardrop always comes for me there. It's all that's left...Teardrop, the pigeons and me."

She continues on, further explaining the events that led her to the doors of Saint Luke Hospital. Georgia tells tales from her mindless travels through the city's most notorious neighborhoods to finally landing at her favorite after hour's diner, where the idle chatter of two spineless adolescent boys found her ever-receptive ears. The two of them sat in the booth behind hers. They bragged on and celebrated what they deemed to be a victory over "the crazy drunk in the park." The boys spoke as if he were some sort of monster that had to be destroyed, anything to justify their own ignorance. Georgia's tears run wildly, compelling me to take her hand and pull her close to me. There is no answer that can possibly justify last evening's events, only the security of an overdue embrace.

"Jason." Teardrop's groggy voice beckons me. I can hear the strain brought about by this attempt at speech. I rush to his bedside to convince him that the preservation of his strength would be best right now. Instead, he is as stubborn as ever, continuously babbling on about how I should have seen the other guys. Laughter fills the room as Georgia and I briefly purge our worry onto the world. For the moment, Teardrop appears to have taken a turn for the better and for that we stand grateful.

Stolen moments never last long. The bond we experience is instantly broken by the untimely arrival of Teardrop's bed nurse. Pillows hover around her push-cart like storm clouds would a beautiful spring sky. She pushes the top button on the remote bed controller, raising Teardrop's position slightly upward. With one hand she displays her strength, as she pulls a man twice her size forward. A fluffy new storm cloud replaces the used one. The bed nurse then presses the bottom button on the beds remote, until Teardrop returns to his original resting position. It is only then that the young lady breaks her silence.

"Thank you and have a nice day." Her English is sketchy, and spoken with a Middle Eastern accent. She offers little to no eye contact, only the movements required to complete her task. After refilling the carafe at Teardrop's bedside with water, she and her storm clouds disappear into the distance. Georgia appears to be at home, reunited once again at Teardrop's side. Magically, she transfers their favorite park bench from Worthington Park, to Teardrop's hospital room, only the pigeons are absent from this picturesque moment. I decide this is the opportune time to return home. I kiss Teardrop on the forehead, and then place my index finger across his lips as a reminder for him to conserve his strength. Georgia smiles at me with her eyes, and then reaches once again for Teardrop's unattended hand.

Upon their union, sunbeams explode through the hospital window, spotlighting the two forever friends. Things now appear as they should and in my mind Worthington Park has never been lovelier.

#

### HAVEN

My home, though unoccupied still welcomes my return. Saturday has come ending its long anticipated arrival. Olivia and Daniela's equally demanding schedules often seize their time before I do. Today is such a day, sunny, yet lonely. Not even our dog Hero greets me when I enter the foyer of our home. I envision the three of them having a wonderful time at the local forest preserves newly acquired Dog Park, ecstatic about Hero's return from his rebellious travels. I eventually settle into an afternoon cleansing. The sum of two days of wearing the same clothing leads me directly to the shower. My purification runs uncharacteristically long. Recent events entangle me within a web of thought. I slowly began losing myself as therapeutic beads of warm water stampede upon the nape of my neck. It is within this purified state, that I converse with the creator of ALL, grateful for the recovery of Teardrop.

My words are humble whispers in his presence. I give thanks for life and health and then humble myself even more, before requesting guidance and strength. I stand grateful to have experienced an upbringing enriched with valued diversity, which ultimately developed me into the man I am today: strong in character and personal convictions, yet openly receptive to the world's unsurpassed beauty. It is as my mother always told me. "God made you well, Son."

A simple whisk of my right hand across the steam-covered mirror magically reveals Jason Goodman staring back at me. He is starry eyed as usual, constantly challenging my view of both reality and life. We ponder one another, paused inside a moment. Our eyes remain interlocked, while we both refuse to blink. I am face to face with vanity, as certainty continues to evade us both.

"Which of us is true?" I speak out, betting confidently on hearing no response from the man in the mirror. It is only with the silence that the security of reassurance comes over me, validating all that I know to be true. Therefore, I leave my reflection, gazing enviously upon my back, as I continue on inside the real world.

Keys jingle loudly as they crash land on the softness of our king size bed; Olivia has arrived home. She advances hurriedly to my side, inquisitive as ever.

"How is he doing? Better I hope." Olivia's concerns are more for my well-being. She scans me with those baby browns, in search of any sign of discontent. I believe deep within my heart that her past evening was well spent within a praying position, pleading for only the best for Teardrop. Yet, still she offers her support to me, in the form of added strength, for preparation of the days to come.

"Jason, how much rest were you able to get last night, honey?"

The dark circles below my eyes easily supply an answer for her question.

"Not very much, I sat up most of the evening watching Alex as he rested. Besides that, the guest chair next to his bed wasn't exactly designed for resting." My attempt at humor fails. Olivia comes closer, reaching her arms outward, until her fingers find my shoulder blades. Her touch renders me nearly unconscious. Finally I collapse on the bed, exhausted from an entire evening void of proper rest.

"Jason, I have a few errands to run, and then I have to pick up Daniela and her team from cheerleading. It's my turn in the mom's club to take them to lunch." Olivia pulls the red colored throw cover from a folded position at the bottom of our bed. She knows that it is my favorite, and therefore, will bring me the comfort I need. She rewards me with a gentle kiss on the tip of my nose, sending me off to the land of dreams.

#

### THE DREAM

Fog rolls in, clouding my mind. Music blares in the distance. The melody leads me to two large double doors, each reaching endlessly toward the heavens. Their handles are gold in color; one is modeled after the Star of David, while the other emulates the Cross of Christ. I grasp them both, pulling open the doors with all the strength within me. Trumpets and saxophones fill the air, as smoke retreats through the open doors, exposing a red seating booth at the rear of the room.

He sits there amongst the smoke in his private red booth. Polite smiles and cigar smoke are his only means of interaction with the people sharing this space with him. The nightmare has found me once again, as it begins to spin everything into slow motion. I stand in the center of the room, as always during this recurring dream, unable to make contact with him, Rabbi. My dream is void of vibrancy, similar in contrast to that of an early black and white movie. Only Rabbi and his red booth produce color. There are people within the room, but they don't seem to notice me. A few even walk directly through me. The trumpets blare unexpectedly, louder than before in past dreams; they pierce my hearing. The sound catapults me backward through the large double doors then back to the land of the awake. Olivia must have set my alarm clock while I was resting. The time reads 5:30 pm. I have lost an entire afternoon.

Once again I try to decipher the mysterious reoccurring dream that has haunted me since my tenth birthday, but no answer is revealed. My energy level is low. The idea of spending the remainder of the day snuggled inside my favorite throw cover attracts me, but sensibility will not allow such action. I listen as my stomach calls out desiring sustenance. Unwrapping myself, I set out for our kitchen. Olivia has left a message on the magnetic chalkboard attached to our refrigerator.

It reads. "I thought you would be hungry. Inside is a fruit tray that was prepared especially for you with love." I swing open the stainless steel door in search of her loving creation. Bananas, grapes, mango, and kiwi sit perfectly in a glass, pineapple shaped tray, covered by plastic wrap. I remove the tray, placing it on top our kitchen island. Unexpectedly the phone rings, interrupting my late afternoon snack. Reluctantly I answer, but in a reserved manner, vocally demonstrating the inconvenience of the call to whomever should be on the other end.

"Hello." The word is drawn out.

"Mr. Goodman?"

"Yes, this is he. To whom am I speaking?"

"Sir, this is St. Luke Hospital calling. A patient of ours, a Mr. Alex Lansing, has requested that we give you a call in reference to your visiting him today."

I cover the receiver of the phone, hoping to muffle the sound of my laughter. This is classic Teardrop, taking full advantage of every situation in which he finds himself. I decide to play along.

"What time would Mr. Lansing require my arrival?"

"Sir, Mr. Lansing has taken a turn for the worst, and therefore was unable to discuss those particulars. His only instruction was that you come swiftly."

My hand trembles, almost causing me to drop the phone to the floor. My heart thumps like thunder across an angry April sky. I can feel its rush, sending out a display of panic through my body. My throat swells before finally allowing me to speak. Humble words follow, spilling slowly from my lips.

"Right away, I will be there right away."

St. Luke Hospital's glass entry doors slide open widely, swallowing me whole, until finally digesting me inside its hallowed halls, where both life and death befall mankind. I streak through its interior, focused only on room #1107. Upon arrival, I notice the young man that occupied the bed closest to the door is no longer there, neither are the beautiful flowers or balloons that once decorated the room. Teardrop and Georgia, remain unchanged. Hand in hand, she sits at his bedside. I approach them timidly, fearing the worst. The phone call I received from the hospital explained very little, stating only that he had taken a bad turn. To my amazement, Teardrop lay there before me, wide-eyed and alert.

"Jason." His words greet me as I approach.

"Hello Alex." I pull the empty chair over from next to the vacant bed. "I came as soon as I received the message from the hospital. How are you doing?"

"I have seen better day's son, not many worse, but definitely better ones." His bed begins to rise. "They ran some tests and sent them out to the lab is what they told me." The bed stops in an upright position, as we look upon one another eye to eye.

"Nothing they give me seems to stop my headaches. It's sometimes feels like my head is going to split itself open."

Georgia secures his hand between her own, and then pulls it toward her lips, simulating a praying position. She does not speak; instead an unfamiliar melody seeps out through her chapped lips. Georgia's body is in harmony as it sways from front to back. Teardrop and Georgia oftentimes converse through pain and silence. A language they have become all too familiar with.

"The pain will pass Alex just you hold on." I offer a few words of encouragement, though completely taken aback by his current condition.

"Thanks Jason you truly are a good soul." There is truth in his eyes confirming his belief in those complimentary words.

"Jason, my jacket is hanging inside the closet to your right, could you do me a favor and reach into its inside pocket? There is something very important that I need to show you." Once I stand, the closet is less than an arm's reach away. Teardrop's plaid sport coat is hung neatly inside, next to a pair of well-traveled khakis, and a faded blue polo shirt. Unsure of the coat's contents, I carefully reach into the interior pocket, retrieving a youthful photo of my grandfather. An emotional frenzy engulfs me. The photo slips from my fingertips, gliding toward the ground and landing safely at Georgia's feet. Rabbi's youthful days have always been a mystery to me. To my previous knowledge, there were not many photos remaining of him as a young man. The photo is familiar to me. It feels like I'm gazing into a looking glass. The moment, though short-lived, was a bit eerie, yet still satisfying.

"We were to be forever young." I listen attentively as Teardrop narrates their youthful desires. He and Georgia look upon the photo proudly, both smiling effortlessly at the captured soul of my grandfather.

"Jason, I understand that over the years you have come to your own conclusions as to what type of man your grandfather was. Trust me when I tell you there is no shame to be had in this photo, only a past worthy to be cherished." Teardrop raises the photo high into the air, and then turns toward me.

"What you see captured inside this photo is a man who was pure of heart." Teardrop's words are a vocal tribute to my grandfather. A string of unexpected coughs follow those sentiments of loyalty, interrupting his testimony, as once again the still shot free falls, landing on top of his bed of rest.

"Alex, why don't you rest now? We can talk more afterwards." He recovers the photo from the surface of the bed.

"Jason, listen to me! Every time I close my eyes a peaceful feeling overcomes me. I have never experienced tranquility as such. It warms my soul, beckoning me to stay forever within its rapture. Once inside the whispers began their song, calling my name from beyond the lights brilliance. Though I resist, my want is strong. I desire nothing more than to advance toward those silent shouts coming out from beyond the light. I continue to resist, not for me Jason, but for you. I will not budge from this wretched life of mine until the true nature of Rabbi is revealed to you. I know you must long to hear the tales that have transpired into urban legend, delivered onto you in truth, given freely in its purest form by someone that both lived, and witnessed all there is to tell. You have always wished this of me, and I, mainly due to drunkenness, have always deprived you of this." Teardrop holds the photo of my grandfather high above his head, reasserting it into plain view. "Jason, I will make clear the story of Rabbi Goodman's life, and it will be orated by my own accounts."

He then pauses momentarily as his throat becomes full with the excess saliva brought about by multiple medications harboring inside his body. Heavy, unsteady breathing follows as the black and white photo of Grandpa Rabbi joins his right hand in continuously thumping the right side of his chest. The fluid filling his lungs begins to retreat, as clarity returns to Teardrop's words.

#

### TEARDROP

"Now, son, listen, as I tell you a story. This, of course is your story as much as it is mine...our story. I recall most of all, the rain, but not the normal kind that plummets down and washes the city's streets clean, so that Mr. Sun and his rainbow may color the world. No Sir! This particular rain was relentless, striking furiously, and frequently with authority. That night's rain owned the skies; even the feathered ones were forced to take cover beneath the shelter of bountiful trees. There they stayed, suspended from flight indefinitely. Those, who walked upright, hastened their steps, seeking either a building, or monument capable of providing them ample cover from the rainstorm awesome display of power. Fast and furious did the rain plummet, creating a watery barrier that made it difficult to see five feet before you. A man had to rely on pure instinct to make it home."

"It was on such an unbecoming eve, in which a series of events would transpire, forever shaping the fate of two young souls. Old man Sid was no longer with us; bless his kind heart for taking care of me. Sid, after another sunset of struggle, politely excused himself from the dinner table. He went on to kiss his soul mate Miss Jessica on her neck, and then asked civilly that she remain seated at the table with us boys. Rabbi and I were preoccupied with our meal, but as Sid left the dining room soft cries began to filter the air, coming without end from Miss Jessie. We both released our forks and sprinted to her for reassurance. I'm told it's like that with soul mates, being tied together for eternity and all. They are capable of sensing when the other is at peril. The world had drained Sid early, and Miss Jessie knew this. She begged him not to work so hard, but he promised her the stars. Sid lay down that night never to rise again; forfeiting the only true gift Miss Jessie desired, love.

Selfish, Rabbi would later say of his father leaving his mother to the fate of the lonely. A widow left in an uncompromising society. The love of another man's life was now Rabbi's sole responsibility. With the growth of time Miss Jessie's numbers also increased, demanding more and more of young Rabbi's attention. Her health began to wither away. Costly, became the care necessary to accommodate her, along with the mortgage, and the upkeep of the home. The challenges were many, but we always seemed to manage enough cash from various odd jobs, maintaining everything as if Old man Sid were still amongst us.

Like I said, there was rain that night, and plenty of it, too. I remember Rabbi and me running up that long driveway leading to the house. My pants were soaked from the rain, causing my legs to feel heavy and therefore slowing my stride. Rabbi, though, dashed through the rain or maybe it just got out of his way. The universe always did seem to respond positively to him. The job we had acquired was to be our first. A man known as Boss Murphy owned half of Oak Bluff, IL, including the Sheriff's department. Rabbi had, through his rambunctiousness, created a reputation for himself around town. He would frequent pool halls and underground dice games. He initiated fights with local tough guys; and though he may have not won every one, he did manage to survive the wrath of some of the most notorious hoodlums this side of the great lake. Rabbi eventually achieved in his adolescent years what only a chosen few ambitious high rollers ever could, A reputation as an earner. His newfound status amongst the men of shadows soon created a promising job opportunity for the two of us. The first encounter still leaks in my mind.

Boss Murphy, upon meeting us didn't want to give us the job. His words, laced with scotch, burned the pupils of my eyes. "Darkies can't be trusted."

A man never forgets being verbally degraded. Rabbi, though, took it all in and then managed to easily persuade Boss Murphy that no two finer boys existed for this job. He explained to Murphy how we would never be suspected of making the drop. He preyed on Boss Murphy's ignorant views of the world, by simply echoing his own sentiments.

"Sir, no one would ever expect two young colored boys to have anything that valuable on their person; besides, look at us."

Boss Murphy was overcome with laughter as he scanned the two of us. Earlier in the day, Rabbi had requested that I wear my most worn pair of shoes for the meeting. It wasn't until that moment that everything begun to make sense. Everything, even the hand full of playground dirt he strategically rubbed on both my clothing and his was now clarified. This was pure genius revealing itself. Rabbi continued on, describing his plan in detail, while Boss Murphy puffed eagerly on his oversized cigar. The two of us were to be disguised as shoe shine boys searching desperately for customers. Inside one of our shine kits, we would keep the numbers cards, with each proposed bet marked on the backsides clear and legible.

"The cops will never suspect a thing, Mr. Boss" Rabbi's comments traveled through giant cigar smoke rings, retrieving no response from the stout figured Boss Murphy. Then, as does thunder when it erupts, so does Boss Murphy's baritone voice tremble the very air he only moments before struggled to breathe.

"Yes, Yes! I do this idea you have brought to me." Boss Murphy was, as they say, straight off the boat, by way of the Ole Country. His continuous destruction of the English language was a clear indicator of this, but still the fact remained. He was both powerful and greatly feared amongst the mighty streets and it would behoove any to be reminded of this. Fearless, were your grandpa and I in our youth. It was to be our first job and the adrenaline that came along with the task, overcame all fear of not being successful. This was to be one step into a brave new and profitable world.

For our creative part in this, we were to receive fifty dollars each. Back then a man with fifty dollars could at least take a sip of his dreams. My intentions never swayed from the reward awaiting the two of us, but your grandpa, being suspicious by nature did not hold the likes of Boss Murphy in high regard. His words were suffocating as they yanked me down from amongst the clouds, selfishly dropping the sky onto the financial aspirations of a young man.

"Teardrop, we can't possibly have faith in a man who just moments ago publicly degraded us."

Though his words were dream deferring, they did make sense. Boss Murphy had unknowingly displayed his true nature by calling us darkies.

"Teardrop, I'm telling you that man is gonna cross us up." Rabbi paused briefly as he placed his index finger to his temple. His uncommonly long eyelashes shielded his dark brown eyes, preventing any who would desire a glance into the thinking man's soul from doing so. He did this so well and so often, creating an open exit in which he could look into his own thoughts, while still in the presence of others.

"I can feel it burning in my gut, Teardrop ole pal, so I've decided that we're gonna double cross him first." Your grandpa's smile came across as sinister, yet still compelling. I recall being bewitched at the time by his suggestion. After all, we were brothers and brothers often follow one another, even into the mouth of Hades, if need be. Mind you, I was no fool. I fully understood that if we took this course, it would bring about swift and dangerous consequences; yet, somehow I knew that with Rabbi I would be all right. This feeling of safety was the one assurance I could count on, so I asked him, "Rabbi, what are you planning? Cause I'm with you whatever it is..."

"Teardrop" He spoke through a whisper, though we were the only two around. "Ole buddy, after we collect from the numbers, we're gonna just keep the money."

Rabbi sent me into a flat line. I knew he had a plan, but this was suicide. There was no cover, no alibi. We were just to keep the money. I then looked my forever friend directly in his eyes, grateful that he let me in and entertained my gaze and then simply told him the obvious. "Rabbi, there is no conceivable way Boss Murphy would ever let us live if we did this."

Rabbi did it again, the finger to the temple thing, temporally escaping this world, hidden safely within his own thoughts. Until, slowly, he raised his head releasing a sigh out toward the heavens. Rabbi's hands then came together quickly before him, and as they held that position he requested I listen. We were to sneak back into town later that evening, gather up Miss Jessie and flee for Chicago with the stolen money.

Rabbi had planned to place Miss Jessie in one of those fancy retirement high rises on the North side and then set up his own racket with whatever monies remained.

"Cut out the middle man." He again spoke through a whisper, 'cept this time I only nodded my head in agreement. In the restless heat of that night my mind wandered off, finding itself inside a future that held Rabbi and me, in the driver's seat of our own destinies. A future in which a very well preserved, elderly Miss Jessie was free to ride out the remainder of her sunrises in luxury.

"Yes," I said simply. "Yes of course, Rabbi, I will follow you."

After all, what is friendship without loyalty, Jason?

It was around 1am by the time we reached the driveway leading home. The job had gone well and each of our shoeshine kits was overflowing with money. A sudden burst of lightning uncloaked a large black sedan hidden by the night. The car's left tire had come to a careless stop inside Miss Jessie's beautiful flower bed, where two tiger lilies struggled in vain for freedom from their large rubberized captor. Bearing witness to this prompted our rain battling dash through the belly of the storm. The driveway was never-ending; paved road to forever is what I likened it to. Rabbi spoke no words, as I struggled to keep pace by his side. Words would have been useless at this point. Our situation required action. Miss Jessie was inside, and in danger. Boss Murphy was a ruthless man that held little value for human life.

Rabbi reached the front of the house first, and then came to a sudden stop. Holding the palm of one hand in front of me, he signaled for me to halt, while gesturing me to silence with his other hand. There were still no words, only actions, carefully choreographed for me to understand. With two fingers he pointed at his eyes and then to the large picture window located on the side of the house. Years of sharing adolescent games, along with hours spent together at numerous poker tables linked the two of us mentally. I lowered myself closer to the ground, and then headed to the window for a closer look. Rabbi knew that at this time of the evening it was routine for Miss Jessie to unwind in her favorite recliner, comfortably positioned directly in front of the fireplace. Two logs on the burner, along with a spot of tea laced with honey, defined her nightly ritual before bedding down. Often we would find her weighted down by a good book, sleeping peacefully within that very chair, as morning made its return.

The clock had only recently escaped midnight, Miss Jessie was sure to be there. I raised my head for a peek through the window. One log remained, though partially transformed into ash. The steel barrel of the gun extended from the gloved hand of one of Boss Murphy's goons, representing a passageway for Miss Jessie to reunite with her beloved Sid. My eyes began to burn upon witnessing the shiny metal tool, in contrast amongst Miss Jessie's fine wooden furniture. Old Man Sid had built each piece, utilizing free scraps of lumber from the yard where he worked. The next few moments remain a blur; all I can recall about them are seconds in which a million raindrops fell upon me. Engulfed in shock, I fell to the ground, gasping for both oxygen and hope. Thunder erupted, as lightning advanced ferociously. The noise seemed to shatter mother earth herself. A sonic burst originating not from her skies, but from one of her children.

Brave Rabbi, exploded through the front door, overcome by fear for his mother's safety. His strength must have increased ten-fold. He took down Boss Murphy's goon, and as swift as the Chicago wind, turned the barrel of cold steel upon Boss Murphy himself. The thunderous sound returned to my head, as shards of metal entered Boss Murphy's life force, forever staining Miss Jessie's hardwood floors. Your grandpa then turned the lightning toward the goon, instantly ending any further threat. Silence upon silence, and through utter chaos, a mother's nurturing hand reached out for the son. Your grandpa's emotions began to filter out from inside the anger. His tears were vast in a sea of confusion, rapidly diluting the spilled blood on the floor beneath them. Throughout all our days together on mother earth, this was the first time I came to witness Rabbi in tears. It ironically would also be the last, as the simple touch of his frail mothers hand, instantaneously restored his strength. Miss Jessie then collapsed within his arms drying the remaining tears with the lengthy strands of her silver mane.

"Teardrop," he called out to me from the security of Miss Jessie's arms. His voice projected stronger and more direct than before. My Indian ancestors believed that when you take a man's life in honor while attempting to protect a loved one that man's strength then transfers to you. My daddy told me that story. He told me that my mother told it to him one night when he pulled out his knife on two rednecks, threatening them at the park one summer's eve. I was only seven when I heard this tale but still I remember it well. The strength of two additional men now filled Rabbi's loins, altering his once soft spoken words into newfound depths.

His orders were simple. "Get my mother's belongings together and take her to Boss Murphy's car."

I did as he wished with no questions asked. The back door of Boss Murphy's shiny black car opened quietly, blending into its nightly surroundings. The house stood still before me. The storm had passed us by. I never asked Rabbi to speak on what transpired inside the Goodman home that stormy eve. There was to be no confession. I watched him as he emerged from the front door, then down the porch steps, and into Boss Murphy's large black sedan. We sped off, hidden inside the secrecy of the night, while through the rear window I bared witness as fire began to breathe inside the home of Rabbi's youth.

Onward we drove, forward, straight forward, until the allure of Chicago's summer nights zapped us. We had finally arrived in the city of mystery. Her occupants' dreams fluttered through the sky above us as butterflies in the infamous wind. I reached my hand out from the window to try and catch a beautiful one, but the city of wind made it darn near impossible to capture her adorned butterflies. The dreams supplied me with a soothing realization as they continued to evade my fingertips. I did however manage to grasp the fear-ridden wings of my heart, pulling it aggressively from the wind and returning it to the hollow space within my chest.

Eventually we exit off the busy main road and head eastbound, toward the great lake. There was little communication; no words , as the three of us reached the destination where the road carried no more. Quietly we sat, attempting unsuccessfully to decipher water from sky, until the endless darkness before us settled itself inside our minds.

Sunlight exposed the car's dusty windshield. Dawn had come for us and with her was the morning's song. Before us, gathered upon the Great Lakes sandy borders, were multitudes of winged wind riders, beautiful scavengers dressed in white feathers and golden beaks. Their wings combed the lakefront, knowing little of boundaries. My attention shifted toward Rabbi as he stepped out from the dusty cover of the car. He stood near the driver side door searching feverishly through each pocket present upon his clothing. Finally he managed to fish out a small white piece of paper. He then raised it high in his right hand until it was pressed against the morning sky. Still a prisoner of his own silence, he then walked to the rear of the car and placed that same white piece of paper against the glass for Miss Jessie to see. She smiled at its content, and then at Rabbi. Her grey locks leaned heavily to the side resting comfortably against the rear window. Rabbi then placed the paper back into his pocket and re-entered the vehicle.

"Next stop Mother, a room with a view, just as you dreamed." He had spoken for the first time since the previous night's incident. His words confirmed that we were moving forward, therefore leaving all troubling thoughts to be forever locked away inside the dark part of our memories closet.

The car drove only a short distance before halting in front of a vine covered brownstone. A large oval-shaped sign secured next to an emerald green entrance door read "Faulenberg Home of Rest." Together, we quietly exited the car and entered the building. Rabbi took the lead, moving slow and cautiously. We were now out of our natural habitat. This much was made evident by our uncontrolled reaction to the awe-inspiring chandelier above our heads. We stood frozen for moments staring aimlessly into the immaculate marble flooring beneath our feet, stunned into a daze by our own blurred reflections.

Finally, our mishaps found the attention of two rather large men dressed in all white. Recalling Rabbi's remarks still makes me chuckle today. "Nurses just aren't as pretty these days are they, Teardrop?" The two men found little humor in your grandpa's wisecrack, grimacing as they now advanced toward us aggressively.

"They are orderlies, not nurses." A voice sprung out from the reception counter to the right of us as a short, burly man stood upward from his station.

"They are orderlies." He repeated. "Now, how may I be of assistance?" Those hospital folks spoke so eloquently. I was amazed, but Rabbi he just stood there absorbing his surroundings.

"We have heard wonderful tales of your world renowned accommodations and were interested in taking a tour of your facilities." He spoke as they did, a true chameleon, so convincing that even the unattractive male nurses fell defenseless to his silver tongue.

"Sure if you would be so kind as to complete this paperwork, I'd be happy to take you on a tour." The burly man handed Rabbi a clipboard from behind the reception counter. I stood beside him holding Miss Jessie's hand, as her eyes continued to scan the stately manor. I noticed as the crystal chandelier above ignited fireworks inside her eyes. As we toured the gold trimmed walls began to blend with her honey-dipped skin.

"Teardrop, this place is simply marvelous." Miss Jessie's smile drew a perfect arch from her right ear lobe to the left. The word marvelous sat peacefully on the very tip of her lips before free falling into Rabbi's ever-receptive ears. He looked upon his mother lovingly with an endearing gaze, one that would evoke a sense of security within her body for the remainder of her earthly years.

"A further tour will not be necessary, sir." Rabbi's statement stopped us where we stood. He turned to face the burly man, and then reached inside the jacket of his Sunday best. We still wore the suits that we performed the caper in. It was our hope that they would help to present us as more than simple common folk. From his pocket, held tightly within his hand, emerged a large stack of money. Rabbi placed the cash on top of the reception counter, and then pushed it toward the burly man. His smile, which always extended more to the right side of his face, displayed his firm belief that once again the world would favor him.

"A room with a view of the Great Lake, please." The burly man hypnotized by the cash before him and its infinite responsibilities extended his thick little hand upward and devoured Rabbi's token of new found friendship.

"Each month at this very same time, I will deliver to you the same providing my mother not want for a thing." The burly man nodded his head in agreement of this verbal contract, as his greed consumed him; laughter briefly erupted from his stomach. He then directed the orderly known as Bruno to escort the three of us to Miss Jessie's new room with a view.

That day we free spirits stood at a large window on the twenty-seventh floor of the Faluenburg, marveling at the shimmering Great Lake until Miss Jessie took to her newfound place of rest. We knew our farewell kisses would not be in vain. Miss Jessie was left comforted by Rabbi's vow to her that she would remain so.

