

### Birthday Dinner

by

Jeffrey Anderson

Copyright 2013 by Jeffrey Anderson

Smashwords Edition

This story is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reprinted or reproduced without the permission of the author. If you like this book, please encourage your friends to purchase a copy at Smashwords. For additional information, please visit the author's website at http://jeffreyandersonfiction.wordpress.com.

### Part I

Chapter 1

They finally left the stoplights and sleazy, neon-advertised businesses—Tom Cats Massage, Patti's Pawn and Trade, Aunt Lil's Readings and Fortunes—at the edge of town and entered a long stretch of dark and largely deserted divided highway that undulated through a mix of fields and scruffy woods barely visible in the glow of the headlights on the overcast January night. Despite the dense dark and the fact that the car's speed frequently outstripped the headlights' shine as they rose to the top of one hill after another—an animal or a stalled car just beyond the crest of the hill and they'd be in deep trouble—Becca drove with a relaxed confidence derived from the fact that she knew this highway by heart—so frequently did she travel it, all times of day in all conditions, in transit from her home to school.

Zach was not nearly so comfortable. He sat up straight on the passenger seat and peered intently into the dark beyond the headlights, hoping to spot any obstacles or hazards before it was too late.

"So how's it feel to be twenty-four?" Becca asked. She was treating him to dinner at The Barn, a popular and expensive restaurant in the rural countryside between Shefford and Greensboro, in honor of his birthday.

"A day older than twenty-three." He flinched at what he thought was a raccoon along the side of the road, then saw it was only a scrap of rubber from a shredded truck tire.

"Zach, relax. I know this road and I'm a good driver."

"You're the best driver I know not named Zach, but this dark road and all these hills have me spooked."

"Just freaked by your birthday—don't want to leave twenty-three."

"What's wrong with twenty-three? I liked twenty-three."

"Twenty-four will be even better for you—I know it."

"Just get us to the restaurant alive. We can worry about the rest of the year later."

"Good as there," she said, driving with the same ease, and at the same high rate of speed, as before.

Zach finally accepted her assurances and leaned his head back against the seat's headrest and closed his eyes. Twenty-three had been good—he'd met and befriended Barton, he'd enrolled at Avery, he'd met Becca and they'd fallen in love. Twenty-four was starting out even better—Becca beside him: promise enough. But with that promise, far more to lose—he opened his eyes, sat forward again, and stared out into the dark for any signs of danger.

Becca finally slowed the car and turned onto a gravel drive beside a poorly lit sign. In front of them, atop a low rise, was a tall red barn with its gable end facing the highway and illuminated by numerous floodlights. Tucked up under the eaves was a closed loft door painted white with a wench arm extending out into the dark. Beneath this door was a large picture window with a dining table covered in a white tablecloth just behind it. That table behind that bright window set in the middle of that lofty red wall acted as a beacon not only to the eye but to the forlorn hearts of anyone passing by in the night, a momentary glimpse into a best hope for comfort and sustenance.

Becca stopped in the middle of the drive and pointed toward the restaurant. "Look nice?"

Zach nodded. "Big."

"I mean the window, the table there."

"Like everyone's dream of a royal place setting."

"For you," she said. "King for this night."

"For me?"

"That's our table—reserved for us."

"They let people eat there?"

"If you call far enough ahead, and have a few connections."

"I don't know what to say."

"Say, 'Let's go.'"

"No. I'll say 'thank you' first." He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Then, 'Let's go.'"

She smiled and continued up the drive to the parking lot behind the barn.

The hostess, a handsome woman a few years older than Zach and granddaughter of the restaurant's founder, led them to that shining table set off in its own alcove at the far front. On the way there they passed hundreds of other diners—the restaurant was full despite the weeknight—and Becca waved to guests at a half-dozen tables. Zach was struck by the incongruity of the restaurant's décor—hay bales, pitch forks, wagon wheels—with the patrons' Sunday-best attire—suits and ties, dresses and pearls, even a few evening gowns. He also noted that the tables were all overflowing with food—large slabs of rare-cooked beef, behemoth salads served in wooden troughs, generous side dishes, and chunks of thick-sliced bread. Looking at that abundance, he figured this meal might get him all the way to age twenty-five.

The hostess sat them at their special table, placed menus the size of small phonebooks in front of each and a wine list the size of the Manhattan phonebook to Zach's right. She announced that their waitress would be with them shortly and leaned over to Zach and whispered, "Happy Birthday" then added, "but it's our secret." She looked at Becca and smiled, then headed back to her station at the front of the restaurant.

Becca nodded in the direction of the departing hostess. "Her name's Sam. She was in my brother's class in high school. I told her about the occasion but not to make a big deal. They do a brisk birthday and anniversary business here, and will play it up big-time if you let them: balloons and singing and lots of candles on a complimentary cake. I figured you'd just as soon skip that."

"You guessed right. Thank you."

"But the table's O.K.?"

"The table's the best. I feel so special."

"You are special, and it's a special day."

They both turned toward the window. They were greeted by their shining reflection. The dark night beyond the glass remained a blank mystery occasionally sliced by the streak of headlights on the highway in the distance. At first Zach was disappointed not to be able to see out the window. But then he realized that the image staring at him in the glass was a far more fortuitous one—Becca smiling in her navy-blue knee-length dress, Zach in his gray suit and rust-colored tie, the two together defining a handsome and happy couple. As pleasant as they were to look at—individually, and even more so together—neither of them was vain or preening. But on this particular occasion in this particular place, Zach thought the image he saw in the glass was one he could hang on the wall of his life—no need to look any further, no better place to go. It was an odd thought for one just turned twenty-four, with maybe two-thirds of his life still in front of him and most of the major milestones—degrees, travel, career, parenthood, success—still to be checked off. But Zach was not a typical twenty-four-year-old. He saw in the reflection his two paramount needs—peace and purpose. And they both resided in the heart of the woman who sat opposite him in the portrait—one emanating as love from that heart, the other delivered as love to it. All other worldly goals were subordinate to these related two. Any other portrait would be a pale shadow to this one.

Their waitress, an effervescent college student named Shelley, brought them some "nibbles"—a big basket of flatbread crackers, two kinds of house-made cheese spreads in large tubs, and a tray half the size of their table covered with beautifully displayed sliced fresh vegetables, pickles, and olives. After a smiling and chatty greeting, she took their orders and left.

Zach looked around for the other twenty guests that would help eat these appetizers. Seeing none, he said, "We should cancel our orders and just eat this. It'd save you a lot of money."

"But it wouldn't be any fun. You can't come to The Barn and not leave stuffed."

"Like one of these olives?"

"Yes, but a little bigger."

Zach shrugged, popped one of those stuffed olives in his mouth, and dove into the two kinds of cheese and their crispy crackers.

Awhile later, Shelley exchanged their appetizers for mounds of salad delivered in oblong wooden bowls big enough to serve as mangers in a Baptist Christmas pageant, and coated the salad with gobs of dressing—ranch for Zach, French for Becca—ladled from silver bowls in a triangular wooden holder.

After a few minutes, Zach looked up from his assault on that mountain of greens and asked, "How old do you think I am?"

"Twenty-four."

"I know. But how old do I seem to you?"

Becca thought for a second then said, "Older."

"Older than twenty-four?"

"No, older than our world."

"Than college students?"

"Yes, and what they care about."

"Older than you?"

"Yes."

"A little?"

"Maybe more than the two years on the calendar."

"How?"

"Where you've been and what you've done. You've been married. You've worked a job—lots of jobs. You've lived on your own and had to make your own decisions and suffer the consequences. You've already seen the other side of what most of us are looking at from this side."

"And that makes me old?"

"Older."

"I agree with you on the one but not the other."

"Which?"

"That I'm older than our world, but not than you."

"How old am I?"

"Same as me."

"How? I haven't done any of the things you've done. I'm still practically living at home."

"Your grace and generosity are your maturity."

"How?"

"Age doesn't bring maturity—you have forty-year-olds acting like kids. Experience doesn't bring maturity—place a ten-year-old as head of a household, and he's still a ten-year-old. Maturity comes from inside, understanding what matters. If I've got it, that's where it came from, not from my mostly messed up experiences. And if you've got it—and you do—that's where it comes from, not from where you've been or what you've done."

"You give me too much credit."

"You don't give yourself enough."

She looked at him doubtfully. "Sometimes I feel so naïve."

"Do you trust my judgment?"

"Always."

"Have I ever treated you as anything but my equal?"

"No."

"Then trust my judgment—we're the same age, you and me; we just got here by different paths."

She smiled. "So what do we do now, birthday boy?"

He shrugged. "Grow older together."

"How about finish our salads first."

"That's good—old-timers need their fiber."

"Speak for yourself."

Try as they might, neither could polish off their mound of greens. Zach wished he could keep his salad to accompany his entrée, but there wouldn't be enough room on the table. So he reluctantly relinquished the bowl to Shelley when she came to clear the table in advance of their next course.

She hadn't been gone thirty seconds when two servers from the kitchen showed up with their bounteous main course. A smiling gray-haired woman in a red apron set a "petite" filet mignon, twice-stuffed potato, and creamed spinach—all on individual plates—in front of Becca. A large black man in a blue apron (an apprentice chef named Gerald) put Zach's "King-cut" prime rib (a slab of glistening red meat that extended past the edges of the large oval platter), baked potato, and squash casserole to fill his half of the table. After the servers said "Enjoy" in unison and left, Shelley soon followed with a wood cutting board holding half a loaf of thick slices of fresh-baked bread coated in melting butter. She then offered each of them whipped butter, sour cream, bacon bits, or chives for their potatoes, and horseradish sauce for their beef. After Shelley'd made sure they had everything they wanted or needed and left, the wine steward came by with two large wine glasses generously filled with a dark Cabernet, "Compliments of Sam." After depositing the glasses on their table (needing to condense some of their plates to find room), the dignified gentleman leaned close to Zach and whispered "Happy Birthday" then put a finger to his lips and slipped away in silence.

Just looking at the feast made Zach feel full (he already was sort of full from the profuse appetizers and salad). He took a couple deep breaths like an athlete prepping for a marathon contest before reaching for his fork and large, wood-handled steak knife.

Becca watched him the whole time. She'd caught Zach by surprise with the sheer abundance of the meal, her birthday gift to him. She rarely caught Zach by surprise and took a moment to enjoy that reward. Then she cradled the wine glass in her palm and raised it. "To the year ahead, a feast upon this feast."

Zach lifted his glass. "And in thanks for the gift."

They tapped glasses over the middle of the table, the crystal glittering, the wine like dark blood held aloft by their young fresh hands.

Chapter 2

From outside the glowing window, from far away in the dark across the scrubby pine woods and the flat sandy soil on this edge of the coastal plain, beyond the highway's four empty lanes and the intermittent winding two lane roads and the gravel trails, out there past the broad reservoir and the deciduous woods in their winter dormancy, on up into the cloudy sky and past those clouds to the stars lurking behind and then beyond those stars—the maker behind the gift of their lives and their love dreamed for them a different feast, a feast for the heart.

Becca sat at the small desk in the converted janitor's closet at the end of the office hall of St. John's Episcopal Church in the poorest part of Shefford—"St. John's by the Homeless Shelter" locals called it. She surveyed the stacks of one-page case files—some left by her predecessor, others recently generated by her—each in its own manila folder, that covered the desktop. She felt totally overwhelmed by the sight because she felt totally overwhelmed by the needs of those individuals documented in those case files—so much need, and she of such inadequate skill and experience. So she did what she often did when feeling overwhelmed—she leaned back in her chair and laughed: not in cynicism or despair or resignation but at the world that would deem to put her in the middle of its large mess.

Then she took the top file off one stack, opened to the form completed in her handwriting, picked up the phone with her free hand, and dialed the number for County Social Services.

Later that morning, Father Mark tapped on her open door. "Becca, do you have a minute?"

Becca swiveled in her chair with three files spread out on her lap atop her jeans.

Father Mark stood at the doorway with an elderly black woman beside him, and what appeared to be a grade-school age black boy pressed tight to the woman's legs, his head buried in the folds of her cotton-print dress.

Becca closed the files as one and set them behind her on the cluttered desk. She stood and walked the two strides to the doorway.

"This is Mrs. Brackett," Father Mark said, gesturing toward the woman. From closer and in the better light of the hallway, Becca saw that the woman had that wonderful ageless skin of so many elderly black women—no wrinkles, no scars or pocks, just perfect taut skin the color and texture of the glaze the old potters called "tobacco spit." Only the woman's close-cropped snow-white hair gave indication of her years.

Becca extended her hand and the woman took it but not in the manner of a typical handshake but with her palm up to receive and support Becca's soft fingers. The woman's palm was a light tan and far more deeply furrowed than any part of her face; and her skin was cool and soft, neither dry nor oily, like some perfectly conditioned leather. Becca left her hand in the woman's palm for several seconds, waiting for her to withdraw that touch. When she didn't move, Becca slowly withdrew her fingers. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Brackett. My name is Becca Coles."

"And this is Jonah," Father Mark said, placing his hand on the back of the boy's head as if offering a blessing. "He's Mrs. Brackett's great-grandson."

Becca squatted beside the boy. He pushed his face deeper into his great-grandmother's dress. "You know where I like to go when I want to hide from Father Mark?" Becca asked softly.

The boy shook his head into the dress.

"You want to see?"

He turned his head and peered at her with one eye, saw her open-hearted smile, then offered a tentative nod.

Without touching him or forcing him to follow, Becca slowly moved into her closet-office, circled around one end of her desk, and squatted beside a hollow space on the backside of the desk, where a filing cabinet might go if the Ministry could afford one. When she looked back, she was pleased to see Jonah right behind her. She got down on her hands and knees and pointed toward the cubbyhole. He silently slid past her and into the recess, just big enough for him to fit. She pulled a couple G.I. Joe soldier dolls—one white man, one black—from a drawer at the front of the desk and handed them to Jonah.

He looked at the two dolls then at her.

"Do you know their names?"

He shrugged.

"I'll tell you one's name if you'll tell me the other's."

He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers.

She pointed to the white soldier in olive-green Army clothing. "This one is Zach. He's my best friend. He helps me whenever I'm in trouble."

The boy nodded.

"So what's your soldier's name?" She pointed to the African-American doll with a Marine's beige uniform.

The boy leaned toward her and whispered, "Kenny."

Becca whispered back, "Does Kenny help you?"

Jonah nodded. "Sometimes."

"Maybe he can help Zach out. Zach needs help too sometimes."

Jonah nodded.

"Can you keep an eye on Kenny and Zach in our secret hiding place while I go talk to your great-grandmother for a minute?"

"Me-me-maw."

"Yes, Me-me-maw."

Jonah nodded. "O.K."

Becca still had not touched the boy, and didn't risk it now. She smiled and stood and returned to Father Mark and Mrs. Brackett waiting in the hall.

"Mrs. Brackett tells me that Jonah's mother Latonya has been out-of-touch for four days."

"Drug addict," Mrs. Brackett muttered.

"And she needs help caring for Jonah till Latonya returns," Father Mark added.

"Just need to be sure to get him to school." She paused, then added, "And maybe a little bit of food money."

"Is his father available?" Becca asked.

"Nope," Mrs. Brackett said with obvious disgust.

"Latonya's mother?"

"In jail."

"No one else living with you?"

"All alone."

"So why's Jonah not in school now?"

"Missed the bus. I don't got no car to drive him."

"Mrs. Brackett is afraid that if Jonah misses too many days of school, Social Services might get involved and take him away."

"And his mother didn't leave any money for food or supplies?"

"Drugs."

The story was already a familiar one to Becca, less than three weeks into her job as the sole paid staff person of Ecumenical Outreach Ministries. She served as an informal liaison between area churches and the county's welfare and social service departments. Her measly salary was paid from the outreach budgets of a cooperative of five churches, with her office (such as it was) in the church closest to the inner-city poverty that generated the most need for her services. All of the participant churches regularly received requests for assistance from people in trouble or down on their luck. Rather than turn them away empty-handed or handle each case in an ad hoc manner, they'd pooled their resources and created a staff position to help process the requests. The trouble for Becca, not to mention all the petitioners, was that there were so many requests and so little aid available, either from the churches or the government.

Zach had heard about the job through a Div. School acquaintance and suggested it to Becca once she'd graduated and was looking for a work. While it wasn't what she thought she wanted to do (though she didn't really know what she wanted to do), she'd taken it for lack of better alternatives and out of curiosity. Now she was wondering what she'd gotten herself into.

She turned to Father Mark. "I'm not sure how we can help."

Father Mark smiled broadly. "God will provide, Becca."

Becca knew it as his favorite current saying, only with the comma left out. Yes, she thought to herself, but what will Becca provide? But she said only, "We'll see what we can do."

Father Mark said, "Thank you," and turned and headed back down the hall toward his office.

Becca led Mrs. Brackett into her cramped office, cleared the extra chair of its mound of files, and gestured for her to sit down. Then she herself sat down, took up her clipboard with a blank "Social Ministry Action" form, and recorded Mrs. Brackett's answers to the standardized questions. As she wrote, she listened for the sound of Jonah behind the desk. At first she heard nothing, then she detected the sound of pencil's or crayon's frantic scribbling. She hoped Jonah wasn't redecorating her floor. Then she decided it didn't matter—the floor could use redecorating.

It turned out that Mrs. Brackett lived alone in an older section of town, a neighborhood of three-room shacks on postage-stamp lots that was developed in the early decades of the twentieth century to house the second and third generations of freed slaves that were working as housekeepers and cooks and yardmen for the wealthy white gentry that were being spun-off by the booming tobacco industry. While these shacks were thrown up quickly (often in a weekend) and at the time had no provision for electricity or plumbing, it turned out that even the inferior materials and methods of the first quarter of the century were stronger and more durable than the slipshod mass-production of government contractors working on housing projects, as those shacks were still standing while the far newer housing projects were collapsing, their demise accelerated by crime and neglect and a shattered social structure. Many of those shacks now had rudimentary plumbing and wiring, some even had room additions and garages; but the stripped bare essence established in their creation still was evident through the upgrades.