#

### RIZZO

Young Bobby Rizzo was to be our Chicago contact. "Bobbino" as Rabbi would fondly refer to him. The two of them previously met one night inside Shaky's pool hall. Rabbi was there, hustling the regular patrons on the pool table, while Bobby Rizzo was collecting his dues from suburb to suburb. Rabbi hit a slump: three straight games without a win. He was so far down on lady luck that he was very near to betting the farm. Suddenly, Bobbino advanced from behind the bar and laid down a wager on the table. He even tripled the purse for the next bet. Sun kissed at birth, Rabbi's luck returned in the next game, allowing him to win a boatload of cash. When he attempted to repay young Bobby Rizzo, he was declined. I can remember Rizzo and his muscle walking toward the exit, and then stopping. He turned back and looked upon Rabbi, "If you ever leave this hick town and find your way to Chicago, look me up. And we can talk...civilized, that is."

Rizzo then turned back to the exit and disappeared into the streets. Bobby Rizzo had obviously seen endless potential in your grandfather. Even when he was losing, Rabbi's spark was greater than most men.

Once in Chicago, it was time was for Rabbi to have that long anticipated, civilized conversation with young Bobby Rizzo. Little Italy seemed a world away as we navigate our way through the active streets of the windy city. Silently, we each hoped that Rizzo would actually have profitable work for us."

The walls draw nearer, the ceiling begins to descend. A river of red emotion rushes its way through my face. The temperature in the room begins to escalate as words reach the capacity limits of my throat. I swallow in an effort to eliminate any form of negative response, but the emotions inside of me have grown strong now, therefore they deflect my words upward until they find an escape.

• • •

"Alex I don't mean to interrupt your story. Really, it truly is insightful, but there is something about it that's just tugging at me. Do you mean to tell me that after taking the lives of two men, whether in self defense or not, that the local or state authorities never caught up with you guys?"

"That is correct, Jason. Times were different back then. They didn't have the advanced crime labs of today. I have to admit it wasn't until the passing of many years that I did even recollect that evening's events in their entirety.

Boss Murphy, along with the burnt remains of his goon must have been mistakenly confused for Rabbi and me. After all, we were the only male residents of the home. Your grandpa later came to the conclusion that ashes have no name prompting me to move on, setting free from my mind those haunting images. In fact, the Oak Bluffs Chronicle made the strange and untimely disappearance of one Reginald Boss Murphy the front-page story for a week, but never mentioned a tragic fire that claimed the lives of her long time residents. Boss Murphy's stoutly figure graced the paper's front cover for three days total, until the season's crop forecast eventually overrode it in importance. We were then free to begin anew.

Bobby Rizzo sat at a table outside the Bella restaurant surrounded by those that pledged their allegiance. White linen tablecloths extended just shy enough from the concrete to reveal his freshly shined shoes. The sun smiled as it witnessed its reflection inside the fine Italian leather. The private little town of Cicero was comprised of both Old Country and New World Italian Americans. The rule(s) of their society were simple to follow. When comes dusk, all who did not belong should be gone. We parked the car about a block down and across the street from Bella. Your grandpa wanted to walk to Rizzo. We both held our hands open and up as a sign of piece while approaching. My whispers became prayers for deliverance from a barrage of bullets as we advanced closer to Rizzo and five men sharing the outside patio tables. We stopped just short of Rizzo's table. His right hand motioned for his muscle to remain seated at their perspective tables.

"Looks to me you finally made it out of the sticks." Rizzo leaned back and took a sip of water from a tall beveled glass.

"I can't say I wasn't expecting you." Following that statement he pointed toward a large man with slicked-back hair seated to the left of him. The man lifted a manila folder from the patio table and handed Rizzo the paper contents from inside. Rizzo gave the papers to Rabbi for closer investigation.

When I saw your grandpa holding the Oak Bluffs Chronicle, I just knew it meant curtains for us. I launched in between Rabbi and Rizzo yelling out "Rabbi run."

Rizzo began to laugh uncontrollably at my act of valiance.

"Rabbi is it? I like that. I believe every name has a meaning. I have no clue what yours means to you, but still, I like it. You will do very well in life with friends loyal as this little one here. Now, both of you please relax. I never did take a liking to Murphy; you actually did me a favor by whacking him."

I notice his spirits escape as Teardrop's words remain suspended in the air. His previous condition returns overcoming him. His soul begins to boil within. His pupils are dilated, strained from the battle that wages on inside him. Life struggles as death continues to strengthen its stronghold, by slowly pulling him closer to his end. Suffocation is eminent, even with his continued attempts at gasping for air. The whites of his eyes fade out the almond colored pupils. His blank gaze is aimless. His consciousness is slowly escaping, but his heart still remains intact, allowing his fingers slow movements. Teardrop reaches out for the hand of his forever friend. Their unbreakable bond warms me, melting away the frozen prison that held me captive and in shock. Released, I scream outwardly for help throughout the halls of St. Luke's Hospital. Georgia, broken by Teardrop's unexpected relapse falls into a crazed state of mind, violently yelling for him to stop this instant and to return to her. The on-duty nurses finally arrive, blowing the hurricane of death out to sea. For the moment we are all sedated.

"He will need his rest." The taller of the two brunette nurses informs Georgia and I, while the shorter one injects a clear liquid into Teardrop's IV tube.

"This will help him, but I am afraid visiting time will now have to come to an end."

I help Georgia gather her things from the table near the window. She reluctantly rises up from the chair at Teardrop's bedside. Everything that is life lies before her, trapped in limbo. Teardrop doesn't respond to her farewell kiss, depleting her faith even more. We take our leave for the moment.

#

### JASON/GEORGIA

As St. Luke's hospital appears smaller and smaller inside my rearview mirror, Georgia and I drive quietly for miles. Georgia looks blindly upon the concrete jungle outside the passenger window. I understand that no words can mean enough inside moments such as these; if spoken, they would all fall short of glory. Therefore I leave Georgia to her silence.

• • •

I find myself struggling with unfamiliar emotions. I long for Teardrop to awaken. I understand this is a selfish thing, but there is still so much that remains untold. The questions within my heart are endless; yet, answers have been so few. Still, Teardrop rests now, surrounded by peace, free from the worldly vices that control him.

Georgia and I continue our drive without any interaction. I am left to my thoughts, while she deciphers her own. Teardrop is family and I will always revere him as such. Folks have often referred to him as a lesser man, never being strong enough to defeat his formidable foe: alcohol. My hands tense up on my steering wheel, as I recall calling him a quitter once myself. I meant no harm; the statement was in reference to his alcoholic lifestyle. My opinions have always been clear-cut when it pertains to any type of addict. I was brought up to view them as cowards, afraid of facing the responsibilities that come along with the gift of life. The words of my church's Pastor find their way to the surface of my mind.

"We are not all born to lead; some are born only to compliment the ones who are."

The statement seemed harsh at the time, but now held perfect reason. I would never view Teardrop as a quitter again. He is a man, created equally to my grandfather and linked together by the Most High's divine will. He wasn't the stronger of the two or the recipient of the glory that came along with power, fear, and respect. For all these gifts that were bestowed upon my grandpa Rabbi, the one that mattered the most was taken away from him prematurely. That is the gift of life. No, Teardrop did not receive the glamorous attributes that were Rabbi's to control, but he was given the gift of time. With time can come about forgiveness, and if I were a betting man, I would wager Rabbi and Teardrop had much to be forgiven for.

#

### OLIVIA

She sprays her perfume into the air and then steps into the mist. She wants to present herself pleasing to Jason, as always. She knows this particular fragrance drives him wild. Of the many perfumes in her possession, this is his most requested.

"Honey, you smell amazing." Jason's words echo in her mind, as Olivia again steps into the perfumes enticing aroma. She touches a little behind her left ear. Jason always rests his chin upon this shoulder, during an intimate embrace. The night seemed to last an eternity. Their bed was always too large without her man. She yearns for his warmth beside her. Seated at her vanity, Olivia strokes her hair, pausing momentarily to gaze upon her brush. Its shiny black handle curves upward for easy control while in the softness of her hand. Painted directly above the handle are two red hummingbirds. No market value can be placed on this unique brush. It once belonged to Jason's grandmother, Raven, therefore rendering priceless to Olivia.

"Raven, the beautiful," was a truly magnificent woman, one who was capable of insurmountable love. Raven and Olivia were equally touched on the head by fire, creating the most beautiful hair of red ever seen. As Olivia gazes upon the family heirloom, she wonders how much of the silky strands of red silk tangled loosely around the base of the brushes bristles belong to her. Olivia had only seen Raven captured inside photos, mostly black and white ones, but the remarkable stories told of this passionate queen have attached themselves to her heart for all eternity. She again strokes the brush through her vibrant red hair, only this time thoughts of Teardrop begin to puddle inside her mind. Olivia sighs as she recalls her wedding day. Her bright smile sparkles in the mirror's reflection, as she remembers the words of Jason on that day.

"I suppose it wasn't a good idea to introduce Teardrop to an open bar."

Grandma Raven's brush finds its way to the glass, oval shaped vanity as Olivia brings both hands to her mouth, attempting to restrain the blush that has already flooded her cheeks. The memory of Teardrop whisking her from her chair, and then on to the dance floor still remains strong. He danced as a man possessed by the music that night. Olivia followed his lead as the dance floor formed a circle around them. Everyone was in awe of stranger dressed in black. Beautiful and fluent were his movements as he endured the possession, or maybe just the spirit of a man longing only to share a tender moment with his new granddaughter. He danced not for self. This dance was for Rabbi. Teardrop had never been known for his grace. Still, only Olivia noticed the emptiness within his eyes. Still, Olivia continued to follow his lead, and together they dazzled the wedding crowd until the music played no more. Teardrop stood tiredly before Olivia. His eyes were no longer empty, but filled instead by tears.

"Raven?" his slip of the tongue briefly chilled Olivia's soul, but before she could reply, her beloved Jason cut in to secure the next dance. Olivia explained to her soul mate what took place, but his only response was, "These people and open bars. The next thing they'll be doing is claiming reincarnation."

Still, if ever there were a person from the past she longed to share a cup of coffee and conversation with it was Raven. Olivia has always been grateful for the simple things that define life. Small gifts such as the beautiful brush before her mean so much more than gifts given only to satisfy the holiday need. Those types of treasures close the gap between generations. Her reflection in the vanity's mirror temporarily bewitches her.

"Mrs. Olivia Sloan Goodman," she whispers. "What a ride it has been."

Olivia was heiress to Sloan Inc. a Chicago based Construction Company, specializing in building affordable housing for the less fortunate of the metro area. "Homes for All" was her family's business slogan, bringing hope to many lower income families. She departed the security of her family's striving business for the right to be loved, leaving control of her uncle's empire to her younger and significantly weaker brother; who in time lost all executive control to a panel of trustees. Her mother, may she rest in peace, always told her to follow the heart that beat inside her; so she did.

Olivia guides her index finger down the edge of the brass picture frame, showcasing a photo of Jason and Daniela. She whispers just enough for the portrait to hear.

"Do I make you happy?"

There is no response, nor a need for one. She would do it all over again if need be. Olivia's mind remains fixed on past events. She recalls screaming frantically at her mother as she fled through their front door, taking only a box full of love letters from young Jason Goodman, and the life that their love created growing inside of her. There is a sense of accomplishment when her graduation from college surfaces in her memory. Priceless memories of Jason holding baby Daniela high above his head as her mommy accepted her degree. Such moments have made the ride that much more enjoyable. The love shared between the two of them over the years have nurtured and shaped a young girl's view of the world.

Olivia turns off the lights that surround her vanity mirror, releasing the moment back into time. Jason will come to her soon and all will be as it should.

#

### GEORGIA

The playful wind tickles the willow trees of Worthington Park, causing the leaves to giggle as children do. Popcorn thrown freely into the air lands on various cracks that spread awkwardly throughout the concrete jungle as diverse families of winged wind riders gather swiftly for their feeding time. A forest green park bench holds the weathered life force of Teardrop's forever friend. Five hours have passed since her early arrival, equaling five complete lifetimes of sorrow. She holds in her hand a brown paper bag. Hidden inside the bag is a small square shaped bottle. Georgia pours the contents of the bottle down onto the cracked asphalt. She would rather drink in Teardrop's presence, absorbing the tenderness of his company while the day slips quietly away. She longs for the beauty of his toothless smile. She pauses as the last drop splashes down on top of a weed filled crack of concrete.

Georgia is well aware that fairytales often have unhappy endings. Throughout her life she has had to forfeit her third wishes as payment for life's misfortunes. A pigeon in search of food happens upon Georgia's private bench.

"Get away from me!" she screams out.

A woman passing by with her small son grasps his hand tightly as she quickens their pace. Georgia first bows her head, and then closes her eyes.

"On top of the world we were, you old fool. If only we could have?" Georgia pauses. There is no strength left in her to dwell further on misfortune. Lonely is never good company. Therefore, Georgia decides that if she can't be with Teardrop, then someone dear to them both will have to do. Though time had not been kind to her physically, her memory was still intact, and if memory serves her right, Jason Rabbi Goodman's home was only a short bus ride away.

• • •

An enormous bus pulls up to the corner of Park and 107th Trimmed in blue and red. This form of mass transit carries on each side a large poster showcasing a beautiful woman dressed in a yellow and surrounded by white sandy beaches. She rests comfortably on top of bold capitalized letters reading, "WISH YOU WERE HERE." Adjacent to those letters is a huge hexagon shaped emblem, representing the major airline that paid to have the bus transformed into a moving billboard. For the average hard working citizen, this form of marketing is more pleasing to the eyes than the ragged female figure emerging from the buses interior. Georgia stands alone at the Park Avenue bus stop. She watches as the beautiful woman on the moving billboard glides away down 107th Street. Once in possession herself of unrivaled appeal, she has seen better and usually only a reflection away. Georgia sifts through the thick grey smoke from the buses exhaust, and then begins her journey down Park Avenue.

She passes by the fortunate ones, those who paid attention in class. Georgia envies them as they sit in the park watching their grandchildren chase the black spotted ball from goal to goal. She imagines their thoughts as she slowly passes by. Do they fear her or simply feel sympathy for her? How many would run to save her if need be? Most importantly, would their act of kindness be from the heart or for society's approval? A simple gesture of charity would secure a voice for them at their neighbors' next big dinner event. Still, Georgia presses on to the grandson of Rabbi, to the end of lonely.

The allure of Olivia's flowers captures her attention. Butterflies gather around each floral arrangement. Their fluttering wings are so beautiful that Georgia has to gasp for air. It is as if the creatures had bathed their wings within the most magnificent rainbow ever created. A white picket fence acts as a barrier, while an American flag waves hello in the wind. Here, at the Goodman home, a dream has been achieved. Here children will grow as parent's age gracefully. Here wisdom will be gained and accomplishments will do battle with disappointments. While throughout it all love will prevail. Here lives family in its true definition. Here there is no lonely.

Georgia reaches for the brass latch to the gate of the fence. She begins to question her motivation behind this spontaneous visit; after-all there exist so many reasons for Jason not to want her here. A black sedan parked in the Goodman's driveway catches Georgia's attention.

"Oh! That's Jason's car", she whispers while still advancing toward the Goodman's front door. Her steps become slower as a wall of bad memories build up between Georgia and the end of lonely. One in particular finds its way to the forefront of her thoughts. It was the first Sunday in May. Georgia recalled that she and Teardrop had begun drinking early that day. By noon, Teardrop was standing on top of some poor soul's automobile, holding what he, in his drunken stupor, referred to as "Church". Unfortunately for him the local authorities deemed it something else entirely, "Disorderly Conduct". Georgia had no alternative but to call Jason to bail Teardrop out of jail.

She remembers Jason entering the jailhouse, his broad shoulders almost as wide as the doorway. He held his head high regardless of the compromising position he had been placed in. Georgia began sobering up the moment she saw him with his glistening skin comparable to gold. His facial features carried both the shadows of the ancient kings of Jerusalem and the stunning bone structure of magnificent African chiefs. Jason's muscular frame moved swiftly toward the check in desk. He did stop briefly for a moment, glancing over to Georgia while she sat ineffectual in her chair. However, no greeting accompanied the piercing look coming from those dark crystal eyes, only a gesture from his index finger beckoning her to join him at the check in counter.

Jason addressed the Police officer on duty. "I am here for Alex Lansing."

"What did you say your name was Sir?"

"I didn't. My name is not the issue here. I am however here to post bail for Alex Lansing."

"One moment, Sir, let's see what we have on Mr. Lansing." The officer began typing on the keyboard mounted just below the computer on the counter.

"Oh! You're here for Reverend Teardrop." Laughter breaks out from the other officers seated at the desk behind the counter. Jason finds no humor in the officer's remark, and therefore, remains standing, stone-faced and focused. In the midst of all the laughing, the officer at the desk spills his blistering hot coffee on his hand. The officers behind the counter continue their laughter as the coffee victim puts on a brief dance expedition. Jason manages a slight smile, but remains professional.

"Officer, I have a bond card for Alex Lansing." Jason previously purchased the bond card as a result of being summoned repeatedly by his family to post bail for Teardrop's mischievous acts. The officer finished wiping the spilled coffee from his hands.

"Mr. Lansing is quite the character. If it were me, I would leave him exactly where he is."

Jason sighed, his weight shifted toward the counter as his hands landed on its surface.

"I will mind you, officer, not to state opinions in my personal affairs. Again, is bond an option?"

Now Georgia stands frozen, with the Goodman's front door only steps away. Her fear warrants her desire to call off this little expedition. She can still escape the feelings of insignificance that are brought about every time she encounters Jason. A simple turn is all that is needed. Instead, she strokes her fingers through the valley of grey follicles on top of her head and then pulls the hem of her skirt downward, releasing undesired static into the air.

The Goodman's glass storm door reflects her appearance. There is no more room for escape as the red door behind it opens. Georgia becomes petrified, realizing that confrontation with Jason is now inevitable. The glass storm door remains closed, as Jason stands in the doorway with a puzzled look on his face. Georgia speaks out, her voice subdued by feelings of being a momentary nuisance.

"Rabbi, I mean Jason, I'm sorry for just showing up at your home unannounced."

"Alex, is he alright?" Jason voices his concern, interrupting Georgia's apology.

"No, no, that's not why I'm here. Jason, please don't be angry with me." Jason opens the storm door fully, as Georgia continues her explanation for the visit.

"The truth is, son, I just really needed to be near you."

Seconds elapse as Jason remains unresponsive to Georgia's sentiment. He doesn't know what to make of such a moment. A hug could have moved mountains, instead he moves to the side, granting Georgia an open passageway into his life.

"Georgia, do come in, it's nice of you to visit us at our home."

The scent of vanilla clings to the air. Love lives here. Hanging in the Goodman's foyer is an enormous family portrait. Young Daniela's smile seems to leap out at Georgia from the picture. The sun beams through the skylight above sending shards of light to multiple directions. Patterns, reflected off the chandelier dance across the hallway wall. They end the short tour with Jason stopping at a small black box attached to the wall. He pushes the red button located below the white dial on the wall unit.

"Olivia, Daniela, could you ladies join me in the sitting room? We have company." He releases the button and then turns toward Georgia.

"Can I offer you a drink? We have lemonade. It's freshly squeezed. I'm sure you must be parched after your trip."

Georgia accepts; a cold beverage would do nicely. She follows Jason's lead and heads into the arch shaped entrance of the Goodman's sitting room. Once inside, she takes a seat on the white loveseat by the window. She can't help but to marvel at the room's décor as she awaits her lemonade. She ponders. Had she only followed the blueprint of life sanctioned by society, Georgia could have had a similar home, with a similar room. Daniela's angelic voice frees Georgia from a self-cast spell.

"Hello, my name is Daniela." Georgia revels in the little ray of sunshine's formal introduction. The children from her own neighborhood are often rude to her, taunting the ragged way she dresses and treating her the way they would an unwanted pet. Daniela is clearly well-mannered and respectful to her elders.

The little girl takes a seat beside Georgia sharing the white loveseat's limited space. Georgia doesn't speak; she instead braces herself for the usual reaction brought about by her well-traveled exterior. People either reposition themselves away from her or they show their feelings of repulsiveness by belittling her publicly.

Olivia arrives, extending her hand in welcome. "It is really good to see you again, Georgia. I do wish it were under better circumstances, but nonetheless, welcome."

"Thank you, Olivia. I see that you have remained as timeless as ever."

Georgia's words are complementarity and pour out easily from her silver tongue. She had to master the art of flattery at a young age in order to survive on the dangerous streets of Chicago.

Jason removes a wooden serving tray from a white wicker cabinet, while Olivia takes a seat on the white sofa across from Georgia and Daniela. Georgia continues her praise of Olivia and her fabulous home, as Jason departs to retrieve the previously offered lemonade. Georgia, a true Chameleon, wears her mask well, but even during pleasant conversation her insecurities threaten to surface, impacting her emotional state. As Jason returns with the cold beverages, Georgia's trembling hand accidentally causes a small portion of lemonade to spill onto her sweater. She immediately grasps her wrist to steady her hand.

"I am sorry; my arthritis tends to kick in when I least expect it."

"It's fine Georgia." Olivia reaches over, placing her hands on Georgia's shoulder.

"We're glad you're here. I think it's wonderful for us all to be together for Alex."

Try as she may, Georgia is unable to hold her feelings inside. Olivia's kind words ignite her emotions until they explode.

"Rabbi, I miss him so much!"

Jason wants to admonish her. Deep down inside, a part of him desires to lash out and tell her never to address him as Rabbi again, especially in the company of his daughter. But the tears raining down from Georgia's face extinguish the fire inside him. Jason hands her a tissue.

"I miss him too, Georgia, but let's continue to be positive, Alex will be just fine; I promise."

"Why did Georgia call you Rabbi, Daddy?" Daniela, inquisitive as ever, requests an explanation. Jason wants to tell his daughter to never mind, but looking upon her he can only answer his little girl honestly.

"Georgia sometimes refers to me as Rabbi, because I remind her of your great-grandpa. That was the name he went by."

Georgia interrupts Jason's explanation.

"You mean to tell me, little one, that you don't know of your Great-grandpa, Rabbi? It is after all your heritage."

"No," Daniela replies, "But I sure would like to."

"Georgia!" Jason's stern voice slashes through the conversation, causing Georgia to gasp. She does not look into his direction, but towards Olivia instead. Georgia wonders if she has overstepped her boundaries and fully understands that if this is the case the woman of the house won't hesitate to tell her. Georgia finds Olivia's eyes fixated on Jason.

Jason quickly realizes the reasoning behind his wife's pensive stare and openly apologizes to Georgia, concluding that his outburst may have been a bit frightening.

Daniela again adjusts herself in her seat. She is becoming uneasy from anticipation of the story of her great grandpa Rabbi. Her entire life her dad has sheltered her from such tales. He has attempted to maintain what he believed to be the illusion of semblance for his family. Jason concludes, that Olivia deserves to know everything about the man she chose to spend eternity with and Daniela should know her history.

Jason breathes deeply, and then exhales the egotism that has buried itself deep within his heart for decades.

"Georgia." His voice is more subdued now. "Please tell us about the life of grandpa Rabbi."

Olivia walks proudly over to her man; they embrace. Georgia is aware that today a victory has been won inside the Goodman home. Georgia sits up, her head held high and proud. She is once again filled with life.

"Little one, now pay attention. Ole' Georgia's gonna tell you the story the way I seen it, with the same exact eyes that sit here today envying your beauty and with the same heart that beats steady, longing to see him on the other side." Georgia notices Daniela practically glowing with excitement. Youthful and unafraid is the great granddaughter of Rabbi, definitely cut from the same cloth as he was.

Georgia's hand is now steady as a surgeon's, as she takes another sip of lemonade. With her attention aimed upward toward the vaulted ceiling, she places the glass down upon a table coaster, and then begins her testimony.

#

### GEORGIA'S SONG

I was only seventeen. My mother would yell from the kitchen for me to get off the fire escape.

"Georgia, get yourself inside and do your homework."

Still, I would stand there starry eyed, hoping for a glance of the Goodman boys, especially the one Rabbi, as they congregated near the cloud dwelling willow tree located at the east end of Worthington Park. "All whom encountered Rabbi became a part of his canvas. Each one enhanced vibrantly by the beautiful colors of his life. Rabbi, thoughtful by nature, painted lively smiles upon the faces of them all. The lost ones always seemed to gravitate toward him. Some folks likened him to the Pied Piper of ancient folklore; often leading the fallen to a better existence amongst their peers. Everyone wanted a part of him. He had a gift; he had the "it factor."

"Exactly what is the "it factor?" Daniela crosses her legs Indian style on the loveseat. She has sat quietly for five whole minutes, a feat that Jason and Olivia would consider a new record. She has always been extremely enthusiastic. Her newfound silence is due solely to the desire for more information. Only then will Daniela be fully able to capture her great-grandfather's memory. Georgia understands Daniela's eagerness, as the young girl's fingers begin to swiftly tap her thigh.

"That thing he had little one was a gift. He possessed the ability to captivate every living creature on God's green earth. Rabbi was a king amongst men, child." Georgia pauses momentarily as her eyes slide into a sudden close. She sighs softly and then once again opens the hazy windows to her soul.

"It was a blistering hot afternoon in late August 1952, I believe. One of those days that stay inside you forever. On this particular day there was a shine like none that came before it. The sun had a point to prove and refused to let up till it was proven. Now Ole Georgia had just purchased this stunning red dress from the reliable store downtown. I recall that being a pretty special moment for me, on account I had disciplined myself for two whole months, while working as a waitress to save enough money for it."

"I sauntered down Park Avenue. I wanted everyone to see me in that dress. I remember the feeling that rushed over me when I first put it on. I felt invincible. It's funny how a simple garment can make you feel so powerful. I recall one feller even referring to me as the Red Sea; on account of all the couples that parted when they passed by me."

Georgia pauses momentarily for self-gratification.

"Enough about me though, that's another story entirely. You know Rabbi never did have eyes for me. He wasn't like other men. I must have walked by three or four times before he even noticed I was alive. Ultimately, it was Teardrop who called me over to their table."

"Pardon me Miss!" He shouted loud enough for the entire state of Illinois to hear. Thinking back, it was more than likely that dress he called out to, not me; still I had finally gotten my shot for what I considered an audition with Rabbi and the Goodman boys. Chills shot up my spine as I approached their table. I was only a young woman then and to me the Goodman boys were everything. Powerfully untouchable, were they. Mythical men, whom held in their confidence the key to defeating life from day to day. I mean, if folks had some, then they had all.

Rabbi was their leader, and not by any internal vote or decree, but people just saw it that way. I mean he carried himself in such fashion. He was truly a king amongst men.

So, there I stood, filled with confidence, striking a pose that took me hours in the dressing room mirror perfecting. I worked every last fiber of that red dress for at least five minutes before Rabbi noticed me, and when chance finally did find us...my heart stopped. He peered directly through that cheap red dress, seeing deep inside to the place where my soul hides. He said nothing, yet I heard everything. So much, that I didn't budge from the spot I held for another five minutes. Finally, after realizing that Rabbi had turned away, I focused my attention on Teardrop's incessant chatter, whose words had previously fallen upon deaf ears. I was however completely mesmerized by Rabbi's every move. Bewitched, I stood in the soft breeze, while Rabbi continued holding court with his beloved Goodman boys. I would have waited an eternity for his attention, but he was never meant to notice me.

I did not possess magic powerful enough to enchant him, but she did.

"Excuse me." She spoke with a smoky contralto manner; so polite was Miss Raven. Sugar and spice, but I could never bring myself to adore her in the way everyone else did...simply because the whispers all said that Rabbi loves her. I felt her soft touch on my arm as she brushed past me. There again appeared that August shine, 'cept this time it was her shimmering red hair that imprisoned everyone's attention. She had these long wavy strands of fire, extending a ladybug's mile past her shoulders. The closer she came to him, the more their light entwined. Whispers are often true, little one.

Slowly, I began backing away. I too was in awe of Lady Raven's glory. Humility overcame me in an August rush. What possible reason did I, a common waitress, have to even dream of infinite possibilities? My daddy had always told me, "Georgia, dream big" he said, that the only limits were the ones I set for myself. I started off the day as an overachiever, but at some point between the elegance of a lady and the dreamy ambitions of a girl, I lost myself. Only to be ever eventually found again by the simple gesture of my forever friend, Teardrop.

"Excuse me again, Miss." He pulled out the empty chair next to Raven. I like to favor myself by thinking that my smile, as a result of the invite, eclipsed that August shine, if only for a brief moment. So, I walked into their world that day and graciously took my seat next to Lady Raven amid the legendary Goodman boys. Now mind you, I knew my place within the family. Rabbi had always referred to us as a family. He would echo his sentiments often, stating that only true family could be trusted. In his mind only a true family structure represented strength. Ironically, his idealistic fantasies were often his weakness, for this particular belief led to an untimely departure from our lives."

Her memoirs began an assault on her soul as the haunting of the past quietly escapes the darkened passageways of Georgia's mind. Minutes elapse into time traps, capturing the Goodman's inside a state of anticipation as they wait for Georgia's anecdote to continue on.

"Spade", finally she whispers. Georgia moves slowly, in a rocking motion, as her arms wrap around her waist. She holds on to herself tightly, until her voice begins its quiver.

"He took him away from us, Spade!" She casts his name onto the room with the strength of ten lions. Anger has found its way to her surface. Instantly, she flings her hands upward to the heavens.

"Curse your dark soul, Spade. He was a twisted man and everything he touched became twisted right along with him."

"Georgia, I thought you were telling us about my grandfather?"

"Yes Jason, but as you very well may know Spade was a part of Rabbi, a very dark part son. It is good to know that old Georgia has your attention though. Now, Spade and Raul were partners in countless underground business ventures."

"Raul?" This time it is Daniela whom inquiries.

"Raul Estes." Georgia continues on, was the most arrogant, self-centered excuse for a man there ever was. Strange fruit he was. Raul would only wear white, except for his shoes; they were black patent leather with an extra spit shine. He would always wear gloves; white ones, similar to the ones the ushers wear at Sunday service. The inner circle of the Goodman boys was a mysterious one. Unexplainable as raindrops on a sunny day was their bond.

"Rabbi was Bobby Rizzo's man. An abundance of connections were a fringe benefit of being an extension of Rizzo. Along with that came power. Fact is, Rizzo had never done business with anyone who didn't have pure Italian blood flowing through his veins. For Rizzo, Rabbi represented a risk factor, but the potential for growth presented itself far too attractive for him to resist. Spade and Raul knew that in order for them to strive, they would have to align themselves and their individual business dealings with Rabbi.

We swore allegiance to one another, and then immediately modeled ourselves after Bobby Rizzo and his people. They were to be our blueprint for success. We each agreed that the idea of "family", when applied to business, had been successful for a long time within the private circles of our Italian brothers; therefore, it should be as equally successful for the Goodman boys. We neglected to take into account jealousy and envy two of the most infectious sins known to man. Sins mainly associated with the enemy. When they come into your life wearing the guise of a friend, they are not easily recognized. They represent false pretenses, hidden effectively in the shades of summer. A good, trusting man's weakness is often that of denial, when applied to the betrayal of a loved one. Rabbi often overlooked dissention inside the Goodman organization. Spade and Raul plotted often enough his demise while he and his naïve heart continued to further embrace them.

Folks were different back in those days. A hard day's work was a part of everyday life for everybody. It was never viewed as a burden for survival as it is today. People worked very hard, but you best believe they would play even harder. Rabbi comprehended this much, and it was this understanding of the human soul that led him to establish "The Sandbox".

It was an escape from the everyday rat race. He created a retreat to fine music, "feel good" entertainment, and plenty of thirst quenching spirits. He mounted the largest sign he could locate in the Midwest on top of his urban utopia. The sign's allure enticed folks from miles around. Like a moth to a flame they came all dressed up in their Sunday best, following the dulcet jazz tunes springing from the Sandbox's brick exterior. Those that arrived after the joint reached its capacity stayed and danced freely in the streets uninhibited by the laws of man. Few rules existed at the Sandbox, for the rebellious night air didn't allow for such. Frequently, we would all gather upstairs behind the two-way mirror, looking down on freedom's soldiers, as they stomped their feet to life altering rhythms. Gracious, were they just to have been provided such moments of joy.

The men came in search of someone to save them, if not for eternity, then at least for the moment. The women came to escape the ones who promised to save them but never delivered. I would sometimes leave the mystery of the two-way mirror and dance the night away with the patrons of the Sandbox. Sometimes my wandering eyes would drift upward, and become fixated on the spot where Rabbi often stood. I would imagine him watching me dance; we all did, a sea of yearning devotees gathered together on the painted concrete floor of the Sandbox.

Time continued on, embracing the Goodman boy's celebrity. It felt as if every day was my birthday back then. The energy surrounding us remained as a positive force in our lives. We were at the top of the mountain and as our heads accompanied the clouds we gained an awareness of the Goodman boys place in society.

Until the day love came for him. She stormed into our perfect little world demanding her right to be free of the ties that bonded Rabbi to the city streets. She had been a lady in waiting for far too long. A choice had to be made. An ultimatum was delivered by LOVE. To ask Rabbi's light to fade seemed harsh at the time, but she had no other choice, for with the passing of each unpredictable day their child grew stronger inside her. LOVE had always dreamt of having her own family, and with that reality now within reach, she had to be capable of predicting their tomorrows. It was on a bone chilling evening in December that Rabbi chose LOVE over the rest of us, leaving only a letter addressed to Teardrop and his footprints in the snow behind the Sandbox.

Chaos wasted very little time in Rabbi's absence. We all began doing our own thing. Spade deemed himself the leader of all business affairs but Tony Rizzo's people refused to deal with anyone other than Rabbi. So, Spade went elsewhere for business needs, often tainting the Goodman boys with his obscure dealings. I asked Teardrop several times to open Rabbi's letter, but he never did. The shock of Rabbi leaving us pushed him to drink heavily. He would disappear for days without checking in to let us know he was ok. I continued my social prowess, becoming a poster child for the Goodman boys. I bought more time for our upstanding reputation within the community by making an appearance at any and every large gathering of people I could find. And eventually, even became a member of First Baptist Community Church. The people needed to see more than Teardrop disoriented in the streets. They deserved more than the shady reputation of Spade and Raul.

Our world was maturing. It was becoming critical that the ones less fortunate saw there still remained hope. It had to be known that the success story of the Goodman boys continued. After all, it was a remarkable story. No other role models from my youth come to mind. No beautiful princesses or knights in shining armor existed in our neighborhood; there was only Rabbi and the Goodman boys. I decided upon taking sole responsibility for keeping our legend alive. Unfortunately, as was the usual happening in my life, people grew weary of me and the façade I represented. Teardrop had stumbled his way down the boulevard one too many times for the rumor mill to remain closed. Some folks even went too far, at times spreading malicious stories in regards to Rabbi's disappearance. They taunted Teardrop on the poker table, a place where he spent the greater part of his meaningless days. The consensus around town was that we had doubled crossed Rizzo; therefore Rabbi had to void his own life in order to spare ours. The people painted him as a martyr. My troubled heart missed him as a man.

Maybe, just possibly the people were missing him too, or simply pressed to find enough significance in their own lives. Whatever the reason for the controversy, the absence of Rabbi did not help matters. The Goodman boys were losing their luster and the brightest of us all was nowhere to be found.

Such stories continued their circulation around the city for years. Fictitious in origin, they only diminished the truly amazing truth in relation to Rabbi and the newfound direction his favored life was taking. Ms. Raven, in all her splendor, had given birth to a beautiful baby boy.

Harrison Goodman, your father, Jason. Rabbi had succeeded in keeping his personal life just that, personal. There were a few amongst the many that would wish him sorrow. In keeping his family away from the world he knew, he gained a sense of security.

The Worthington Park annual picnic was celebrated by all in those days. It was one of those yearly events that most folks spent eleven months and three days consumed with the anticipating of its return. It was on this celebrated stage that Rabbi chose to come back to us, and in turn delivered the community one of its most brilliant performances to date. The music circled the blazing sun itself, loud and proud, joyful to be pleasing to the ears of the uninhibited gatherers of the park. Choreographed dance moves cultivated the area next to the summer stage assisted by the big bands rhythmic rapture.

"Rabbi," shouted one man.

The rhythm ceased as bodies stilled, and then every soul, young and old, turned to witness Rabbi's magnificent white Cadillac convertible gliding toward them. Stars fallen from Hollywood is what came to my mind as the car came to a halt spotlighted by the summer's sun. Ms. Raven held their newborn baby boy in her arms. I tell you that bundle of joy outshined them both. Suddenly, Rabbi's absence from the scene was justified. Within that stitch in time returned the excitement of life to our community.

He greeted everyone in his path with a handshake, while Raven dealt graciously with the sea of envious women, rushing to her borders for a glimpse of the prodigal son.

Rain Clouds began their manifestation above us, as dark thoughts hid well behind the artistic smiles of these women. I understood these ladies, for I myself was among them, filled with regret that the child with the golden skin and sparkling brown eyes did not depart my womb. A gift of this magnitude had no doubt solidified their union for eternity. I can still recall the nervousness I felt as I sought him out after finally taking my leave from the allure of his offspring. There he was off in the distance. His arms opened wide as he walked toward Teardrop. Sudden laughter overwhelmed them both. Come to think of it, this was to be the only time I ever witnessed Rabbi's laugh uncontrolled. He usually just smiled with his eyes.

I had come to terms with the idea of Ms. Raven just not wanting to be around us. It was easy for me to blame her for Rabbi not being with us anymore. She couldn't possibly understand our way of life, being a fancy schoolteacher and all. So, it's true we each in our own way held a form of contempt for her. We figured that she just believed GOD made her better than the rest of us. Not once did any of us step outside of our selfish box to consider Ms. Raven with child. At times grown-ups can be so childish, little one.

Envy is notorious for suffocating a friendship. I was exposed to such on that memorable afternoon in Worthington Park. Precisely as Rabbi took his place at our picnic table, so did Spade slither away. He comprehended the current situation. If Rabbi had truly returned to us, then his short run at total control was now over. Rizzo would soon make a power play with Rabbi back and once again all deals would run through Goodman boy territory. Spade didn't even make an attempt at masking his emotions, as his pale skin reddened with rage. None of the others noticed, but ole Georgia, I was seated directly across from him. The expression on that man's face caused a knot to form inside my stomach. Overcome by utter disbelief of the moment, I just sat there with words of warning for Rabbi trapped inside my throat. The love Rabbi so frequently spoke of, in regards to family, didn't exist for Spade. As he departed the park Spade glanced back toward the rest of us, watching, as we continued to laugh and embrace one another, but through midnight painted lenses, his soul's true intentions could not be seen.

"Eventually, my ability to speak returned. I asked Teardrop if he'd seen how Rabbi's return affected Spade. He jokingly told me to ''lay off the sauce."

"What type of sauce, Georgia?" Daniela interjected.

"Never you mind little one. Never you mind."

I pondered asking Raul if he had noticed anything strange about Spade when Rabbi joined us at our table, but their bond was too close. I really didn't want to get anything started unnecessarily. Dusk was upon us and the annual picnic was coming to a close. As we all made our way to our cars, Teardrop asked Rabbi if he would join us back at the Sandbox. Rabbi instinctively turned to Raven for a response to Teardrop's question. She first smiled, and then nodded her head in agreement. To be respected and cherished in such a way melted my heart thrice over. That pureness of unity in itself is a gift, one that I have forever longed for. It's true; I was content with being a valid part of the Goodman boys. It had always been my life's ambition; still I had never known love, pure, and true. Anyway, later at that Sandbox I spoke openly with Rabbi. I described to him the demons I witnessed occupying Spade's pale frame. I did it out of love, not to cause a riff between the two of them. Rabbi believed us to be family and I wanted that for him, heck, for all of us, but what I saw in Spade was extreme discontent, enough to eventually lead to the destruction of the Goodman boys."

"We're sorry; we can't take your call right now."

Daniela's voice recording on the telephone answering machine brings Georgia's story time to an end. Daniela, the swift, dashes toward the nearest phone. Before she can grasp it, the final instructions of her voice recording "Please leave a message after the beep." sounds off, making way for a message that leaves the three of us feeling disconcerted.

"Mr. Goodman, this is St. Luke hospital calling in reference to Mr. Alex Lansing."

Daniela freezes in her tracks, as the female voice, coming from the answering machine continues.

"Sir, if you could either call the hospital or come in soon as conveniently possible; Dr. Wong would deeply appreciate it. "Bleep."

The message ends, leaving everyone in the room bemused.

"I have been meaning to purchase a new answering machine; this one never gives the caller enough time." Jason's apology is shortened, as the acoustic sobbing of Georgia echoes throughout the Goodman home. Olivia immediately offers her support, exemplifying compassion by taking hold of Georgia's unsteady hand. The phone call prompted Georgia to fear the worst, and now only the added strength of Olivia's touch prevents her from crashing down onto the Goodman's floor.

"I'm sure Teardrop is just fine, Georgia." Olivia speaks softly, her words are as compassionate as they are convincing. Georgia removes a dingy white cloth from the front pocket of her plaid dress in order to absorb her free flowing tears of fear.

"Thank you Olivia for the bit of reassurance. Sometimes my old heart pains me so."

#

### JASON

I raced my car to St. Luke Hospital. Aligned with Teardrop's destiny, I would soon either relish in his miraculous recovery or weep in his unfortunate passing. One is inevitable today, but both in the moment remain guided by the unforeseen. Thoughts of a man I hardly know anymore overtake me as I drive. Breathing becomes more difficult as I pass each tenement. My eyes begin to water forcing teardrops to spring out, unleashing streams of emotions. I lower my window to allow the fumes of confusion their escape into the sounds of the city, where they will be forever lost inside an asphalt limbo.

My cell phone vibrates inside my pocket unexpectedly. One message envelope rotates on my phones small yet vivid screen. I feel relieved that it is a text message instead of an incoming call. The abundance of mixed emotions had yet to escape from my cars interior. The message is from Olivia, she is informing me that Georgia will be staying and therefore joining us for dinner. A large part of me feels a sense of assurance. I have already anticipated my return home, when during dinner, or even dessert, Georgia would continue her chronicle on the life and times of Rabbi Goodman. I can't help but cite the obvious, never have I been more receptive to learning about my grand old man. My mind is now open.

I arrive at St. Luke within twenty minutes. The signs at the entrance direct me toward the professional building, adjacent to the patient care facility. I need to acquire directions to Dr. Wong's private office. Once inside the corridor of the professional building, panic overwhelms me. I often lock out thoughts of death. It is an end to an otherwise magnificently warm and celebrated existence. Inside that corridor, I began to ponder a man's last walk; be it all knowing. Those final steps to the end must be compounded by regrets. I wonder if even the happiest of man still reaches toward the light, or does he instead long for just one more sunrise. A final moment in which he can hold his loved ones, one last day, and also feel the warmth of gentle rain against his skin, or even taste the evaporating essence of a snowflake upon his tongue. The final walk when we are so close, yet still far away from GOD.

Man does not take those final steps alone though; his shadow is right there with him, cast outward from within by the light. My shadow walks this cold corridor with me. The shadow follows a man everywhere throughout his life, evolving in growth as we do. Does the shadow also share a man's end or does it simply bid us farewell and reattach itself to a new life force?

Surely, these are the thoughts that now consume Teardrop's subconscious. Before his injury it all seemed so simple for me. I have never been naïve to the spinning world outside of my suburban bubble, but my values and the expectations of my community often clashed with the outside world. The outer people, as I fondly refer to the loved ones that aren't present in my day to day life, deserve much more from me in regards to kinship. Georgia and Teardrop have brought forth a new revelation in my life... He was only a man, my grandfather, a loving husband just as I strive to be, a devout father, just as I was born to be. The picture is almost complete, and it is more satisfying than the gangster of urban legend I once was ashamed of.

Dr. Wong MD is engraved in bold capital lettering. The glass door allows me to observe the emptiness about the office. I enter, only to find the doctor alone behind the receptionist counter, reading from a blue folder.

"Hello, Doctor".

He closes the folder and extends his hand toward me in greeting.

"It is good to see you again, Mr. Goodman, though I wish it was under better circumstances."

My heartbeat increases. "What do you mean, doctor?"

"Earlier today we had to perform an emergency surgical procedure to stop Mr. Lansing's internal bleeding.

I am afraid that he has taken a turn for the worst. Currently, he is stabilized. I remain cautious though. Mr. Lansing's body just isn't very strong. We can only hope for the best at this point."

Faith, hope and prayer, until now the notion of prayer had eluded me. My mother, the devout Christian that she is, instilled within me the fear of GOD at a very young age. I believe the Most High to be with me at all times, but the look of concern from Dr. Wong's face causes me to question whether my prayers will be well received this time. Maybe GOD wanted him home and not me down here begging for his recovery. Still, for Teardrop, this night I will pray.

The good doctor escorts me across the overpass, leading to the hospital wing, which houses Teardrop. He leaves me with strict instructions, not to stay too long, for his patient is in much need of rest. Seeing him lay lifeless before me incites memories from our shared pages of the book of life. It was my sixteenth birthday, Teardrop and I played basketball from noon until the street lights came on. Teardrop led by three points with the final game coming to a close. Suddenly, the coughing set in and then the wheezing. Too much alcohol and tobacco Teardrop would later confess, after I celebrated my victory. A footrace in the park, though only twelve, still, I won. On the bed before me lay a good man. I can only kneel and whisper thanks, to my developer of self-esteem.

My prayers, scattered freely about the room, search out willing angels to carry my humble request to GOD. Each plea has been stamped personally with my soul. The angels carry them safely past the powers that would leave such desires unheard by our Creator. I rise up from my knees and then proceed to respect the wishes of Dr. Wong, taking my leave of St. Luke Hospital, so that Teardrop may receive his proper rest.

Destiny's true definition has mystified me for years. I question the sensibility in Teardrop's unfortunate circumstance. Why was he predestined to lose his beloved family at such a young and fragile time in his life, only to become an unappreciated part of my family? The loss of family, while still deep within his own innocence is such an intimate conflict, one that must have required a great amount of inner strength from him. The elevator opens until it swallows me whole; eventually it spits me out into the hallowed halls of the hospitals first floor lobby. My drive home is a swift one.

• • •

All my focus has now been turned to Georgia. Only the intricate tales of her past can fulfill my curious void. The years have not favored our relationship. When I was a boy she would often come for me. Youthful and eccentric was she. In those days a red scarf was Georgia's signature; she wore it about her neck even on the warmest of summer days. Her cocoa brown eyes were enhanced by endless eyelashes, which created riffs through the air each time she blinked. We were all closer back then, I muddle briefly inside the moment.

They each needed me back then, though in their own individual ways. I conclude they needed me because I was an extension of Rabbi for them, and I, in my adolescence, granted them more time with him.

From my driveway, the large picture window in the front of our home shows as a drive-in movie. Georgia sits in the dining room her hands rest on top Olivia's white linen tablecloth, her head remains low as her body sways slowly from side to side. Tonight, she will dine within the company of my family. Hopefully, our bond of serenity can help her bring to an end the overwhelming noise inside her head.

It appears that my timing could not be better as Daniela emerges from the kitchen with a plate of Olivia's delicious buttermilk biscuits. I spring from my car and rush through the front door to join them. My body seeks sustenance, for the day has been challenging and has finally drained me of energy. Olivia instructs me from the confines of our kitchen, to wash my hands before joining Georgia and Daniela at the dining room table. Upon my return from freshening up, the girls initiate their scan process, searching out any sign of Teardrop's present condition. My melancholy demeanor notifies them that he is all right. Together we give thanks, especially for Teardrop's continued fight for life. His well-being helps with the mood of the room and though we decide on dinner music, the addition of subtle conversation is extremely enjoyable. Even Georgia manages to share with us her electrifying smile. Once, this smile was lethal enough to immobilize even the most alpha of males.

In photos taken in the past of a more youthful Georgia, her smile seemed to leap from the photo, enticing all who observed to view deeper, until becoming frozen with awe of her beauty. It's amazing how such gifts remain ageless. It's truly a sad thing that she smiles so little these days; the entire world receives so much in return when she does. Olivia's roast, as always, is prepared to perfection with each succulent bite worth boasting over.

"Olivia, you really put your foot into this roast."

"Georgia, I will take that as a compliment."

The two of them seem as kindred spirits. In a perfect world, Olivia would still possess the opportunity to break bread with her own mother. Instead Georgia, in her age and presence, seems to briefly fill a void for my beloved wife. Happily, I sit, listening to them both as they swap recipes.

As we close in on dinner's end, I happen to notice Olivia in her silence, peeking out through our dining room window. The twilight is upon us. I know exactly what will come about next. Olivia through her warmth and compassion will invite Georgia to spend the evening as our guest. I will not object. Tonight, Georgia will be the honored guest of the Goodman's.

"I'm sure I can find you some comfortable sleepwear, Georgia."

She follows Olivia through the kitchen to the guest room located at the rear of our home, while Daniela and I gather the dishes from our dining room table.

"Daddy, Georgia seems really nice. Since, she has no family, why don't we invite her over more often?"

I do not respond. Instead I stand there staring aimlessly at the food stained china, ashamed, and guilty of the way I have treated Georgia and Teardrop over the past few years. In my selfishness, I have shunned them, while knowing that they had no one and only wanted to be close to me.

"Daddy, are you alright, Daddy?"

"Yes, Daniela I'm alright now."

Before I bed down, I thank Olivia for inviting Georgia to stay the evening. Graciously, she takes hold of my hand, and then replies, "I knew it was what you would have wanted."

Olivia is truly the complete half that makes me whole. Once again, I lay me down to sleep a grateful man.

Shades of grey...The sky is painted, also the land, and even the sea. Beads of sweat race down my forehead, drenching my pillow. It is happening again. I become engulfed inside a smoke filled room as the reoccurring nightmare spins me upward above the crowd of the patrons cursed to share these troubled moments of the silent night with me. The dreary smoke dances in circles around my flesh, until forcefully inserting me into a dark corner. I am now distanced from everyone else, but clothed this time in bright colors. Painted on sun fire orange, covers me from my jacket to my pants. My shoes are gleaming yellow, immaculately shined; they stand on top the fallen petals of daisies. I should stand out amongst the dreary occupants of the room yet no one even looks my way. I remain paralyzed in a rainbow of confusion as the repetitive events that have taken place so often behind the darkness of my eyes begin their assault on my dreams.

He stands behind the bar pouring a drink. The fluid flows out in red, a contrast to the morbid shades of grey about the room. Average in height, his features are chiseled. His eyes, filled with life, sparkle as would diamonds in the afternoon sun. He is pleasing to the eye, the heir apparent, my father Harrison Goodman.

Harrison flashes a smile in the direction of the bar's right end. There, seated along with two others, presumably men of status, sits Rabbi. In his left hand he holds his signature cigar, while in the palm of his right; he looks over the moment on his favorite timepiece.

"A special little trinket," they once said of that watch.

When I was just a tiny boy; I was given the grandest tale of how he won it chasing butterflies. Later in life, I would come to discover the truth of how he gained ownership of this adored timepiece. He had actually won it at the horse track in a bet against the Mayor of Chicago.

A sudden silence absorbs the room. Smoke begins its dominance by encasing the entire area and then taking on the characteristics of fog rapidly rolling in from the sea. Everything within the room stills, except for Rabbi's timepiece. The clock hands continue their journey of seconds striking loudly with each advance. Thunder roars as the front door is kicked in. The motion of the room begins again, but more slowly this time. Three men shaded in evening blue float into the room, defying gravity as we know it. They appear to be one with the smoke, passing through all who stand between them and their destination.

Harrison openly greets them with a nod of his head. For a stitch in time it appears that they are familiar with one another. Through the dense smoke, I notice the violence fire launch from the hand of the smaller man, aimed in the direction of Harrison. As sparks streak closer to him, the silence returns to the room. I can no longer hear my grandfather's timepiece. Instantly, I reach out for my father, breaking free of the corner's hold, and then dashing toward the three men attacking him. Hearing my own fear beat inside me, I awaken. My skin is cold; the pillow underneath my head is soaked. The dream has evolved. I am now able to move within its prison.

The damp pillowcase finds its way to a wicker clothes hamper located in our family's laundry room. Fuzzy football shaped slippers and a white cotton robe, each birthday presents from Olivia, join me on my quest to imbibe. The unpleasant dream has rendered me mentally disengaged for the moment. I make my way quietly down the hall, and past Daniela's room, then towards the stairs that will lead me to my wet bar.

A light illuminates the bottom of our staircase. I hasten my step, curious as to the light's origination. Her sobbing greets me at the door of my family room. Georgia sits alone on the cold hardwood floor of the room seemingly mesmerized by my family's photo album. She does not look to me when I enter, yet her words prove there is an awareness of my presence.

"Rabbi, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what Georgia?"

"Oh! Jason I didn't see you standing there."

A photo of my grandfather falls from her hand. The original apology that spilled from her lips was not meant for my ears.

"Georgia, why are you still awake at this hour?"

"I couldn't find peace Jason...Nightmares. If you would like for me to leave this room I understand. After all, I have no right wandering through your home at all hours of the night. Sometimes, I do declare my mind has gone and taken leave. It happened to my daddy, and his father before him. If the same fate waits for me Jason, it really won't bother me none. That way when death come a knocking I won't be afraid to let him in. Heck, with my mind gone I won't even know who he is."

I lean up against the wall my hands rest snuggled inside the pockets of my night robe.

"No, Georgia, it's fine we seem to have the nightmare thing in common." She smiles a kind, warming smile. I join her in viewing my family's history captured in still frames. Thirty years my senior and she still becomes reduced to that of a child with the introduction of each new photo. I sit quietly beside her, relishing in her newly acquired joy.

"I remember this one. It was winter 1961. Rabbi bought us all furry white coats with the intention of having the gang pose together for a group photo, out in the woods. He loved the visual effect the leafless trees gained from the aftermath of a large snowfall. Everything becomes all blanketed in white. For years, this picture sat on his desk at the Sandbox to remind us of real beauty when the world turned ugly.

"Oh! Rabbi, see this one." She is one of the few souls remaining in this world that still sometimes refer to me by that name. Childlike characteristics overcome me; I rush over and take my seat beside her on the floor.

The pictures manifest into movies, each given a title and a story by Georgia. The power of their story amazes me. Still shots, yet larger than life in Georgia's recollection. Through the swift passing of the years they have become little more than ghosts on our shelves, but here she sits, rejuvenated by their enriched history, radiating from the personification of each photo.

"Georgia, who is this lovely lady, she reminds of my wife."

Georgia pauses briefly before realizing that I am only joking.

The picture is of my grandmother, Raven, in her youth. Teardrop always said, "GOD copies his best work."

Olivia is her likeness just as I am Rabbi's. It must have been written that way; after all, pictures never lie. They only add five pounds. Raven and Rabbi's light seems to gleam onward as Olivia and me.

"Georgia, do you think they deserved a second chance?"

Jason, honey, I don't believe the good Lord gives out those types of chances. I do think though that He took two of his masterpieces and placed them into a better light. That is what I believe."

Still, she refuses to speak of Rabbi negatively. What manner of a man demands such loyalty long after his worldly departure? Surely, not the man I know to be my Grandfather.

"Georgia." I am looking down with my eyes fixated on a paisley pattern within our throw rug, afraid that my impending request could be considered selfish or even rude to a guest in my home. "Georgia, if you would, tell me more of where I come from."

The words circle above us both before falling directly into her lap. Sincerity beams outward from the burgundy hue that has come with the rain, flowing steadily from her eyes. The tears continue to purge her of regrets as the photos solidify a quality life. She leans back, resting comfortably at the foot of our love seat, and then with one gasp of life, Georgia returns to a time when all her dreams were realities.

#

### GEORGIA

Rabbi was the first day of my life. Most things before that I really can't recall in much detail, but I do know this world when it beheld Rabbi Goodman, I will never forget. In those days a man of color owning a thriving business was almost unheard of. Rabbi was the exception. He held in his possession not only one business but an entire city block of successful businesses. This solidified him within the community and is also why most revered him as a king. He didn't just squander his accomplishments either. His businesses were the primary lifeline for many people from within the neighborhood. It was just another way he gave back to the home that had come to embrace him.

There were a few naysayers that spoke against him. They believed the only reason for his success was his fair-toned skin; they said the white businessmen accepted him more on the count of his appearance. It was true that Rizzo did indeed take a special liking to your grandfather and with all the prosperity they achieved together he may even have grown to love Rabbi. Having that type of backing could drive almost any man to the top but ask yourself, Jason, how many of those men could stay there? Rabbi continued to give as he received. He supplied jobs, gave to local charities and most importantly, he was a pillar of hope inside an otherwise forgotten community. I don't want to mislead you Jason, everything we had our hands on wasn't on the up and up, but society didn't exactly open her arms wide and embrace us, or our neighborhoods back then. She couldn't; her education about us had only just begun.

Rizzo represented opportunity and Rabbi knew that opportunity seldom calls before arriving. At the center of it all was the Sandbox.