Mrs. Brackett's husband had died twenty years before, and she lived on his paltry social security checks (and, maybe, a meager supplement from the cash she'd set aside from decades working as a maid and hid in a coffee can in a walled-over stovepipe or a loose panel under the dresser). She loved Jonah and wanted him to have a chance at a life better than what appeared to be his destiny, but she was also old (she claimed seventy-eight but was probably five or six years older than that) and tired of fighting her children's and grandchildren's battles. Still, she was afraid for the well-being of the boy. Becca could tell that reaching out to the "white folks'" church and this wet-behind-the-ears barely out of college overwhelmed blond girl was an action of last resort and little hope to her.

Becca jotted down Mrs. Brackett's answer to the last question, then turned the form over to its blank back and asked, "Anything else you can tell me that might help us help you?"

Mrs. Brackett fixed her in a calm, implacable stare; and Becca felt again what she'd often felt in the last several weeks—that these people labeled as impoverished and downtrodden by her upper middle-class white society had more dignity and resilience and toughness than her comfortably fed, spiffily attired, well-educated soul would ever possess. "He different."

"Jonah?"

Mrs. Brackett nodded.

"How?"

"He better than all this. He need to get out before it too late."

Becca'd borne her stare the whole time, now returned it best she could. "I don't know that we can help with that, Mrs. Brackett; but I'll do my best."

She set her clipboard on the desk and circled around behind the black woman and past the end of the desk. She squatted down and looked into the shadowed cubbyhole. There was Jonah sitting cross-legged. On his lap was the easel pad she used to give presentations to the outreach boards of her employer churches. Drawn on the pad with her magic-marker set was a primitive seascape, with what looked to be the ocean around some fish swimming, what looked to be the sky around some birds flying, a yellow sun presiding over the entire scene—except the ocean was blood red, the sky a brilliant orange; and in the seam between blood ocean and fire sky, a little stick-figure black boy bobbed, his hand outstretched to the golden sun. Soldier Zach and Marine Kenny sat off to one side, watching dutifully.

Becca walked Jonah and his great-grandmother to the entry doors of the church's office wing. She extended her hand and Mrs. Brackett took it this time, giving it a firm shake. Becca stooped down and opened her arms before Jonah. He paused a moment, then threw himself against her chest and wrapped his arms around her neck in a powerful hug. He finally released her and she stood. She brushed a tear from her eye and turned to Mrs. Brackett. "Can I come to your house tomorrow morning around ten?"

Mrs. Brackett looked at her then nodded slowly.

"Maybe I can figure some way to help you help Jonah."

The old black woman just stared at the young blond girl.

Becca nodded. "See you tomorrow." She turned to the boy. "Bye, Jonah," she said with a smile, then headed back to her office at the far end of the hall.

She was halfway to that office when she hesitated in mid-stride, then turned and ran toward the entrance and out into the parking lot. Mrs. Brackett and Jonah were almost to the bus stop at the corner. She overtook them, reached out and placed a wadded bill into Mrs. Brackett's hand, then jogged back to the church entrance and on to her office. Before putting Mrs. Brackett's form into its new manila folder, she wrote on the blank back of the sheet in underlined capital letters—HELP JONAH.

Chapter 3

That night in their rented small house in what could most generously be called a "transitional" neighborhood—an abandoned house to one side, an empty lot with an overgrown foundation to the other, seven occupied houses out of sixteen lots on the dead-end street—over a dinner of homemade three-bean salad and biscuits baked that morning, Becca told Zach about her meeting with Mrs. Brackett and Jonah. "Zach, there's something about him," she concluded.

"What?"

She thought about that—what was it that had captured something more than her eye, more than her heart even, had captured a piece of her soul? "A stillness at the core," she said finally.

Zach laughed. "I'm supposed to be the writer."

"And I'm the social worker and I'm telling you this kid is special. He can't be left where he is."

Zach stared at her across the narrow butcher-block table he'd brought with him from his old apartment. In nearly a year of knowing her, he'd never seen Becca quite so passionate about anything, even him and their relationship. "So how are you going to help?"

"I don't know; I don't know. Can you meet me at her house tomorrow morning? Maybe we can start by helping his great-grandmother and work outward from there."

Once settled in her job, Becca had quickly roped Zach into doing volunteer repairs to the homes of some of her contacts. He still had one more year of school, but it was summer break, and he did yard work for several faculty members in the afternoons while writing in the mornings. He'd assembled a modest collection of handyman tools that he kept in his carryall truck, and Becca regularly sent him out to repair a dripping faucet, a rotten step, or a kicked in front door at the properties of those she struggled to help. (Most of her contacts lived in rented slums or on the streets, where Zach's free assistance was either not allowed or useless.) "What time?"

"I told her ten. Is that O.K.?" She knew it was in the middle of his writing time.

Zach gazed at her in wonder—this unfamiliar determination, this unprecedented passion. "For you?" he said and paused.

She tilted her head to one side in genuine concern.

He loved her all the more for that lack of presumption, that ever present vulnerability. "Of course."

She leaned across the narrow table and kissed him. "Thank you. You know I wouldn't pinch your writing time if it weren't important."

He nodded. "I know that."

She started to collect their dishes.

He grabbed her near hand. "Don't put your heart out there where it's going to get run over."

She smiled and said, "Too late," then turned toward the sink with her arms loaded with their plates.

It was only later that Zach wondered if she thought he'd meant Jonah or him.

It was only much later, on toward dawn, that he was roused in their double bed by her licking the side of his face and his neck and, hiking up his T-shirt, down over his chest and stomach to where he was naked from the waist down. He left her to labor on there, under the covers, till all parts of him were fully awake, then drew her face up to his and rolled atop her, and began to labor in his own manner—above her and slowly at first, then in ever quickening pace till they both offered forth sighs of release and contentment and settled back to the earth that was their simple foam mattress, their humble bed in humble shack in a tough part of town.

By then, pre-dawn light cast the room in a promising pale silver glow that seemed to have a texture and weight to it, a substance they could feed on as well as breathe. "I wonder if he's been tested for aptitude?" Becca said.

"Who?"

"Jonah."

Zach was silent, momentarily caught between where they'd just been and where she was taking them.

"If he's been tested, and the scores are high (which I'm sure they would be), we might get him transferred into a gifted program—not only get him out of the public schools but get him watched more closely."

"I wish I'd had you on my side when I was growing up."

She laughed. "You turned out O.K."

"Yes, but it would've been more fun."

"Well, you have me on your side now."

He reached under her. "Let's try you on top." He rolled her atop him under the sheets. All parts of them fit together just fine.

She smiled down at him through the grainy air. "That's nice," she said. She wiggled herself gently against his groin.

He reached up and brushed her hair pulled behind her head in a ponytail, its fringe already aglow in the dim light. "I'm with you on this, Bec. That way when you get hurt, we'll get hurt together."

She pressed her face against the side of his, kissed his ear, and whispered, "Thank you"—her gift to them both.

Chapter 4

The house was in much better shape than she expected—a fresh coat of paint not only on the siding but also on the tin roof, the railing along the full-length front porch in good repair, even the windows washed clean in front of their drawn shades. Becca pulled her car over to one side of the dirt road, straddling the drainage ditch, and switched off the engine. Hers was the only car visible to where the road crested a hill and fell away out of sight. She'd not yet gotten over her firmly established fear of walking alone in neighborhoods like this, but she'd learned to suppress it. She swung open the car door on the bright warm day, then locked it behind her and headed for Mrs. Brackett's front porch.

"Now what a pretty girl like you doing in this part of town?" a surly voice said from across the way.

Becca turned to see a thin black man in a black tank top and red shorts sitting on the porch steps of the house across the street, a house that was as decrepit as Mrs. Brackett's was well-maintained. Even from this far away, she could see his eyes were bloodshot above a gold tooth glinting in his mouth. He raised a brown bag to his lips as she watched. At that moment, Becca was caught between two well-ingrained trainings—the impulse to engage strangers in friendly conversation and the instinct to flee malice, especially when it took the form of an intoxicated black man. She looked up and down the road, noted the bright day, and took the former choice (over her baser fears and better judgment). "I'm here to see Mrs. Brackett."

"And just what a pretty girl like you want with that bitch?"

"Just a visit."

"Have more fun over here with old Snake."

Becca laughed to herself at the absurdity of his name, and of her tenuous situation. "I believe I'll go on and see Mrs. Brackett."

Just then Zach drove up and parked his truck behind Becca's car. She waited in place for him to catch up.

"That your old man?" Snake asked.

Becca smiled. "A friend."

"That good. Snake still got a chance then."

Zach came up to Becca. He'd spotted the black man on the stoop before he'd even parked the truck, and was watching him out of the corner of his eye as he approached Becca. He'd long since learned that the best way to avoid trouble was to avoid initial contact. He was doing his best to practice that skill now. "This her house?" he asked, pointing toward the well-kept house in front of them.

Becca nodded, and they walked together down the dirt walk to the front steps.

Behind them, the man yelled, "Tell Latonya Snake got a present for her. She know what I mean."

By then they were on the front porch. Becca knocked on the door.

Mrs. Brackett opened the door, said "Good morning," then stepped aside and welcomed them in.

Once their eyes had transitioned from the bright day to the shaded room, they could see that the inside of the house was as tidily kept as the outside. Off to the right was a simple kitchen with no cabinets but a table in the middle, some open shelves along one wall, a small stove, a wash-tub sink on a metal stand, and small refrigerator on the far wall. To their left was a low-backed upholstered chair in front of a T.V. with a rabbit-ear antenna on a coffee table. Beyond were three closed doors that led to the two bedrooms and the bathroom.

"Mrs. Brackett, this is Zach Sandstrom. He's a friend who sometimes helps with house repairs."

"Don't need no repairs."

"I can see that," Becca agreed. "But I brought him along just in case."

"Just in case you run into trouble like that sorry trash across the way."

Becca was silent.

"He the one got Latonya hooked. He waiting on Jonah now."

"We'll hope to prevent that," Becca ventured.

"Take more than hope," Mrs. Brackett said.

Becca nodded. "Is he in school now?"

"Made the bus this morning. Got another week before summer vacation."

"What will he do then?"

"Ask Latonya."

"Any word from her?"

Mrs. Brackett shook her head.

"Does she live here?

"When she not shacked up with Larry."

"Is she with him now?"

"He say no, but he always lying. Ain't worth asking him nothing."

"Do you need anything?"

"Don't need nothing 'cept to rest my eyes twice a day and watch my skits after lunch. That boy needs the help and from someone stronger than a worn-out old woman."

Becca nodded. "Will he come straight home after school?"

"I meet him at the bus on the main road."

"Thank you for watching over him, Mrs. Brackett. We'll do our best to get you help with that." She pulled a blank file card from the pocket of her shirt and wrote her work number and their home number on it. "Call me if anything changes, or come by the church. I'm there every weekday."

Mrs. Brackett took the card. "Thank you."

Becca turned toward the door.

Zach suddenly asked, "Can we bring you Sunday dinner?"

Mrs. Brackett looked at him.

"Around one o'clock?"

She nodded slowly.

"Jonah like chicken?"

"His favorite."

"Good," Zach said. "See you Sunday."

Outside, they both looked up and down the street into the dazzling sun. They were relieved to see it totally empty, including the broke-down stoop across the road.

Chapter 5

The next morning Becca drove to Lakeview Elementary, where Jonah was enrolled, for a meeting with Trinia Wells, the school's guidance counselor. She already knew Trinia, a thirtyish heavy-set black woman with a kind smile and a cutting stare, from having arranged church daycare for a student suspended for fighting. If she hadn't provided for that care, the school would've had to pay for it, since the boy's mother, raising three kids as a single parent, worked a minimum-wage job with no personal leave. Trinia was grateful for that assistance and willing to bend a few rules now to return the favor.

"Officially, you're not hearing any of this," Trinia said from behind her desk backed by a long window looking out on the school's ball field. Second graders on recess chased each other in the bright warm day.

Becca nodded. "My ears are sealed."

"As you'd guessed, Jonah scored very high on IQ and creative aptitude. His verbal was average, math near the bottom. Based on these scores alone, I'd say this child merits special attention."

"I can assure you of that."

"I also checked with his teacher. She says he's generally well-behaved, overall shy but on rare occasion aggressive toward the other students. She feels he could benefit by special attention and a customized curriculum, but she of course doesn't have the time or resources to provide for that."

Becca nodded. "I understand."

"Tell me a little about his family situation."

Becca filled her in with the information she had.

"So you've never met his mother?"

Becca shook her head.

"But we can assume from the great-grandmother, and from the fact that she's missed all her quarterly updates with his teacher, that she's not fully focused on Jonah's education."

"We can assume that she could care less about her son."

Trinia smiled. "Administrators are taught to be as generous as reasonable in our assumptions."

"Social workers—at least this one—learn quickly to be blunt," Becca said then added, "It didn't come naturally till I began to care."

Trinia offered a nod. "We all care, but we learn to apportion that care for the long haul. It does no one any good to get burned out."

"I'll try to learn that skill."

"Good luck. It isn't easy."

"So what are our options for Jonah?"

"We have a pilot program this summer for at-risk kids—regular school hours, customized curriculums. Trouble is, enrollment has been set for weeks; and Jonah was never considered because he'd never been flagged."

Becca shook her head.

"However, just this morning I received word that one of the program's kids will be moving to New York to live with his aunt soon as school is out. So there's an opening available. Now of course we have a waiting list."

Becca stared at her with an almost desperate plea in her gaze.

Trinia smiled. "But I have discretion in such matters, and I can see that a change in Jonah Bingham's circumstances merits moving him to the top of that list."

Becca's smile of gratitude was brighter than the brilliant sun outside the window.

"If we can be sure of transportation to and from the school," Trinia added. "There's no bus service available."

Becca thought just a second. "I'll bring him."

Trinia nodded. "How did I know that? We also need the signature of his parent or designated guardian."

"If his mother's not available?"

"Will his great-grandmother sign?"

"I'm sure she will."

Trinia stared at Becca. "If the mother reappears and makes a stink, it'll be my butt on the line."

Becca grinned. "I thought administrators were taught to be 'as generous as reasonable in their assumptions.'"

"Only until it's our backside at risk, then we tend to get blunt in a hurry."

Becca nodded. "Thank you for risking that body part."

Trinia shook her head. "No, thank you for reminding me of what it is to care with your heart. Sometimes we forget what that feels like."

"I may wish to forget it before this is all over."

"No risk," Trinia said, "No reward." She handed Becca the form for Mrs. Brackett to sign, then stood and shook her hand.

At about the same time, Zach set aside a stalled scene to his novel, took up his Poem Journal, and wrote the following poem:

Heart of Care

We rise before the dawn to delve

Inside the heart of care we know

To hold in hidden store of love

Our path to future promise sure.

Fed by that feast of sharing pure

You open eyes on vision new

Care outward turned toward chasm dark

Starving souls voracious grasp.

Chapter 6

That night over a dinner of pesto tossed on fettuccine and served with a salad of bibb lettuce and sliced tomatoes, Becca told Zach of her meeting with Trinia. "Everything's falling into place," she concluded.

"Until the boy's mother shows up."

Becca shrugged. "We'll deal with that if it happens."

"Becca, it will happen, probably sooner than later; and when it does, there won't be any dealing with it. She may be a lousy mother, but she is the boy's mother. She has full legal control of his future, not you."

"Say his name."

"What?"

"His name."

"Why?"

"His name is Jonah. He's not 'the boy' or a boy or a Social Services number or one more dusty case file on the stack piled to the ceiling on Becca's desk. He's Jonah Bingham, an eight-year-old boy with real feelings and real potential and real gifts if the world will just give him a chance."

"Why does he matter so much to you?"

"You're asking me? You put me in this job, remember?"

"As a job—to earn money and get experience and buy you time to figure out what you really wanted to do. Not for you to try to save the world."

"I'm not trying to save the world."

"Then what? Is it a racial thing? Are you trying to make amends for centuries of injustice?"

"You don't get it, Zach. It's not about saving the world or righting past wrongs. It's about giving one child, regardless his race or social background, the same opportunity that I've had every minute of every day of my life."

"So it is about your privilege and his poverty."

"It's about helping where I can, Zach—not on a cosmic scale or a global scale or even a community scale, but one person named Jonah Bingham at a watershed moment in his life. How can that be a bad thing? Why can't you support me in this?"

"It's not a bad thing, Bec. It's the most noble thing in the world. And I do support you, every step of the way. I'm just worried you're putting too much of your heart on the line, and you're going to get hurt."

"You never put your heart out there?"

"I've never risked my heart to the world, and I doubt I ever will. I've risked my heart to you, pretty much one hundred percent—which is precisely why I care so much about protecting you."

"You don't have to protect me, Zach; just love me and support me."

Zach stared at her across the table for several long seconds then nodded in resignation. "What do I need to pick up at the store for Sunday's meal?" He rose from his seat to get an index card and pencil off the kitchen counter to make a list. As he passed Becca still in her seat, he leaned over and kissed the side of her head. "And I love you more every day, specifically because of your generous heart, however much I worry about it getting hurt."

Becca looked up at him with a smile. "You really do hurt when I hurt?"

"Ten times more."

"I'll be as careful as I can."

Zach nodded. "That'll have to be good enough." He went on to get the pencil and paper to start a grocery list.

Later that night while in the pit of sleep and separated from Becca by more than a foot of empty mattress and the rumpled sheet that was their lone covering on the warm night (they had no air conditioning), Zach dreamt that he was walking in bright afternoon on the side of a sparsely vegetated hill—low brown grass, a sprinkling of dwarf pines and dense thorny bushes. He could see across a deep ravine to a parallel hillside that was more thickly covered in tall trees and low underbrush. At first he felt totally comfortable in the setting, enjoying the solitude and the warm sun. Then he noticed movement in the underbrush on the far hillside. He stared across the ravine and tried to make out what had caught his eye. There was definitely something in the brush over there, moving low and fast through the thickets and between the tree trunks; but he could never quite make out what it was. So he shouted across the ravine, tried to catch its attention, get whatever or whoever it was to respond. Then he knew it was Becca in the brush over there, didn't know how or why he knew, just knew. So he called her name, asked her to stop, to come to the edge of the woods where he could see her. But she never revealed herself, never spoke in response to his pleas, just kept weaving in and out of the brush, giving him tantalizing but indistinct glimpses of a swatch of blue jeans here, a flash of blond hair there. He jogged along as the movement on the other side ran parallel the ravine. He kept shouting and waving his arms but to no avail. He was running fast now, trying to keep up with whatever it was on the other side that was getting farther and farther ahead. He couldn't keep up. Suddenly he tripped on something and fell to the gritty soil. Sitting on the ground, panting hard, he looked back at what had tripped him. It was an infant wrapped in a pure white blanket, its eyes open and staring straight at him, smiling at him, its arms extended in his direction, its tiny hands, tiny fingers, reaching out to grasp him, only him.