The phrase "Dance today, live tomorrow," was painted on the grey concrete walls in bold white lettering. The irresistible scent of beautiful women dancing freely to the juke joint trumpets reeled them in by the masses. Strong, hardworking men carrying their last pennies in the front pockets of finely pressed zoot suits. This was a wonderful place in history. The Harlem Renaissance had transformed into lore, leaving its footprint on both poetry as well as music. Never before had the arts influenced a society as it did then, and we were determined to continue the celebration.

Some celebrations become habit. For example, it was Rabbi that taught me the importance of a sunrise. He would often pay tribute to his favorite star. The lonely one that dares to burn the day's light. Still, it chases away the darkness for us, while asking for very little in return, Cept that we arise early from time to time, with our warmth about our shoulders and our favorite coffee in hand. I have personally welcomed every sunrise for the past fourteen years, hoping that GOD will grant my darkest desire and spite down Spade and Raul. I know it to be wrong asking GOD for vengeance and all.

Georgia's hands are trembling, forcing her to release the photo album to the floor. The strength of her heartbeat attracts her hands to her chest, preventing an explosion of sorrow from taking place inside her. Tightly, she grasps her sweater, wrinkling the turquoise blouse beneath it. Her voice is low and steamy. Her tear ducts water with grief.

"The snake and the rat."

The picture is of Spade and Raul two members of the Goodman boys. I can judge from Georgia's reaction to their photo she was none too fond of either.

If only the sun had included them within its conquest over the darkness. Rabbi's flaw was to never fear their deceitful ways. Too often he forgave those two when he should have just rubbed them out. It was just too much trust for a man with so much power. She gasped deeply for air, inhaling clouds of regret from before her. It was a weakness, Jason. We all inherit it from life itself, that silly thing called love, both the gift and the curse aspect of the emotion. Some are able to eclipse its mojo with safeguards such as pride and selfishness, but the compassionate children of GOD often fall short. And usually pay with heartfelt pain in the end.

Rarely do we identify the potential danger before us. Warm smiles, are in truth, frigid as the winter's night. The darkened intentions of those we share private moments with are as careful, as they are calculating. Georgia has turned away from me now. Her arms are wrapped tightly around the frail frame that carries her lifetime of burdens. I begin to notice the hurt pour from within her as sorrow manages its escape into the quiet of night. I grab the tissue from the end table near the window. With tissue after tissue, she absorbs all misgivings from her past. Georgia then turns toward me, her windows clouded in red haze. With the final tear plummeting down the sharpened slope of her cheek, she again speaks to me.

"Jason, I am sorry, son. The memories are just too much for me to handle right now."

I sympathize with her pain. Georgia has no doubt stretched all emotional boundaries to deliver me her past and for that, I am grateful. She produces enough strength to stand up tall.

"Good night, Jason," she whispers, but not before delivering a kiss to my forehead, just as she had done countless times during my childhood. I gather the empty tissue box from the floor. Suddenly, I'm compelled to take a seat. I then notice that spread about the room, staring back at me are extensions of my life. There are pictures of my family, which provide passageways to happiness. There are awards hung upon the walls along with well-polished trophies on our bookshelf, highlighting my worldly accomplishments. I am instantly humbled. There exists a phrase that comes to mind for such a moment.

"There is nothing new under the sun."

Sure, I may have accomplished much, but for the chosen ones and even those less fortunate, it is the same sun. Together win or lose, we must endure her blaze. The same stood firm for those who bathed in her brilliance in times before us.

"There is nothing new under the sun." I say again and this time I chuckle, for I beg to differ; I am new. My grandpa, Rabbi, lived out his life under those sunrays his way. Now I, Jason Goodman, will chase the same star until I understand this man whose legend has shaped so many lives.

#

### JASON'S SONG

Her hand is as soft as the day I received her first touch. Birds call for their love ones, piercing the silence of dawn's first light. The digital clock glares at me from across the room. I awaken. Olivia stands before me, her beauty uncontested. The day breaks unshielded through the window highlighting her beautiful red locks. She has tossed and turned one time too many. I stand; our hands are interlocked as they will be through eternity, and then follow her to our room. I would follow her anywhere.

"Today will be better." She whispers while fluffing our pillows. I pull her close to me as we share warmth. The birds continue their symphony to the dawn as my eyes close, welcoming the darkness. Inside, my mind awakens; I am standing alone at the water's edge amidst a backdrop of night. Lights swarm toward me in the guise of smoke. The sky flickers, and instantaneously I recognize my surroundings to be that of Mailbox beach; a childhood happy place. This is Martha's Vineyard; I have known only joy here. Faster, the fog approaches until it engulfs me. My vision is compromised by music blaring in the distance, compelling me to move closer. I make my way through the fog. The dream is different now, though before me the doors still advance upward into the heavens. This time, the doors open slowly on their own. The fog begins its dissention, clearing a path for me leading directly to the bar. Trumpets and saxophones crash violently onto the walls of the room. There amongst the confusion he stands, clear as a perfect day, smiling effortlessly as he greets patrons. I advance toward him; with each step the path closes behind me. The trumpets sound off deafeningly. I am awakened from my slumber. The alarm clock reads 8:02 a.m. There will be no snooze button pressed. Today, I welcome our world. My best mate awaits me in the bathroom mirror. We share a conversation of thought. I console myself, for of late my feelings have been both fragile and unsure. We, the people, expect that by the time we embark into our thirties that this thing called life will have revealed enough for us to reach a competent level of comprehension. We rely on experience, preparing us for every challenge that comes forth. Instead, the great mystery that is life will forever riddle us. There is no level of preparation adequate enough for life's lessons; they will continue to humble us.

My mirror's image remains silent. What I hear or what I am is left entirely up to whom I see before me.

My day is planned out until the clocks sing midnight. Life is no longer lived; these days it is scheduled.

Quiet is painted clear blue; nothing taints its appearance as it greets me through the windows of my home. Our introduction is brief. The tantalizing aroma of Olivia's family's famous blueberry pancakes interrupts our moment A vision of her adding fresh blueberries to the pancake batter helps to hasten my steps toward the kitchen. Even though the special breakfast is obviously in honor of our guest Georgia, I'm sure to be digesting the greater part of Olivia's masterpiece. Three radiant smiles greet me as I enter their light.

"Today will be a good day." I say after table grace, and just before my fork dives into a triple stack. Our daily agendas take priority over our thoughts. There are few words spoken, only the constant sound of silver coated eating utensils softly striking against our breakfast plates. We each finish our meal, even though we all appear to be somewhat reserved and rightfully skeptical toward the days coming events. Georgia is the first to arise from the table. She gathers up the empty plates from our place settings. Olivia joins her and retrieves all the eating utensils. They both head toward the kitchen where the whispers of tears began their story.

#

### JASON

The ride to Georgia's is a comfortable one. She thanks me for our hospitality at least once every city block. That's thirty times total. There is a positive energy about Georgia. One can't help but to feed off it. My wife and daughter have been known to have that effect on people. It is good to see her happy, again. Life has not smiled on her of late.

The homes are becoming smaller and closer together now. There are fewer people out jogging, but noticeably more seemingly just standing around. The air must be heavier on this side of town. There can be no other explanation for the youthfully gifted, appearing so lifeless. They seem all too comfortable in relying on street corners to hold them upright.

I glance over toward Georgia. She is no longer smiling. More and more each city block has dimmed the lights in her eyes. Such pain should not be ignored, so I reach over to hold her hand. She smiles at me, a forced smile unnatural, not like before.

"This is my building Jason."

"Yes Ma'am, I remember."

A large illuminated "PARADISE LANDINGS" sign adorns the front of her residence. Georgia has resided here since the bank took away her beautiful home and flower garden years ago. She slowly opens the car door, possibly loathing a return to her world.

"I miss my flowers, Jason. Miss Olivia said I could help tend to hers."

"That would be a lovely idea, Georgia."

"Jason you are truly an angel." She closes my car door and makes her way to the building's entrance; here, she stops to stare upward. Georgia then turns around and waves goodbye. I drive off, weakened from my visit. The air here is too heavy for me.

I have always had a phobia toward hospitals. As a child I sustained numerous injuries from being so rambunctious, most of which were never attended to. There are scars all over my body that provide proof. In those days I would do just about anything to avoid hospitals. This visit is different, I long to be inside those hospital walls.

Teardrop's body lay before me nearly void of life. He remains imprisoned by the very dark that will eventually transport him into eternal peace. He has lead a life filled with complexity. What manner of man would even desire a return? It is said that on the other side, challenges and demands cease to be factors. For peace recognizes neither as a friend, and therefore neither are welcome. Inside that realm of existence Teardrop can soar high above the clouds caressing his aged soul with the soothing breeze of freedom. He isn't victim to any vice, nor slave in any manner of the word. Now, for Teardrop a decision of colossal proportions awaits. Shall it be life, or its counterpart the afterlife?

In this instant, Teardrop's conscience decides not to fly away; he remains in limbo. The nurse enters the room. Her movements are swift and routine. She examines the chart hanging at the bottom of Teardrop's bed. She then offers a smile of assurance for my benefit, before an even swiffer departure. I am returned to moments of worry, feeling no more confident of Teardrop's recovery than the previous day. Together, we sit, him and me, as the day forfeits an hour. We are comrades, united within the quiet of a lone hospital room. I can only watch as his body lay defenseless, while his soul contemplates an outcome.

My own human judgments could have their way with him as he lay in this helpless state of being. Instead, the days past have seen fit to open my eyes to so much that only compassion fills me in this moment. I long for his presence amongst us. I have already lost enough through this process of awakening. The cold and judgmental soul that once inherited my body has been humbled. My identity has begun its metamorphosis. I am more in touch with the comprehension of once hidden emotions. For each human being whom I have condemned for his or her way of life, my heart now cries outwardly for forgiveness. Finally, it has come to past; the self-acknowledgement of one confused boy who grew into a lost man.

The displacement of my grandfather along with the absence of my dad has left me emotionally detached, and therefore frightened into a stop-loss. I have taken all that is dear to me, being Olivia and Daniela, and sheltered them from the world best I could. A man cannot live if he fears life itself. The locks that have been placed upon my private life must now be removed.

The day has aged well into dusk. A warm touch of assurance to Teardrop's shoulder releases me back into the calamity of the world, leaving the quiet of our solitude behind.

I drive aimlessly through the city streets. A car behind me beeps its horn to alert me that the stop sign before me will not turn green. I regain my focus just in time to witness two young boys bouncing a basketball back and forth, inside the crosswalk. Located to my immediate right is a statue of Martin Luther King that for countless years, still stands firm as it continues to welcome all visitors entering Worthington Park. I have now landed in my old neighborhood. Adjacent to the 8ft. tall statue of Dr. King is his street, in his namesake. My relationship with the old neighborhood has grown distant over time. So much has undergone change since my last visit home. The Mom and Pop store where I used to spend all my hard-earned nickels and dimes is gone now. In its place stands a liquor store, "Cantons Liquors"

A large yellow sign reading "Lottery tickets sold here" takes the place of those colorful candy canes and gumdrops that were once exclusive to the old store front window.

I learned the hard way, long ago that all things must change and in quintessence change can be good, but the changes I am subjected to as I drive down the boulevard are not positive ones.

"The dream is becoming a nightmare."

Overachievers and professionals, that's the terminology of choice when we, the successful, reference ourselves; the ones that paid attention in class, runaways and quitters seem a more accurate title to me as I continue to witness the failure of a community. The same neighborhoods that breed we self-proclaimed overachievers, we flee once our hard work gains status within society. Never do we look back, or even give back. The suburbs become our new home, and we in our gratitude treat her in a short time, far better than our faithful neighborhoods, once nurturing city blocks.

These days our time is consumed by work. We have become slaves to the Rat Race. Still we continue to strive in prosperity, but in accomplishing this we often lose focus on our youth. The dreams that were once held so dear to generations before us have been eclipsed by the demands of a world that is far from that of our desired Utopia. If once again we could only give back to our humble beginnings and in doing so prioritize our energy into our children, and then we could ultimately uphold our place in modern society with honor.

Worthington Park stretches out four miles. Even today, as portions of the landscape begin to deteriorate, its remaining green acres continue to enthrall anyone that passes by. It was here in this enchanted park, beneath the protection of twin willow trees that my grandfather gave me his dictation of life. Though, barely seven years old, still I recall this gift to me; it was to be the last of many. Today being older and much wiser, I can appreciate his kind words for exactly what they were: opinions, thoughts and experiences of a man who has tasted life and relished in its zest.

I'm compelled to seek out those twin willow trees that in the past have granted me solace. The south side parking-lot is almost vacant, leaving me various choices from which I can choose to park. The walk over the cracked pavement is surprisingly pleasant. I greet all passer-bys with either a smile or a friendly gesture, such as a nod, or wave of the hand. In all cases the common courtesy is returned to me. I am overcome by a sense of newfound hope for my old community. Memories bombard me from every direction. The spot where I lost my favorite cats-eye marble as a young boy is directly to my right. I pause, and then squat down to briefly relive that moment. Even today not a single blade of grass has come to grow. A few more strides up the pavement and just off to my left are the rusted bike racks that showcased my first fistfight. Unable to contain myself, I erupt with laughter. Mainly because for the life of me, I can't recall what the fight was even about. Terry Banks was his name and if memory serves me right, I won the battle of the bike racks hands down, though I'm sure Terry tells it differently.

The twin willow trees stand about twenty-feet before me now. The human eye can't miss them. The motion in which they sway within the breeze is that of a waltz of nature. They humble me, for they represent an age of innocence that has been long since forgotten. Beneath their rapture two elderly men sit comfortably upon the wooden bench of my past. The world reveals itself to be overcrowded at times. I longed for the serenity that would come from my arrival at this very spot; only to have it disrupted by the unforeseen, as two elderly men, one balding from time, the other streaked over in grey highlights, acquire the space reserved in my thoughts for my own. I take a seat on the open bench next to them, powerless against their presence. The scenery is simply breathtaking. Fellowship comes about easily amongst such beauty. I greet them with a ritualistic greeting.

"Nice weather we're having." They both smile toward me in agreement.

Then the bald one replies.

"Every day is a nice day in this spot. The outside world can't penetrate such beauty."

"I couldn't agree more." I say while offering my hand as a gesture of introduction.

"My name is Jason Goodman."

The elderly man extends his hand toward mine in acknowledgement of my greeting; the sun shines brilliantly on top his shiny head. His hand is coarse in texture, no doubt from years of hard work. The silver-manned gentleman seated beside him appears to be preoccupied with something inside his jacket pocket. A tiny brown sack tied by yellow rope eventually emerges from inside. He unties the rope, and then pours the contents of the sack into a wooden tobacco pipe held in his right hand. He then reaches into the right pocket of his khaki pants and retrieves a small rustic box, with it, he creates a fire, which he holds briefly between his index finger and thumb, and then with a magical whisk of his hand, smoke begins ascending upward from his pipe.

"Crawford James," he states in introduction of himself. The scent of maple and wood fuses with the air, and though it's not entirely a pleasing smell, it is fondly similar to that of my grandfather's cigars.

"And this well-shaved gentleman is Shep."

"It is a pleasure to meet you both." I tilt my head back, resting slightly on the back support of the park bench. The weeping willow's leaves rustle an announcement throughout Worthington Park. One of her favorite children has returned for the comfort of her shade. The friendly confines of Worthington Park become alive with celebration. It is not often she gets to reclaim one of her lost boys.

"Goodman you say." Shep slowly tucks an empty bread bag into the cargo pocket of his pants.

"Yes," I reply, "Jason Goodman."

The weeping willow stills in the afternoon breeze.

"I once knew a man, a good man. His name was also Goodman, Rabbi Goodman, any relation?"

"Yes, he was my grandfather."

The two of them explode in laughter, nudging each other as adolescents would during a playful bus ride to school.

"Young man we figured as much the moment we noticed you strutting toward us. For a moment, I was afraid Shep here was gonna have a heart attack."

"I thought I was seeing a ghost." Shep's voice is deep baritone and alive with bass. It vibrates the air when he speaks; possibly it embarrasses him, and therefore he resigns to remain mostly silent.

"Little Rabbi." Crawford continues. "I remember we had the grandest party in the cities storied history on the day of your birth, even the mayor himself was in attendance."

"The mayor was there?"

"Sure, he and your grandpa were as thick as thieves."

Even though there is little benefit from rationalizing life, I often find myself doing just that, analyzing every moment, constantly searching for the ever-elusive reason for everything. Today I settle, and therefore surrender to the company of two seemingly good men; in doing so, I make myself vulnerable to any information that may be passed on to me.

I discover a lost part of me to be both weak and impressionable. I feel simply human for the first time in many years. I widen my eyes, and then open my mouth; unscripted is my response.

"You gentleman mean to tell me that the mayor of this fine city would come down here from uptown just to hang out with some self-proclaimed gangster savior on the day of his grandson's birth?"

Deafening silence engulfs the area we sit, smothering me unmercifully, and leaving my heart without rhythm. I have crossed a line with my new-found friends. I have not only insulted them, but also disrespected a stitch of a celebrated time in their life.

Shep's once welcoming face is overcome by grimace. Crawford pulls out his bag, and then unties the yellow rope. A sprinkle later and his pipes' refilled. The lump of regret in my throat begins to suffocate me. I long for air, and therefore begin speaking only for the hope of breathing again. My first breath is an apology, not only for stealing such a pleasant moment, but also to my grandfather for my outspoken judgment of him.

First, I motion to Crawford since his protective walls don't appear to be a thick as the ever-silent Shep.

"Sir, I'm sorry for my outburst. The truth is I know very little of my grandfather. I receive no audience from Crawford as he is now engaged in crunching pistachios.

"In order to judge a man," Shep abruptly speaks out, "one must first know the makeup of that man."

I humble myself before them, and then lower my hands to my lap, focusing primarily on the clear blue sky above us. An aggressive breeze suddenly comes, combating the willow's army of fallen leaves and strategically engaging them in warfare. The winds strike is swift and overpowering, leaving behind a victory of tranquility for those with a heightened sense of sound.

"Well consider yourself favored today." The winds victory celebration dies quickly. Only the nasally voice of Crawford James remains to deliver onto me an open scribe of the accounts of one Rabbi Goodman.

"Here son, have some of these pistachios, this may take some time."

#

### CRAWFORD/ SHEP

"Insistent was the heat on the day I first seen Rabbi Goodman. The sun stood high, flexing its muscle on our fair city. Shep, do you recall how we spent most of our time at "Melody's Tavern" back in the day?"

Shep nods in agreement as he continues to feed the winged tenants of Worthington Park. Shep and I were regulars there. I needed to escape the day's extreme heat, so I went to my place; a cool dark place. Knowing I would find Shep there. Besides, it was his turn to get the first round of drinks. I have to be honest when first I seen Rabbi, I thought to myself this fella must be lost. He was a fair-skinned wonder that's for sure. The hair on his head struggled constantly, undecided on which heritage held dominance. The end result was a forest of brilliant, shimmering, curly locks. He just seemed out of place at Melody's. He wasn't alone though. I don't confess to ever seeing him alone. Folks used to say that the only thing Rabbi feared other than GOD was loneliness.

"I remember tale of that." Shep chimes in again.

"It was a young lady from downtown that spread that poison. She told it directly to my face over drinks one night at Melody's."

"You're right Shep, I recall it also." Crawford begins again. "The story goes that she was upset on account Rabbi had become smitten with that schoolteacher of his and therefore ended their long courtship. I can't recollect that schoolteacher's name for the life of me, but she had the most beautiful head of fire.

"Her name is Raven and she was my Grandmother."

"Thanks son. Anyway, as I was saying, Rabbi wasn't alone at the tavern. He was with another. I am not quite sure of his name, after all there were a few of those Goodman boys, but this was the skinny one. I'm telling you he had to be only a buck twenty-five soak and wet."

"Teardrop was his name, Crawford, people used to call him Rabbi's shadow in a suit."

Crawford, you remember Melody's was notorious for the caliber of patrons that frequented her refuge. A fella named Lattimore, who was the head man himself, spent most afternoons at Melody's playing pool, drinking and smoking fine cigars.

"Thanks again, Shep. Now, let me tell it my way." Crawford pauses, and then once again collects his thoughts. He then continues, telling it his way.

"Rabbi came in through the light of the tavern's front door. He greeted the bartender, and then without warning, grabbed a pool cue from the wall and began disrupting the darkness. He swung that stick connecting on several parts of Lattimore's anatomy. He was tougher than most. No man from the lake to the hills had ever attempted such an attack on Lattimore, he was untouchable, a kingpin of sorts. At least until Rabbi laid that cue stick on him."

Shep coughs from choking on his pipe smoke.

"That man Lattimore was all powerful," Shep adds, before

Crawford continues, "The reason for Rabbi's attack on Lattimore was never quite clear. Many rumors followed the altercation at Melodies, but none were ever confirmed to be true. The most mysterious part about it is, Lattimore never retaliated. I mean it was as if it never happened. Shortly after that Lattimore's presence in this town began to fade, until he was no more. I even heard tale he moved to Florida and opened a taxi service."

Shep interrupts, "Young man, don't take his word on this. It was the changing of the guard that took place on that scorching day at Melodies."

"Shep is referring to one rumor in particular. The word on the street was that the boss family, Rizzo and his boys, had grown very fond of Rabbi; therefore, giving him this sector to oversee. This left no room for the likes of Lattimore. The rumors go even further to say a contract was put out on Lattimore's head for refusing to relinquish control when instructed to by Rizzo. Rabbi got word of this and didn't want another man's ghost to come about with his newfound responsibilities. He set out to find Lattimore before Rizzo's goons did. He attacked Lattimore swiftly. He didn't want to give him a chance to react, for the fear that he would then have to kill him. When Rabbi was done he kneeled down to Lattimore's ear, whispering only words he could hear. 'Run, leave this place before it becomes too late.'

Both elderly men fall victim to silence, the type of quiet that hides itself conveniently behind a memory or vision. Shep's eyes are fixated on the heavens, while Crawford stares hypnotically at mother earth. The day though is loud, having a voice strong enough to chase back the quiet. Crawford and Shep quickly find themselves back in the moment where they can continue their accounts of the past. Crawford begins first.

"Lattimore didn't get as far as he did from being a fool. He took into account everything, and therefore, made way for the young lion. The new king had arrived and what a magnificent ruler he would come to be.

"Mr. James, Shep, I don't want to come off as rude or anything, but it seems that both of you believe this type of violence is acceptable. Explain to me how can the two of you sit here and honor such actions?"

Shep stands from the comfort of the parks bench, his hands clap together in front of him as he begins to speak.

"Young man, times were different back then. In order for any of us to survive we had to be willing to do it by any means necessary. The luxuries afforded to this generation did not exist for us, but we did you all a favor; we paid for better opportunities with our blood and tears. I mean, look at you son, it is only from the depths of struggle that a man such as yourself could come about. You are educated, prosperous, and a fine addition to society. I have no idea what you do for life's sake, but from the looks of you, the chains that once held us down have been broken. Now, sit back, relax, and absorb this wondrous day of days. I still have much to tell you.

"It began with the water; that was the first thing I noticed. It was delectably clear and crisp with just a hint of hope for our neighborhood. Then there was the air, fresher than in the past. Smiles were seen everywhere, our community was once again striving. Shop owners greeted all whom passed by their establishments. Merchants opened up new lines of credit to those in need. We all relished in the idea of togetherness, knowing that the better Rabbi did, then the more we would all prosper. Occasionally, the clouds would shift and Rabbi would appear, gliding down the boulevard in his white Cadillac convertible, while seemingly afloat on thin air.

"Folks were grateful once again for the chance to provide decent lifestyles for their families. Sure, there was some cost associated with this prosperity, after all not much in life is free. The store owners would willingly pack Rabbi's percentage of their earnings into manila envelopes once a month, without shame, or regret; they each understood the price for prosperity in those days."

First, Jason's initiates a nonverbal intrusion to the story, shortly after he speaks.

"How could the giving of hard earned money to a gangster in a white Cadillac possibly be understood?"

"Son, Crawford's voice is as steady as it is calming, listen please, just listen. Do not make the mistake of prejudging a world that you know very little about. The owners knew that those manila envelopes represented not only safety from any rogue elements, but also the availability of top line merchandise for their distribution. This was all a small part of an even bigger picture. Satisfied customers tend to keep their money inside the community, which in turn provides growth and stability. The neighborhood flourished, while Rabbi's popularity soared high above any preconceived limitations.

"Rabbi had to lay claim to his own identity. No more was he known only as Rizzo's boy. He was the product of two different worlds; eventually, he decided to ground himself into ours. It was beautiful the way he blended all things of black and white. With a single stroke he created the loveliest shades of grey; once again endearing our community to the rest of a magnificent city.

"He regularly hosted events at the Sandbox. Oftentimes, you could spy the haughty whites from uptown making surprise appearances. They would drive slowly past in their shiny expensive automobiles, while their lavish jewels blinded the eyes of the common man. Together, they all emerged from the night, as one within the grey to carelessly dance the night away. When they came, communally our world knew little of racial boundaries. The women of the Sandbox were simply breathtaking. Their power was that of enchantment. Armed with bewitching smiles; their physical forms could buckle the knees of even the mightiest of men.

"Freedom was only an infant back then, so there was this sense of urgency in the air that was infectious. A rush to make up for lost time. Once people realized their dreams actually taking flight; they swiftly began developing their hopes into reality. Priorities, such as higher education, became more conventional in most households.

"We counted on the next generation to complete us. In many ways success breeds envy. What would normally be just a challenge for a lesser man became a fall from greatness for Rabbi; loving his enemies was his weakness, a mistake that was easily understood, considering they were cleverly disguised as his friends.

Spade, and that strange feller with the white gloves, I believe his name was Raul." Crawford scratches his head and then looks to Shep for confirmation to his last comment.

"That's correct Crawford, Raul was his name."

"Thanks Shep, my memory plays tricks on me from time to time. Raul, the fella with the white gloves had this strange accent when he spoke. Some say he was of Cuban descent others professed he just spoke with a lisp. Myself, I simply believe he was from the same dirt block of his comrade, Spade. A slum of a man had to originate from a slum of a place. Before the emergence of Rabbi on the scene Spade was Lattimore's star pupil, first in line to take over his territories once Lattimore grew weary of the lifestyle. It leaves one to ponder whether Spade would have attempted the same form of betrayal with Lattimore as he did with Rabbi.

"Spade was a child of confusion. His skin was fair, but his heart as dark as the night sky. He was both frigid and uncaring. His short-term goals were simple, power no matter the expense."

"The tales of a young, brave, and exceptional man had poisoned Spade so thoroughly that the ferocity brewing within him could no longer be contained. It all came down to a late night card game at Shakey's Place, a little dive bar located just east of S. Avenue and Magnolia drive."

A once popular spot until the opening of the Sandbox overshadowed it. On that night, Spade was drinking heavily, and gambling. He was also becoming more foolish with each filled glass. His openly expressive words revealed his true intentions to a room full of strangers. Only a fool runs his mouth that way. Delusions of grandeur spilled out onto the ever-receptive ears of Shakey's Place. With his eyes fixated on the wall, only his back watched the entry door. Spade had unknowingly rolled the dice in his drunken stupor. His disrespectful comments of uprising and taking over the Rizzo's action would not go quietly into the night. I was seated to the right of him.

"A full house, he yelled out! The liquor was tripping his tongue causing him to stumble over his words."

"Leave the money; tonight, you lose." Rabbi's voice was direct as it leapt from the darkness.

"Spade turned to face his target, shocked that anyone would dare interrupt his moment of domination. The open nostrils of a cold steel killing machine greeted him by plummeting down ferociously on top his head. He lay there momentarily unconscious, until two large Italian men hoisted him up from the floor of Shakey's Place. They carried him out the same door that watched his back only minutes early. Everyone in Shakey's Place believed this to be the last time Spade would ever be seen again, dead or alive."

"Shep, I'm gonna feed the birdies for a while, telling this tale has taken a lot out of me. Do you mind enlightening this young man for a bit?"

"Why Crawford, I thought you would never ask."

"Jason, it's a little known fact that Shep here happens to be the greatest truth teller in the Midwest; son you are in for a real treat."

Jason had just been baited; the greatest storyteller in the Midwest now had his undivided attention. Jason sat there, all starry eyed, and filled with anticipation of the coming rendition of his grandpa's escapades. He couldn't wait to hear more of Grandpa Rabbi's story and both Crawford and Shep knew this. Still, they remained stubbornly silent for thirty full heartbeats. A quick rattle of the bread bag later and Shep took his lead.

"The funny thing about snakes son; they have a knack for survival. Slithery and sneaky are they, both very good attributes for the common thug. These learned skills saved Spade's poisonous life that night at Shakey's place. The word on the street was that Spade had acquired a few connections while running point for Lattimore, connections that could prove profitable for Rizzo. This alone granted him a stay of execution. It turned out that his miserable life still warranted some value, after all Rabbi was the new kid on the block. Rizzo knew that it would take some time for him to fully absorb his new responsibilities. You see even though Tony Rizzo was very fond of Rabbi, he was madly in love with his money, and therefore executed each move with his true love being top priority.

"He appointed Spade to Rabbi's crew in exchange for his connections, providing Spade more days in which he could slither around and spread venom.

"Then there was that strange fellar, Mr. Raul. He was insignificant, little more than a parasite attached to Spade's back. Raul was physically harmless. A petite man that was rumored around town to be gender challenged, you know, batting for the other team. What made him a dangerous man was his adaptability. He strategically aligned himself with the Goodman boys. Wherever they were, he wasn't far behind. Raul was a well-groomed man, handsome in appearance and extremely stylish. Running numbers for Tony Rizzo was his claim to fame. He never came up short and for years had been a very reliable asset. Rizzo assumed this skill set would compliment Rabbi's future business endeavors, and thus came together the pieces of the Goodman boy's puzzle.

The old factory behind Capitol Avenue had been wasting away for a decade. It was chosen and quickly converted to the living; beating heart of the city. The Goodman boys christened it the Sandbox. Ironically most of the people who frequented her lively walls were also the ones that in the past lobbied repeatedly to have the same building condemned. The people believed the building to be a safety hazard, and an eyesore. A monstrosity, that brought down the true value of our historic neighborhood. All true, until the day the big trucks began rolling in. Experts, each revered in their prospective fields were brought in. Engineers, carpenters, and electricians, all coming together as one team for the creation of Rabbi's vision, "The Sandbox," an oversized playground, frequented by men with and without means.

"Piece by piece the magnificent structure was rebuilt. The team of professionals each worked diligently, up until the last coat of paint was applied. Rabbi stood there proudly, on that historic day in our neighborhood, and then with scissors in hand. He turned graciously to face the jubilant crowd that had gathered together on Capitol Ave. It was a wondrous time with the neighborhoods rainbow colored residents coming together in unison."

"Crawford, do you remember the way Rabbi smiled at the crowd?"

"I sure do Shep. That smile took about thirty seconds, just long enough to welcome each and every one of us assembled in the street before him." Then he spoke, "I would like to personally thank everyone here for coming out in support of this exciting new venture and now for your enjoyment the Sandbox is now open.'

"With the falling of the vivid red ribbon to the concrete, people began lining up for direct access inside. Plenty of free drinks and never-ending laughter are the things I recall most about that day, as we threw caution to the wind for celebration."

#

### JASON

Time, he asserts himself again, as my wristwatch screams out, as two hundred miniature sirens simultaneously alert me. It's a gift for me; well worth the two hundred and something odd dollars I paid for it. I became too comfortable. The stories being told mesmerized me, briefly freeing me of my senses. Seated alone on my private bench I can't help but feel vulnerable in the eyes of Crawford and Shep.

Today I chased the sun, a race that left little glory for me upon its end. The answers I seek have not revealed themselves of yet, but do however, seem closer. The rustling leaves of the willow tree above me whisper as much in the late afternoon wind. I find myself daydreaming aimlessly at my watch. Crawford and Shep remain silenced. My alarm has interrupted their trip to the past.

"Gentleman, I can't begin to thank you enough for sharing this time with me. I truly feel enlightened; unfortunately I have to be getting home now. My wife will worry if I am too late."

"Its ok, young man, these willow trees have been here long before you were born. They will still be here tomorrow and so will we. Daily schedules are a demanding thing. If you should find an open spot on yours; come on back Shep and I will save you a seat."

I depart; a smile and a wave of the hand is all I can outwardly offer them, even though inside they have just won over my heart.

During my ride home, I continue reflecting on the time I just spent with Crawford and Shep. This distraction leaves me oblivious to the adolescent game of red light/green light that began between the city and me. They spoke highly of Rabbi, someone I have spent a lifetime distinguishing myself from. I am guilty of labeling him before I even got the chance to know him.

"Allow all things to reveal their true nature before passing judgment."

It is this wisdom that I have instilled within my own daughter, but failed to honor myself. I knew him only as a gangster, yet they viewed him as an activist for the community. There now enters a Robin Hood factor, attempting to redefine everything.

The old community has never required anything of me. With that said, I have never giving the community one thing. I beat the odds set by life by becoming a positive member of society; that in itself was enough for me to constitute success. I just wanted to be left alone, safe with Olivia and Daniela inside our little bubble. Grandpa Rabbi took at first, but then he began to give back. From this unselfish act an entire community was given hope. Rabbi in his altruism more than existed; he lived.

The next morning my coffee and I welcome the sun. Last night's lack of sleep has left the rear part of my neck stiffened. I spent the majority of the evening wrestling with demons. Olivia's beauty, peacefully resting beside me, supplied me the necessary strength to defeat all that threatened. My thoughts are now of Teardrop. Each dark moment tortured me last night with the fear of receiving unfortunate news of his departure from this world. I want life for him, even if life is all he has left in this world, should it not be all he needs?

The squeaky faucet from our first floor bathroom disengages me from my meditation.

"Good morning, daddy."

Daniela emerges from the hallway adjacent to the kitchen. I anticipate her smile, along with our routine morning conversations on life. She is truly a Princess.

Softly, footsteps travel above my head and across the kitchen ceiling. The gentle steps will cease once they reach their destination, after that will follow a series of short creaks as my beloved Olivia makes her way down the staircase. A man knows his home as he knows his heart. She approaches our kitchen; my love comes for me.

"Jason, are you not getting along with the Sandman?" Olivia teases.

Daniela laughs out. Olivia's morning humor finds itself at least one fan.

"You didn't get much rest, are you alright honey?"

I continue to sip my coffee. I do not want them to worry, so I reply simply, "Who me? I am just fine."

Olivia's focus since my last birthday has solely been on my health. The home cooked meals have become more nutritious, and with each morning she places a multivitamin out for me to consume. For her life is a splendid utopia that should be both shared and cherished as family. These are her feelings; therefore, I adhere to them, after all her happiness is my own.

I admire Olivia for the positive thinking she exudes. Still, thoughts of the worst continue to tilt the scale of reason inside my head.

"Wow! Two parents, the morning sun, and yet no breakfast, I must be in the right kitchen." Daniela laughs deviously as she kisses me on the cheek. The morning marches on, we decide to break bread and share our thoughts with one another, stories of work and life's balances. The two of them come to a compromise on a decisive schooling issue, while I fade back into self. Soon their voices become only murmurs in the distance, as thoughts of Teardrop rapture me once again. I can only hope for his recovery today. What haunts me most are the lost moments in which I dismissed him as useless. Teardrop only sought out my affection. A sort of kindred connection that could in some way fill the absence of his friend and confidant, Rabbi; yet, frequently I pushed him away. Things will be different today, if only he would return to us.

I await him on this side of the tunnel. The voice that calls him back from the light will be my own. He needs to hear my call over and over again; I will tell him to fight. He must know that his family remains hopeful for his recovery. If that in itself isn't enough to warrant life then...

"No!" My thought is heard out loud.

"What are you saying, 'no' to honey?" Olivia breaks from her conversation with Daniela.

"Oh nothing, I just have a lot on my mind lately, and I believe it's beginning to weigh down on me."

Her smile assures me of a positive outcome. It is warm and loving; yet, she does not interfere. Olivia knows that though we all love Teardrop, my journey is one that at times I must endure alone. God's gift to my life is the strength of my wife. Reality is a welcome retreat from the battles within one's soul. The first meal of the day is shared with my family, and by no means will the pain of current events surface. They need not witness me in a weakened state, not today, not ever.

• • •

Gloom blankets the three red tipped beacons that crown St. Luke Hospital. Dismal mist scatters downward casting a shroud of doubt around my heart. My steps hasten as I exit the parking garage. I find myself once again longing for a perfect world, a magical place, where my well wishes can be received graciously in the night, therefore granting Teardrop the gift of recovery.

As I walk through the corridors in route to his room, I envision his toothless smile welcoming me as I enter, Georgia is there watering the flowers sent "With Love" from Olivia. Dr. Wong greets me at the door with his clipboard in hand with his face being pensive as always. I wish for these thoughts to become my reality, but for today, unfortunately, I am revealed a world that is not so kind. Teardrop's life support machines continue to orchestrate their tune of dread. His roommates bed is empty is occupant now gone, taking along with him the balloons that once gave the room so much character. Olivia's gift of flowers remains located on the table near the window; while the sun supports their fundamental nature they offer a blossom of hope. His eyes close out the day as the life support machines play background music for his heavy heart.

"It's just another day in a dreadful paradise."

I turn around to greet the coarse voice's origination.

"Excuse me can I help you?"

The short slender man standing before me does not answer, instead his skin becomes flush before my very eyes, rendering him ghost like in appearance. He holds an all white derby cuffed under his arm. With his hands also gloved in white, he reaches out for my shoulder. Instinctively, I take a step backward.

"Oh! I am sorry, where are my manners? Raul is my name."

"Raul", I repeat his name, to assure that there is no mistake. He confirms it.

"Yes, I am Raul Benson."

Fire spreads swiftly through my veins, igniting the blood of my grandfather until it boils inside me. The stories tell of Spade and Raul being incarcerated for life, yet here, Raul one of my grandfather's alleged murderers, stands only a few steps away from me. Fragments of the truth collide with unproven gossip. This deceitful combination takes hold of my mind and begins piercing my thoughts. I notice only a few strands of black peeking through the grey curls on top his head. His skin is crumpled, and his eyes rely heavily on the darkened rings under them for support. Raul has not aged well.

In that moment, I come to a conclusion. Today will not be easy for Mr. Benson. Decades of unanswered questions have embedded themselves inside my heart, with each beat they grow in aggression. The questions sense that the answers are near; I feel my pulse throb through my neck. Suddenly, a loud sigh escapes the captivity of the frail elderly man, releasing the chains that have held his heart imprisoned for decades. I stare him down, curious as to what will follow. He limps past me heading in the direction of Teardrop's bed, but stops short and takes a seat in the chair next to it. I dismiss him as simply a paper man in an outdated white suit. I continue to contain my aggression for there is obviously no threat here. Besides, a part of me needs to learn more, and this character Raul currently represents the only bridge to fulfill my desire.

• • •

"We have seen better days old friend." He whispers to Teardrop, just loud enough for me to hear. Raul's attempt at candor infuriates me. I do not approve of this unseen visitation. He continues on about how he believed me to be a ghost when he first entered the room. His clichéd form of charm further angers me until I respond rudely.

"If I were that ghost you speak of, would you then murder me again?"

Vengeful silence overcomes the room, only to be undone by the tears of an old man. He once again reaches out his gloved hand toward me, this time with his palms facing upward.

"No, young man", words squeak out from the numbness of his lips. I refuse to acknowledge his suffering. The need for retribution won't allow him such a luxury. Instead, I walk over to the window. I need to establish eye contact now. It has been my experience that only through peering directly into the window of the soul, can you truly measure the intent of whoever may cross your path.

I take note of all his nonverbal forms of communication as he sits in the chair beside Teardrop's bed. His hands remain locked in a praying position, while front to back his body sways. He appears uncomfortable in the light beaming through the hospital window. I relish that for within those revealing rays of light; the grandson of Rabbi will judge him unmercifully.

A river flows through the channels of his face, as his words are launched effortlessly into the hospital room. They too are drowning within the tears of his remorse. I manage to rescue the word sorry, only to release it shortly thereafter.

"I want answers!" My words are harsh and direct.

Raul sinks lower into his chair, placing his gloved hands over his reddened face. It is within that moment that any previous regard for him as a man vanishes. This is not the reaction of a man hiding within himself. These are more the actions of an adolescent boy. My next attack on his character is louder than the last.

"I said I want answers!"

Quiet comes, but only for a moment; it is the type of silence that holds you at bay, before the onslaught of an avalanche. Raul musters up enough courage to remove his hands from his face. He raises his head; this time our souls connect. I willingly dive into the red sea of peril hidden inside his eyes.

"Rabbi, please forgive me. It was Spade. I swear; I was so weak back then he made me do it."

I realize from Raul's outburst that he doesn't see me at all. People have likened me all my days to my grandfather. I can only conclude that the aggression in my voice has freed some form of suppressed emotions from inside him. I have no inkling of how long he has harbored this, but if he desires confession to the ghost of his former leader, I will give him that. My only priorities are answers. I thirst for them.

In truth, it is the civilized teachings of our beloved society that keep a man safe. Though my arms are folded tightly I can still feel my heartbeat powerful and fast as it rushes adrenaline throughout my body. Both my teeth and my fist are clenched. There is an animal inside every human, both vicious and insensible. For now, I manage to keep my beast sedated.

"Raul, why don't you tell me what troubles you?" I unfold my arms, Raul smiles in return. He then pours a glass of water from the bedside carafe, in order to replenish himself. His words are steady as he begins his confession to Rabbi...With Jason Goodman listening.

#

### RAUL

"Delicate, weak, and detached from this cold world best describes me before meeting Spade. Folks would tease me and do unspeakably cruel things to me, things that had me longing for the end of days. My mother, bless her heart, birthed six children with me being the final seed to spring. We were all men-children. My brothers, all five of them were the finest of specimens, handsome and athletic, and also well sought after by the ladies. They made my father very proud.

"Then there was me, "little Raul". I was not much in stature and as a child I was very sickly. A fragile creature, my mother feared the worst, and therefore, kept me under lock and key. You can't begin to know how it feels to never chase the day for fear of catching some life threatening sickness. I quickly developed a phobia for all things life. Still, she would detour me from taking chances that in her mind could take her baby away. I came to be on this earth fifteen years late. My mother in her grace viewed me as a gift from the saints. My father only saw me as another mouth to feed. By my fifth birthday, father had taken to drinking heavily, a direct result of the world tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves every day. Life often demanded more than he could give. His alcoholism soon led him to even stronger forms of escape such as heroin and angel dust. Most days he imprisoned himself within a daze. His only movements before the arrival of night were an occasional scratch of his rusty flesh to keep the urges at bay, at least until my mother was fast asleep and her purse was left unguarded.

"My brothers at first chance created lives of their own. They had children and wives that needed them, mortgages and healthcare to provide for their own families. Eventually they left home and took up stock in quiet neighborhoods where the stench of our father couldn't taint their fresh suburban air. From my earliest recollection my mother, "bless her heart," dressed me in all white, covering my hands with white gloves. This was her endearing attempt at protecting me from the germs of this world. In turn I became a germ phobic, ironic considering the dirty business I eventually landed myself in."

Raul seems different, now more tranquil within the window's light. He appears to be speaking clearly to me and no longer the ghost of Rabbi.

"In due course, I allowed no one to touch me, not even my mother. Most days I would just sit in my room with the door locked, afraid of life outside of my space. Once fate delivered the death of my father, there was only mother remaining in my balance. "

Raul maneuvers through the tension that has captivated the room, until He finds an open view into the eye's of Jason.

"I know nothing I can say can bring Rabbi back to us."

Raul's voice is clearer than before, almost a careless whisper sealed in sincerity. He appears to have little of worth left inside him, or even in this world. The situation unveils more and more with each passing minute. Raul has come here not to grieve for Teardrop but to envy his current plight. Raul himself has grown weary of life. He would give his all, if only he could switch places with his old comrade. I ponder these things, though only briefly, still, anger dominates me. I open my mouth to speak politely, but instead my words spear him through the heart.

"You will tell me everything old man, or so help me!"

He does not quiver or waiver one bit in his chair. Raul's trip down memory lane has somehow empowered him.

"I am by no means here for your pity boy, but please, before you condemn me as everyone else has, would you please hear me out first? The events of my past have blackened my soul to the core. I must make amends for them or I will surely fade away into eternal loneliness. I do not desire such an end, I still long to be beside them. I know that you are no priest son, but through the grand scheme of my wretched life, only you, as an extension of him, remain for my salvation's sake. God will not hear me; I am lost to Him."

The plea of the fallen, a man's last chance at redemption has been placed at my feet for judgment. It is a sentence that I am unworthy to deliver to him. Jason Goodman, beloved husband of Olivia, provider and protector to Daniela. I am but a man; I should do the right thing and hear him out and in doing so, break down the exterior walls that have been forged by anger and revenge. This would be the righteous thing to do. My wife and child would be so very proud of me for choosing forgiveness and compassion.

Instead, I disappoint their faith in me. I will hear Raul out, but by all that is within me he will be judged at the conclusion.

#

### RAUL

"Softly now mind you, the breeze blew about human intentions throughout our fair city. Just enough mind you, to nudge everyone along his or her way, therefore, keeping our intricate world turning as designed. I had just completed my collection of dues from the businesses on Park Boulevard. Lattimore himself had tasked me with this important responsibility.

He anointed me, "The keeper of Park Boulevard." Along with this task came the proper muscle to ensure there were never any complications during collections. In those times one man could hold control over an entire city district, as long as the one family that controlled the city allowed for it. Lattimore was that one man in our district; no one dared dispute that."

Raul pauses, and then turns to gaze upon Teardrop. "Spade was once Lattimore's most infamous choice of muscle; his favorite enforcer."

Raul clears his throat before continuing. "Whenever Spade showed up on your watch, it was safe to assume the results that followed wouldn't be favorable for any establishment refusing to pay their securities. On this particular day, he came in and sat beside me at Shakey's place. I had just completed my route, and the money was all accounted for. The evening was young, so I decided to run up my tab a bit, you know live a little. My route was one of the more upscale collection areas.

Lattimore had an appreciation for my fine white suits and eloquent demeanor at least that was what he would say when toying with me. He believed these were good attributes for business. He made me promise to never remove my white gloves, stating often how he loved clean hands collecting his dirty money.

Timely payments kept the upscale businesses running without conflict. There were no petty drug deals going down on the Boulevard; Lattimore forbade it. Theft and prostitution were also unacceptable. Park Boulevard remained immaculate, providing the payments were prompt. I had grown to take pride in the work I was doing. There was finally order in my wretched life. My ability to be Lattimore's caretaker of numbers had bestowed onto me a new identity.

I can still recall the burn of my bourbon as it went down through my chest. I saw him coming toward me through the mirror mounted behind the bar. The darkness of his shadow loomed over everyone he passed. Slow and slick were his movements as he positioned himself on the bar seat next to me. My throat became full, as heat spread down my spine. Dizziness overcame me, not from the drink but from the fear that is exclusive to cowardly men such as me. There were many questions swimming about in my head, while the answers remained few. I wondered why he was here. Did I accidently miscalculate, therefore bringing down Lattimore's wrath on me? My mind continued running through countless scenarios, until suddenly he anchored my right arm to the cherry wood bar. Spade then grasped my wrist and requested that I calm myself. Men of his nature can smell fear in the air; it enables them to be good at what they do.

'Relax,' he said, so I did. He held that type of dominance over people, excluding Rabbi that is.

'I am here to help you not hurt you.' He spoke out, sending words laced with brown liquor to burn my eyes. Lattimore had sent him to me with the idea of a partnership in mind. Spade called out to the bartender, with the fire of his first complimentary shot still riding his breath."

"Bartender, let's have another round over here for my new partner and me." Behind the bar hung a large mirror, inside the mirror Spade and I appeared only as a blur. Thinking back, I now understand why there was to be no clarity for our union. It was never about either of us. All things were set in place, and Spade and I were simply intricate pieces in the game of Rabbi's life.

"A weak and frail man was I when that glass of hot elixir found its way to my lips, but upon its completion, the strength of our bound was flowing inside of me. I emerged from Shakey's place confident in self and alive with anticipation of my new role in the unmerciful game of life. It appeared that my fate was to be one of prominence for the time being.

Rizzo's family held the deeds of many of the businesses in our sector, excluding the churches. Tale was told that old Mother Rizzo forbade any interference with the church. In addition to the cash businesses, their construction crew controlled all the contracts on the city's landscaping and building renovations. City hall was for sale, everything had a price tag in those days. Corruption in general had no limits. Spade and I watched over Rizzo's north east sector, which in the beginning fell under Lattimore's rule. We kept all merchants honest according to the Rizzo code of business. Celebrity was now privilege to our new lifestyle. Spade himself seemed to delight more in the power that came with our new status. He positively glowed in it. Years were lost; I would say about ten to be accurate, before the emergence of Rabbi and the Goodman boys.

Rabbi was the new kid on the block, and like a hot new song he was the brand new craze. Lattimore and Spade despised the relationship Rabbi had with Rizzo. The kid had come out of nowhere, yet he was given so much. Since he was known to be Rizzo's boy, he was kept out of the reach of Spade and Lattimore's violent touch. It was the organizations complete response to Rabbi that struck insecurity in both Spade and Lattimore. I always believed that deep inside their dark existences, both men saw their eventual demise in Rabbi's rising popularity.

Rabbi was magnetic; his glamour was simply undeniable."

"Then tell me Raul, and yes I do mean to interrupt. Explain to me why the two of you murdered him!" Words slice through the tension of the room like a sharpened dagger.

Raul's head plummets into the palms of his gloved hands, but this time he is refused passage from which he can hide from the world, as I arrive at his chair before the tears find freedom in which to flow. I grasp hold to both Raul's wrists. The spirit of my grandpa Rabbi now surges freely through his being; only the wrath of Rabbi stands before Raul as he struggles for freedom, but his attempts are useless. Fortunately for him, the guilt from the overaggressive attack finds compromise. Raul finds his freedom. He stands upright from the chair and slips over toward the window. Raul marvels at the sun briefly by diving head first into its radiance, and then turns once again to face his accuser. History fills the room as the delicate man known as Raul continues the confession of a lost soul.

"For some people change is simply a form of evolution. Rabbi had taken it upon himself to evolve. He broke away from all that he had become; leaving the same life that granted him privilege over so much. He had won the rat race, but still decided on giving it all back, and for what: LOVE.

Yes, for Ms. Raven, she was simply an amazing creature. She must have pulled out a strand from her beautiful head of fire and torched his heart with it, because it was her love that took him away from us. Our vaulted leader had discovered a new purpose. For the first time in his life Rabbi felt complete. His desires were from a different world than the one the Goodman boys staked claim to; one free of the demons that demanded so much in return for their gift of riches.

Some called his relationship with Bobby Rizzo a brotherhood, while others spoke of him as simply Rizzo's errand boy. Whatever the case, Rizzo refused to set Rabbi free from his obligations to the family, not for love, and not for life. Time continued with business as usual. The Sandbox blossomed into the premier nightclub on the city's north side. Wondrously, magical times accrued in the Sandbox, memories that still force my otherwise wretched reality a reason to recall joy. It was a mystical place where Adam and Eve defied society's demands by gambling their mortgage payments away in the confines of one of our exclusive back rooms.

They came to our door by the masses, hypnotized by the alluring musical rhythms' of our infamous Jazz quartet. Alcohol served its darkened purpose by fueling all with false realities; truths that were sure to flee the next morning when they awakened to empty pockets. We all knew Rabbi wanted out, but there was no revolving door in Rizzo's world; once you were in the door locked. Rabbi aged gracefully though, unlike the rest of us; he never did have to combat the vices that tormented the rest of us. His life was as fresh as the air on a beautiful morning in spring.

Inevitably, Bobby Rizzo's gift to Rabbi for his multitude of years of service was full ownership of the Sandbox. Rabbi's celebrity increased tenfold with the acquisition. He now held the deed to his own castle. We never saw it coming, but the hate for Rabbi began its manifestation inside Spade. Envy first blackens the heart then taints the soul. Friends refuse to acknowledge it in the ones they hold dear. Spade's lust for power had finally eclipsed his minuscule loyalties to the Goodman boys.

He began slowly injecting his brand of poison into the city streets. He understood the city to be a lifeline for Rabbi, and he wanted to falter that bond. Spade's timing could not have been more perfect. The Rizzo crime family's rule over the city was fading fast. Various city officials that were once under Rizzo's thumb had either passed on or lost their influence due to more progressive times. There was also the emergence of newer, younger politicians, aggressive thinkers; vowing to move the city forward. A new beginning was upon us and as Spade told me, either I was with him or against him. I admit to being a bit confused, at first, but your grandfather's lack of desire for all things business, eventually swayed my support in Spade's direction.

The Goodman boys continued to prosper for a while, until a new and more convicted city government came full circle. The old guard had run their course and the newer, younger, city officials were coming in by the boatload, each with a new philosophy on saving the world, starting with Chicago of course. Bobby Rizzo was giving the distinguished honor of becoming the cities new public enemy number one. It didn't take long to bring him down either, after all he did have a personal fingerprint which he'd already left all over the city.

On the heels of Rizzo's federal indictment, it seemed that Rabbi had finally received his opportunity to escape the life. He called us all together for a meeting down by the lakefront. I will carry that day with me forever. Spade and I arrived last; new business had delayed us. The first thing I noticed was Teardrop and Georgia seated closest to the shimmering turquoise water of Lake Michigan, playfully fending off its advances with their bare feet.

Rabbi stood off to the far side of them. His attention was fixed on the powder blue sky as the Chicago wind caressed his face. He was dressed from head to toe in all black. Standing there he appeared statuesque, with the exception of the tail of his jacket taking flight behind him, soaring freely as an eagle would in the afternoon breeze. The day seemed to favor only him, and never before had I witnessed him seemingly more at peace. A vision of him turning slowly to greet Spade and I often revisits me. He pulled something from his coat pocket and tossed it along the beach. He then continued in our direction, while producing an infectious smile, the same smile that had mesmerized so many into adoring him. He walked over to Teardrop first, and then pointed back toward the shoreline and said, 'Beautiful scavengers with golden beaks.'

The contents released from his pockets were merely breadcrumbs. He had simply fed the seagulls. The birds finished their feast, and then raced off into the horizon. We all watched their flight in awe, until the brilliance of the brightest star no longer allowed for it. Eventually their screams also grew faint, overruled by the sound of colliding water becoming more aggressive against the shoreline. Rabbi's time with the Goodman boys was at its end. He spoke casually of his intentions as if they were inevitable from the start.

'My lawyer has divided ownership of the Sandbox equally amongst you, as well as any legal business ventures that we, as partners, took part in. The side ventures remaining are all yours now. If any of you should need my advice in the future, please don't hesitate to ask. I will forever cherish our years together, and even though at a distance, I will always be here for all of you. My time is now for Raven. She has been more than patient with her love for me. Please try and understand. Located inside the joint safe at the Sandbox are four envelopes, one for each of you.'

One last smile followed his instructions, filled with a lifetime of memories. After that, the man most of us would have devoted our loyalty to the ends of time, vanished silently into his new world, leaving the rest of us to ponder a time of change.

Teardrop took Rabbi's departure the hardest. He was to Rabbi as I was to Spade, linked through a form of gratification. He began to waste away. First, his drinking increased dramatically, and then shortly thereafter came the heavy drug usage. All these bad habits rapidly depleted him of his finances, and also forfeited him most of his worldly possessions. Self-destruction of a man is not an uncommon thing, but the process can be very painful to watch when it involves someone near and dear.

Teardrop would go on these binges, where he would disappear for days at a time. Behavior such as this angered Spade, whom with the absence of Rabbi became our self proclaimed leader. Teardrop was still recognized as a Goodman boy; for Spade image was everything.

Spade was generous at first, he offered to buy out Teardrop's shares in the Sandbox, but Teardrop refused. The Sandbox was the only source of livelihood he had remaining and he did not want to give it up. Every Friday, Teardrop would show up to our meetings in a drunken stupor. He would appear just long enough to take his cut of the club's profits. I do confess to viewing him as a selfish wretch back then. He showed very little regard for the rest of us. Though Spade harbored no love for him, Georgia and I had pieces of our hearts ripped out each time we laid eyes on him in this condition.

We longed for the Teardrop we had once grown to love; the simplicity that once was him. His attributes to the group were so very important. He commanded the ability to bring us laughter, therefore, granting us an escape from the everyday gloom of our lifestyle. Even Spade occasionally fell to Teardrop's comedic antics.

I called him selfish, not for the path he chose, but again for his part in dragging poor Georgia down the same road. She was and will always be his most loyal friend. When Teardrop decided on throwing in the towel, as impressionable as Georgia was, she soon followed. Now mind you, this lessening of self-worth took several years to come about for both Teardrop and Georgia."

Loneliness was the trigger. Teardrop had already shot down his dreams, and down is where he remained, far beneath the stature of his former self. Days would past before Georgia could convince him to even shower. Georgia needed Teardrop beside her; he was the only family she knew. She followed him around for months until finally his vices became her own.

"Raul, did my grandfather just stand by and do nothing while two people he held dear slipped away?"