At the same time, locked in the same dense pit of sleep, Becca dreamed she was knocking on doors to dark-windowed houses. She'd knock at one door for what seemed an eternity then give up and walk a few yards and knock at the next door for what seemed forever, then move on to the next, then the next. She'd done this for ages and never a response; but her arm didn't ache, her knuckles didn't get chapped or bloody. She just moved along the endless row of endless doors knocking at each. She didn't grow frustrated or weary. This was her job; this was her designated calling. But somewhere in that vast endless row of doors, one of them swung open at the first knock. She peeked around the edge of the door as it swung open. The light that rushed forth was blinding, swallowed her whole, ended the dream.

Chapter 7

Zach toted the heavy large blue and white cooler. Becca carried the covered stainless steel warming tray she'd borrowed from the church with an oven mitt on each hand. They were pleased to see a few school-aged children playing in the dusty street and a smattering of adults rocking in chairs on the open front porches of two of the houses between the main road and Mrs. Brackett's house. They were also pleased to see the porch opposite empty in the broiling sun. The school children had stopped and watched as they'd unloaded the food from the trunk of Becca's car and carried it to the cool shade of Mrs. Brackett's front porch. Zach set the cooler down and knocked on the screened door. The heavy wooden door beyond was closed, the windows shut and the blinds drawn. The room inside was bound to be hot as an oven.

Mrs. Brackett opened the inner door and unlatched the screened door. She pushed the door open and held it from closing with her thin leg. She stepped out onto the porch and reached for the warming tray.

"It's hot," Becca warned.

Mrs. Brackett released a faint grin, the first Becca'd seen from the old woman since meeting her. "Nary you mind," she said. "Can't harm these dull fingers." She grabbed the hot rim of the pan without the least sign of discomfort.

Becca shook her head and followed carrying the useless mitts. Zach trailed behind with the cooler.

Contrary to their expectations, the inside of the house was an oasis of cool and shade after the sweltering glare of the outdoors. Both Zach and Becca exhaled loud sighs of relief. "How do you keep your house so cool?" Becca asked.

Mrs. Brackett set the tray on the long wooden table in the center of the kitchen. "Don't need no air conditioning long as the night stay cool," she said. "Bring the cool in at night, lock it in during the day."

"We'll have to try that," Becca said. "Or come over here to sleep when it's hot."

"You be welcome in my house," she said. "But you don't want to be in this neighborhood after dark. Need to find your cool somewhere else."

Becca nodded, sorry for the awkward moment her off-hand remark had created.

Zach put the cooler on the floor beside the table. He raised the lid and unpacked a large bowl of home-made potato salad, a plate of deviled eggs, and a pitcher of iced tea, and set each on the table. From the bottom of the cooler he took out heavy-weight divided paper plates, plastic forks, and a stack of plastic cups, and spread the utensils on the table. He reached for the handle of the warming tray but jerked his hand back from the hot surface. He laughed and said, "Becca, could I borrow one of those mitts?"

Becca tossed the mitt across the few feet of air between them. "Mrs. Brackett tougher than a big strong guy like you?" she joked.

"Did you ever doubt it?" he said as he slid the mitt onto his hand.

"As a matter of fact, no."

Mrs. Brackett said, "No toughness about it; just too old to worry about pain."

"One and the same," Zach said. He lifted the cover off the tray and checked the steaming chicken Becca'd fried that morning and the casserole of New England baked beans he'd mixed together yesterday and slow-cooked over night. Both had survived the trip intact. He set the cover back on the hot food and left the plastic wrap over the cold dishes. He looked to Becca. "All ready."

She nodded. "Where's Jonah?"

Mrs. Brackett pointed toward the open door of one of the bedrooms. "He hiding."

"Is he O.K.?"

"He being Jonah."

"May I?" she asked, gesturing toward the room.

The woman gave a slight nod accompanied by a resigned shrug.

Becca walked silently across the pine floors and into the bedroom. It was so dark in there she had to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. Once her eyes had acclimated to what little light there was, she saw that the one window had been covered with black paper taped to the window casing. Inside the small room was a twin bed with a simple wooden frame, a small dresser with a mirror on top, and a wooden chair beside the dresser. The wood-paneled walls were unadorned, at least by anything that Becca could make out in the grayness. And the young boy was nowhere to be seen.

Becca waited for the room's stillness to re-establish itself around her, then she sat as quietly as she could on the floor at the end of the bed. She crossed her legs and leaned back against the bed's footboard and waited in silence for several minutes.

"You not scared?" Jonah whispered from under the bed.

"By what?" Becca whispered back.

"The shooters outside."

"When?"

"In the night."

"Last night?"

"Every night. Momma tell me lay under the bed to hide from the bullets."

"She tell you that last night?"

"She tell me every night. I hear her tell me every night."

Becca slowly extended her upper body onto the floor and looked around the end of the footboard. She saw Jonah's eyes staring back at her from the darkness under the bed. "It's daytime, Jonah," she whispered. "The shooters are gone."

"You sure?" he asked.

She nodded. "I checked outside."

"How you know? They could be hiding with their guns."

"You remember Zach the soldier from my hiding place at the church?"

She saw Jonah's face nod in the dark.

"I brought the real Zach with me today. He checked the streets. He told me it's safe."

"You trust him?"

Becca could smile at that. "With my life."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." She extended her hand slowly toward the dark under the bed. "We brought you some dinner. You like chicken?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Then let's go eat some."

"Soldier be there to keep us safe?"

"On guard in the kitchen."

She felt his hand close onto hers.

The four of them stood around Mrs. Brackett's long, low, well-worn wood table. When Zach had seen Becca emerge from the bedroom with Jonah following, his hand in hers, he'd gone ahead and taken the lid off the warming tray and the plastic wrap off the eggs and potato salad. A mix of appetizing odors filled the low ceilinged room, and everyone was suddenly very hungry. But no one moved as they waited around the table with their hunger growing by the second. First Becca then Zach and finally Jonah turned to the head of this household, the one present far most meriting of deference and respect.

Mrs. Brackett saw their gazes and nodded, closed her eyes, extended her arms, and held her dark hands with their beige palms up toward the bright sky lurking beyond the shadowed ceiling. "Lord, as we live by your grace alone, we ask that you would sustain us this day and protect us through the coming night. Bless this food, bless the hands and souls of these good people who prepared it, bless us all that eat it, that we might see in this earthly meal a glimpse of the heavenly feast where there will be no more pain only joy in your presence and peace with all people. Amen."

Zach smiled at Jonah and said, "Good food, good meat, good gosh, let's eat!"

Jonah hid behind Becca's legs from the tall white man and his booming voice.

Becca continued to stare at Mrs. Brackett, still mesmerized by the eloquence of her impromptu grace, thinking again that she'd landed in the midst of an elemental struggle between good and evil, and somehow found God's side in this fight.

"Becca?" Zach called.

She looked up at him.

"How about helping Jonah get a plate?"

She laughed sheepishly. "Sorry."

Behind her, Jonah whispered, "She still at the heavenly feast."

The other three could laugh then, before digging into the earthly one.

Chapter 8

Zach glanced up at Becca, who'd finished her petite filet and the potato and sides and one slice of the buttered bread and was now watching him work his way through his thick slab of rare prime rib. There was still a sizable portion left on his huge platter, and he was well beyond full; but he sensed an unspoken challenge in Becca's gaze, a kind of culinary gauntlet thrown down by the night and the occasion and the restaurant and even the glistening beef—could he finish the King-cut of prime rib? So he returned his attention to the food left on his plate and in a steady methodical flourish polished off the remaining beef (his potato and side were already gone), crossed his fork and wooden handled steak knife on the cleared platter, leaned back in his chair, and exhaled a satisfied sigh as he folded his hands at the somewhat stretched waistline of his belted pants.

Becca shook her head slowly. "I don't know that I've ever seen someone actually finish the King-cut. I've seen plenty try, but I think you're the first to actually succeed."

"Don't guess they've ever encountered a real farm boy in this barn."

"Least not one with a bottomless pit for a stomach."

"Comes from a lifetime of fighting six other hungry mouths for every last morsel."

"Remind me not to get between you and the dinner table."

"Good idea."

Shelley appeared to begin clearing all their cleaned plates. "Ready for some dessert?" she asked as she set the last of their plates on the bussing tray.

Becca and Zach groaned in unison.

"Well," she said, "Let me at least show you what we have."

Becca said, "I guess it can't hurt to look."

Shelley smiled and nodded. "Be right back." She left with the mountain of their dirty plates on her shoulder.

Zach looked at Becca. "Dessert? Are you kidding me?"

"It's all part of the experience."

"Remind me not to get between you and your experience."

"Good idea."

Shelley returned a few minutes later with a tray brimming with samples of a wide range of delectable looking desserts. She described each offering with a breathless enthusiasm that was either incredibly well feigned or almost indecent. There was pecan pie, chocolate chess pie, and key lime pie; there was New York cheesecake, chocolate cheesecake, and cappuccino cheesecake; there was Grand Marnier parfait, Crème de Menthe parfait, and hot fudge parfait; there was blackberry cobbler, with or without vanilla ice cream; and there were three kinds of ice cream and three kinds of sorbet.

When she finished her elaborate spiel, Shelley leaned over and whispered, "And of course there's the cake." Then she added after a pause, "But it's our secret."

Zach just shook his head.

Becca laughed. "Why don't we split a serving of the cobbler, and you take the cake home."

Zach looked at her across the table. "Will you share the cake with me later?"

"Will you ever be hungry again?"

"Next birthday?"

"Deal," Becca said.

Shelley asked, "With or without ice cream?"

"What?"

"The cobbler?"

"Oh, what the heck," Becca said. "With ice cream."

Zach feigned a heart attack by clutching both hands to his chest and rolling his head back.

Shelley nodded approval, hoisted the dessert display onto her shoulder, and headed for the kitchen.

Zach straightened up and glanced toward the window, first time since sitting down what seemed ages ago. The beautiful couple was still there, framed in the looking glass, handsome as before though maybe a tad more sated. He returned his gaze to Becca. "When does this birthday feast end?"

She smiled. "Does it have to?"

Chapter 9

They ate off their laps sitting on simple ladder-back chairs lined up along the wall since the table was full. When they'd finished their meals (after Zach and Jonah had each had sizable seconds), Becca collected their paper plates and tossed them in a trash bag they'd brought. Zach covered what food remained and took a large bowl of banana pudding from the cooler and set it on the partially cleared table. He'd just started to uncover the pudding when there was the sound of a key in the lock of the front door. All four turned their attention toward the door, each frozen in place.

A wiry thin young black woman with braided hair and bloodshot eyes stood in the doorway, backlit by the bright day. The man from across the road, Snake, looked over her shoulder.

The woman said, "I come to take my son," directing the words at the blond girl in the room.

### Part II

Chapter 1

Becca sat on the oak pew about halfway up the nave on Monday morning before work. Father Mark had proudly shown her the sanctuary as part of her tour of St. John's on her first day, but she'd not been in the hall since. A silent awe wrapped itself around her, filled the dim cavernous space. A large crucified Jesus hung from a cross that hung from the ceiling by invisible wires over the wooden altar. Directly above the cross, mounted high on the wall just under the steep-pitched roof, a small round window offered a glimpse of the blue summer sky, the only unfiltered natural light in the sanctuary. Bold slots of dark stained glass—blue, green, purple, amber, red—marched along each side wall, thrusting their multi-colored muted glow like long fingers into the somber space. The tiny frail flame of a sanctuary lamp hung to the right of the altar flickered behind its rose chimney, the only movement in the otherwise utterly still space.

Becca tried to remember the last time she'd been alone in a worship space, or if she ever had. She'd regularly attended her family's Methodist church as a child, but always accompanied by parents and siblings. Throughout high school and college, she'd occasionally visited the churches of various friends, always alongside that friend, sometimes with his or her family. Even when touring cathedrals or historic churches, she was always with someone. This was perhaps the first time she'd sat alone in a sacred space.

The solitude and stillness made the gregarious Becca uncomfortable; but it was perhaps just this sort of discomfort, this sense of being temporarily outside herself, that she sought when she'd stopped on her way to her office and cautiously opened the sanctuary's heavy oak doors and even more cautiously walked forward and taken a seat.

But now seated and properly awestruck, she wondered exactly what it was she was seeking, and if this empty cavern, however portentous, was the place to find it. She'd been shocked and deeply troubled by Latonya's sudden reappearance and gruff reclaiming of Jonah. It'd all happened so fast that she'd not even had the chance to tell Jonah good-bye let alone ask Latonya about the Summer Learning Program. It was clear from the mother's attitude that such a query would've fallen on deaf, even spiteful, ears anyway. Several attempts to reach Latonya via phone numbers Mrs. Brackett had given her yielded no results, not even an answering machine. So here she was, returning to work, with a large new hole in her heart and no idea how to close it.

And little hope of finding it here, she finally concluded after about five minutes' silent meditation. She stood to leave but was briefly detained by the alignment of the drooping head of the crucifix with the sun streaming through the round window. That essence of suffering backed by all that brilliance struck her as the height of contradiction and injustice. Those two realities should not exist in the same frame let alone superimposed. How could God, the author of both, let such a merging, such a blurring of hope and despair, occur. What justice in that? Worse, what way forward?

Then she saw someone stand in the dimmest corner of the sanctuary, where the altar railing anchored to the wall. This figure stood still for a few seconds facing the altar and its suspended crucifix, then bowed deeply, then turned and headed straight for her down the center aisle. It took her a minute to recognize Father Mark—robed neck to foot in a black cassock—through her surprise and brief welling fear.

Father Mark smiled gently from a few feet away. "What concerns has Becca brought to lay before our loving God on this first day of his new week?"

"You startled me."

"I'm sorry. I heard you come in but didn't want to distract you, so I continued with my morning prayers. When I'd finished and you still hadn't moved, I was afraid I would frighten you. So I waited for you to stand."

"Sorry if I disturbed you."

"Not at all. I was glad for the company."

"God not company enough?"

"Enough, but I'm always happy for a human presence, especially one seeking help."

"I didn't know I was."

Father Mark gestured toward the pew.

She returned to her former seat then slid a few feet farther down the pew.

Father Mark sat down, leaving several feet between them, and gazed calmly at her in the dim light. "When I first started in parish ministry, I loved Sundays and dreaded Mondays. Sundays were so full of life and activity and fellowship. There were always a hundred hours of responsibilities crammed into about sixteen hours of waking time, and I loved every minute. Theologians tell you that every Sunday is Resurrection Day, and I lived that theology to my core.

"Then came Monday morning; and I felt utterly empty, totally abandoned by the same God that had raised me from the dead and placed me on the top of the highest mountain the day before. I attributed my despair to spiritual letdown and tried to learn to live with it. But it only got worse, to the point where I took Mondays off, only to discover the same problem on Tuesday—with one less day in the week to try to recover.

"Then one Monday morning as I was rushing past on my way to the office, something stopped me outside those doors. Whatever had stopped me was strong—I had a full calendar waiting and a head of steam to plow through it, no doubt my unconscious attempt to avoid the loneliness of Mondays. But this force turned me toward the sanctuary and brought me through those doors. So I sat in a pew—right about here, I recall—and waited. But nothing happened—no visions or voices or divine insights. So I left after about five minutes.

"But the next Monday morning as I went past I wasn't so much stopped in my tracks as reminded of the previous week's odd event and stopped voluntarily and spent about five minutes in quiet contemplation in the empty pew. Then again the next Monday, and the next. And after about a month, I realized I no longer dreaded Mondays. That was five years ago. I've not missed a Monday morning in the sanctuary since, at least not if I'm in town. Even if I'm traveling, I try to find a church open on Monday mornings and spend a little time there."

"And the black robe?"

Father Mark laughed loudly, a sound that echoed off the ceiling and walls and was both incongruous and somehow reassuring. "I'm an Episcopal priest—we have to dress up!" He laughed again then explained, "It's my frail human attempt to formalize what God has already made perfect. For me, wearing black during my prayer time at the start of each week is a reminder and an admission of my fallen condition. I'm bringing my dead self to God on the first day for him to redeem and restore through the week to come. God of course knows all this, but I sometimes forget. So I give myself this reminder."

Becca chuckled. "Pretty cool garb, just make sure you take it off before heading to your first appointment."

"Good advice."

They were both silent for several seconds. Potent stillness rushed in to fill the silence. They looked up at the crucifix and the blue sky through the window. The sun had moved beyond the window's vista.

"Anything I can help you with, Becca?" Father Mark asked.

Becca turned from the window's prospect and faced the priest, feeling calmer than she'd felt since yesterday morning. "Not at the moment. I think I've got all the answer I can handle right now."

"God tends to give only as much as you can handle."

Becca nodded doubtfully.

"No," Father Mark corrected. "That's phrased wrong. God gives you something, then gives you the means to handle it."

"I'll hope you're right."

"Don't hope on me. Ask him." He gestured with his head toward the front of the sanctuary. It was unclear if the crucifix or the sky was the intended antecedent of the pronoun.

Becca called Trinia Wells as soon as she got settled in her office and unpacked her book bag of the files and forms she'd carried home to work on over the weekend. Trinia answered herself and on the first ring, an administrative efficiency that was growing rare in the changing world of government services. "Lakeview Guidance Office, Trinia Wells speaking."

"Trinia, this is Becca Coles. I have some bad news. Jonah's mother showed up yesterday and took him back."

"How do you know that?"

"We were there."

"We?"

"My boyfriend Zach and I. We'd taken Sunday dinner to Jonah and his great-grandmother and had just finished when Latonya came barging in and demanded to get Jonah."

"Barging? Demanded? She lives there, doesn't she? And he is her son."

"It was her aggressive attitude that was so troubling. She didn't seem to have any concern for Jonah. She just wanted him back—like some tool she'd loaned out and forgotten about and suddenly decided she just needed to have."

"Maybe she's realized it's time to start taking care of him."

"Maybe she'd heard I was helping him and wanted to seize control."

"Becca, maybe you're taking this a little too personally."

"There's no 'little too personally' about this, Trinia. Yes, I care about Jonah. Yes, I want to help him. You were kind enough to give me a way to help through the Summer Learning Program. And now she's taken him away."

"Did you explain about the program and get her to sign the consent form?"

"She left before I had a chance to say anything. It was clear the last thing on her mind was Jonah's well-being. Her eyes were bloodshot. She looked like she was high or drunk or something." Becca's voice was steadily rising in pitch and emotion.

"Becca, take a few deep breaths. Calm down. Getting angry or emotional will do nothing to help the child or you. If what you say about the boy's mother is true, getting upset will only play into her hands."

"Then what should I do?"

"Stay within the system, and use it to your advantage."

"And how do I do that?"

"You just made an anonymous report of an incident of child neglect. I will file the report and pass it on to the principal and the school nurse. We will conduct an interview with the student. If we find corroborating evidence, we will contact the parent for an interview. If the parent doesn't show, or does show and is hostile or confrontational, we will pass the report on to county child welfare. They will open a case file and contact the parent and interview the child. They will monitor the situation as long as evidence indicates a need for oversight."

"And removal of Jonah from Latonya's guardianship?"

"That's almost impossible, Becca, if the parent wants to fight it. You don't even want to think about that—the abuse would have to be so blatant that the child would be scarred for life. The best outcome we can hope for is that any one of these interventions would produce a greater sense of responsibility in the child's mother."

"And how long might all this take?"

Trinia sighed. "We can conduct the interview with the child today, and try to schedule the parental interview before the end of classes. But with the summer recess starting at the end of the week, this process could get delayed."

"How long?"

"Weeks, maybe longer."

"And the spot in the Summer Learning Program?"

"Becca, I can only hold that spot till the middle of the week. If somebody—somebody with authority—doesn't sign that consent form by Wednesday afternoon, I'll have to go to the next child on the waiting list. I'm sorry."

"His name is Jonah."

"I know that."

"Jonah Bingham. You haven't said his name once."

The voice on the other end of the line hardened. "Don't make this your personal crusade. You'll lose, and maybe more than this one child."

Becca took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. You've been a great help, Trinia, and a good friend. I have no right to be angry with you."

"Don't be angry with anyone."

"How do I do that?"

"By doing your job."

"I'll try my best," Becca said, then added to herself after she hung up the phone, "But what if doing my job makes me angry?"

A few minutes later, her phone rang. It was Trinia. "I just called down to Jonah's classroom. He's absent today."

Becca replied, "Why am I not surprised?"

"And I checked his absentee rate—it's high but not high enough for a mandatory action. We could issue a warning; but this late in the year, it would have little meaning."

"So you're saying there's nothing you can do from your end."

"As far as school policy and standards are concerned, he's under our radar. There are those intermediate steps I mentioned, but the time of year undermines their effectiveness. Our options are very limited."

"And your advice about using the system?"

"The system has holes. He seems to have fallen into one."

"Jonah fell in one at birth. I'd hoped to get him out."

"Good luck. Let me know how I can help."

"Hold the Summer Program slot open through Wednesday, please."

"I will."

"I'll try to track his mother down."

"Becca, don't do anything foolish."

"Like get involved?"

"Like finding yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time. There are places in this town where you don't want to go."

"I'll watch my step."

"Better watch more than that."

Chapter 2

Late that afternoon Becca parked her car on the shoulder of the gravel road near Mrs. Brackett's house and stepped out onto the deserted and dusty road. The air was warm and laden with moisture, and dark clouds made it seem that night was fast approaching though sunset was still hours away. Becca glanced at her collapsible umbrella on the back seat, thinking it might double as a defensive weapon in a pinch, then forced that thought out of her mind as unproductive paranoia. She locked and closed the door without touching the umbrella.

Mrs. Brackett finally opened her front door after a wait of what seemed an eternity but was in fact no more than thirty seconds. It was clear even through the screen door that the old woman had been napping—her eyes were clouded by sleep (first time Becca'd seen them without that hawk's proud and incisive stare) and her white hair not neatly combed.

On seeing Becca, Mrs. Brackett took a moment to smooth the wrinkles in her light-blue gingham dress, rub her eyes once, and pull her hair back with those leathery hands. "Don't get many unannounced visitors," she said through the screen. "Least none you'd want to open your door to."

"Sorry. I should've called."

The woman waved her hand. "Phone don't work half the time, don't answer it when it does."

Becca nodded. "Can I come in for a minute?"

"Latonya and Jonah aren't here."

"I doubted they would be."

Mrs. Brackett stared at her, those hawk eyes in full flare again. "Then what you want?"

"I think I want the same thing you do—to help Jonah."

Mrs. Brackett pushed the screen door open with her foot and stepped to the side far enough for Becca to enter, then closed and bolted the heavy front door.

Becca stood just inside the doorway not sure if she should move toward the kitchen area with its row of straight-backed chairs along the wall or the T.V. side with its single upholstered armchair. Mrs. Brackett turned from the door and stared up at her, seeming prepared for them to conduct whatever business needed to be transacted while standing there near the door. Becca smiled uneasily under the black woman's gaze but suppressed her nervous impulse to speak (as she'd suppressed her impulse to flee while waiting on the porch during that interminable pause). These two battlers—the worn black-skinned survivor and the fresh-faced blonde idealist—engaged in a silent stand-off in the shaded low-ceilinged well-kept shack made all the dimmer for the shading nature was providing in the dense clouds outside.

Mrs. Brackett finally reneged. "Bring a chair," she said with a curt wave toward the kitchen. She shuffled past Becca and sat in the armchair.

Becca grabbed a chair from the kitchen wall and quickly brought it to a spot about three feet in front of the armchair and at a slight angle to one side. She sat in the chair, holding her back straight against the straight ladder back. "Thank you."

Mrs. Brackett offered a slow nod.

"I'd intended to speak to you and Jonah yesterday about a special opportunity available for this summer."

"Before Latonya bust in."

Becca nodded. "So I didn't have a chance. But I'd like to tell you about it, and hope to get your help in convincing Latonya to consent to Jonah's participation."

"Latonya don't convince."

"So I gather."

"Latonya do what Latonya want, when she want."

"Mrs. Brackett, I've looked into trying to go around Latonya for Jonah's sake; but it can't be done, at least not in the near-term. We've got to get her approval if we want to help Jonah."

Mrs. Brackett clicked her tongue against the top of her mouth and shook her dark head one time, as if suffering a spasm of chronic pain.

Becca continued. "There's a Summer Learning Program at Lakeview School that is perfect for Jonah—daytime care and supervision with a customized educational curriculum. I'm not a teacher but I'm guessing they would encourage Jonah's creative talents while strengthening his weaknesses in math skills and vocabulary."

"He like to draw pictures."

"Yes, I've seen. He needs to have the freedom and encouragement to do that in a nurturing environment."

"I know."

"This program would provide that structure, and could lead to other similar customized learning beyond the summer. I'm confident once his teachers see the talents we've seen, they'll find a way to bring them along."

Mrs. Brackett sighed. She'd heard such high-blown but hollow promises from white folks periodically throughout her long life.

"But we need Latonya's signature and cooperation for Jonah to participate."

"How soon?"

Becca looked down at her lap. "Wednesday?"

"Next week?"

"Day after tomorrow."

Mrs. Brackett shook her head in disgust. This too was an old familiar ploy by the white establishment—extend wonderful opportunities for improvement if you can meet just this one little requirement: this one impossible mandatory prerequisite. "Latonya is gone."

"We've got to find her, and soon."

The old woman shook her head. "Don't want to be found."

"We've got to try." Becca took a folded copy of the consent form from the pocket of her lemon-colored T-shirt. "Let me leave this with you. If Latonya comes home, please ask her to sign where I've indicated." She pointed at the blue-ink check mark beside the signature line.

"She won't sign."

"Tell her it's best for Jonah." She laid the sheet of paper on the lap of Mrs. Brackett's dress.

"She don't care." A hardness fell across the woman's features that made her face seem more a chiseled stone bust than living skin—finely crafted smooth-surfaced stone from a long ago civilization: Pharaonic Egypt, Solomon's Ethiopia.

Becca leaned forward in her chair till her face was barely a foot from that hardened stone bust. "We've got to try for Jonah's sake. Please help me."

The stone softened just a tad as the woman offered a short nod to the blonde girl's pleading eyes.

Chapter 3

Becca sat upright on their living room's couch and stared down at the open book in her lap but hadn't turned a page in fifteen minutes. Zach was reading at his desk wedged into one corner of the living room but kept glancing at Becca out of the corner of his eye. Outside light rain fell in the growing dark in the wake of the violent thunderstorm that had passed through the town around suppertime. One gutter with a clogged downspout (Zach kept all the gutters clean but one of them had a crushed drain that would have to be excavated and replaced) dripped into the metal bucket by the hose bib, the steady drip-drip-drip echoing through the front window cracked to let in the cooler air.

Zach finally rose from his chair and walked over to Becca. "You're not that slow a reader, and that book doesn't have any one scene meriting such a degree of contemplation."

Becca looked up at him with a wan smile. "How do you know?"

He reached into her lap, took up the book, and read from the open page:

The horse flared at the sight and dragged the carriage down the slope in a swirling vortex of dust and clamor that tossed fair Shauna and stoic Brad about like a pair of ragdolls, threatening to dislodge him from his seat and shake loose the twins knotted in her stomach.

"See," Becca said. "Plenty of food for thought."

Zach laughed. "The swirling vortex part or the pair of ragdolls part?"

"The twins knotted in her stomach part."

Zach's grin faded. He marked the page with a torn scrap of envelope, set the book on the coffee table, and sat very close beside Becca, their arms and shoulders touching. "What twins knotted in what stomach?" he asked, staring at her gravely.

Becca laughed at his misunderstanding. "I'm not pregnant, silly." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek then sat back. "I just feel torn up—it does feel like something's knotted inside me, though I'd not even gotten to the part you read. Maybe God is trying to tell us something."

"Through a pulp romance?"

"Yes, maybe."

"A risky messenger."

"Maybe just through life. Maybe I'm not ready for this job, Zach."

"Jonah?"

"Yes, Jonah; but it's more than just him. It's the whole system, Zach—these people, most of them anyway, just want a chance at improvement, want a little ray of hope. But they meet roadblocks at every turn. And if you find your way past one, there's another just around the corner. It's no wonder they get frustrated and give up and turn to dope or alcohol or welfare. I'm frustrated and I've been at it less than a month. I'm used to solving problems, Zach, to putting my head down and figuring something out and fixing it. That's not an option in the lives of most of these folks. Their lives are unfixable; and it's not their fault, it's the system—the way things are set up."

"Tell me where things stand with Jonah."

"He's screwed—one more lost soul."

"Any details behind that optimistic summary?"

"The school system's hands are tied; any actions they could take require time and they're running up against the summer break. Child Welfare's hands are tied due to the lack of any verifiable report of abuse. Mrs. Brackett is the only one who could document such abuse, and she's not going to take any official action against her granddaughter."

"Why not?"

"She's not going to do it, Zach. She's lived her whole life being oppressed by the white establishment; she's not going to join that side now against her own flesh and blood, not even for Jonah."

"Have you asked her?"

"No, and I'm not going to. Jonah means a hell of a lot to me, but I'm not going to throw his great-grandmother into the social services meat grinder in hopes that it might help him. I'd end up destroying two lives rather than watching one fall by the wayside."

"Still no word from Latonya?"

"No word, no sighting, no trail. She's disappeared into the vast and impenetrable underworld of the Shefford projects, taking Jonah with her. Worst part is, I forced her hand. At least before, we knew where he was—safe with his great-grandmother. Now he's gone and will remain gone long as she wants him to be."

"A little melodramatic, don't you think?"

"You want to try to find them? Let's go right now, drive into East Shefford and start knocking on doors—wonder how long we'll last? You could turn the National Guard loose down there, and they couldn't find them if she didn't want to be found. They call East Beirut a living hell, but it doesn't have anything on East Shefford."

"Then we have to make it worth her while to do the right thing."

"And just how are we going to do that? We can't buy her out—the ministry's discretionary fund is already in the red, and you and I can barely pay our rent. Where's the money going to come from?"

"Maybe there are enticements other than money."

"Zach, trust me—in that world, the only real enticement is money and what it can buy."

"Just have to use the system to beat the system."

"Trinia Wells told me that very same thing this morning, just before she called back to say the system had holes in it and we'd fallen into one."

"Jonah still got a spot in the Summer Learning Program?"

"She'll hold it till Wednesday."

"Next week?"

"The day after tomorrow."

"Have to work fast."

"On what?"

"I'll let you know if it works."

"What if it doesn't?"

"Then we'll find something that does."

"Like what?"

Zach turned on the couch and faced her, put his index finger over her lips, then replaced his finger with his own lips. As they kissed, Becca let the gentle pressure of his body slowly ease her sideways till she was lying on her back on the couch and Zach was atop her but leaning some of his weight on his elbows and knees. Their lips remained locked together, even as their hands explored the rich terrain of their clothed bodies.

Becca's hands finally settled on one area of Zach's body, excavated their way through layers of clothing till she reached his warm skin. She spoke directly into Zach's mouth, their lips still locked together. "At least we know one thing that still works." Her words bounced around inside his mouth as another body part bounced against her welcoming hands.

Chapter 4

The storms last night had ushered in a dry front that brought along with it vibrant blue skies and a light breeze that seemed to Becca more divine blessing than the simple result of a meteorological pressure imbalance between the former system and the current one. On her walk from the church to the parking lot she rolled her head to the sky, closed her eyes, shook her long blond hair against her neck and shoulders and back, and felt again her youth—the youth of no unmovable obstacles in the path of her hopes and her ideals, the youth of days bright as this far out as she could see, Zach beside her, life good.

But the rolling cooler that she dragged along behind and the shoulder bag strapped across her neck tethered her to a different world, one constrained by too much need for too few resources. Tuesday morning was her weekly visitation period, the time set aside to contact those charges who were incapable of coming by the church. Zach called it her "field time," combining references to his farm background and the title of Peter Matthiessen's recent novel At Play in the Fields of the Lord, and trying to defuse his concerns for Becca's safety while plowing in those impoverished and sometimes treacherous environs. The cooler held containers of deep-frozen meals—chicken and dumplings, chopped pork barbecue, Brunswick stew—prepared in bulk by a team at one of her churches and packaged in single-serving foil tins. Atop the food were three zip-sealed plastic bags holding a mix of basic first-aid items and toiletries donated by a local drugstore chain. In her shoulder bag she carried copies of the government forms she could help those who qualified fill out to begin their slow slog through that bureaucracy in the hope of reaching the Oz of public assistance before time and the world took them beyond the need for such help.

She stopped behind her car, unlocked the trunk, and raised the lid. She sighed to herself at the sight of a few fluffy white clouds marching their way east, toward the long North Carolina coast. She thought of that coastline and her times playing there in that sand and water and sun, the highlight of every summer till now. But not this year, she lamented, as her work commitments and Zach's writing schedule would likely keep them in Shefford at least till fall. She mourned the loss of her freedom from commitment and expectation. And she longed to share the beach with Zach—her beach, herself at the beach, the carefree exuberance it brought out in her, the playful dreamlike escape. Where had that dream gone? And what had pushed in to fill its place? She shivered once despite the warm June sun on her shoulders, took a deep breath, then hoisted the heavy cooler into the trunk with a groan and a grunt.

Her first stop was at the one-bedroom project apartment of twin elderly white sisters, Nina and Tina Overton. Nina had congestive heart failure and was confined to bed where she spent most of her time in shallow unconscious, occasionally rousing to eat a little or sip on her ginger ale. Each time Becca saw her, the gap her body defined between the bottom and the top sheet grew thinner and thinner; and Becca knew, despite her hopeful claims to Tina, that one day soon there would be no separation between those two sheets, and Tina would be left to try to carve out a new life in the absence of her companion since before birth. The food she dropped off in their dorm-style fridge was for Tina, not Nina (who probably consumed less than one of those meals—pureed to help her swallow—the whole week), as Tina would not leave her sister's side to shop or run errands, even when a neighbor or church member offered to sit with Nina while she was away. According to the ministry's guidelines, Becca wasn't supposed to be here, as Tina was fully capable of getting to the church to pick-up her supplies, either via bus or in the pristine Studebaker the sisters had bought nearly twenty years ago and driven no more than a few thousand miles. But her second day on the job, Becca'd made an executive decision to not hold Tina to that rule and force her to decide between her heart's needs and her body's—Becca well knew which would win, and then the ministry would have two convalescents instead of one with a round-the-clock caregiver. She touched Tina's shoulder where she was stationed in the chair beside her sister's bed, paired her hands as in prayer, pointing first to Tina then Nina, and gave a silent wave. Tina, her eyes weary and weighed down by immeasurable sadness, still managed a nod of appreciation and mouthed the words thank you as Becca left the room where spoken words had lost their efficacy.