"No, not at all young man, Rabbi came around from time to time to check on them. Most people around town still believed him to be the Sandbox's owner, infuriating Spade even further. When your father, Harrison, returned from serving the war we even gave him a job as a bartender there, so that he could work his way through college. Spade didn't mind one bit that Rabbi's priorities were elsewhere, the streets now belonged to him. Rabbi's new life was one of peace. He still remained a pillar in the community but the second half of his life, he had dedicated to the redemption of the first. He was on a pilgrimage to rescue his soul. Considering the lowly levels of life we subjected ourselves to, salvation seemed next to impossible."

Time, he gives me minutes, only to leave me with seconds. We long for hours, yet, we regret most days. Today is no different; time has once again escaped my grace.

The sands fell swiftly during Raul's testimony. I can only hope that Teardrop heard his words. Teardrop's need for an additional lifeline is evident by the lack of change in his vital signs. I am emotionally drained from Raul's story; any skills for rationalization that were once privileged to me seem to have escaped. Raul is standing by the window now, gazing out at life, while his former comrade remains a captive of purgatory. There is little expression in his face as he stares out at reality. He is seemingly mummified, cursed to no joy no more. The sins he committed alongside my grandfather have reached their day of reckoning. He now understands from Teardrop's fate that karma is inescapable. Raul turns from the window to face Teardrop's unconscious body. He advances toward the hospital bed, and places his gloved hand on top of Teardrop's.

Raul's voice is raspy, low, and riddled with regrets. "I will see you soon my friend; be there light or dark, we shall all be as one again, Goodman Boys."

Their camaraderie is stifling, causing me to inwardly seek so much in reference to my grandfather, yet, I allow for only a soft pat on the shoulder to announce Raul taking his leave. There are no judgments and no goodbyes; deep down inside rest the truth. He is not to be the one that brings me to my revelation. Our journey together has ended.

I sit in the quiet of an emotional limbo, afraid to say goodbye to Teardrop for fear of death actually coming to pass through the solitude of night. My departure is silent but reassuring, a gentle kiss, along with thoughts of tomorrow's visit accompany me to my car.

I decide to stop by Georgia's place on the way home. I am riddled by her absence from Teardrop's side today. She did not emerge from the public buses that stop periodically on Washington Street. I watched from the hospital window with anticipation throughout my visit with Teardrop. She did not come. It did however grant me time to note that the rooms opposite this side of St. Luke hospital open up to views that are obviously designed more for visitors then patients. On that side, there are professionally landscaped fields that border a glistening lake, which also serves as a refuge to beautifully feathered creatures. I consider this, knowing completely that any patient near life's end needs not a view, but the ultimate gift of forgiveness. This leads me to the conclusion that for Teardrop, the bus stop on Washington Street will do just fine.

Georgia's building can be seen from the Martin Luther King Express exit. The brownstone stands tall, towering over other tenements in the neighborhood. Though not prominent enough to be a significant part of the city's skyline, her building still holds its position well. I pull into the open parking space in front of her building. Two young men holding what appear to be bottles wrapped inside of brown paper bags are seated on the concrete stairway of the building. We do not exchange words as I walk past them; but the chirp from my car alarm does introduce us to one another. Georgia's building seems to be alive; music simulates its heartbeat. The bass strikes aggressively, exiting through my chest while in route to the street. A battle takes place, one that until now has gone unnoticed. Horns and strings grasp my ear, pulling me half circle. I am now facing the building across the street from Georgia's. From there, Latin strings continue their advance in my direction, until two distinctly different genres clash inside a cultural blend like titans in the wind. A thunderous mix of melody rains down on the occupants of this neighborhood as their diversities become one within a storm of music.

I continue into the lobby of Georgia's building. The elevator door is opened wide. A large, bright orange sign reading "OUT OF ORDER," has been placed over the up and down arrows. The awful stench filtering from inside the elevator instantly repels me to the other side of the lobby. I instead make my way for the staircase, only to be halted by an elderly man. This frail token taker acts as a gatekeeper, reminiscent of the mythical stories privileged to me as a child. He stands below me, chest high; the hollow sockets within his head are void of life. They peer through me, as his hand opens to receive my fare in exchange for passage. His skeletal frame is visible due to lack of muscle tissue. His hands are trembling, as he lifts a square bottle to his chapped lips, he shakes the last of its contents onto his tongue. I decline to pay him passage, refusing to contribute to an end so near. Though he is just a shell of a man, he still controls enough strength to lift a wooden cane from the bottom stair.

He doesn't look at me. His head slumps downward; still, his words paralyze me where I stand. "Rabbi, man, you still looks good. Georgia's not home now, she went over to the park to feed the birdies. We been missing you around here, Rabbi. Things have been awful since you left. Won't you please come back to us, sir?"

With those fleeting words, the old soul slumps completely over, landing on the bottom stair; his head now rest awkwardly on the banister. He is asleep, temporarily free from the liquid desires that overpower him. I place two dollar bills into the palm of his hand and close it up into a fist, then, while glancing up the staircase I am compelled to wonder if in the grand scheme of things, it leads to nowhere. It is not my destiny to find out. No, not today it isn't.

I quickly exit the building of lost souls as I continue to follow my own path. Outside the city is overflowing with energy. This amount of activity is rarely seen within my suburban utopia. Across the street, a group of people gathers at the south entrance of Worthington Park. I can hear their song from here as it drowns out the chaos of the day. The sun is as inviting as always, so I decide to take a walk in its rays.

Better schools, I tell myself as I walk over a chalked out game of hopscotch. I continue on with excuses for leaving the city and calling the suburbs home. The answer to why I never came back, or even gave back, can only be selfishness. I reach the Worthington Park intersection. Coming toward me is a tall, slender man wearing a red windbreaker jacket. He holds the tiny hand of a beautiful little girl, dressed in an equally beautiful yellow dress. His face is familiar to me as he greets me in passing.

"Nice to see you," he says. The darling little girl interrupts my response.

"Uncle Jared, you promised me French fries." Her request recaptures his attention. Jared Lucas, my childhood friend, then turns toward me, while walking backward and smiles. "Welcome home," is all he says, before a sea of people washes him and his niece into the busy streets. I remain silent, but yes, it was good to see him too, along with his sister, Beth's, lovely daughter.

The crowd of people I spotted from Georgia's building has grown in numbers. Soulfully, rhythmic hymns burst into the air from the center of the gathering. Through the masses I spy four young men dressed identically in green and yellow, singing a cappella. Their song is even more brilliant now that I am closer. A smaller kid, also wearing the group's green and yellow, is transporting around a large white bucket. I drop four one-dollar bills into it, one for each balladeer in appreciation of their talent.

Georgia does not notice me as I draw nearer to her. She's seated on a wrought iron park bench, next to the "Fountain of Cupid." I quietly take a seat next to her. In our first few moments together we exchange no words, only the fluttering of pigeon's wings and the running water from Cupid's fountain can be heard. Suddenly, Georgia speaks out generally, not only to me.

"They take what I give them; the winged ones. Never do they ask why it is always stale bread? They are grateful creatures, unlike mankind. If I somehow missed a day of providing, they would more than not still gather by this fountain until the crumbs returned; no matter how long it took the winged ones would wait. The need for the lonely to give is clear to them, as is their need to receive; therefore, every day they return. They hear our dreams spoken out loud, only to fly off after feeding, free from any obligation to respond. Every day I come though, because I need some things to be just heard."

I settle back on the park bench, with my head resting on the iron uprights. The clouds above transform from one shape to another, enjoying the vast blue playground provided for them. Motionless, I peer through them searching for ONE whom I tell my dreams out loud. I do understand her; there is definitely a method to Georgia's madness. On the bench between us is a bag of breadcrumbs. No one should be alone; so together, in our momentary silence, we feed the pigeons of Worthington Park.

The sun blends with the dusk in an uncharacteristic manner, spotlighting the storied history evident in Georgia's face. There is still beauty within her shadows, surviving steadfast the scars that have gathered from a difficult journey through life. Her voice engages me, low and raspy, yet soft enough to be received as feminine.

"It wasn't Teardrop, in the beginning that I gave my heart to, son. It was Rabbi. I was relentless in my pursuit of his heart. I tell you I would make my passes at him every time chance presented itself. He would just laugh at my advances, calling me cutie and touching the tip of my nose as a sign of affection. I know you can't see it today, but once upon a time this old girl was a very desirable young lady, except to Rabbi. Even Spade tried to court me often enough, but there was always something about that man that just made my skin crawl. Teardrop, though, his innocence was beautiful to me. No, he didn't obtain the same dominant qualities as most of the men I had fallen for, but he needed me, much as these pigeons do.

It's tragic; I barely knew my father. My mother would talk about him from time to time, but never anything positive. His name was Gordon and he did a really bad thing that resulted in him going away. "Gordon will never come back for us," and that is all she ever told me, so, that is all I know. He was no king to me, nor was I ever his little princess. I burn with envy at the thought of loving bonds between a father and daughter. Destiny deemed it necessary to be cruel, depriving me of such love and security. My childhood was void of a father's love, which could in itself explain the reasoning behind me grasping so tightly, to any man that came within reach. I often sacrificed my heart for meaningless affection, the plight of a fatherless little girl.

In time, I grew stronger, and began utilizing the gifts that were bestowed upon me. Gordon did grant me one present: a genetic gift of undeniably good looks. It was with this beauty that I defined my status in society. The men that sought after me were often older and more established in life. They all would promise me the world, but never once true love."

Georgia again retreats into silence, hiding behind the coo of the pigeons and the playful wind as it shakes the trees. She reaches for more breadcrumbs, but instead finds my hand as it exits the crumpled bag. I attempt to pull away, but she clasp on tightly. Her next words are spoken with endearment.

"Raven, your grandmother was as enchanting as the summer's eve. Her voice could bewitch the soul. If that wasn't enough to rule the world, GOD also created her sensitive eyes out of the most alluring jewels. Large and free, yet majestic were her almond browns. Still, he did not stop. He molded her into perfect little lines and curves, and then topped off his masterpiece with a kiss of red fire; simply breathtaking was her appearance. I longed to be her; she was pure elegance."

The sky beckons her attention once again. Georgia leans back on the park bench and stares down the sun. "Jason, did you know that the sun is most vulnerable when it sets? It is the only time we are able to truly capture its true nature. Some call its setting a brilliant moment of weakness. Rabbi told me that long ago. He said I should always take the time to stare down the sun. It would help to complete me."

Georgia is watching me now; therefore, I decide to flatter her by examining more closely our sun. Instantly, the star of life embraces me as a newfound friend, and for the rest of my days, I will find a measure of reassurance when in its company.

Georgia will more than likely sit here for the remainder of the day's light. Both her hands are tucked comfortably into the pockets of her green sweater. She will not sit alone in Worthington Park. My spot on the park bench will soon be occupied by memories, dreams, and unfortunate regrets. Georgia will draw the strength needed from these personal realities and tomorrow, when her friend the sun is at its strongest point, Georgia will board the bus to go see Teardrop, her forever friend.

Night arrives, changing the backdrop of the city. The streetlights illuminate my path home, as my mind expands into multiple directions. I didn't have much time with my family today. How is Teardrop holding up? Will Georgia be safe in that park? Olivia must be worried. Work, should I return briefly tomorrow to ensure that all things are in order? These thoughts accompany me on my ride home, ending only with the opening of my garage door.

Olivia and Daniela greet me with warm embraces. They sense that I am troubled. Loved ones often do, yet they say nothing, they opt to instead give unconditionally, until they see evidence of peace upon my face. Love is truly the gift of healing. My sleep will be one of tranquility thanks to the support of my family.

In the days of old, people referenced midnight as the witching hour, a time when our vices act as signals for demonic auras, visiting from realms much darker than our world. They enforce their will upon us as we lay asleep, deep within a vulnerable state of being. Aggressively they search for an opening to best exploit us. Restlessness, stress, fears, they are each inviting windows of opportunity for their conquering prowess. It is our strength of soul and character that acts as a shield against their relentless assault, bravely standing off their advances until the reinforcement of days light arrives, causing them to retreat back into a prison of abyss.

The clock strikes midnight and again they come for me. The fog rolls in, blanketing the room, while laughter hides behind the cover of instrumental jazz tunes, mischievous laughter, anxious to break free of the darkness. There are now more colors than before, as the dream comes, binding me, then shoving me to the back of the room. He is with me, handsome and charismatic, as he serves up cocktails to the patrons, each one fully cloaked in grey suits. My father, Harrison Goodman, smiles in my direction before fading into the dense fog engulfing the rear of the bar. Rabbi is also there, but this time his suit is different than before. It is sky blue in color, distinguishing him apart from the grey masses. The saxophone player blares out a note. I know this part of the dream for it has haunted me so very long. The front doors swing open violently; tiny steel barrels poke out from inside the fog as bullets sparkle through my nightmare in slow motion. I want to stop them but the fog bonds me to the wall. I scream out frantically, yet unsuccessfully, for my father's attention. Harrison's smile fades along with the fog. Rabbi remains, standing before me now. He looks down to reference his favorite timepiece as a golden ring of cigar smoke engulfs me, burning, and blinding my vision. I scream again, only the trumpets respond. Rabbi no longer stands before me.

#

### JASON

Her hair eclipses the sight from my left eye. She holds me in her arms as sweat from my forehead makes its way to our freshly cleansed linen. The ceiling fan appears as a halo above her head. She is my wife, and for the rest of our lives, we shall both occasionally share this recurring nightmare.

Cautious is the night, as it quietly orchestrates the land of dreams for our sake. He listens to the day, where we often recite dreams out loud; clearly he hears our every desire. For most, the kindness of the night allows them to live out the dreams of the day. Tonight my soul is troubled, therefore my land of dreams reveal only nightmares. I receive the cry of baby birds as they hunger for their mothers return. The world has completed its journey once again, therefore ushering in a new day.

The metamorphosis of a man is a complex thing. I have always feared becoming stagnant in life, and therefore being unable to complete the gift of evolution. Today, I will remain inviting and susceptible to any and everything our world brings my way. It is from such a mindset that I am guaranteed to achieve continuous growth. My day's list is similar to that of the day before. Teardrop's visiting hours are from noon to four in the evening. Between those allotted hours I will be by his side, fortunately my family understands this and will, no doubt, drop by to offer their support. As I exit the bathroom I notice that across our bedroom the closet door is slightly opened. Light escapes from the cracks of the panel door. Since my awakening it appears that Olivia has made our bed, pillows are strategically positioned across the top comforter, including a few on which I am not allowed to sleep. I never could comprehend that, but then again I am but a man. The door to the closet swings open. The lights once creeping through the hinges now shine brighter, as Olivia emerges from inside holding an outfit in each arm.

She places each one neatly across our recently made bed, and then looks at me with her large baby browns.

"Honey, which one should I wear today; the navy blue suit or the brown one?"

Marriage has taught me well, and fortunately for me I am a quick study. There is no choice here. Olivia is fond of both suits, answering her comes easy for me. "It doesn't really matter honey you will be equally beautiful in either of them."

She leans over and kisses me on the cheek, then returns the navy blue suit to the closet; the brown one wins today. Inside, I agree with her choice. The brown one does bring out her hair color more, but what do I know? I am but a man.

Each smile I produce requires similar effort. No one person receives more or less from me in greeting. I do not attempt to disguise the truth. It's obvious that I don't want to be in the workplace today. My office waits a few paces in front of me. The darkness within its open door reveals sporadic blinking from the message waiting light of my phone. These voicemails are from people wanting, needing, and demanding precious minutes from my day. They cannot be avoided forever; after all, this is business; still, today they will just have to wait to be accommodated. My emails are out of control; it will require the better part of a week to sort through them all. I turn on the out of office reply to prevent any further accumulation. I have given my job priority over the heart for far too long. A new voicemail is left for the individuals whom will be directly impacted by my absence, and then I take my leave once again, leaving the message waiting light to do its diligence.

Teardrop's condition is steady. Thankfully, a battle for life continues to wage on inside him. His soul has transcended all boundaries in the past couple of days. I ponder whether he has crossed paths with my grandfather through his unconsciousness. The afterlife will forever be a mystery for those of us in the land of the living, though some have given personal accounts of their encounters, not much has been proven to be factual. A tunnel with a light at the other end remains the one true constant amongst those whom have experienced and returned from near death. Truthfully, I envy those granted any form of access to those loved ones whom have passed on. The splendor of it all gives me chills. I take hold of Teardrop's hand and smile upon him.

"Good journey, my friend," my well wishing whisper travels outward, and falls on more than just Teardrop' s ears.

"What do you mean journey? Where has he gone? No! Please Jason tell me he has not left me here alone!" Georgia's escalates more and more with each shrieking word. I turn my chair in her direction.

"Heavens no, Georgia, I was referring to a completely different type of journey. Alex is still here with us. He is a warrior."

"Teardrop's a warrior?" The man has never fought a day in his life. He didn't have to with Rabbi always watching over him."

As Georgia crosses the room, her delicate hands emerge from the pockets of her green sweater. They join Teardrop's left hand in support and out of habit. The two of them together have held on to life and legacy for decades, acting as both a friend and confidant for one another. I slump back into my chair and absorb the moment. Love, no matter its story is always easy on the eyes.

Georgia begins to sway gently from side to side as her words tremble inside the hospital room.

"Rabbi made himself accountable for Teardrop, when he rescued him that night, from sharing his parents' fate. Teardrop didn't mind it much either, being taken care of granted him the luxury of never facing responsibility for any shortcomings he may have experienced through life. I would scream at him till my voice was no more, but Teardrop was never a good listener. If he was to ever be a man, he had to first become a man; so whenever Rabbi wasn't around I placed another brick into Teardrop's foundation of self worth. I wanted him to become a winner."

Memories of summers past collide with the passing dreams of tomorrow's spring as Georgia's eyes began to rain. "I want him back Jason, right now! Please, I need to hear his voice; I crave his smile. He need not die Jason, our heaven is right here together on cupid's bench, in Worthington Park. Let the rest of this forsaken world continue their selfish rat race. Teardrop and I will cheer them on from afar. He needs only to come back to me."

Georgia's tears are flowing swiftly now, splashing down onto her green sweater, softening her hard exterior. Slowly, her tough lady image begins to strip away. She appears to be almost frightened now, compelling me into a new level of understanding for their bond. A life without love is no life at all.

Regrettably, the powers that be did not bestow upon lowly me the ability to revive life. If they had, then Cupid's fountain would be gazing down on Teardrop and Georgia this very afternoon. The simplicity of their relationship defies all odds. Years have befallen them, and yet not a single detail has changed. The park, the pigeons, and the countless bottles of spirits have sustained them throughout time. Now, with the coming of tragedy, their simple existence has been threatened. A small piece of me envies them both. The rebellious carefree side that secretly sought after the freedom associated with not adhering to society's standards. Those exact demands; they found the courage, and separation necessary to rise up against. Georgia and Teardrop created a new world of their own inside the storied land of Worthington Park. I continue quietly sending out wishes, but there is no magical fairy dust in my possession to whisk them back to better days, only the harsh reality that is this world.

"Jason, wake up." My eyes open immediately upon hearing this request. Georgia's hand remains on my shoulder a result of her persistent attempts at awakening me.

"I'm sorry, I must have fallen victim to the Sandman." My comical response earns no laughter from Georgia. Instead, she makes an odd request.

"Jason, would you please drive me to the water?"

• • •

We arrive at the great lake. Georgia exits my car without saying a word. She does not stop to remove her shoes before creating footprints across the sand. Her mind pays little attention to such things as the cry of the lake continues to lure her to its shimmering blue borders. Surprisingly, she comes to a halt just a few steps before the extent of its reach. She then falls instantly to her knees. Georgia's fists violently strike out against the sandy surface below. Again, and again she lashes out, until the scars on her fists become visible from where I stand. Her shoulders begin to tremble as she positions herself into a praying position. The tide inches in closer, capturing Georgia's spilled tears and blending them into subtle shades of turquoise. This is her time for reflection; I dare not approach. Immobile, I look out toward the horizon as the day holds us both in its unwavering grasp.

Seagulls scream out my name from above, demanding I give them audience. "Beautiful scavengers with golden beaks," referencing my early childhood, I recall my grandfather referring to them often as such. They have much to communicate, these scavengers, as they glide above the magnificent waters, while racing their own reflections.

Georgia would pinch my cheek and give me candy when I was but a child. If the breeze flows just right, I can still recall her scent. The smell of lilac seemed to accompany her everywhere back then. Georgia was what I understood a woman to be. It was my ignorance to the facts of life that masked the truth from the child form of me. Truth is she was fast, I know this now, and any man attempting to keep pace with her was sure to burn out. It's a sad tale of a young girl handicapped by life at a very young age, void of a foundation, a protector, a father.

My focus turns to the bluish sky. Two clouds jockey for position, colliding, then splitting, until forming a passageway within the sky. An avenue has opened up for me to direct my daydreams. I chose to envision the past, a marvelous time when my grandfather stood strongly in his prime, with Teardrop by his side of course. Georgia stands between the two dashing gentleman. Her appearance is an elegant physical statement, perfectly fitted inside a white pearl studded dress. Her lips are dipped in hot red; ready to set the world ablaze with a simple kiss. Spade and Raul stand on the outskirts of this imaginary portrait of friendship, all release smiles inside the photo but two. My imagination flickers on, as grandpa Rabbi raises his glass high into the air. The lights reflect off the crystal, beveled glasses, temporarily blinding all with the exception of Georgia. She does not release her gaze. This is the very light her desire has brought her to, finally she is truly top-shelf.

Clouds are notorious for not staying true to form; it's an unsettling reminder for us all that the world is constantly changing. They all but disappear right in front of my eyes, racing off to connect with others, challenging another dreamer's ability to identify and imagine. Only dusk lingers before me now. I pause; my visions have dissipated. If only Georgia could have witnessed the mental picture brought on by my third eye. I will go to her now, in assurance, hoping that my support will be strength enough for her to stand once again. The sand seems soft and is easy on my knees as I kneel beside her. I place my left hand on her shoulder, then gently I squeeze. She acknowledges my presence and exhales as her hand finds mine. Still, the spell cast by the great lake holds Georgia in a trance. Its power is evident here, compelling me into solace.

"Jason, can we just stay awhile?" It appears that Georgia has broken free from her spell. "Let us speak only of meaningful things here where the world completes itself, as the water touches its earth."Georgia's eyes open wide as she measures the horizon. A beautiful smile accompanies the lake's aggressive breeze. In that moment she exhales taking comfort in the company of the wind.

• • •

"Jason, sometimes I wish I could just fly away. Life runs so very fast, and time is an extremely competitive opponent. Time has grown accustomed to besting life and refuses to concede victory to any of us. It is just when we feel like we have defeated time that he catches up and claims the prize of our youth. Through this display of dominance, time removes from us any delusions of grandeur. Even though my age states that I have lived a long life. The memories that pleasure me are so few that it seems most of my years have escaped me.

I was never fortunate enough to create life; there are no children, and therefore no grandchild to spoil. I missed that bus while hanging out on selfish street. I sometimes visit the depressing fact of me passing on. It will be my end of days, for without children one cannot live eternal."

I want to request that she stop, but this has to in some way be healthy for her. It is obvious that these feelings have been harbored inside for some time now; therefore, instead, I relax myself and listen as Georgia speaks in the language of pain. She vents freely before me, while opening wounds of her past. I listen, knowing inside that no matter her personal belief she will live on, through my memories and the ones of my family. We developed a newfound bond in the company of seagulls. I suppose we became kindred spirits of sorts, as we embraced one another with the lake as our backdrop; we created a memory. Inside, I can't help but to delight in the compassionate me. I am grateful for the ability to help another human being, while basking in the therapeutic ambiance of our surroundings.

During the drive back to Georgia's everything appears more animated than before. With Georgia occupied, peering aimlessly out the passenger side window, I find myself infatuated with the big screen performance of real life, as it is illustrated before me by my old neighborhood. My favorite, legendary jazz musician narrates the streets as he speaks through his saxophone in a melodic flow. The volume remains low on my car's stereo but the quality outplays our heartbeats. I continue to view life in its splendor from city block to block. Once, I was only able to spot the slow demise of my old neighborhood, finding myself grateful for the escape option offered by the suburbs. My self-induced sleep is now over. I am awake and loving what is in front of me. Two young men race on the sidewalk beside my car. They each appear to be gifted with tremendous speed; still, only one will win this challenge. I understand this to be factual from losing a few races myself.

The loser however will face a very crucial decision. I can only hope that when the days to come fill him with vibrant energy, he seeks out the other boy and challenges him again, for if he accepts defeat today, it may very well be so for the remainder of his life.

Some of the buildings in Georgia's burrow have been deemed landmarks. Their splendid architectural structures are the result of beautiful residences for the people of our marvelous city. Brownstones, rich in character, but diminished by financial limitations and social inequities. In today's world, money influences our gifted developers, forcing them to forgo their creativity in exchange for a fast profit. They instead mount massive building sprees in rural areas, bringing about the suburban subdivisions that outline our new America. Attractive, yet weak are they in construction. They become an allotted escape from the sins of the city. Within these rapidly developing areas we start anew. We do this to ensure that our children know another way of life different from the lifestyles that were of our previous world. History is often lost through this suburban cover up. Along with that, we misplaced enriching stories of struggle and triumph, character building tales of amazing human beings such as my grandfather. The amount of strength needed to overcome obstacles is often missing in today's youth, because as parents and elders, we opted not to deliver their legacy to them. This is why, more so than not, they fail to return and challenge the opposition for another race.

Georgia taps my arm, gesturing with her finger that I pull over and let her out at Worthington Park. I do so. She smiles at me and then departs closing the car door softly. She did not speak one word the entire drive back. I spy myself inside the rearview mirror, as visions of Georgia and her friends the pigeons flutter in my mind. I continue on to Olivia and Daniela, home to our suburban haven.

• • •

Emptiness greets me at the front door. The hallway lights of our home are on, as they are programmed to do so at dusk. My family is not present. Not even my dog, Hero, wagging his tale sporadically greets my return. My office is the second room on the left of the hallway. I adjust the lights through the dimmer switch and retire to my favorite chair. In front of me on my desk is a portrait of my grandpa, Rabbi. This particular photo was printed in black and white. His likeness must have been captured in it a long time ago; his youthful appearance is evidence enough of this. He stands tall in the photo, leaning back against a brick wall with both hands inside the pockets of his trousers. His suit jacket is hung over his right shoulder. His smile jumps at me from the picture. I catch it then release it into the world; after all, it was his gift to me genetically.

Leaning back in my favorite chair, I find myself speculating on what it must have been like to be him on that very day. I wish to feel what he felt. The same rush that produces such an uninhibited smile, never have I known a smile as such. There have been instances where I tried to recreate such a smile, though mostly resulting in failure and always requiring too much effort. Obviously, there is some negative life experience acting as a barrier that keeps me so self-guarded. I consider what could have aided Rabbi in breaking free of the negative energy of his time, therefore, enabling him to grin carelessly at the universe.

I decide to become the man captured in free spirit by the magic of photography. It must have been a great day. His suit, I will color it tan, adding a cooling effect, one adequate enough to withstand the heat from a blazing hot day. In those days men wore suits every day, classy, and well groomed was the common man. In those days a man's word was his everything, and everything a man said he would do; he did just that. I imagine gliding down the boulevard, with the afternoon breeze caressing my face. "Rabbi," some whisper, yet most shout loudly as I pass. Respected and admired, yet humble as the next man. The education of life has made me a great leader within my community. My imagination continues to drive me through the realm of fantasy, as I dive deeper into my grandfather's celebrity. The sky's purple hue becomes my private big top as the boulevard transforms into a circus. I tame the most ferocious of men, those self-proclaimed gangsters and boastful high rollers. I do this not with a whip but only a glance. My confidence is evident through my body language. It feels grand to acquire such a level of respect from one's community. I, Rabbi, am the ringmaster. A magnitude of accomplishment shoots pride through my veins until I no longer hear the sins from my past; the greater good has earned me a deaf ear from all my transgressions. I follow the boulevard into a peaceful slumber, while holding the black and white photo of my grandpa Rabbi close to my heart.

Restless is the night, as it causes my mind to drift in search of an old friend. My thoughts take me to St. Luke Hospital, unnoticed, hovering as a phantom above Teardrop's current place of rest. He lay comatose below me. I wonder if a struggle still even continues inside him. Does blood still flow tainted by poisonous vices, weaknesses that previously supplied him the purpose to conquer another dreadful day? Or has the IV attached to his vessel cleansed him of those shameless desires. His dependencies have so often made him an exception to society's decree. I can only hope that he continues to wage war against death.