Her second visit was to Ronique, an overweight black woman with five school-aged children and a herniated disc in her back. Child Welfare made sure the kids were fed and clothed and got to school each day, but there was no public assistance available for the temporarily disabled—at least none that would get approved before the disability passed or entered the category of "permanent disability," thus requiring submission of a whole additional series of forms. Ronique's eldest daughter, twelve-year-old Shamira, helped her mother by giving her sponge baths and braiding her hair in tight rows. But there was no money for the health and beauty supplies that were essential to the spirit as well as the body. So Becca dropped these supplies off along with current issues of the magazines Ronique liked best at her two-bedroom apartment in a newer housing project across town. She had a key and let herself in after three loud knocks on the door and a grunt in response from inside. The apartment felt like a tomb with all the children off at school, and had a stale smell from too many days with the windows closed. Becca opened the blinds and slid open the apartment's three cheap metal windows with the screens already busted out. Ronique didn't say a word from her spot lying on her back on the couch with one leg dangling off the edge in a futile attempt to find a position that relieved even a little of her excruciating pain. The black skin of her face had a gray cast, like the ashes left over from an old fire; and she looked closer to fifty-eight than her actual twenty-eight.

"Bad pain today?" Becca asked.

The woman grimaced in response—maybe to the reminder, maybe to the simple pressure of the words' sound waves against her skin.

"Taken your pain medication?"

Still no response, just that blank stare at the textured ceiling.

Becca saw the prescription bottle, along with a glass of water and a box of toaster tarts on the stained coffee table in front of the couch.

"I brought you some magazines." She set the current issues on the table beside the toaster tarts and did a quick glance around the room for last week's issues. They were nowhere to be seen, so someone had done something with them—maybe read by Ronique, maybe cut up for paper dolls, maybe used for toilet tissue. Becca told herself it didn't matter how they were used, but was secretly saddened to not know for sure if they'd been read and enjoyed, by someone if not by Ronique.

She held out the bag of toiletries like a peace offering or a flag of surrender. It felt suddenly heavy in her hand—a lead weight pulling her down. "I'll leave these on the high shelf in the kitchen. Make sure Shamira puts the bottles somewhere the little ones won't get into them."

"She know," Ronique grunted.

"I know she does," Becca said. "She's a smart girl." She went into the kitchen and left the bag on the shelf above the sink. She then went around and closed the windows but left the blinds open. On her way to the door through the small family room, she paused. "I closed the windows to keep the bugs out." (She didn't have to add the obvious—to keep thieves out as well, though neither those cheap windows nor Ronique's near-paralyzed presence would stop one of the desperate thieves known to roam this project.) "I wish I could keep them open; it's a beautiful day outside. I'll stop by the main office and ask maintenance to check into the screens."

"Good luck."

"Yes," Becca said. "We could all use that."

She'd taken two strides toward the door and had her hand on the knob before turning suddenly, walking quickly back across the room, and kneeling beside the couch. She took Ronique's near puffy hand in hers and spoke quietly to the side of that taut face. "You will get better, and I'll keep coming until you do. Call me if you need anything I can help provide." She didn't wait for a response she knew wouldn't be coming.

She was out the door and onto the breezeway when her hands started shaking, a tremor that continued till she was behind the wheel of her car and struck the dash twice in anger and frustration.

Becca got no answer at her third stop, a modest ranch house with an overgrown front yard in a decent working-class neighborhood. Marlene Saunders, a white woman with a gentle smile and small timid eyes set deep in her face, had lived here with her husband Nathan for sixty-two years until he'd died of a heart attack two months ago. Now Marlene spent most of her days (and her nights too, apparently, judging from the pristinely made up bed in their tidy small bedroom) seated at the worn kitchen table talking to Nathan seated, in her mind and heart, directly across from her. Nathan had so thoroughly cared for Marlene since they'd met at the old Shefford High that she'd never got a driver's license or bought groceries or been to a drugstore, and they'd never had (or desired, according to Marlene) children. So now Marlene was happily but hopelessly marooned within her spotlessly maintained prison with weeds growing outside the doors and dust gathering on the pick-up in the carport. Becca's task was to keep Marlene in food and toiletries until the paperwork for committal worked its way through the courts with a lawyer from one of her churches serving as both advocate and petitioner.

But where was Marlene today? After her fifth loud rapping on the aluminum storm door, Becca opened that door and turned the knob on the wood door beyond. "Hello?" she said in a loud but hesitant voice. "Marlene?"

Still no answer.

Becca stepped into the familiar entry. She knew she was breaking ministry guidelines by entering unaccompanied, but she wasn't about to leave without checking on Marlene. "Hello?" She moved past the living room to the right and the den to the left walked down the hall toward the back of the house. "Marlene?"

She got to the kitchen's doorway and saw Marlene seated at her normal place at the kitchen table, her back to Becca. The thin woman sat bolt upright and totally still facing the far wall with its window over the sink.

"Marlene, it's Becca Coles—from the Ministry," she said from behind so as not to alarm the woman (and hoping also to rouse some response from the frozen figure). "I've brought you your meals."

The woman gave no sign of hearing her words, made no motion or gesture whatsoever.

Becca set her bag of frozen meals on the linoleum floor and moved slowly around the table, not quite knowing what she expected to find but fearful of the worst.

Marlene's eyes continued staring toward the far wall but blinked once, and her neat gingham dress moved ever so slightly at her shallow breathing.

Becca pulled out a chair from one side of the table and sat quietly, leaving the chair opposite Marlene—Nathan's chair—empty. She sat in silence watching, studying, the side of the woman's face. Once she'd seen the color of life in those sunken cheeks and the blink of consciousness in those deep-set eyes, Becca felt calm enough to wait and watch. She saw for the first time a clear glimpse of this woman's residual beauty—the graceful slope beneath her eyes and the full well-shaped lips that, with those eyes, had made this woman a stunning beauty once, and could make her beautiful again if the hollowness behind the eyes ever left.

Marlene turned to face her without moving any muscle or bone in her body except her long and lean neck. "Did you see him leave?"

Becca shook her head. "No," she said quietly.

"Me either. You'd think he would've said good-bye."

"There are ways to say good-bye that aren't words."

Marlene nodded. "I well know that now."

"How will you make do with him gone?"

The woman fixed her with a calm stare. "I can't drive. I don't know the first thing about the world out there. I need someone to help me."

Becca nodded. "I can help. I brought you your meals. I can bring you other things you need, or get someone to bring them. The church has volunteers."

"I should move somewhere with people. This house is empty now."

"Your friend Mrs. Johnson is working on that. I'll tell her you're ready to sign the papers."

Marlene nodded slowly to Becca then faced the chair opposite and the window beyond. "I should leave now that he's gone."

"I'll let Mrs. Johnson know, and Father Mark. I'm sure one or both will be in touch soon."

"Let them know, dear," she said without facing Becca.

"Will you be O.K. if I leave now, to finish my visits?"

"I'll be fine. One thing I know how to do is survive in this house." She smiled ever so slightly to the bright day beyond the window.

Becca reached for the woman's near hand resting limply on the table but stopped before grasping it. She'd not risk disturbing Marlene's calm resolve with touch. "I'll put the food in the freezer. Do you want me to put one of the meals in the fridge to thaw?"

"Barbecue would be good, dear; Darren brought some snap beans and I can make a skillet of cornbread. Nathan always loved my skillet bread."

Becca nodded and stood. "I'll leave a tin of barbecue in the fridge." She retrieved the bag of food and walked across the kitchen to the refrigerator.

From behind her, Marlene said softly, "Maybe we should've had a child. Maybe she would've been like you."

Becca had no idea how to answer that heart-felt regret so she offered the only response that came to her mind. "I'd have been honored."

Marlene nodded in silence.

Becca set a tin labeled cue in the fridge and put the rest of the food in the near-empty freezer, last week's meals dutifully consumed. She paused beside the seated woman on her way toward the door. "You sure you'll be O.K.?"

Marlene turned and faced her with a calm stare. "You don't die of loneliness, dear. Your body doesn't even show the pain." She flashed a tight grin that had a hint of bitter irony around the edges. "Nobody ever tells you that."

Becca returned her steady gaze. "You just did."

"Did what?"

"Told me."

Marlene laughed—first time ever in Becca's presence. "So I did. But will you remember?"

Becca gave back the simple truth. "Yes."

Marlene brushed her hand as she turned to leave. "Thank you, dear."

Becca's last stop was a new one. She made two wrong turns onto gravel drives off the paved road far out in the county—one to a warehouse tucked behind a grove of pines, the other to a dead end at a rusty chain strung between two fat cedar posts—before she finally found her way to the log and chinking shack surrounded by a clutch of leaning outbuildings surrounded by perhaps ten acres of gold-leaf tobacco stretching their young leaves to the sky in orderly rows. She was there to see Solomon Murphy, an ancient black man who'd been living on this farm his whole life and whose grandson Isaiah had just been called to active duty in the Army reserve. Solomon's wife of forever had died of cancer a few years ago and Isaiah had come to live with his grandfather and help tend the farm. But with Isaiah gone for an indefinite time period, the Ecumenical Outreach Ministries had been asked to step in to provide Solomon the support no government agency offered. Like Marlene, he'd never learned to drive anything more than a mule or, in the last ten years, a third-hand small tractor; and at his age, he surely wasn't going to learn to drive now. So the Rutledges, the white family next farm over, had told Pastor Jim who had told Father Mark who had told Becca to check into the situation. So here she was. It was of little use to anyone at the moment that Solomon's farm was worth a small fortune to the research companies starting to populate this end of the county, with the U.S. headquarters of one pharmaceutical giant almost within sight through the scrubby pine woods.

Becca parked her car in front of the shack with its shallow porch of well-worn boards and single rough-hewn handrail on similarly undressed posts supporting the wood-shake roof. She stayed in the car to let the cloud of dust she'd stirred rush ahead and settle about the shack. She was simultaneously intimidated and enticed by this homely farmstead under the hot sun and crystal clear sky. Except for her car and the tractor tire leaning against, or supporting, one outbuilding (no tractor in sight), this scene could've been from any decade in the past three centuries. She'd often observed such hardscrabble farms from the highway while racing past with her family or friends on their way to the beach or some relative's house for a holiday meal or reunion, and she'd often wondered what it was like to live in their world forgotten by time. But she'd never stopped and engaged the owners, and felt uneasy doing so now. What could she possibly offer this Solomon Murphy that he didn't already have or possess the empirical resources to obtain? What match were her gifts to this timeless self-reliance? She had no answers to those questions echoing in her mind, but nonetheless opened the car door and boldly stepped out into the pounding sun.

"Show nuff beatin down today," a bass voice said in a resonant slow monotone from the deep shade on the west side of the house.

Becca followed that voice to the far end of the porch and squinting into the shade discovered a thin black man in worn but clean denim overalls and no shirt leaning back against the logs of the house seated on a long bench made from a split pine trunk. "Good morning, sir. I'm Becca Coles, from Ecumenical Outreach Ministries. Are you Solomon Murphy?"

"That's what they says is wrote in the book at the Crossroads Church, but now the church gone."

Becca was confused by what he said. She felt dizzy in the sudden intense sun. She wavered and thought she might faint.

The old black man was beside her in a flash, caught her by the elbow, and guided her into the shade and to a seat on the bench. He drew some water with a ladle from a galvanized bucket hung from a peg, and poured that water into a tin cup. "Drink this, child."

From the fog of her dizziness and in the new dark shade, Becca thought the man's voice sounded like that of God—that sure, that compassionate. She greedily drank the water he offered.

Solomon stood in front of her, watching closely, till her tremors faded and her skin lost its pallor. Then he sat on the bench a few feet from her, still watching her profile closely, ready to act fast as before if needed.

Becca took a deep breath after she'd emptied the cup. She finally faced him with a weak smile. "Thank you for catching me. I believe the long morning and the hot sun got the best of me."

"Not old Solomon giving you a fright?"

Becca shook her head and managed a laugh. "No, sir. I think I might've given you one."

Solomon nodded. "Did at that; did at that. Been years since a pretty girl fainted on my doorstep."

"So it's happened before?"

The old man turned loose a high-pitched cackle of a laugh. "Back in the day; back in the day. Like to give me a heart attack now."

"I'll testify you managed just fine."

Solomon nodded. "So I did, young lady. Don't try me no more, though—hear? This ticker can't take no more of that."

"Deal," Becca said.

They sat a moment in silence, each staring straight ahead across the field of dusty soil and sturdy young tobacco that started just twenty feet in front of them. In the shade of the house it was still cool, with a faint breeze dancing around them before dissipating under the relentless assault of the sun. The stillness of the late morning and the rural setting mixed with the improbable juxtaposition of this old farmer and this young social worker to form a kind of surreal capsule around the two, a fleeting moment of trust and sharing that extended only as far as the fast-shrinking shade.

Solomon finally spoke, straight ahead to the rows of pale-green plants. "Don't get folks like you out this way."

"Like me?"

"Young white women."

Becca laughed. "Run them all off?"

Solomon paused to let her laughter fade before responding. "There are men in this county, almost within shouting distance of where we sit, who would put a noose around my neck just for talking to you."

Becca met his words head-on. "Mr. Murphy, if my presence is endangering your well-being, I'll leave this minute and not return, send someone better suited to the task of finding out if the Ministry can help you."

This time Solomon could chuckle. "You bold, young lady, I'll grant you that. But I guess I knew that already, soon as I saw you drive up and get out of that car like you ready to take on the world and all its injustices."

"I thank you for that compliment, sir; but you give me too much credit. I'm neither bold nor near ready to take on all the world's injustices or even a few little ones. I'm just doing my best to try to figure out how I can help a few needful souls. But you don't appear to need any help, Mr. Murphy. And even if you do, if my presence is of potential harm to you, I should leave."

"Stay put, child. I was just telling you the world ain't near as far along in its changes as some might hope. Hatred dies harder than a kudzu vine. But I stopped living in fear twelve years ago; ain't going to backslide now."

"How'd you stop being afraid?"

"Not how but when—the day Reverend King was shot. I told Lilith—my wife, may she rest in peace—that if Reverend King could face a white man's bullet I could stop being scared. And I did."

"Just that fast?"

"Wouldn't say seventy-seven years to get there is fast."

"But the change?"

"Been building all my life—took Reverend King's murder to bring it out."

"And no problems since?"

"Not a one. Still knocked up against blind hatred and ignorance now and then. That didn't suddenly disappear because I changed, or because one good man took a bullet. But now I saw it for what it was—their burden, not mine."

"Will it ever change, Mr. Murphy?"

"Young lady, my father was born into slavery. He shed those chains for the shackles of bigotry and intimidation, died in a bondage not far removed from that into which he was born. But his son was born free and grows freer by the day, thanks in no small part to the courage of many people black and white—people like you brave enough to see a better world."

"And like you—strong enough to stop being scared."

"I'm just a farmer, child—grow fine tobacco for sale to the white man back since I can remember. I tend my small corner of God's good earth and let well-educated folk like you save the world."

"How can I help you, Mr. Murphy?"

"Come see me once in a while, child; bring me news from the world that my grandson used to bring before they sent him off to fight white man's wars."

"I can bring the news. Anything else?"

"Not a thing in the world I need but your glimpse of hope in my later days."

By then the sun was licking at their feet—his bare, gnarled, and nubbled by callus and scar; hers safely cased in clogs and white ankle socks dusted by the ochre leavings of the tilled clay.

Chapter 5

Zach parked his tool-laden, scratched and dented carryall truck on the side of the road between Mrs. Brackett's house and her neighbor toward the paved road. As on all his calls to Becca's charges, Zach's beaten-up vehicle fit right into the neighborhood. Except for the color of his skin, no one would distinguish him from the locals. Recalling John Griffin's book, Zach sometimes wondered what it would be like to take that final step and turn his skin black, to experience the full impact of racism. But he always closed that line of thinking by concluding that his struggle to finish school and enter adulthood was already all he could manage without the added burden of being the victim of racial injustice. He could work to remedy that, and learn its ills, as a white man helping where he could—like today.

He slid out of the truck and quietly locked its door behind him before crossing the gravel road in the early afternoon heat, headed not to Mrs. Brackett's but to the decrepit house with its empty falling down porch across the way.

He dodged wilting weeds and several broken liquor bottles on the overgrown path before climbing the wobbly steps with a rot hole on one side and a detached handrail on the other. Once on the shallow porch, he avoided a soiled carpet pulled over a hole in the flooring. He wasn't sure if that carpet was intended as a patch or a trap designed to catch inattentive police or the fool-hardy bill collector—or an idealistic white writer on summer break. In any case he circled around it, testing each floor board as he made his way to the front door with one of its two glass panes replaced by a piece of cardboard.

Zach took a deep breath then rapped loudly on the door.

The house returned only silence.

Zach counted to ten then rapped hard again. The door rattled under his knocking, the one glass pane shaking in its frame.

Still no answer.

Zach looked up and down the porch, then turned to face the road with its waves of heat rising from the oiled gravel.

From behind him and to the left a voice barely above a whisper hissed, "Lucky you ain't dead, white boy."

Zach turned slowly, keeping his hands in plain sight. He wasn't sure where the voice had come from so he spoke to the door in as calm a voice as he could muster. "You well know people up and down this street saw me walk over here, are watching my every move now."

"They can look all they want, but they won't talk. You a damn fool if you counting on them to have you back."

Zach realized now that the voice came from a window to his right, raised just a crack and the shade behind pulled ever so slightly to one side, revealing only a black slot, whatever weapon that might be pointed his way well hid. "You're the fool if you do anything to bring the law back here—won't leave empty-handed next time."

"What you want, white boy?"

"I want to help you."

"Snake don't need no help, least of all from a punk like you."

"My friends at Building Inspections tell me different. They say this house is one violation away from being condemned, warnings all used up."

"Don't threaten me, white boy."

"I told you—I'm here to help."

"Just how you plan to do that?"

"I do home maintenance, for the Ministry. Fix up houses just like this one, so folks can stay in them."

"Don't got no money to pay you."

"Don't want your money."

"Don't take charity from no one."

"Not offering charity either."

"What you getting at, white boy?" The voice behind the blind was still menacing but had lost the hiss of animal intimidation.

"I'll ask the inspector in charge of this end of town to delay his next inspection of your residence. In the meantime, with your approval, I'll make the repairs required by the city to keep this house from being condemned."

"In return for what?"

"In return for you convincing Latonya to enroll Jonah in a summer school program that will give him a stable environment and a better education."

"Latonya ain't my bitch; don't even know where she at."

"I trust your resourcefulness and your powers of persuasion."

"What if I don't?"

"I walk away. The city inspectors do their thing. You have to find a new place to peddle your goods."

"Ain't got no goods to peddle."

"Look, Mr. Snake—I don't care what deals you're doing here or elsewhere. I don't care who you're getting hooked or whose habit your encouraging or who you're ripping off. I don't care about Latonya. And while I like Jonah and wish for him a better life, I'm not all that sure our intervention is a path to that better life. But my girlfriend is sure of that and I'm sure of her. That's the only reason I'm here. You leave Jonah alone, you get Latonya to enroll him in that summer program and keep him there, and I'll fix your house. After that, I'll be glad never to see you or this falling down shack again."

"You crazy, white boy. You messing where you don't belong."

"I know. Ain't life a bitch?"

"Dead worse." Despite the statement, the voice had lost its threat, offered the words as a simple and indisputable truth.

"I don't mean you any harm. Becca and I are just trying to help."

"White man say that all the time, just before he bring the hammer down."

"Only hammer I got is to fix your house, which I'll start soon as Latonya signs the consent form at her grandmother's house and leaves Jonah in Mrs. Brackett's care."

"How soon?"

"By tomorrow afternoon."

Snake laughed behind his screen. "You a crazy motherfucker." The shade fell back into place.

Chapter 6

Zach cut the lights and the ignition and let the truck coast to a stop behind the screen of trees in the small picnic area beside the lake. In the new embracing total dark and the slow encroaching silence, Becca slid across the vinyl seat till her left side was plastered tight to all corresponding parts of Zach's right, skin to skin below their shorts—bare foot to bare foot, ankle to ankle, calf to calf, knee to knee, thigh to thigh—cloth to cloth from there up, at least to where their lips met and their hands roamed. Despite the heat and their sweaty skin, maybe because of those conditions, this first vehicle make-out session in months had them both soon panting and grasping in a feverish and unexpected entanglement. Zach eased Becca over till she lay flat on her back with one foot draped over the steering column and the other pressed against the far door. Zach rose above her in the torpid dark and flooded her face and neck with kisses and licks. They somehow managed to slide their shorts to their knees in the cramped space and found in their dancing yearning core parts the same open-hearted welcome they shared in their dancing lips, their eyes open and adjusted to the dark, their whispered promises of eternal care and devotion.

Though the day had started clear and refreshingly dry, nearly fifteen hours of unmitigated June sun and no breeze to speak of had left their house, with no trees for shade and no air conditioning, hot as a kiln. They'd eaten a cold dinner of tuna fish salad, sliced tomatoes, and flat bread fried that morning and tried to ignore the heat with fans turned directly on each of them as they worked at their separate desks. But shortly after dark Zach had stood suddenly, grabbed Becca's hand without a word, and led her out to his truck and off into the stifling night. She'd never asked where they were going or why, just sat against the passenger door with the open window bathing her in a steady blast of hot air and gazed in a kind of bemused wonder at her unpredictable boyfriend as he guided the truck through town and onto dark country roads. Zach would occasionally glance her way with a mischievous grin.

Zach loved everything about the South except the heat and, especially, the heat combined with a lack of natural lakes and ponds for use in escaping the heat through swimming. While growing up in New England, whenever the heat got too oppressive—as it occasionally did on still summer nights—he and his friends would head for any one of a dozen clear and cold pothole lakes around town and vanquish that heat in a cold swim under the available star or moon's light. But the South, having escaped the geological reshaping of the last Ice Age, had no such natural lakes; and the farm ponds that dotted the countryside were little more than leach-infested mud puddles. But north of Shefford was a large man-made lake holding the town's water supply—the lake still near full this early in the summer, the water bound to be clear and cold. There was only one small problem—swimming was prohibited in the lake, and the recreation area with its rowboats and docks was closed and locked at sunset. But neither of these obstacles deterred Zach—he was intent on finding relief from the heat in the form of a night-time swim in cool fresh natural water.

The sudden and spontaneous and near desperate sharing of their bodies—a flare-up of tinder-dry kindling lit by a spark—left them stuck together in exhaustion and sweat. Zach's face, his eyes closed, was buried in Becca's damp hair; he breathed in the rich earthy odor of her scalp and skin. Beneath him, her face pressed into the notch between his shoulder and neck, her eyes open on the stars beyond the windshield, Becca lapped absentmindedly at the salt of his sweat pooled in the hollow of his shoulder. She saw a shooting star, took a sudden deep breath, thought to tell Zach, then chose to keep the sight to herself—it was too late to share, the flash gone.

Zach slowly pushed himself up on his arms, grabbed the seat back for support, then knelt above her. From that position and in the adequate light of the stars, he gazed down on the embodiment of all his hopes and dreams. He bent at the waist and, in a dry-lipped silent honoring, kissed her pubic mound—recent repository of all his passion and love, now focus of his fullest gratitude and promise. Then he rose again, reached down, took Becca's two hands in his, and raised her to a seated position opposite him. They leaned together like that, each holding the other upright, till they eventually recovered their resting heartbeat and breath. Then Zach reached behind him, opened the door; and they slid out into the night.

After straightening their cloths and sliding on their sandals, Zach led Becca through the trees on a narrow path to the water perhaps a hundred feet distant. The lake stretched out before them, glowing in the night after the deep shadow of the woods. Zach released Becca's hand and quickly stripped off his clothes, hanging them on a nearby bush. Still not speaking, he leaned over and kissed Becca then turned and took three quick strides into water to his waist and dove in. In the dark silence beneath the water, Zach finally felt a peace that he'd been missing for weeks. He only slowly, almost regretfully, rose back to the surface after long moments in that peace, as the air in his stretched-to-capacity lungs finally abated.

Becca was right there beside him when he surfaced, naked too except for the bra and panties she'd kept on. She wrapped her legs and arms around him in water to their chests and they did a slow swirl in the starlight. She said, "Don't ever let me fall."

He said, "I won't."

She said, "I know."

They swam side by side all the way across the lake, maybe a hundred yards wide at this point. Then they swam back to the middle of the lake, headed southeast in the dark toward where they knew the docks and the recreation area were. Out in the middle of the lake they rolled onto their backs and drifted in silence, gazing up at the stars in infinite array above, the blurred haze of the arms of their galaxy beyond, occasionally brushing hands or feet in reassurance but otherwise content to just float, trusting the other to be always near.

The docks suddenly loomed up out of the water, and beside the docks the paddleboats and the wooden rowboats. Zach pulled himself into one of the rowboats, flopping down into the bottom like some just-landed fish. He reached back over the side and pulled Becca into the boat, catching her with his arms and gently easing her onto the middle seat. The ranger had taken up the oars and oarlocks; but the boat was not chained to the dock or the other boats, was held in place by only a rope with its loop over a metal hook on the side of the dock. Zach lifted that loop off the hook and pushed the boat adrift onto the lake.

By then Becca was lying on her back on the middle seat, her lower legs over the side of the boat, her feet trailing in the dark water. Zach sat on the seat at the back, the wood rough on his naked butt. Becca reached her near arm out to him, finding first his damp knees then his hand. He cradled her hand in his and set the cluster of twined fingers in his lap.

"How will we get back?" Becca asked in a whisper.

"To the dock? To shore?"

Becca giggled. "To where ever it is we're supposed to be."

"That's not back, that's forward."

Becca was silent a minute, then said, "Maybe backward is forward—like in the truck a while ago: young and in love and without a care in the world."

"Two out of three."

"What if I want all three? What if I'm not ready to let that go?"

"Can't stop the clock, Bec."

"Why not?"

"Can't stop your heart."

"From what?"

"From caring."

"That's bad?"

"No, that's forward."

They drifted awhile under the stars in silence. Finally Becca said, "Still like to see how you're going to do it."

"What?"

"Get back to the dock."

Just then the bow of the rowboat bumped against something solid. They both looked up quickly—at the dock, looming above in the night. The current had carried them away then back again, that simple.

In the promise of their love and sharing, they both saw the return as a good omen, tied the boat off, then dove back into the water for the swim home.

Chapter 7

Becca stopped by Mrs. Brackett's on her way home Wednesday afternoon. Having resigned herself to the inevitability of Jonah missing out on the Summer Learning Program, she wanted to inform Mrs. Brackett of the remaining summer educational options for her great-grandson, should he ever reappear. Those options were few, and none particularly attractive. They could make a hardship application to a private daycare program, and pray for a quick acceptance. Or they could try to string together several weeklong summer camps—all of them expensive, with few need-based scholarships, and ill-suited to Jonah's interests and background. Or she could tap all her available church resources in an attempt to put together an ad hoc program of individual tutoring and care that would probably end up being little more than glorified (and volunteer-intensive) babysitting. Beyond the Summer Learning Program, there were no opportunities suited to Jonah's skills and needs. The taste of disappointment and frustration lingered in her mouth along with the dust from the road and the stale humid air as she knocked at Mrs. Brackett's door.

That all disappeared the moment Jonah opened the door and without a word or even glance up pushed his face into her turquoise polo shirt and wrapped his arms around her waist. Becca wanted to both laugh and cry but did neither as she gazed down at the dark curly hair on his perfectly round skull. She whispered, "My dear Jonah," and patted his head lightly.

Jonah finally pushed away and looked up at her with bright eyes and a big smile. "Me-me-maw say she has a paper for you." He turned and loped into the dim house.

Becca followed slowly. "Mrs. Brackett?"

"Come in, dear," Mrs. Brackett said from her seat in the chair in front of the dark T.V.

Becca shut the door behind her and walked toward the woman. The kitchen chair she'd pulled over two days earlier was still there beside the upholstered chair. She walked to it and asked, "May I?"

"Please, dear."

Becca sat down. Jonah had disappeared, so she focused her attention on Mrs. Brackett. "He's back," she said in a sudden swell of emotion that made her voice crack.

"Since dinnertime," Mrs. Brackett said, referring to the midday meal.

"With Latonya?"

"She come in here like a house afire dragging the boy like some old whooped dog and say 'Where the paper?' and I say 'What paper?' and she say 'The blond-girl paper.'" Mrs. Brackett chuckled in wonder. "Latonya don't like you," she said with a mix of awe and respect.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I have no ill will for Latonya."

"Should. She holding Jonah down."

"I'll hope and assume she's doing the best she can for her son."

Mrs. Brackett snorted loudly. "Doing what best for Latonya."

"She brought him home."

"Probably tired of dragging him around."

"Did she sign the consent form?"

Mrs. Brackett pulled a sheet of paper from the knitting basket on the far side of the chair and handed it to Becca. "Didn't even read it. Just scribble her name there where you mark."

Becca checked the signature—it was a scribble alright, but adequate to the need. She folded the paper up and slid it into the back pocket of her khaki shorts. "She still here?" Becca asked with just a hint of anxiety as she glanced around the open room and to the closed doors of the bedrooms.

Mrs. Brackett could laugh. "No need to fear, child. She gone quick as she come." Then she took Becca's near hand in her cool, dry leathery palm. "No harm come to you in my house."

Becca nodded. "Thank you."

"No harm," Mrs. Brackett repeated slowly. "Not here."

Becca stared into the bottomless dark pools of the old woman's eyes, knew to trust her words even if she didn't understand why she'd made the pledge or how she'd guarantee it.

The door to the bedroom at the front of the house creaked open and Jonah walked silently into the living room carrying a roll of cheap Christmas wrap. He went to the far wall, to an open section of floor beyond the T.V. on its table. He knelt down and laid the roll of wrapping paper on the floor in front of him then looked up at Becca around the T.V. and shyly waved for her to join him.

Becca stood from her chair and walked over and knelt beside him on the floor. He handed her the cut end of the roll of wrapping and used his hand to guide hers so she was holding the end of the roll flat against the rough planks of the floor.

Then, still without a word, he slowly rolled out the paper on the floor. But instead of showing the printed side up, with its mundane pattern of gold ornaments and red garland, he unveiled the white back of the roll—except the white backside was no longer plain white but covered with a full mural of fantastic and surreal scenes—a grand church (a recognizable if creative rendering of the front of St. John's) soaring above a lone blond girl standing in its doorway looking to a night sky populated with angels flying and singing, a schoolyard with children playing inside a black fence with ferocious dogs pacing just beyond the fence, a modest millhouse on a darkened street with passing cars flashing gunfire through dark windows, and at the far end of the roll a massive craggy mountain with a golden cave at its base and a fire flickering to one side. The swirl of colors and figures and passionate expression literally took Becca's breath away. She couldn't speak. She had to remind herself to breathe.

Jonah looked at her from the far end of the roll, maybe ten feet off to her left. He gestured toward the church at her end of the roll, just inches from her splayed hand. "That you," he whispered. "I just finished."

Becca stared down at the blond girl in the church, splashing the figure with her sudden tears. She rushed to wipe up the drops with the hem of her shirt before they stained the drawing.

Jonah stood beside her and touched her hand trying to daub the tears. "Don't worry. That just a little rain."

Becca looked at him and burst out laughing. Then it was her turn to bury her face in his shirt.

Chapter 8

"You did what?" Becca shouted in shock and incredulity. If she hadn't been holding the bowl of pasta salad, she would've throttled him (or at least given him a good shake, to try to bring him to his senses and attempt to release her anger).

"Jonah's back, isn't he?"

"You did what?" She repeated, setting the bowl on the table and standing across from him in the dim hot kitchen with her hands on her hips.

"She signed the consent form, didn't she?" But the confidence in his voice was fading under her angry glare. He had never been this deep into Becca's wrath. He hoped the storm would pass quickly.

"Zach, he's a drug dealer."

"With a busted up house just like all the rest you send me to fix."

"Those others don't transact illegal business under their roofs. Who knows what this guy is capable of? Who knows what you might get caught up in?"

"He may be a dealer but he's not a fool. He's not about to do anything illegal in the witness of his honky handyman."

"You presume a rationality that doesn't exist in this guy's world. They don't act by our rules."

"They act by the rule of survival—and for Snake, survival means using my assistance to keep his house from being condemned. He's not going to undermine his own well-being."

"Until he's cornered—then he'll cut you in a heartbeat."

"That won't happen. I won't let it."

"Zach, you're not a superhero. You can't swoop into their underworld and do your repair thing, fending off every surprise attack and disaster. We can't even control our own lives, how are you going to control his?"

"Becca, I'm going to spend a few days—days, not nights—in his house doing basic repairs. I'm not trying to control his underworld or even interact with it—I'm replacing rotten boards and clearing clogged pipes."

"As if you can enter his house and not enter his world."

"Becca, who entered who's house on that street first? Who freely chose to enter that world?"

"I was visiting a client."

"You were following your heart."

"You shouldn't have got involved."

"I was following my heart, and it followed you."

"You shouldn't have gotten in that deep, Zach."

"Passed that stop sign a long time ago."

"You should've run it by me."

"You would've said no."

"I would've been right."

"And Jonah would've still been out there tonight, holed up in the closet of some crackhouse with a bottle of pop and a bag of chips."

Becca looked at him across the table and shook her head slowly. "So instead you'll be buying time in the crackhouse."

Zach smiled. "Better a superhero than an eight-year-old boy."

Becca circled around the table and laid her whole body up against his—her arms squeezing him tight, her thighs pushing against his, her head rubbing up and down against the stubble of his chin. She said into his T-shirt, "If something happens to you, I won't be able to forgive myself."

"First, forgive me."

"Already done."

He nodded into the top of her head. "Thank you."

"No, Zach—thank you."

Chapter 9

On Saturday morning Becca sat cross-legged on the worn planks of Mrs. Brackett's living-room floor as Jonah brought his art supplies out from the bedroom. He probably could've carried the modest inventory in one or two full-armed trips, and Becca had offered to help with the task. But he'd gestured for Becca to sit and then proceeded to make a half-dozen slow circuits, each time bringing only an individual item—forty-eight crayons still stored in their pristine carrier, ten colored markers in a metal cigar box, modeling clay neatly wrapped in wax paper, a home-made sketch pad of clean cardboard sheets with holes punched and twist-tie binders, safety scissors with a light cooking-oil coating, and a fountain pen still in its display case that appeared to have never been filled. He set each carefully in front of Becca.

With the Summer Learning Program starting next week, Becca had two specific goals in mind for this weekend visit. She hoped to prepare Jonah, as much as possible, for the new type of school experience he'd be entering, and also wanted to see the extent of his art supplies so that she might raid her church closet (or her piggy bank) to fill any gaps. But she had a larger purpose behind this visit—she wished to observe Jonah's behavior in a familiar and secure (at least as secure as he knew) setting, in hopes of noting his core behavioral strengths and weaknesses. She had every intention of being an active advocate for Jonah as he went through the learning program, establishing communication with his teacher and following up often. But to lobby for him, she had to first feel confident that she understood his needs—needs beyond the obvious ones of a stable home and a supportive family. So even as she cooed praise (all of it sincere) at his well-kept supplies, she was also noting his manner and movements, documenting such subtle characteristics as his deference (even to her), his tendency to constantly check behind him, and his dexterity when handling anything small or fragile.

Jonah completed bringing out the last of his supplies and sat cross-legged opposite her, his wares spread before him like some frontier trader or an heiress showing her jewels—or an impoverished child sharing his most cherished possessions. His skittish eyes finally settled on hers and stayed there, calm and steady above a proud grin.

Becca said, "You drew that wonderful mural with these?" She pointed at the crayons and the markers.

Jonah nodded. "Markers best, crayon for more color. I don't like the crayons—they get dull too quick."

Becca nodded. "And this?" She pointed at the fountain pen.

"Me-maw give me that when I turn five. She never show me how to use it. Now she in jail."

"It's a fountain pen. You need to fill it with special ink from a well. I've only used one a few times."

"What's it do?"

"Makes pretty letters or designs. You have to let the ink dry, though; or it will smear."

"Sound messy. Me-me-maw don't like no mess."

"You the neatest child I ever see, Jonah," Mrs. Brackett said from her armchair without looking up from her knitting. "Wish my James was half as neat as you—would've saved my back a world of ache."

Becca said. "I'll bring some ink for the pen. We can teach each other how to use it."

Jonah said, "No mess."

Becca nodded. "No mess."