#

### TEARDROP

My heartbeat is strong. Thoughts that once were cloudy have now become clear to me, but my body remains so distant. I call out time and again, but to no avail. I am a lone prisoner of my own consciousness. Inside the depths of my mind, I cry out for Rabbi, longing to relive our glory years. Georgia's voice has been echoing inside my head. She desires me to stay, but this world is no longer for me. I wish she could join me; together we could stroll down the tunnel toward the light, dressed in our finest attire. He awaits us at the other side; I know this to be true. His white Cadillac is parked at the tunnel's exit with the passenger door wide open, anticipating our prolonged arrival. Just like in the old days; the boulevard calls for our souls. The eternal sun shows us favor once again by beaming a spotlight around our pearl white chariot. Rabbi remains silent, but his glance in my direction is pleasant. He never was a man of many words. It has been always a matter of feeling with him.

Georgia continues to call out for my return. Her voice escapes from the car's radio, screeching loudly through its speakers. Rabbi remains unaffected, so I turn down the volume. I have waited a long time for this moment. I do miss Georgia, as the summer would miss the sun, but today I have found peace, riding shotgun, once again inside the brilliant spotlight with Rabbi. He sacrificed the most precious of gifts for me. He voided his own life to save mine. From the beginning, he became my caretaker, my teacher, my friend.

"Rabbi, can you please find it in your heart to forgive me? I have been a prisoner of my own guilt for three decades, dreaming always of this moment, a chance to beg my forever friend to forgive me for my foolishness. The Sandbox was all I had. I only wanted to make a deal to get myself back on top, but Spade was evil, it never occurred that he would use my weakness to bring about harm onto you Rabbi."

He continues to face forward, not looking my way. Still, he smiles. The light's rays continue to shimmer about him as they always have; he is such a beautiful creature, my friend, my brother.

"Why would death take you, but leave me? It's not fair, Rabbi. You were only trying to save me. Please forgive me now. Please ask Miss Raven to forgive me?" The car comes to an abrupt stop. Instantaneously, dark clouds blanket the sun, as lightning cracks the sky. Rabbi looks directly into my soul, momentarily, and then he speaks, but only one word, "Raven." His eyes scan off to the left of us, and there, before us she stands dressed in all black, her hair blazing furiously in the wind. Raven's wrath comes swiftly, suffocating me inward and outward, until my clothing blends from white to grey. I manage to call out her name, in my plea for forgiveness.

"Raven, I am sorry!" It is useless. My foolishness will be forever the cause for her loss. "The ballad of Rabbi's girl," that is how the storytellers refer to Raven's tragic tale of love, a beautiful red-haired maiden who passed on shortly after her beloved Rabbi. The doctors had no explanation for her swift deterioration. The neighborhood grapevine however, proclaimed Raven to have died from a broken heart.

Lightning streaks out from the palms of Raven's hands. Her hair bleeds black, streaming directly to the roots. Her screams rival the banshee's. Rabbi is no longer beside me. I am alone again, and this time it is justified. There is a stampede, no a beat; a beating heart. Its pulse is deafening. Raven draws nearer to her prey. I continue to plead. Sincere words spill outward from a foolish man. Still, Raven does not cease, her wrath has consumed her. Her dreams are no more, taken prematurely by the weakness of a silly man. Like a reaper she is now consumed within a shroud of blackness. Raven the merciless is upon me now. There are no do overs. There is to be no forgiveness. It appears that my destiny here in purgatory is to pay, to answer, and most importantly to receive the one desire of a broken heart; Vengeance.

• • •

With one violent wave of her hand, she casts me through the wind and back to the blackened emptiness of the tunnel, were once again I'm alone. The failures of my life taunt me inside the dark abyss; unyielding are they, echoing every failure, as they constantly challenge my loyalty to my forever friend, Rabbi. The voice of many questions continues its onslaught against me. I am old and tired; any mental strength I may have once controlled has long since wasted away. The demons of the darkness will make quick work of me. I crumble first and settle into a fetal position frightened of the inevitable end. I was always stronger when Rabbi was by my side. He gave me confidence. With him near I felt as if I could defeat anything. I hold myself tightly as chills fill my bones. No longer does the light at the end of the tunnel summon me. I am forced to endure flashes of days past as they began to reveal themselves periodically upon the tunnels walls. Each picture illuminates itself, including the traumatic night that claimed Rabbi's life. I shut my eyes, refusing to witness anymore, but the mystical forces continue their attack on my soul.

The absence of rain should have been my first sign that deception filled the air. There was lightning but no rain. If only I had paid more attention as a boy; to my mother's tribal teachings, I may have been able to decode that night.

There we are. I am giving a measure of sympathy as a memory of Georgia and I appear. We are as always celebrating nothing, yet toasting our glasses just the same. Georgia and I had begun drinking early on that day; same as any other. We held little regard to my scheduled business meeting with Spade. I had struck a deal to sell all that was given to me by my dearest friend. A settlement was drafted, equivalent to my shares in the Sandbox. Georgia would do the same and together we would escape to a far off land, finally exiting the demands of society and her ill-sanctioned rat race. The memory flash disappears and the darkness returns. Steady, powerful heartbeats fill my frailty with sorrow and regret as Spade's sinister persona illuminates on the tunnel wall. He used me to lure Rabbi out from his comfort zone, and my curse will forever be for helping him achieve his wishes. Rabbi's celebrity had finally driven Spade mad. Spade planted his seeds of deceit throughout the streets. He knew they would eventually grow to reach Rabbi's ears. The people were still loyal and even in Rabbi's absence they still adored him. This matter in particular was one that would be dear to Rabbi, a matter of the heart, the absolute wellness of his forever friend Teardrop. Spade knew that Rabbi would come for me in a blind rage; he counted on it.

She is a devout listener, the quiet; upon hearing my pain she once again paints the tunnel wall in darkness. I am alone within this tunnel, trapped between life and death, and cloaked in darkness. My heartbeat continues to pulsate. I can feel its power throbbing through my fingertips. Georgia's comforting voice can be heard though only faintly in the distance. It is the only comfort available for me now. I take refuge within its raspy reprieve. She steadily calls for my return, but the tunnel refuses to release me. Be this purgatory or punishment, for the moment I know not.

#

### RAVEN

Together as one our spirits soar, beloved is he; soulmate to me, eternally we shall be united. Our existence now revolves around tranquility. Our previous life involved countless dramatic episodes, which often inflicted pain into our daily routines. It was during that life I lost Rabbi. Here, defined by paradise, history will not repeat itself. I will not allow him such a victory.

My heart's greatest wish has always been to be adored. The lessons of love taught and displayed to me by my father became a blueprint for my life. I recall the playful nicknames he would use when addressing my mother and I. I loved the way he held her hand in public or how he caressed the side of her face each time he departed for work. I would often catch him love-gazing at her when she wasn't aware. Father would later tell me that I was similar to her, that I was most beautiful when uninhibited. Love was all I knew, and it was just as father described it would be when I first encountered Rabbi; my heart made the choice for me, free of any debate.

My mind did offer some resistance, sometimes openly rationalizing the world we breathe to live in. He was no saint. My ears had received the tales of his namesake long before our worlds collided. There's a saying that one can't change a man that has already lost his soul. Such a beautiful soul was Rabbi's, much too brilliant to be lost forever. I knew he could find it again, eventually. Love told me this much through the song of the rain.

The mist grew into drops as a rainstorm storm began developing on the day we first met. I'd just reached the cover of a random building with hopes of remaining dry. My nervousness set in because beside me stood Rabbi Goodman. Goosebumps marched up my sleeve as our eyes met; denial quickly pulled me away from destiny. Call it the good girl in me, because by all accounts this was definitely a bad man; for me anyway. The mist had destroyed my hair. I tried to fix it as I checked my appearance in the glass entrance door. The storm had begun. The spot I stood in was a good one. The canopy of the building shielded me, or should I say us, from the storm's strike. He didn't say a word. He just took from his coat pocket a set of keys, inserted them into the lock on the entry door, and opened his life to me. He stood inside the entrance and smiled at me with his eyes. I entered, still without words, caught up in destiny's grasp. He introduced himself as Jonathan Goodman. I knew him as Rabbi; still, I continued the introduction by extending both my name and hand.

I remember thinking, in that moment, that he would be taller, based on the tall tales told about him, but there he stood before me very lifelike. He was just tall enough for me to look up to and kiss, perfect by my standards. Rabbi was much more attractive up close, blessed with a good face and golden skin, which showcased the almond brown marbles moonlighting as his eyes.

His voice had an almost calming effect, as we continued our inquiries into one another. The reality of who he was and the person I had spent a lifetime striving to become took a backseat to our initial attraction. It took a massive ray of light, leaping unannounced through the windowpane to separate us. I snapped out of my daze long enough to take leave of his allure. The rain had come to an end, so I turned to thank him for the temporary shelter and then, reluctantly continued on my way.

"Raven, would it be alright if I called on you sometime?" He yelled out into the city.

"Yes," escaped quietly from my lips, but landed on deaf ears.

I instead turned once again to smile; leaving him to question my answer to his hearts request. Wasted moments passed between us; confused, I gave the world the power to dictate my decision, causing me to condemn the notion of ever being as one with a man I was surely smitten by. I dreamt of rooftop picnics where the sound of music caught us in the rapture of love, and every fiber of my being told me that somewhere out there Jonathan Goodman was feeling the same way. As a teacher this is one of life's simple pleasures. The day was perfect, if one could actually taste it, they'd call it a pot of just right. The children had enjoyed an extra five minutes of recess while my thoughts drifted freely in the afternoon breeze. I packed away my snack; the time had come to gather them into a single file line, and then head inside for a short story before the days release. Suddenly, I felt a gentle tug on my jacket. I looked down and little Stevin Ray was standing behind me.

"Miss Raven," he said nasally, "these for you." There in his left arm was the most beautiful assortment of lilies I had ever seen. An envelope was attached to them. I opened it and read the answer to my daily riddle. It read:

"Thoughts of you, I have only thoughts of you Raven." It was signed in red pen, yours truly, "Jonathan Goodman." Instantly, my mind began to listen to my heart. I decided to allow Rabbi to call on me, and by doing this, leave myself vulnerable for God and destiny to control the rest.

Ours was an epic love story filled with challenges, yet also rewarded by growth and stability. I never once asked Rabbi to be only Jonathon, but still it seemed to be my approval that he longed for most. Eventually, through the process of love Rabbi, found what was previously lost to him forever; he recovered his soul.

#

### GEORGIA

Today I will sing a song for him, a melody of life. I have dreamt it as such. Teardrop's eyes responding to my song, opening bright enough to light the midnight sky. If ever a dream could be granted, this is the one I would pitch my penny into the well for. He refuses to return to me, still I, his forever friend, continue to dream, and for his recovery I will sing. My arms are wrapped tightly around hope, as I sway from side to side. It began as only a short hymn, until a picture framed itself inside my mind, a picture of Teardrop and I in our youth.

Beautiful creatures were we before the curse of time. I recall once upon a lifetime past, on an evening in which the night was even too dark for the stars, Teardrop and I shared some wine as his powder blue Chevy convertible's headlights beamed brightly across Lake Michigan. The song becomes stronger in my heart as the memory better reveals itself. It was on that dark night Teardrop confessed his true feelings for me. Sadly, all I did in response was request that he refill my glass.

Life could have been different had we just joined forces on that night, but instead we remained separate; therefore, allowing life the power to destroy us individually. Battered and wounded by the trials of this world we began to meet on occasion, bonding by sharing a hiding space inside a bottle of Vodka, or by adding music, sweet music, slowly injected into our veins, until we reached Nirvana. Decades passed with this continuing as our escape from the demands of civilized life; together, yet separate, we never stood a chance.

A tear falls to my lips; the salt of my being is an unpleasant taste, my song for Teardrop has become no more. I am beginning to suffocate from depression. Teardrop's room has become a coffin for us both; I can no longer stand to view him this way. I race away to Washington Street and catch the next transport. A young lady seated beside me inside the belly of the city dragon, steadily applies her makeup. The transporters are always so full of interesting characters. I do not own a magic box; therefore, over the years the bus has become one of my main sources of entertainment. It interests me, the lives of others, more so than the boring existence I call my own. The young lady continues addressing her face while peering into a small palm sized mirror. I was once her; the world would pause as I roamed its boundaries, but no more. These days I am less than the wilted rose pressed inside an old photo album.

I wish a mirror existed for me to open and close; a magic mirror, one that could reflect the beauty of summers past, granting me the ability to gaze into my own eyes, back when they were strong and not so defeated. The dragon glides into one of its stops, screeching loudly as smoke comes up from its undercarriage. Old yet reliable is this means of transport, as we have again arrived at someone's destination. The young lady seated next to me snaps close her palm mirror and begins walking toward the dragon's mouth. An amplified voice carries throughout the belly of the beast.

"Lakeland Mall's stop!" I watch her pretty in peach as she enters the gates of material bliss.

"Pretty in peach," I say out loud, they all stare at me, the conversationalist on the bus, but to me, they say nothing.

#

### OLIVIA

There is something deeply embedded inside my love. Whenever the hurt becomes too intense for him to endure it somehow escapes his body. In the past, he would shut down, becoming private and unwelcoming. I knew that there had to be some form of hurt deriving from his past. Maybe it was the absence of his father, or the loss of his grandfather, either way the pain would often present itself as an unmovable obstacle he couldn't find his way past, but Jason never spoke much of his past, only of his mother and of the personal sacrifices she made, in order that he may be subject to the privileges of life. His father remained a mystery for the majority of our years together. It was my resolve that Jason would open up to me when he felt emotionally strong enough to have another inside his heart, therefore, solidifying our love bond. I was all right with this for I too had inner demons to purge. Those few difficult times from our humble beginnings are but a faint memory now. We did conquer every obstacle placed before us.

In time, we began authoring our own love story without any outside influence. We merged as one unbreakable entity. With the miracle birth of Daniela, came a united vow of supplying our child with a strong foundation on which she could be nurtured began. Jason aspires to be a great husband and loving father; it's his reason for living. Ours is a predestined love. It is from that I draw the patience and understanding to deal understandably with the present events that challenge our daily routines.

His loyalties to people from his previous life have never come into question by me. Jason is after all an extension of me, and I have always found life to be more fulfilling if I don't question myself. I, on occasion, will pull close the pillow he rested his head on. Through this embrace, the morning light welcomes me, only to remind me of mornings past, where the warmth of his skin chased the morning chill from mine. I confess to possessing a small level of selfishness in regards to my man, for the love he has given could sustain me for eternity.

#

### RABBI'S SONG

The darkness claimed me at a very young age. Impressionable, I became content within its dominance over my soul. Still the light believed in me, deeply rooted inside my being; it never allowed me to be forever lost. Faces of past enemies highlight my nightmares; they demand my end. I have embraced this to be a natural aspect of me. It is a welcome punishment for all that I have done during my quest for power. Somewhere along the way I ventured off course and in doing so began to see the beauty evident within our universe. Lovely and complex is the world we live in. Its benevolent light had finally begun to prevail over me. I would find myself walking alone in Worthington Park, subjected to scattered thoughts dancing circles around my head. They would all smile as I passed them, the pedestrians of the park. Were these smiles of fear, or admiration? I did not know; it was a smile nonetheless. On occasion I would sit under the large willow tree located at the east end of the park; overlooking the great lake. There I would initiate futile attempts at revisiting moments from my jaded past, those times are often revealed as nothingness before the great lake and me.

Physiologically, I must have erased the memories in an effort to move on, but there are still traces of my former life remaining. The hole in my heart is evidence of that. Hours at a time, I would sit under that willow, watching as dusk set down upon my city; with its alluring lights holding me captive as my dreams escaped across the great lake. I would imagine that one of those lighted windows on the other side, glaring out from the rustic brick buildings, was my home. It would be another life, under another name. I would sometimes create entire families in my mind, varied ones that on any given night I could call my own. There would be a mother to prepare the beverages, and a father to deliver the table grace. The true American dream brought to life by the mind of a humbled opportunist. How ironic.

As the night wind trembles the tips of skyscrapers, it skips over the blackberry lake, causing my eyes to seek the protection of their shielding lashes. She calls for me, alone and restless, she now desires her child. I rise up from my seat and go to her. I am but a pawn, and so it shall be until a beauty more mysteriously intriguing comes to release me from this spell. Until then I belong to the shadows that make me grand; I belong to the night.

#

### GEORGIA'S SONG

The biscuits are piping hot. He loves them that way. It is fifteen past the sixth hour. I have timed his return home perfectly. His routine remains constant. At twenty past the sixth hour Teardrop will enter the front door of our apartment, remove his work boots, and proceed to the bathroom, where he will wash the work day from his hands, all this in preparation of the evening's much anticipated meal. We will then take our places at the dinner table across from one another, while settling in to our simple but loving existence together. This is our alternative world, one created by me to help soothe the pain of our reality. My mind flees the land of wishful thinking as my body continues feeding breadcrumbs to the pigeons of Worthington Park.

Teardrop's face, smoothed over with a more youthful innocence surfaces from deep within my memory. It is once again that night in which we shared cocktails by the lake. The night he vowed to give me all of him. Selfishly, I could not accept, because as a small child my dreams did not include him. I recalled a brave prince on top of his white horse charging steadfast toward his enemies and rescuing me from all that I feared. It was not Teardrop who rode upon that magnificent steed. I, instead, released us both from the seriousness of the moment with idle chatter, conversation directed in every direction except the one before us. It was the first time I witnessed the light go out from his eyes. Now, as he clings to life before me, I find myself in the same position I would have been in had I accepted his proposal long ago; only inches away from losing my life's partner. The only person I hold dear in this disappointing world. It's as if he were my husband, for if I should lose him the pain would be the equivalent and my position the same...Alone. How ironic.

#

### JASON

She is serenity to me, the most stunning of Gods creations. She rests within a tranquil state, while I stand restless in the night beside her. I have missed my family so much that the urge to awaken Daniela compels me. I wonder if she were to awaken suddenly, would my figure standing there in the dark startle her, or would she leap into my arms and yell, "Daddy I've missed you!"

This is my heart's desire, but since as her father, I understand she needs her beauty rest, I simply kiss her on the cheek, leaving her to dream in color. The day's journey has come to an end; I fluff my pillow then flip it over. The cooler side gives me more comfort. Olivia breathes easy next to me, her heartbeat plays the percussion of slumber and through its solo I find peace.

• • •

Tomorrow rushes in selfishly claiming its right over yesterday. Through perseverance I have managed to keep my commitments to my past obligations. I once promised to visit my grandfather's gravesite at least one time a year to ensure the upkeep of the family lot and also experience a bond of sorts. I challenged myself to rise early, and to my satisfaction the challenge is met.

He is buried along the same row as my beloved Olivia's grandmother, Maribel. We used to make light of this fact, proclaiming it to be them in spirit form that brought us together. I pause to deliver a single yellow rose for the queen who birthed the mother of my heart. A strong breeze arrives from the west pushing tremendously hard against my backside. My visit with Grandma Maribel is cut short as the wind ushers me on toward Rabbi's gravesite. It's like he's pulling me himself. Upon reaching his marble headstone the wind ceases its campaign. There, I am left standing alone in the silence of countless souls at rest.

I close out the light of day. My reason for visiting requires that I come to some type of resolve on my feelings toward Rabbi. This means I must first detach myself from all that is rational and in doing so, escape reality, only then can I understand him. My eyes remain closed as the darkness within my head toys with the outer silence of the cemetery. Suddenly there is a flicker of light, and then another, and then another.

"You wouldn't happen to have a light would you son? Oh! Never mind, it seems this here match has lived up to its expectations after all." Rabbi's cigar drops ashes into the lighted nothingness we now stand upon. He continues to enjoy the heaven that has become his own; taking savory puffs from his cigar. His face is glowing with admiration as he looks toward me. An obvious smirk of approval soon follows.

"I was expecting you sooner, Son. Teardrop told me you might be stopping by."

"Teardrop, you don't mean that he..."

"Slow down Jason, Teardrop's fate hasn't been decided yet, but it has been a real treat being able to share time with him lately; that tunnel of life is an interesting place for sure."

"Tightly, tightly," these words echo inside my head. I am afraid, fearful of opening my eyes. I don't want to lose this moment, therefore tightly they remain closed, and just as tight I am able to hold on to my grandpa, Rabbi.

He is as legend describes him; a magnificent man, though barely my height one can't help but look up to him. Within seconds, I have confirmed that being compared to Rabbi was nothing short of an honor. He is as graceful as he is charismatic; from the way his hand seems to add comfort to each spoken word; to the sincerity that embraces you when he speaks your name. He again takes a long drawn puff of his cigar releasing circles into the lighted nothingness surrounding my imagination. His words that follow are such.

"At times I soar high above, Jason, as my spirit looks out onto the world you breathe into. There has been so much progress it amazes me, but the cost is way too much. In my time people were different, cut from a stronger cloth. They didn't allow the demons to run amuck upon the earth as they do today. We bonded together in hopes of keeping them a bay. The problem is there is no togetherness in your world today. She has heavily populated herself with children that are only engaged with self.

I want to respond, but decide instead to remain the student. Tightly, tightly, still I hold on to him as he spills wisdom inside my imagination. He tells me that I have achieved more than he ever imagined, and how he looks forward to watching my future conquests. He goes further to say that with each dawn Grandma Raven smiles down proudly on my family. Rabbi reveals to me his belief that the stronger the family circle; the better chances our world in peril has to be saved. He states that without these circles of love and commitment all is lost.

All this comes at me from a man who lived the greater part of his life deeply entwined in mischief and deceit. I am taken a back, these lessons from a man rumored to have brought down his wrath on any and all who dared oppose him are difficult for me to accept. The lighted nothingness begins to dissipate from around us. I have begun to lose my grip; uncertainty is pulling me back toward reality. Rabbi's words become amplified, therefore, fending off reality's initial advancement.

"All my life Jason, I only wanted to be the man you have become today."

Tightly, again tightly, my eyes remain closed. Light rushes down from above, similar to that of a waterfall; any darkness remaining is swiftly washed away from my thoughts. I now stand open to seeking a solution to the riddles in my mind. I wish that I could unpeel each memory of his thought by thought. I desire to uncover the pain he felt when defeat overcame him, as well as the natural high that is only privileged to that of a conquer. I deliver these requests openly to him; assuming only his compliance as he continues to puff his cigar in contemplation.

Circles of shimmering cigar smoke loop together above us. "There were no pre planned moves in my book of life. It was more so day to day, come what may. Yes, I had fantasized as a young boy of both power and the wealth that came along with it, but those fantasies never accounted for the pain of others. During my younger days my life was often times too quiet, overwhelmingly so; the silence sometimes became so loud that I couldn't hear the world around me. I felt like the world was right there nestled beside me, yelling frantically at the top of her lungs for me to get to know her. In my simplicity, I was destined to be just another law-abiding citizen, living out countless years of regret from never hearing the calling of the world. Luckily, she favored me; so once, again her voice called for me in the wind. She sang for me in the rain and even whispered my name through the night. Her scent of oceans blue, her visions of dawn's light all called for me.

I began craving her lessons on life by reading more frequently. I would lock myself away in my room, detached from all that would corrupt my view of her. I never even saw her come for me, then hidden amongst the cover of twilight she arrived irresistibly cloaked in silver and gold; ambition then colored my insides black.

Two more circles pass from my grandfather's cigar into the lighted nothingness. "Come Jason, I will show you me, so that you may truly above all become you."

Though separated from realism my senses continue to prove functional. The aroma of freshly presented flowers on a nearby grave site creates a calming effect to our venture. The light before us now divides, opening a path, leading to a meadow full of sunflowers.

He races through the flowers, fleeing from the calling of his own namesake, as it gives chase to the barefoot little boy clothed in faded denim coveralls.

"Johnny Goodman, didn't I tell you to stay out of my apple pie, you just wait till I get my hands on your little bottom!" Mrs. Crowell from across the street continues her pursuit little Jonny .Her furry yellow slippers make a fluttering sound as her speed increases.

The tiny bandit no more than seven years old passes directly through our ghostly figures. He then stops a few feet in front of us and turns around to face the fading threats of the pie's baker. Little Johnny is now exhausted and out of breath. He releases his signature smile, lighting up the state of Illinois, then wipes the crumbs of the stolen apple pie from the corner of his mouth and in one ungraceful motion licks all four fingers used to dig into the pie pan. Then, quickly he springs into a one handed cartwheel, landing perfectly on the same bare little feet that carry him deeper into the meadow and far away from the voice of discipline.

"Boys will be boys." This time his cigar smoke burns my eyes. When finally I regain my vision the meadow is gone. There are no sunflowers here only weeds and darkness; weeds tall enough to shelter a fourteen year old and his newfound friend as they bear witness to a very tragic event. Through the brush I spy a man and a woman bonded about the neck by rope. Cowards hidden by white hoods hold torches of hate. The growth serves as protection for the boys as the tears of the smaller one waters the earth. The fire sticks go out leaving grandpa Rabbi and I to the fate of the darkness.

Lake Michigan plummets down on its shoreline. There are no scavengers violating the wind while in search of their next meal. The seagulls' cry is silenced by the absence of the dawn. Two men walk toward the trunk of a black sedan. The fair skinned one falls to one knee, bracing his side, he stares upward toward the millions of eyes watching them from the night sky. He and the young boy from the meadow are one in the same except for now his soul has traveled leaving little to no innocence within his face. He has experienced much through his youth. I myself have witnessed first the lynching, and now this.

The two men pull a body from the trunk of a large black sedan. I recognize the other man to be a young Teardrop. They then tie bricks to both the wrist and the ankles of the body, proceeding to roll the victim down the hill and into the storied depths of Lake Michigan. The bricks carry the body downward swiftly. Rabbi collapses to the ground weakened by the blood loss of his injury. Teardrop rushes to the aid of his forever friend.

"It was self defense, Jason. Rizzo sent Teardrop and I to collect an overdue debt, but that guy got the jump on us and shot me; straight through went the bullet leaving a hole in me forever. I fired back only to protect myself, but as you can see it ended fatally for him. Back then you had to tie up loose ends; you couldn't leave it to the law it just wouldn't fare well if you did."

We both watch as Teardrop holds his wounded friend in his arms. My grandfather's blood continues to spill out from his wound, transforming the sand beneath them, and diluting our temporary reality, until burgundy shades flood my imagination.

Grandpa Rabbi takes hold of my hand, as he exhales his cigar smoke upward we ascend together into its smoky outreaches. Wind attacks me as if I were its enemy. Its chill slices across my face. The winter snow blends us into place; inside a darkened alley somewhere north of the downtown city lights. The notorious mob boss, Bobby Rizzo, stands over a young man knee deep in the snows accumulation. Rizzo's hands remain snug inside the warmth of his trench coat pockets, while the three goons accompanying him each have black steel aimed at the young man shivering in Chicago's wintery wrath.

The young man, half buried in winter's white, raises his head to an onslaught of snowflakes. Fear melts them before contact is made with his face. Teardrop has once again found himself in an uncompromising position, before I can evaluate as to why, a large black sedan emerges from the street speeding toward us through the snow. The car comes to a halt directly in front of Rizzo and his goons. With its headlights beaming bright the sedans driver side door opens, and as would a guardian, Rabbi quickly emerges.

He is instantly draped in a million distinctive snowflakes. His shoes have succumbed to the snowy depths of this January eve, yet somehow he appears to glide through their compacted inches. Where most would stumble, he proceeds gracefully toward his forever friend. I watch him as he draws nearer to Rizzo and his goons. Rizzo's hands slowly began to emerge from his pockets. He instructs his men to lower their weapons. Rabbi then removes his coat and wraps it around Teardrop.

"His debt is mine," Rabbi's words chill the winter night.

Rizzo lowers his head to the snow covered ground and steps aside. The young man defying his judgment has grown dear to him over the years; therefore, he can understand the kinship shared between Rabbi and Teardrop. He gives them a pass...this time.

Rizzo sighs loudly; the cold air turns his purge of emotion into smoke, his next statement etches itself into the Chicago night's often-cruel calculations.

"Rabbi, one day, he is going to be the death of you."

The winter's wind whisks us away. A beautiful tapestry of color now reveals itself to me, as a rainbow of people partake in laughter and spirits. On stage, a burley old man dressed in a green tuxedo blows his saxophone, mesmerizing the colorful crowd. These are the visions that have haunted my sleep for many years.

The colors are more enhanced this time and Rabbi is no longer seated in the smoke filled room. He is beside me now. Together we walk toward the gentleman cleaning off the bar top. My heartbeat grows stronger with advancement, drowning out the burley mans saxophone. The recurring dream begins to expose itself to me once again. It is my father, Harrison Goodman that cleans the bar top. It is to him that harm will soon be dealt. I turn quickly toward Rabbi, shaking my head frantically, "no," in disapproval. Suddenly my eyes are opened, as they often do whenever this nightmare attacks. Rabbi is now gone; only the smell of lilac and his gravesite remain.