There was a loud pop outside in the street. Becca flinched then jumped up and raced to the front window and pulled the shade aside enough to peek out into the bright hot day. Zach was across the street sawing a board on the makeshift sawhorses he'd brought in his truck. The two of them had come to the neighborhood at the same time but in separate vehicles, as Zach would be working on his repairs longer than Becca planned to stay with Jonah. Becca looked up and down the street to try to determine the origin of the noise.

Jonah stood beside her and noticed her hand trembling by her side. "That nothing," he said quietly, not even looking out the window but gazing up at her.

Becca peered out the window

"Them noises happen all the time. They nothing."

"I wonder if Zach even heard it above his saw," she said.

Jonah looked out the window. "Soldier safe."

"You sure?"

"Snake gone."

"How do you know?"

"Window shade, right side. If it up, he gone."

Becca looked. Sure enough, the shade on the front right-hand window was halfway raised. "Always?"

Jonah nodded. "Always."

Becca let Mrs. Brackett's shade—always drawn—fall shut. She smiled down at Jonah. "Thanks for making me feel better."

Jonah shrugged. "Soldier watch us, we watch him."

Becca nodded. "Everybody watch out for everybody."

"God watch over us all," Mrs. Brackett said from her armchair, the words sounding rather like God's with their calm resonance and authority.

Becca took Zach a large glass of Mrs. Brackett's home-made lemonade—made from the juice of a bag of lemons the old woman had swapped two pints of strawberry jam for at the corner market then spent a good part of the morning squeezing by hand into a metal strainer—and three large chocolate-chip cookies on a plate from the batch Becca'd made last night and brought along to share. She'd avoided going near Snake's house when they'd first arrived and Zach was unloading his truck; but with Jonah's assurance that Snake wasn't home, she decided to brave a stroll across the hot, dry road with this snack.

Zach set his power saw on the ground beside the sawhorses and watched his girlfriend approach in the pounding noonday sun. In that glaring light, her hair was radiant and her fair skin—just starting to show a honey-colored tan—almost too perfect for this world. He never wavered in his love for her, a love that had originated in her captivating beauty the moment he first saw her nearly a year ago, and had broadened and deepened through their shared life since. But in moments like this, moments when her transcendent beauty passed through his eyes and heart to the very depth of his soul, the very core of all he was or ever hoped to be—at moments like this he couldn't imagine being apart from her, couldn't imagine anything he wouldn't do to make her happy.

She smiled at him the whole way, able to somehow keep the glass steady and the plate of cookies level without ever looking at the uneven ground.

He laughed and shook his head in disbelief when she finally made it safely across the road and the weedy front path littered with liquor bottles and scraps of rotten wood without a misstep or glance down. "They teach you that in Southern Charm School?"

"What?"

"How to navigate a minefield without looking down or stumbling or spilling your drink?"

"Piece of cake compared to descending a curved staircase in a deb gown and heels with a book on your head while under the withering gaze of Mrs. Conroy."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

She handed him the glass of lemonade, its sides slick with condensation though none of its contents had sloshed out. "You don't think we're born this way, do you?"

"I guess I never contemplated the origins of the grace that stole my heart."

"Well, don't let anyone know I told you—trade secret." She winked and held out the plate of cookies. "Petit four, Mr. Butler?" she said in a thick drawl while batting her eyes.

"Why Scarlett, I don't mind if I do," he replied in gruff working-class tones.

"Let us repair to the settee," she said and walked toward the porch's steps.

"Repair is the word, Miss Scarlett—repair and repair and repair." He stepped ahead of her and brushed away the sawdust from the new porch decking.

"Why thank you, Mr. Butler," she said before sitting with exaggerated flair while holding the hem of her loose-fitting shorts out to one side like a hoop skirt.

Zach sat beside her in the shade of the porch roof while looking out into the bright and desolate neighborhood. "The world of Tara could hardly be more foreign than this one," he said with a sigh.

"Both their own form of prison."

"Imposed from within or without?"

Becca considered that for a minute. "Both, I guess. Can't veer this far from hope without help from all sides."

"A vicious cycle."

"That can be broken—people accomplish that every day."

"Or fail."

"Then try again."

"How are Jonah and Mrs. Brackett?"

"They're fine. Jonah wanted to come with me, but she forbid him to set foot on this side of the street and I agreed. He didn't fight us, just said 'Tell Soldier thanks.'"

"Soldier?"

Becca laughed. "That's his name for you, comes from when I told him he could come out of his room because my real-life soldier would keep him safe."

"Might've oversold my abilities."

"Too late to take it back now."

Zach nodded and ate another cookie.

"They understand what you've done, Zach. They're as scared for you as I am, but also very grateful."

"They said that?"

"No, but I can see it in their faces. When they saw you setting up to work over here, they both knew why Latonya had brought Jonah home."

"I worried that Mrs. Brackett might be angry that I'm keeping this place open for business."

"She knows the scourge is here whether you fix this house or not. She's seen too much to think that a few handyman repairs will change anything, for better or worse. Besides, in six months this place will be falling down again."

"And we'll be gone."

"Maybe, but not her."

"Jonah?"

"I don't know, Zach. We can hope."

"A powerful force."

"Up against some more powerful ones."

"You know that's not true."

"We can hope it's not."

They gazed in silence across a landscape that seemed devoid of hope—devoid, really, of life and its resolute reach toward hope—in the blistering heat and the signs of intractable poverty: the burned-out hulk of a car farther down the road, discarded appliances rusting in an overgrown lot, a house with boarded up windows and doors where even those boards were hanging at odd angles or rotting away. But opposite these abject images was the neatly maintained porch and home of Mrs. Brackett, the indomitable woman behind those drawn shades, the house and the woman sheltering the irrepressible spirit of an eight-year-old with God's gift of creativity and a determination to express it. Without a word, Becca and Zach simultaneously understood their calling to nurture the seed of hope harbored in that house, planted here in this blasted-out landscape—nurture it at any cost, at all costs.

Becca sat across the kitchen table from Jonah and went over the schedule for Monday a third time—she'd pick him up in front of the house (no need to walk to the paved road) at 7:40, drop him off at the school by 8, pick him up at the school at 4:30 to get him back to his great-grandmother by 5. If she could get away from the church, she'd stop by the school to have lunch with him; but even if she didn't get there, she'd leave him with a lunch of fried chicken, potato salad, and devilled eggs to be stored in the classroom's fridge (she'd already got approval from his teacher).

"And banana pudding?" Jonah asked with a playful smile.

"Of course, banana pudding."

Jonah nodded. "Thank you, Me-bec."

"Me-bec?"

"I have a Me-me-maw and Me-maw but no Me-bec. You my Me-bec."

Becca nodded. "I'm honored."

"No, you Me-bec."

"Me-bec," she said again, trying out the title. "Why don't you show me what you plan to wear on Monday, then I'm going to head on."

Jonah raced off to his room.

Mrs. Brackett turned from her task of shelling hard-boiled eggs at the sink, wiped her hands on a towel, and came to sit across the table from Becca in the chair Jonah had just vacated. She fixed Becca with her powerful stare. "You going to spoil that child."

Becca ventured a smile—her most powerful expression—against that stare. "I wanted him to have a special lunch his first day. I hope you'll make the rest after that, or we can share the task."

"I don't mean the lunch."

"Then what?"

"Spoil him with love."

The smile drained from Becca's face. "How's that possible?"

"He don't know how to handle it. He won't know what to do once it gone."

"Maybe it won't ever be gone."

"You going to care for him now on?"

"Me or someone. You're here."

"I be gone before he be grown. He know how to live without me—been doing it all his life."

"He'll be able to live without me if he has to."

"Not if he get used to you. He almost already there."

Becca stared back at the old woman with neither determination nor contrition but with genuine uncertainty and doubt. In her open-hearted rush to make up for Jonah's years of neglect she'd never contemplated the potential harm of her gifts. "What should I do?"

"Be careful," the woman said. "Or be ready to take him with you far from here and for good."

Becca winced as if slapped—not at the short-term challenge but at Mrs. Brackett's last two words.

Jonah ran out of the bedroom and up to Becca, not carrying his Monday outfit as she'd anticipated but wearing it—neatly pressed jeans, a sparkling white crew-neck shirt, and a pair of basketball shoes with a Dr. J logo on the side. "I'm ready, Me-bec," he said with glee.

"Don't you look sharp," Becca said with a broad smile of pure pride. Then she leaned over and—despite the warnings, despite the risks—gave him a light kiss on the dark skin of his forehead. Slave to her heart and this child's grasp of it, she was powerless to resist.

Across the table, Mrs. Brackett stared on in mute inscrutability.

Chapter 10

On Monday morning Becca cleared her calendar of mid-day appointments and obligations, told Father Mark and his secretary that she'd be out of the building for lunch (she normally ate lunch at her desk and was available to answer the phone if all other staff were gone from their desks), and kept checking the clock amidst her full slate of reports and interviews.

Her well-rehearsed rendezvous with Jonah at the start of the day had gone smoothly. He emerged from Mrs. Brackett's front door the minute she drove up in the foggy damp dawn, looking as spiffy as two days earlier and walking with an obvious spring in his step and pride at his canvas satchel that Becca'd given him just before leaving Saturday. He'd been practically garrulous during the short drive to the school, talking about a new picture he'd started, the dogfight that had occurred outside his window in the middle of the night, and even asking what Soldier'd be doing today (she'd told him Zach would be working on his novel but withheld the fact that he planned to return to Snake's that afternoon). And when they got to the school, he'd jumped out of the car without a moment's hesitation (it was, after all, the school he'd attended for the last three years) and started up the steps with his satchel and the bag lunch Becca'd given him before turning halfway up and waving to her with a smile then running on to the other students and their teachers convening under the covered entry.

But Becca was anxious to see how he was doing at midday. She believed firmly that early impressions went a long way toward determining the success or failure of any collective endeavor, especially an experimental educational program. She wanted to observe how Jonah interacted with his teacher, Mrs. Anders—a fortyish white woman from Pennsylvania who was new to the school system—and his classmates, wanted to see how comfortable he was with the less structured curriculum. At 11:30 she put her folders aside and headed out the door into a light shower for the ride across town to the school.

She reached the classroom door five minutes before the noon lunchtime and watched through the slot of wire-glass on one side of the heavy oak door. At first she was disappointed to see Jonah at a craft table by himself with his head down. Then she noticed that each child—there were ten total, one third the normal limit—was alone at a table, and saw that Jonah didn't have his head down in sleep or punishment but was simply leaning his face close to the table as he worked on some project. Mrs. Anders was not at her desk but was strolling slowly from table to table, student to student, checking on their activities and offering quiet words that were inaudible through the door. Just before the noon bell rang, Mrs. Anders stopped by Jonah's table and the boy sat upright, away from his drawing. Mrs. Anders showed an expression of genuine surprise followed by a big smile and what must've been words of praise. Jonah looked at the table but Becca could see the edges of his mouth turned up in a broad grin.

Then the bell rang and Mrs. Anders turned from Jonah and stepped to the middle of the room. Her strong and firm voice of authority pushed through to the hallway. "Please prepare your table for lunch by setting your projects and materials aside and clearing a space adequate for eating. We will each eat at our workstation, so it is your responsibility to keep your table clean and neat, both prior to lunch and after you are finished. Please indicate your agreement by raising your hand."

The children all stopped what they were doing and raised their hands. Mrs. Anders did not take for granted that each child's hand was up but took the time to turn a slow circle and confirm with eye contact each child's affirmation.

"Thank you for your cooperation. Please finish readying your table, then pull up your chair and be seated while I check in the hall for delivery of our lunches."

At just that moment, Becca heard the sound of a rolling cart enter at the far end of the long and dimly lit hall. A cafeteria worker pushed the cart toward her before stopping three classrooms away to hand a waiting teacher a box with that class's lunches. Then the worker pushed her cart to the next classroom and knocked lightly on the door. Someone opened it and took their box.

The door beside Becca opened and Mrs. Anders stood in front of her with a questioning gaze. "You have our lunches?" she asked Becca.

Becca smiled. "No, I believe she does," she said and pointed at the cart lady now one door away. "I spoke with you on the phone about coming to lunch. I'm Becca Coles, Jonah Bingham's—." She hesitated, genuinely stumped. Just what was she to Jonah—friend? social worker? surrogate parent? surrogate sister? what?

"Guardian," Mrs. Anders volunteered with a helpful grin.

"Well, sort of," Becca said, "Though not in any legal way."

"Volunteer guardian, then."

Becca nodded. "Good a title as any."

"To Jonah?"

"To Jonah, I'm Me-bec."

"Me-bec?"

"Long story."

The cafeteria attendant rolled her cart up to them, checked the room number against the number on one of her cardboard boxes, then handed the box to Becca. The cold sides felt good on her arms. Becca laughed. "I'm not the teacher."

The worker, a young black girl barely out of high school (or maybe not yet, maybe never to be) said, "You available."

Becca said, "I am," then followed Mrs. Anders into the classroom carrying the box.

By then each of the children was seated at their worktable, waiting quietly and watching the two adults intently. Becca set the box on Mrs. Anders's desk then glanced over at Jonah. He said nothing and made no overt gesture, but his eyes latched onto hers, and he gave her a big smile and a subtle wave under the table. Becca returned the smile and traded a subtle nod for his wave. Mrs. Anders checked the contents of the box and distributed the lunches according to their labels. She handed out all the lunches brought from home in brown bags and various lunch boxes, then handed out the three pre-packaged meals the school had provided, along with the paper cartons of milk everyone got for their drink.

Mrs. Anders deposited the last of those pre-packaged meals on her desk then put the cardboard box on the floor. She sat at the chair behind her desk and gestured for Becca to sit in the chair alongside. Then the teacher said, "Let us bow our heads and give thanks for the one who provided us with this food."

Everyone bowed their heads in a moment of silence.

Mrs. Anders said a loud "Amen" then raised her head and said, "Now children, please enjoy your lunch and recall that there are many in our world who have nothing to eat this day." She didn't have to add that some in this room might have nothing to eat this day if they weren't here.

The children dove into their meals, though with a degree of restraint that was no doubt the result of their distance from one another, the lack of opportunities for competition or horseplay, and the atmosphere of dignity and respect Mrs. Anders had already established among them. Becca was disappointed though not surprised that there were no other parents or family members at this first-day's lunch despite the invitation to attend included in the program's welcome materials.

She quietly observed the children as they began eating. There were six girls (three white and three black) and four boys (all black). Though they all had just completed the second grade, they ranged widely in size and stature, with two of the boys much taller than the rest and several of the girls (including one tiny white girl that looked no older than five) much smaller in stature. Jonah was average in size, but seemed shier and more reserved than most of the others. Becca realized this observation could well be biased and resolved to keep a close eye on his behavior in comparison to his classmates.

"Miss Coles, you have no lunch," Mrs. Anders commented quietly.

Becca burst out laughing, a sound that made all the students look up, with several of them joining her infectious giggle. She'd remembered everything—except her own lunch. She grinned at Mrs. Anders and shook her head. "I'll be fine. I'll eat back at the church."

Mrs. Anders nodded. "You work for a church?"

"I coordinate the social ministry programs for a cooperative of five churches."

"A worthy cause."

"A big job."

"God bless you."

Becca nodded. "He has."

"Jonah is a gifted artist."

"I know."

"This morning he's been working on a black and white design of extraordinary detail and precision."

"I can't wait to see it."

"We can look after lunch."

"If it's O.K., I'll wait till he's finished and ready to show it to me."

Mrs. Anders nodded. "Of course."

They both looked to the subject of their discussion. He was watching them patiently with his hand raised.

"Yes, Jonah?" Mrs. Anders said.

The boy stood slowly, slid his chair under the table, and turned to head their way.

Mrs. Anders said under her breath. "I've asked all the children to raise their hand if they need to use the restroom."

Jonah walked up to the desk. But he wasn't asking to use the restroom. Without a word, he laid a drumstick of fried chicken and a devilled egg, both cradled in a paper napkin, on the desk beside Becca. Then he returned to his worktable, carefully pulled out his chair, sat, and began to eat his remaining food without once looking up or returning their stares.

The teacher shook her head in silent wonder. "So you are."

Becca looked up. "What?"

"Blessed."

She could only nod agreement.

Chapter 11

Zach arrived early in the afternoon and carried his tools and wood and supplies onto the porch through a moderate rain. It was one of those saturated North Carolina days when you felt like a fish—breathing the humidity, swimming in it—even when you weren't wading through the rain nearly as warm as your skin. Snake'd opened the door even before he'd knocked and pointed without a word or even a direct glance across the cluttered living room (if you could call the jumble of rag-tag furniture, boxes, and clothes strewn about a living room) to the bathroom with its door ajar, its hinges sprung and the bottom corner wedged against the splintery floor so it could neither open further nor close. Then, still without a word, he disappeared—maybe to some other room, maybe gone from the house. Zach didn't know; he really didn't care, as long as he didn't expose him to injury or the direct witness of illegal activity—neither of which the self-interested Snake was likely to do, at least not till Zach completed these essential repairs.

Zach pulled the rusty hinge pins out of the frozen hinges of the door using vise-grips and a rust-dissolving lubricant. He took the door out on the porch, removed the knobs and full-mortised latch (which was all brass and a beautiful example of early 20th-century hardware though you wouldn't know it from the dings and tarnish), and planed the bottom and latch edge of the door till they were smooth and straight. He then replaced the stripped hinge screws on both the door and the jamb with longer and heavier modern hardened screws. Finally, he sanded the hinge pins till they were free of pits and rust and oiled them lightly before hanging the door back on its hinges, tapping the pins back into the reconditioned hinges, and checking the door swing and door edge margins to the jamb sides and top. The door swung easily and fully and closed neatly against the jamb stop. The edge gaps weren't very even or symmetrical, but nothing in the house was.

Zach oiled the door latch and tightened its interior machine screws. One of those screws broke and fell out. Zach cursed—there was no chance he had one to match in his screw box. Then he realized the latch still worked, still held together even without the broken screw. So he oiled all the moving parts and reinstalled the mortised latch in the door, then threaded the brass knobs onto the spindle until they were tight but not so tight they bound against the escutcheons. He swung the door shut and felt a visceral sense of satisfaction when it closed smoothly and firmly in the jamb, the latch engaging the strike with a solid click. He opened and shut the door a half-dozen times, about four times more than required to confirm that it was in reliable working order.