• • •

Precious moments always seem to find an escape from the captivity of our selfishness. From these moments I have gained much in comparison to before. To be given a chance to actually witness life through another's looking glass has given to me a new perspective in regards to the world that Rabbi called his. I bid him adieu then reach into my pocket for the security of my sunglasses. No earthly soul stands between my car and me; and the souls from the outer realm do not tend to bother with challenges not of their concern. I manage to hold back the tears until I am in private, it is after all who I am; a private man when it comes to emotions.

This time last year, I was head first engaged, along with Olivia and Daniela, in planning our annual family vacation to Martha's Vineyard. As I arrive at my home, I notice Olivia making music with her laptop. She has lived in anticipation of this point since we boarded the ferry last year to depart the island. Martha's Vineyard is her most wonderful place in the whole, wide world. Although it was I who spent countless summers there as a child, the Island seems to have chosen Olivia to speak to, therefore marking its own. I dare not disturb such a bond. Olivia and Daniela will go as scheduled, and I, pending Teardrop's condition will join them soon after.

I am seated on the edge of my bed staring out from the large picturesque window into our backyard. The world stares back at me in silence. Since I long to hear her song of life, I open the window of my room. A Robin sings lead, followed by the chorus comprised of my neighbor's two dogs. The music from a passing train whistle can be heard faintly in the distance. I open my arms wide to absorb it all in, then fall backward onto the softness of my place of rest. The bed receives me graciously as life's musical melody serenades me till slumber.

My eyes open to a room darkened by the day's end. There is a motion to rise upward, but quickly I find that I am anchored down by the welcome addition of my wife.

"I didn't hear you come home, Honey." Her whispers reach out to me.

"I didn't want to bother you. You seemed hard at work on your laptop."

"Yes! Vineyard planning, but we don't have to go if you feel we are needed here more."

Three weeks of each year we cast our cares to the wind and escape the demands of society. "Olivia, honey, don't be silly, this will all work out soon, Teardrop will make a full recovery you just wait and see; before you know it Circuit Avenue will be all yours."

She raises her head and kisses me on the lips. Her softness is rewarding after such a hard day. I want to hold her close and gain strength from our bound, but through her excitement for all things Vineyard, she springs to her feet and takes leave of our bedroom.

"I will go and prepare a salad; it will go great with the Merlot I just picked up. Wash your hands Jason and hurry down. Oh, and Daniela is spending the night at her friend's house."

She doesn't bother relaying the friend's name. I never remember them anyway. Our daughter, the social butterfly has way too many friends for me to remember, as long as Olivia is on top of things, I feel secure about her whereabouts. We evaluate the day as well as tomorrow, over Olivia's bottle of Merlot. I enjoy most of all her sincere input toward my emotional wellness. It is extremely helpful in assisting me with maintaining a balance throughout this difficult period. We bed down shortly after dinner, challenges will test our worth, but as I pull Olivia close to me a confidence surges within, assuring me that there is no contest that will not be overcome.

My night's rest is steady and unaltered by any forms of negative energy. I know not whether attempts were made by dark forces to disturb my rest, but judging from my peaceful disposition, I proclaim any possible attempts unsuccessful. Olivia has taken flight early as she often does. After a hot shower, followed by a quick grooming session, I decide to visit my home office. There are four hundred and thirty-five unanswered emails in my inbox. Four hundred and thirty remain when I log off.

On my way to visit Teardrop I stop by the newly opened coffee shop, located in the Crowne Plaza hotel, where my favorite personal trainer once resided. The coffee from the hospital's vending machine sent my stomach into somersaults last time I tried it. Besides, I have been meaning to drop in and give my support since it's opening last month. The aroma of various exotic blends entices me the moment I enter the establishment. It is so pleasing to my senses that I begin pre planning my return for the next morning. The coffee shop's décor is easy on the eyes; various earth tones from deep green to sandstone collaborate to provide its customers a measure of tranquility.

Music massages the atmosphere, gentle is the vibe, both calming and meditative. A large cup of coffee subtly influenced by a few splashes of hazelnut goes down as my first purchase. A young coffee brewer in pigtails and glasses also hands me a copy of the morning edition free of charge. I take a seat at the middle booth where I can enjoy the wonderful view of Main Street. Steam rises from my coffee cup; my thoughts follow closely behind. The day's paper is only a prop inside a play of thought. Its words may as well have been written in a foreign language.

Uninvited, my father, Harrison, crosses my mind as I stare out of the storefront on Main Street. I began recalling our many walks together down Main Street. Walks that often included our dog Nanook, and a father that was "the bestest" listener ever. Guilt overcomes me for deferring from Teardrop's misfortune; still, time has moved mountains since last we spoke, my father and me. I'm sure that on a day as beautiful as this he is on the back nine somewhere enjoying life's simple pleasures. Retirement serves him well. His days now know little of boundaries.

Once as a confused adolescent I resented him wholly for abandoning my mother and I, leaving us without a protector while he took flight, soaring high in search of his own selfish dreams. I knew not of love, nor did I understand love lost. I simply thought him a coward. I considered things in this manner well into my teen years, until that magical day, at a magnificent white church on the hill where mother found love. I had never seen her more perfect as the sun shined down on the diamond of her future. Slowly, I continue to sip my coffee, careful not to waste any of its ambrosia. My smile fights to become a grin. The thought of my mother's happiness does that to me often. The irony of this love lost story is that both my mother and father went on to lead happy and productive lives, enjoying every moment of their golden years apart; funny thing is now, I'm okay with that.

Harrison Goodman resides in the city of Minneapolis Minnesota, six hours and a warmer jacket away. I slowly began tapping my straw on the table while the part of me that has been known for spontaneity grows inside. The truth is that with the exception of birthdays and holidays my communication with my father has been little to none. I start to weigh in on my options for today. There has been no news from the hospital in regards to Teardrop's condition; therefore, he must remain stable at this point. I am grateful for that. A quest for completion has begun within my life and it appears that the journey requires more self-exploration than I could have ever anticipated.

Outside nature is at play, presenting for my enjoyment the perfect landscape for a drive. First, I call Olivia, to inform her of my spontaneous plan to visit my father. She doesn't answer, so I leave my plans to her voicemail. My destination along with a call when I reach it safely is all she will require in ensuring my safety. My father spent a large portion of his life employed by my grandpa, Rabbi, but never spoke a word of it. There is no evidence as to whether those were good or bad times. I now intend to find out.

The sands of time fall for an entire hour before I surrender and phone my dad, informing him of my inevitable arrival. He is polite as well as hospitable in offering accommodations within his home for me. I accept his generosity, before notifying him of the five hours of travel remaining in front of me.

Harrison Goodman laughs and then replies, "Great, then I won't have to cancel my tee time. The key will be in its normal hidden space."

Unlike my mother he never remarried, instead choosing a life of self-fulfillment or as my mother often states, "A life of selfishness." His townhome is set off Lake Minnetonka, quiet and serene are its surroundings. As I get closer eagerness begins to grow inside. Thoughts of the calming waters along with his kissed by an Angel view send me into a therapeutic state of mind. I envision the two of us seated by the lake, debating life and sports over a good scotch and an even better cigar. Here, through my thoughts we hold a mutual respect for one another, as we state all facts in relevance to our opposite views.

A splendid debate between two generations, surely grandpa Rabbi would be proud.

Miles waste away in my rearview mirror as I tread across American paved highway. My attention must remain on the unfamiliar road ahead, so I am forced to neglect the beautiful things earth has displayed along her roadsides. I do manage to mentally photograph a breathtaking testament to Mother Earth's creativity. While navigating around traffic in upper Wisconsin, I detoured off the main road, where I found myself slipping through the gentle grasp of eight enormous willow trees, four on each side of the road, all reaching outward for the branches of another, creating a tunnel like effect for all that ventures through. As sun crystals strike, fragments of light slip through weeping willow branches, leaving me to gasp in awe. Willow trees, in their entire splendor have always been my favorite.

The rocky driveway of my Dad's place brings my journey to a stop. The front door appears to be open, judging from my car's view, but upon reaching it I notice the glass storm door is locked. I look up after my failed attempt to open the locked door only to notice my father heading in my direction. He looks well, handsome and fit as ever. The oven mitt on his right hand is decorated with tiny saxophones; some are brass, while others are silver. "Interesting design," I say as he opens the storm door.

"Thank you, it was a gift." He smiles while placing both hands upon my shoulders. "You look great, Jason, but how goes everything? How is Teardrop holding up? This visit, though I am grateful for it, is a bit unexpected."

I pause as the woman's melodious voice scats out from my dad's stereo sound system. The enticing smell of basil and oregano, coupled with a trace of garlic, steals my attention momentarily. Dad must be preparing his family famous spaghetti. Great, for it has been a long drive and presently I am famished.

"No Pop, everything is fine, and Teardrop, well he's a fighter." He relieves me of my tote bag and walks toward the guest room. I find myself marveling over the strength I felt in his hands when he took hold of my shoulders. My father's grey hair is now a valid part of his persona; he has embraced it as such. No more does he dye his hair in an effort to achieve immortality. Things now appear as they should in life, and he is seemingly content within himself.

We break bread together and speak of my beloved Olivia and precious Daniela. There is admiration in his eyes, but more so a heightened sense of belonging. Each time I mention Daniela's yearning for time spent with her grandfather, his smile widens. I do want that for her, better still I desire it for them both. Family should never become a mystery. We continue, anticipating each other's next statement, excited in our own reserved way to actually be sharing a conversation in person.

My father clears the table. Multitasking has always been a self-proclaimed strength of his. Together we step out to the back patio accompanied by a bottle of red wine, a shared favorite. His patio chairs are extremely comfortable and compatible with the calming effect brought on by the sedative view before us. I settle back into the console of my chair, inviting the impact of the spirits released to us as my father pulls the cork from the wine.

We remain still for some time, engaged in the moment, grateful for all that is, and all that is soon to be. Silence has always been my closest friend, but anyone who has had the pleasure of knowing Harrison Goodman understands that his charismatic personality could never allow a friend who relishes the quiet. My father shatters the silence in an unexpected manner.

"Son, Rabbi was given this world in the wrong century." He chuckles, and then takes a sip of wine. "I have always believed that a man of his courage and convictions would have been better suited for medieval times." He pauses, as spirits from the bottle fill him completely glossing his eyes, and slowing his speech.

"I can see it." His words are now slightly slurred but still clearly understood. "Rabbi riding valiantly in his shiny battle armor, stationed upon a mighty white steed off to save a damsel in distress; at least that is what I get when I'm dreaming awake of my father."

My dad then raises his glass half empty high into the evening sky, "To Rabbi Goodman," he says proudly.

I join him in the toast, my glass being half full. Our glasses meet; we are as one again for the first time since before my conception. I see a portrait of me as the full moon spotlights his face. I want to go to him and embrace, letting my dad know that I completely understand. But time has dealt us a cruel boundary, one that may take the balance of my stay to even chip, so for now pride takes victory over love.

Harrison dives once again into his beveled glass in an effort to halt the swift plummeting of his dignity. His tears are held at bay as pride triumphs once again. Harrison gasps for a moment upon returning his glass to the table between us. He is granted an inner serenity and thus, the return of his composure, with strength and a newfound purpose he now looks upon me. Steady are his hands as they return the rim of his glass to awaiting lips.

The story begins very near the time of his humble beginnings. My father's earliest memoirs are that of which fairytales are made. Complete with the beautiful fair maiden who falls in love with her brave knight, only to live happily ever after. Harrison continues his oral interpretation while the red wine entices my blood, opening a passageway for my father's stories to enter my mind.

He recalls the Goodman Boys from the time of his youth, but not as criminals, no not by a long shot. He describes them as family. They were always present at the house he grew up in. It was a home rich in laughter and food.

Harrison continues "A place where the sun lived Jason." He stands up from his chair and balances himself with the help of the table between us.

"Unfortunately Jason, the sun doesn't shine forever. I was becoming a man and I believe your grandmother wanted to keep me in the dark about certain family affairs. Her first request was that he kept that side of him away from our home. He tried, but for reasons unknown to me or better yet misunderstood by my mother and I, he just couldn't escape the grips of that life. For everything he had given her, she felt nothing. It was a total eclipse of the heart. Her attention was solely on my well-being. She began grooming and preparing me for the world outside our city limits. She never intended for me to be near him a moment longer than need be. This wasn't because of lost love but for the profound purpose she believed her son had in this world.

It was my junior year in high school, when we moved to Southern Hills, Illinois, and just as it is today it was an affluent community heavily populated with professionals of all trades. Still, a few successful entrepreneurs managed to sprinkle themselves throughout the area. Rabbi was one of them. It was around this time that Teardrop and Georgia stopped coming around. I never put the pieces together back then but it seems to me that your grandpa made a choice and that choice was Raven.

My mother's glow returned, and we began to function more as a family unit. Things were as they should be and Raven was reaping the rewards for her patience in love. My senior year in high school still continues to be one of my fondest. I not only excelled as a scholar, but also achieved honorable mention on the high school football field. Colleges were rallying to recruit me. It was an exciting time and most importantly your grandma Raven's vision of a strong family structure and support system was now in place and functional.

Their circle of friends began to reshape itself. Teardrop and Georgia were becoming little more than memories to me. My parents started spending much of their leisure time with neighbors instead. One of whom happened to be the mayor of our fair city. Countless hours were lost with Rabbi and the Mayor talking politics and expressing their thoughts on local and global matters, as the cigar ashes mounted upward. I believe the mayor was just as every other whom came to know Rabbi; captivated by his celebrity. Sometimes, even a simple drop of interest can taint even the most honest human's good nature. Mayor Beuche's innermost desire was to be Rabbi Goodman. To a rational person this makes no sense, but to members of our population that fall into the open-minded category it was obvious.

After years of being taunted in the schoolyard, along with multiple rejections by high school glamour girls; effects of not making the final cut on the varsity football team can add up to an obsessive curiosity about a particular man of mystery, one Rabbi Goodman in particular. Son, a friendship that is built on false pretenses will almost always end tragically. The Mayor and my father could never outgrow what was placed inside them before birth. Each of them spent pieces of their lives running from the one person that would best define their happiness... self. They, Rabbi wanted to change. I know this in my heart but all that life combated him with had already shaped who he was.

My mother continued to hold on, she would send letters while I was away at college, tear drenched letters with words written on pages with fear smeared ink. She was afraid of only one thing, and that was the loss of her beloved Rabbi; therefore, she kept fighting. She would fight the days that held him captive in thought, by confining him to the memories of shared laughter with his Goodman boys. She fought against the night that called his name through whispers, making Rabbi restless and distant as he lay beside her. No woman should have to do battle with forces she can't control. The day as well as the night should have been her ally in a love less complicated."

Harrison falls into silence as his emotions overpower him. He is blinded, until suddenly purged with feeling. There are no sounds accompanying the stream flowing freely from within him. I bear witness to his struggle. The time is now; this world may never allow another. I go to him; he is partly my giver of life and my dad. We embrace, instantly breaking through the prideful limitations that have kept us apart, and through our bond, his hurt transfers onto me.

Insurmountable, his stress begins to poison my blood stream. My heart screams out loudly, faster it beats with each second we hold one another, with the poison filtering through my body I faze into a mild form of shock. I stand frozen, lifeless, and eye gazing the night's sparkle.

'S wonderful, 's marvelous that you should care for me," my eyes close as her voice fills the corridors of my mind.

'S awful nice' S paradise, 'S what I love to see."

Her lyrics act as medication to my body, soothing first and then releasing a cure for the lethal toxins that have infiltrated me. I start to breathe easier with each life giving breath. Our stress becomes no more, we have found a temporary escape from the individuality as our lives briefly exist as one, the father and the son. I am the vessel in which he will live eternal, while inside those borrowed moments his heart speaks out to me; it's an open scribe of explanation. Harrison Goodman is more than anything regrets. It has become his curse to bear. I am compelled by the structure in which my mother has raised me, compelled to grant him forgiveness, therefore completing my own journey of becoming a man. His words are filled with remorse, and yet are powerfully passionate. Harrison appears to have discovered freedom from his confession of sorrow. A feeling he has not felt since the day he walked out on my mother and me.

He could not escape Rabbi's legend. The times would not allow for it. Spoiled in his upbringing he did not possess the capacity to give unselfishly, and therefore he ran. It's ironic; my thoughts drift as I release my father from my hold, as well as my debt. There was respect and admiration granted to him at a very young age by the city's most dangerous of men, all because he was Rabbi's son. The simple fact being Harrison Goodman would himself rather read a book than shake down a bookie.

We stand reduced to the truth, alone on his back patio, shaded by the Minneapolis night. The words have ceased and the tears have run their course. "Pop, dinner was exceptional. I am going to call it a night now." Quick and sharp my statement is pushed out by the confusion swimming inside of me.

"Okay son, I will be in shortly. I think I will finish this bottle off first."

I leave him alone so that he can confess to the stars. They twinkle in unison as they receive the admission of a Minneapolis man in need of redemption.

Dawn spotlights me through the window blinds; just enough to overtake my wine induced slumber and awaken me to a new day. I spring to my feet, excited about my return home. Inside the guest bathroom and folded neatly across the marble countertop lay a blue bath towel and washcloth, beside them, a small white cardboard box, obviously a bar of soap, tops off the items intended for my morning grooming. My shower is swift, very little time is spent on reflecting; only cleansing. A blue toothbrush still inside its packaging awaits me on top of the porcelain shelf positioned underneath the steam-filled bathroom mirror. A used tube of toothpaste is beside it. I brush and then rinse more so than usual with the hope of cleansing away all remnants of last night's indulgence.

Feelings experienced from overwhelming emotions are still present inside me. No doubt they will remain there for some time. I disregard the used towel and washcloth inside the bathroom hamper. The toothbrush I dispose of, judging from its quality this was my father's intent all along. My tote bag is ready. As I venture out into the hallway I notice that the door to my father's bedroom is open. I peek my head inside to say goodbye, but he is nowhere in sight. Suddenly, it dawns on me; Harrison Goodman is a man who enjoys little more than his morning run. Sure enough as I make my way past the kitchen, I find a letter attached to the large pot of coffee he left brewing for the both of us.

The note reads "Dear Jason, I have prepared coffee for us, if you should find yourself with a bit of time before hitting the road we can share a cup when I return from my morning run. Should life deem us short of time? Please be sure to give my love to the girls, Dad."

Inside the clasp of silence I stand, while contemplating whether to stay or go. Harrison's letter is in my left hand; my tote bag occupies my right. Instantly, harbored emotions react inside of me, filling me once again with limitations on love. The unforgiving boundary established by time and separation reestablishes itself; I place the letter on the kitchen counter. There is a pen beside the coffee pot; on it is inscribed "Open View Country Club," with it I write, "Dad, I love you; see you soon." That cup of coffee will just have to wait.

#

### GEORGIA

The loneliness is stifling. Only I remain as the last of our family. The memories we created during our earthly reign are beautiful and will be mine alone should Teardrop pass on. Our darkest secrets will then fall steadfast upon my shoulders. I need for him to pull through; I refuse to set him free. Teardrop feels not. My touch is dead to him. My pleading words free fall to the hospital floor as he continues to remain lifeless. The sins of the Goodman boys squeeze tightly my heart. It's ironic that the most delicate of us would be the last; or was I the strongest and didn't even know it? Reckless have been my days; abusive to all that was love.

It was the gift of physical beauty bestowed onto me by my father that brought me into the graces of my brothers, and the ability of survival given onto me by my mother, which allowed for me to remain there. True, in time they all found it easy to love me. I was the little sister, the poster child of their exquisiteness in the community. They never stopped to ask, "what does this baby bird even bring to the table, how does this delicate flower empower our organization?" Instead, they just let me be, as it was meant to be.

Now, Teardrop threatens to cross over and join the rest. Rabbi, Spade, and Raul, whom himself passed away two short days ago alone, listing me as his only contact; as it should be for once upon a time we were family. I sensed his time being near when he visited Teardrop in the hospital. He needed to make peace with Jason for his role in the betrayal of Rabbi. His story was nothing short of a confession. A release of guilt brought on by a lifetime of regret; he is now at peace. I continue beside my friend and brother Alex Lansing. The man I should have joined in eternal matrimony, and I wonder out loud. "When we are gone who then will even miss us?"

#

### OLIVIA

We have built a safe haven inside the chaotic world of today. Our life becomes complete with the joy of sharing each waking moment together. It comes as little surprise that I did not sleep with the serenity that I am accustomed to last night. He, my very own security blanket was not with me. I have always prided myself on being the most understanding of women, but I miss my husband. It is how we react when our back is against that wall that defines our identities.

My family is my one true weakness, I simply lose myself if their way of life is threatened; my complete existence is for my beloved. Jason is hurting. I know this my blood screams it inside, causing me an irresistible yearning for his touch. It is always so when they hurt; Daniela and Jason. Again, I exist solely for the two of them, the right and left side of my heart. I pray for his safe return to our little haven. He will need little more than that and a warm loving embrace to know that everything is going to be alright.

Teardrop's condition has not altered since Jason's trip to his father's house. Daniela is with friends again this evening, so tonight we can share a moment of togetherness simply holding on to one another in the silence of one.

#

### RABBI

"Alex Lansing, would you make up your mind."

"I want to cross over Rabbi, but she still needs me here."

"I guess she always did love you, Teardrop. Raul is here with me now and he has my forgiveness along with Spade. Life can cloud the heart; we have all done things we should not have. Go now Teardrop, rest until your thoughts are clear enough to decide, but make haste before destiny chooses for you. A hard lesson to learn, take it from me."

They have followed my lead from the beginning, those elegant Goodman boys. Together we established royalty in the unforgiving streets of Chicago. We created a kingdom within its storied landscaped skyline, and we held on through the years with strength and compassion as our decree. Raven's love was the only thing from that world that was given freely to me. Ultimately the price for my kingdom would be my life in void. Some would call it karma. Others say that it was payment for the multitude of peril I released upon the innocent and silent night. I would attack her evenings with noise, one grand opening after the next, after-hours establishments filled to the rim with greedy creatures of habit. Once they were hard working citizens, now sadly tainted by the vices of their leisure.

I did this to them through my lust for power, and when my soul could blacken no more, into my life to color me pure she came, my loving Raven. It was through her that lady earth was revealed. Sunrises and new beginnings ushered in by the spring promoted endless possibilities for our story of love. Together we made a life filled with God's blessing and never did there stand a more perfect example of unity; the summer and the sun were we.

#

### TEARDROP

Laughter lights the way for me. I can see them clearly now seated at a large circular table are the Goodman boys. Spade, Raul and my forever friend Rabbi, standing over him with her hands gently caressing his shoulders is Raven, his protector and life force. Her brilliance is blinding. To his right are two empty chairs, reserved for the delayed arrival of Georgia and myself, the skinny kid and the prom queen. We have been so very lost without them, traveling aimlessly day to day thinking that perhaps we weren't even good enough for the other side. Why else were we left here and tormented by life existing primarily as damaged goods?

They appear, as royalty should, clothed in all white they are seated together at the table just as it was before the storm claimed us as its prey. Those darkened clouds of hate and envy that rained down weaknesses and betrayal onto our kingdom, until we could never be the same again. It was only Raven whom remained intact after the storm, but not for self but for her child. In time though, her heart broke from suffering the loss of Rabbi and she passed on to join him in paradise, while Georgia and I hid in the debris, both being held accountable for opening a window in the storm.

#

### GEORGIA

No time limit should apply; they tell me that visiting has come near its end. When the last grain of sand plummets down there is no doubt that she will come for me; the nurse with the painted on smile. She will recite the start time for tomorrow's visiting schedule, intending to grant me extended hope, a stitch in time in which to grasp for. Bless her little heart. I will stand tall, while wiping my tears on what little dignity I have left. She will not bear witness to the tears of a Goodman boy; it's not our way. My body may take leave from his side but all that is me, a wilted, tormented spirit will continue on through the night in the company of Teardrop.

I will go home to greet the quiet. I will lie upon a bed of emptiness and pretend that life actually exists between those cold and dingy walls. Better than the most vaulted of actresses am I, especially when starring in the life and times of Georgia Brown.

"Miss, visiting hours have come to an end. They will resume tomorrow morning at 9 a.m." The night nurse has granted me reason. I lean over to Teardrop, just within an earshot and deliver my now familiar request in the form of a whisper.

"Stay with me, please don't leave me." A gentle kiss is placed on his right cheek. I rise up taking my leave, only to become imprisoned, alone again inside the quiet. Life doesn't speak much to me anymore.

#

### TEARDROP

Her voice seems distant, my soul has closed the doors to most of my previous life, but still I hear Georgia's words. I cannot go back now I have traveled too far. My desire is to be with them seated once again at the mahogany table. My body is now far too weak to retrieve its soul for even an instant. Tonight, I will join my brothers the Goodman boys, and there I will sit next to the only vacant chair, until Georgia claims it. I anticipate the joy and laughter we will share for eternity within our own private heaven. I halt momentarily, suddenly flashes of memories form into windows around me; framed memoirs of life. I have reached the end of the tunnel of life.

"Alex Lansing," my name echoes throughout the tunnel. I am compelled to smile. The end of life is as satisfying as that of any good movie, only here no credits will follow; just a flat line...Beep!

#

### GEORGIA

The wind is strong this night as it screams violently through the dark wanting no less than day, for daytime presents the ideal stage to showcase its awesome might. The tallest of trees trembling in its gusts, while even the sturdiest of man clings on for stability from its wrath. Yes, the wind is strong tonight, as it blows through the cracks of my buildings structure, whisking around the whispers of the shadows, one tale after another, revealing all that is clandestine within our night for any soul that will listen. My ears do not turn deaf when it is spoken, of all of the secrets of the night; I hear out this one clearly, and in that instant... lilac arouses my sense of smell. Hummingbirds sing a captivating song and there, before me, all dressed in white, they appear at a large table, identical to the mahogany one at which we spent most of our days together. They are beautiful and youthful in appearance, a miracle for my eyes to gaze upon. Teardrop beckons for me to come to him.

"Sit at my side, Georgia. Your seat awaits you."

Complete is how I feel as we bask in each other's glory. Lonely shall not discover me here.

#

### JASON

Autumn has always been my favorite time of year. It is when nature is at her loveliest. Carefree is she as her leaves do cartwheels in the wind. Her classic beauty defines the very earth we dwell upon. Generous are her evening breezes constant, yet accommodating enough for us all to enjoy the world outside before the return of the cold, white season's frigid days. There could be no more a perfect time to crossover. Surely, the wind is powerful enough to carry one's soul to the heavens above. They will be together now and in my mind, I will paint them a wondrous heaven in which to spend forever.

The final arrangements for a celebration of two lives are much more tasking on the heart than expected. I miss them both dearly. Guilt grips me as they lower Teardrop's casket into the ground. It is the guilt of knowing that I took him for granted. Georgia is paid tribute to by song. Flowers, directly from Olivia's garden, were handpicked by my family and placed both inside and outside her bed of eternal rest. When asked to give a speech, all I can say is "they were loved". It is, after all, what they both spent a lifetime in search of.

"A tragically beautiful love story was theirs." Olivia squeezes my hand tight as we depart from the limousine. Her words clearly describe their story more eloquently. The afternoon sky is blanketed in grey. Its clouds seem low enough for me to reach up and grab, releasing raindrops to camouflage my tears. Instead, I allow them to flow freely, unashamed of my emotions. It appears that this particular journey in my life has come to an end. The trees pass swiftly as I peer through the window. At this speed, we will arrive home quickly to our safe haven, where every waking day a new journey begins. I look forward to those challenges with confidence. My heart knows that they will never be faced alone.

"I love you, Daddy."

"I love you more, Daniela." Olivia grasps my hand. I am Jason Goodman, grandson of a great man and by grace and favor may I be an even better man. Rabbi would have wanted this much for me.

#

### RABBI

The laughter of my loved ones never ceases. My cigar never burns to the end. Its lasting flavor of fine Cuban tobacco details my private heaven. The light surrounding us is miraculous, shimmering, as would diamonds upon a painted canvas. Here there is no hunger, nor want or need; only glory. We each sit at the mahogany table, infatuated by our youthful images. Heavenly beings transformed by our rites of passage through the tunnel of life. Here, time is infinite. Here, each second is a beautiful dream, here we need not sleep. Pieces of my puzzle of life begin to slowly disappear. Some whisper to me, while others scream in fury at the resolve of me letting them go. In my youth, on the other side, I made a promise to Raven, the love of my life and mother of my understanding, a promise to be as one for eternity. That promise has now come to be; here inside the glory.

If I stare long enough into the lighted nothingness, the powers that be grant me flashes of the family that I left behind. I look on as my son, Harrison, takes his morning jog or excels on the golf course. I receive ongoing views into the life of my grandson, Jason, and his wonderful family. I will sit at the mahogany table, awaiting their arrival while anticipating, the glorious day of my deliverance into theirs.

"Jason's dreams will forever be in color."

\- Rabbi Goodman

FIN