Then he turned his attention to the hole in the bathroom floor that, when you removed the filthy bath mat that covered it, gave one a clear view of the red clay of the ground a foot or so below. The house was built on brick piers a few courses tall and no continuous foundation wall to isolate the crawlspace from insects or animals or even people (small people) that might want to enter the house from below. That no person, or self-respecting animal, would ever choose to enter Snake's house via this hole in the bathroom floor was a point that didn't register on the building inspector's checklist—the hole was an "interior hazard and unsealed exterior communication" that had to be repaired.

And to repair it, Zach first had to drain the toilet then remove it from its hub and set it aside. He accomplished this distasteful task using a two-part mindset he'd learned while performing similarly repugnant chores on the farm—don't let any air in your nostrils or any thought of what you're doing in your brain. In other words, he became a kind of scent-less, thoughtless robot. The toilet removal went quickly enough, though he had to break both mounting bolts because their nuts were rusted to the threads. Then he washed his hands thoroughly with abrasive soap he'd brought along using Snake's chipped wall-hung sink that needed its drain cleared but at least offered enough water and drainage for him to clean up.

Zach used his power saw to cut away the rot on all sides back to sagging joists that were still solid except for one that had been perforated by termites, though the pests were long gone, probably decades gone. He reinforced the weak joist with a scab of 2 x 6, then cut a sheet of plywood the size of the hole in the floor, located and cut a round hole in the plywood for the toilet flange, then installed the plywood patch using hardened wood screws to fasten it to the joists. He slid metal mending plates under the toilet flange to support it on the plywood then screwed the plates to the plywood.

He turned to head out to his truck to get a johnny ring for reinstalling the toilet and ran into Snake standing in the narrow path through the clutter of the living room. Zach stepped back, trying hard not to show his surprise.

"Quitting time for Fix It," Snake muttered.

"I'm almost done with the patch."

"You done for the day," he said in a low monotone that was all the more menacing for its lack of volume or inflection.

"You don't have a toilet."

"So?"

"Where you going to do your business?"

"Do my business where I choose. No matter to you."

"Can't get back till Wednesday."

"Lived most my life with no toilet."

Zach shrugged. "Suit yourself." He turned to gather up his tools strewn around the bathroom.

Snake disappeared quick and silent as he'd appeared.

Zach swept the porch of his door shavings, set his sawhorses to one side, grabbed his coiled extension cord, then did a last check of the porch for any tools he'd forgot.

"Latonya credit about tapped out," Snake said from the shadows beyond the ajar front door.

Zach faced the doorway, was tempted to push the door open but chose to stay on the porch. "That's not my problem."

"Not yours. Blondie's."

"How is Latonya's credit Becca's problem?"

"Blondie don't want Latonya straight. She spitting enough cranked."

"Can't help that."

"Could."

"How?"

"Extend Latonya credit. Buy Blondie a little time."

"We're not funding her addiction."

"Already have."

"No more."

"You call. But not even old Snake want to be on the wrong side of that bitch when she get cross-eyed." The door swung shut.

Zach took his power cord and walked out to his truck. The earlier rain had stopped but the feeling of being submerged lingered in the sodden late afternoon.

Chapter 12

Becca babbled—she never babbled and Zach found her enthusiasm and spontaneity deeply gratifying—over their cold dinner of the extra chicken, potato salad, and eggs from the lunch she'd made Jonah. She was absolutely thrilled for Jonah, so pleased with his teacher, the small class size, his customized curriculum, the emphasis on individual planning, responsibility, and motivation. "They each have their own worktable, Zach! It's like their home away from home. They can arrange it how they want and decorate it how they want. But with all the others watching, they know they have to keep their space neat and clean and attractive, for themselves and for the good of the group. The result is they care, not only about themselves but about the others in the room. Without even being aware of it, they're assuming communal responsibility! The extent of communal responsibility most of these kids know is waiting in line for food stamps or not wearing their sister's holey socks, but here they are developing those skills without thinking about it or having it crammed down their throats. It's an amazing thing. I could watch through the slot in the door all day long!"

Zach smiled. "And Jonah?"

"He's a natural, Zach. He's all about order, which is why the screwed up life he's had dumped on him has been so oppressive. His mind has visions, Zach; but they're only free to come out into an orderly environment. Without structure, those visions get bottled up inside. Now he has that structure. He's going to do great!"

"And if the disorder returns?"

"We can't let it."

"We may not have control over that."

"The further Jonah gets into this program, the safer he'll be. Mrs. Anders already sees his potential. She'll go to bat for him."

"She has no more control of his life than we do."

"It's not one individual, Zach. It's the process—the further along Jonah gets, the harder it will be for Latonya to keep him away. Sooner or later, she'll have to get in line."

"My sense is that Latonya doesn't respond well to 'have to'. It might even make her more dangerous."

"Zach, for the first time in his life Jonah has a chance to express his gifts and to begin to realize his potential. We need to make sure that continues."

Zach offered a thin smile across the table and nodded slowly. He was profoundly happy that Becca had found her calling, a joy that was only partially tempered by fear for her safety.

Becca ran around the table and gave him a bear hug from behind and a kiss on the top of his head. "Thank you for all you've done for Jonah and me," she whispered into his ear.

Zach could only stare ahead in silence, as powerless as she to rein in love.

Chapter 13

The next morning, after dropping Jonah off and stopping by the church to fill out two government forms to be dropped in the mail and answer several phone calls, Becca loaded the rolling cooler with frozen meals and bagged toiletries and dragged it to her car. It was Tuesday morning, her field time.

The soil and pavement saturated from yesterday's rain pumped water vapor into the air under the steamy sun, and several early thunderheads blossomed brilliant and white at the edge of blue sky along the eastern horizon. After loading the cooler into her trunk, Becca took a moment to breath in the hot moist air, then went around to all the doors and cranked down the windows. Unlike Zach, she loved North Carolina summers—bright humid mornings like this most of all, along with sultry, fetid nights with fireflies flashing and cicadas purring. There was so much life in this air, so much opportunity and growth implied. Today she felt especially alive; and the moisture and bright sun conspired for more life to come—right this minute, this very instant. She jumped in and started the car, turned the radio up loud, and drove off into her duties with the winds of promise swirling from all directions through her long blond hair.

She parked in front of Nina and Tina's apartment. She'd had a message on her machine from Tina when she got to work Monday, telling her that Nina had passed away in her sleep late Saturday night. Father Mark had gone by to see Tina Sunday afternoon, and they were in the midst of making funeral arrangements. When Becca'd asked him if she should still make a visit to Tina on Tuesday morning, he'd replied, "By all means. She needs all the support we can give her during this difficult transition." So Becca walked up the stairs to their second-floor apartment with a paper bag containing a week's worth of meals and a sympathy card taped to the front. She wasn't sure if she'd find Tina home, but was prepared to leave the bag with the next door neighbor, a retired nurse named Ruth, if Tina weren't there.

But Tina, dressed in her Sunday-best navy dress and pumps and with her hair in a tight bun and her face tastefully made up, answered after the first knock. "Good morning, Becca. I'm so glad you kept the date."

"You look beautiful, Tina," Becca blurted out. Every other time she'd visited, Tina had looked haggard in her slacks and T-shirt, the dark circles of worry and fatigue weighing down her eyes.

Tina nodded thanks. "I just returned from viewing her body. She looked so peaceful, more at rest than in all these last weeks when she was fighting the whole time." Tina shuddered at the painful memory.

Becca set her bag on the breezeway and gave the old woman a hug from where she stood one step below, her face pressing against the broach at the center of Tina's chest. "I'm so sorry, Tina."

"Don't be, child. There are worse things than a peaceful death."

Becca stood up straight. "I'll try to understand that." She grabbed the bag and stepped into the cool apartment, then handed it to Tina after she'd shut the door. "At least you won't have to cook this week."

Tina carried the bag to the nearby kitchen, which was open to the living room through an eating counter, and put the meals in the freezer. "Actually, I look forward to going to the market and cooking again," she said over her shoulder. She came back into the living room. "Thank you for the card," she said as she gestured for Becca to sit in the near arm chair. "I'll open it later, if that's O.K."

"It just says I'm sorry, Tina. And I am. I'll miss her."

Tina nodded but didn't try to speak. They both sat.

Becca said, "If you wanted to go to the store and get stuff to cook, why didn't you let me know? I could've sat with Nina, or scheduled someone."

"It wasn't about getting someone to watch her, dear. Many offered."

"You were afraid she might slip away while you were gone?"

"Not that either. I always knew she'd let me know when she was about to leave. And I was right. I'd drifted off to sleep in the chair by her bed but woke with a start at 1:42. No reason for me to wake except the only reason—she'd woke me, though she never uttered a sound or made a movement. She took her last breath at 1:53, my hand in hers."

Becca fought back tears even as Tina's voice never wavered and her clear gaze never faltered. "Then why didn't you go out or cook, for a break?" she asked, trying to turn the conversation away from the deep sadness she suddenly felt welling up inside her.

Tina smiled. "I couldn't enjoy life while Nina was suffering. It just didn't feel right."

"And now?"

"She's at peace, and she wants me to be happy."

"But you'll use our meals?"

Tina nodded. "For company in a pinch, and to remember your kind care."

"The Ministry's," Becca corrected.

"Yes, we appreciated that. But it's you we'll most remember—your kind face and open heart."

Becca nodded thanks. "Can I come by occasionally?"

"I'd like that, but don't take time from others to visit me. I'm fine now. You helped us through."

Becca nodded. "Don't know what I did, but thank you for saying so."

"You know."

Becca stopped by Ronique's apartment with her magazines and toiletries. The crippled-up woman was in the same spot on the couch though dressed in a different sweat suit. Her face was even more taut in its grimace of pain and despair, her skin more gray and lifeless. Though the apartment had the same odor of musty air and sweaty clothes, Becca didn't bother to raise the blinds or open the windows, as the thick humid air outdoors would do little to freshen the apartment. She set the toiletries beside the sink and the magazines on the coffee table, then spent a few minutes picking up clothes and toys scattered about the room, placing dirty dishes in the sink and food wrappers in the trash can. That can was overflowing; so she lifted out the full bag, sealed it with a twist tie, and inserted a new liner. She set the bag by the door to be tossed in the dumpster on her way back to her car. She wanted to rush out that door, with the trash and her morning's enthusiasm and hope still intact. And she knew Ronique wanted her gone, insofar as she could want anything other than relief from her pain.

But Becca couldn't just leave, couldn't concede defeat to pain and suffering—even in this one place, this one defeated woman—without some token of resistance, for her as much as Ronique. She returned to the couch and knelt on the floor beside Ronique's head, the woman's face and eyes turned toward the back of the couch. "The Ministry is forming a Home Nursing Group of retired professionals from our churches. The focus will be on preventative care through testing and the like, but I realize now we may want to look into rehab and chronic pain management. If we get this group going, would you be interested in their help?"

Ronique said nothing, didn't even move.

"Can I give them your name?"

Still no answer.

Becca shook her head and stood.

Beneath her in a whisper, the woman said, "I need help."

Becca nodded and touched her lightly on the shoulder. "I'll bring what I can."

Becca had a new name on her list—Adam Tucker. He lived in the same project as Ronique, three buildings away. She grabbed her clipboard off the front seat and left the car where it was parked, choosing to walk the short distance to Mr. Tucker's building through the parking lot's sweltering oven. Though sweat quickly formed on her brow and she had to squint against the brutal sun, Becca felt the heat and glare as regenerative after the stale grayness of Ronique's apartment and the life, if you could call it that, that apartment contained. By the time she reached the first floor apartment listed on her pad, she'd largely shed that cloud and found the way back to her earlier optimism.

In the relief from the sun (if not from the heat and humidity) offered by the breezeway above, Becca took a minute to review her notes before knocking on the door. Adam Tucker was a case that had come to her from County Social Services. He was a twenty-two-year-old (her age) African-American man who had recently been paralyzed from the chest down. Medicaid had overseen his hospital care and in-patient rehab, and Social Services had set him up in this apartment with a wheelchair and food stamps. Becca was here to see what gaps existed in these government services (she knew there'd be many) and if the Ministry could assist in filling any of those gaps. She didn't like what she called "reverse referrals"—Social Services sending her cases—when she had an overload of cases already. She preferred that the case flow go in the other direction—from her office to Social Services. But to preserve good will and cooperation, she accepted their occasional referrals and hoped this trickle would not one day become a flood.

After knocking loudly and firmly (an unnatural habit she'd been forced to learn), Becca heard a mechanized purr inside the apartment start then stop, start then stop. The door opened a crack.

"Wait a minute," a voice said through the opening, then the purr, then a crash as something fell over. "Oh, shit," the voice muttered. "You come in now."

Becca pushed the door open with her foot. After a moment her eyes adjusted to the apartment's dim entry hall, and she saw the neat cornrows at the top of a man's head as he bent over from a mechanized wheelchair to pick up some magazines strewn across the foyer next to a toppled table.

Becca stepped inside, set the table up against the wall, put her clipboard on the table, then helped the man pick up his magazines and newspapers.

The man handed her the two magazines he'd retrieved, then sat upright in the chair and watched her finish the cleanup. "Didn't know I got angel care with my food stamps and this raggedy chair."

Becca set the pile of periodicals on the table then faced him. "No angel care, just Becca Coles from Ecumenical Outreach Ministries."

"Ecu-what?" the man asked, soundless laughter animating his whole face with a child-like spontaneity and exuberance.

"Ecumenical," Becca said, trying to suppress an urge to laugh. "It means from multiple denominational—oh, forget it! I'm from a church ministry that tries to provide services that the government doesn't provide. County Social Services referred your name to me." She burst into laughter. "I'm sorry," she said when she'd caught her breath. "I'm not laughing at you; I'm laughing with you. Something about you makes me happy inside."

"I do that to folks," he said. "All my life. First they call me Tuck, then Yuck, then Luck, then Fuck. Always say it with a laugh. Then they call me Toot and think that funny as hell. 'Dance, Toot' they say. 'Show us you moves, Toot.' Now this," he said and looked down at the scrawny lifeless legs emerging from his cut-off jeans—emaciated thighs and calves, thin dry skin covering his bony knees and shins down to his limp swollen feet pushed into brown leather slippers. "Now I guess I be Tuck again."

"I'm sorry," Becca said, though a smile still curled up from her lips and lightly pinched the skin around her eyes.

"No need. I better off. And I still make people laugh. In rehab, they always put me out front during group exercise—make everybody laugh through they pain and suffering. I tell the man they should pay me. He say they is—'in the joy of helping others'. Maybe he from you Ecu Ministry. Thing is, he right. I always like to make folks laugh. Why stop now?"

"Why indeed, Mr. Tucker?" Becca said. "Thanks for making me laugh. I needed it."

"They always do," he said. "Come in and sit down, but let me go first. This crazy chair like to run you over if you get in the way. They say it rebuilt like new. I say it got a gremlin."

Becca followed in his herky-jerky wake to the small den off the narrow hallway barely wide enough for his chair and clearly not designed for wheelchair accessibility. He turned the chair into the den and parked it in a wide space in front of the window with a series of disjointed maneuvers. She waited for him to come to a full stop before stepping into the room and sitting in the one seat available—a thrift-shop version of a Queen Anne chair with wooden arms and legs and an upholstered (and stained) seat and back.

He looked at her with his sweet and open face of coffee-colored skin, droopy eyes and big ears but thin lips that seemed to always be moving, even when they were still. "I'd offer you something to drink but you'll have to get it youself. I'd spill every drop for I got back."

Becca said, "I'm fine, but thank you. Can I get you something?"

"Tuck fine. Glad for the company."

Becca nodded. "Tell me a little about yourself, Mr. Tucker." She balanced her clipboard on the right arm of the chair.

"Tuck," he said. "Ain't never been Mister. Ain't going to start now."

Becca nodded. "Tell me what happened to you, Tuck."

"Drive-by. Twenty-two slug smaller than a pea hit between T-6 and T-7 and cut my cord, it and pieces of bone it shatter. I hit the floor hard but everybody on the floor. That what you do when you hear the pop-pop-pop. You hit the floor. Then the pops stop and the tires screech and the homeys gone and everybody get up cept Toot. They say 'Come on, Toot. Get up, Toot. Show us you dance.' And I be trying to stand but my legs don't move. I hit 'em with my fists. I drag 'em side to side. Nothing. Ain't no pain. Didn't even see no blood till the medics cut off my shirt and find this little old hole in my side. And just like that Toot don't dance."

Becca shook her head. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be, angel. This Tuck's ticket out—this or dead. I like this."

"Nobody deserves to be shot and paralyzed at twenty-two."

"I did, much as anybody. I hang with the boys. I enjoy they protection and they pleasure. You don't think I get my nickname from playing the trumpet, do you?" His droopy eyes sparkled at the joke and his face dissolved in that silent laughter.

In fact Becca had hoped that horn playing was the reference, despite a more accurate realization born of these weeks in the trenches of poverty and drug plague. She kept silent and resisted her desire to laugh with him at the joke.

Tuck's silent laugh faded and he held her eyes in a moment of gravity all the more weighty in that light-hearted face. "I don't do dope no more. Don't got the money or the stash; wouldn't want it even if I did. Thing is, I never wanted it. Just a life to live. Don't ever think about it till that pea cut you cord."

"And all those friends you had?"

"Gone. They don't want to see me. They see me, they think. They think, they get killed. Nobody think in the hood, just act and react."

"Maybe if they'd think, they'd change."

"To what—banker? teacher? store clerk? They but one game in town; you play it till it ends or you get yanked."

"Like you." The words were harsher than she'd intended, harsher than she knew she had in her.

Tuck nodded. "Like I say—this a good thing, better than the other."

"What do you need for your new life, Mr. Tucker?"

"New friends to replace the old."

Becca smiled. "White O.K.?"

"White better."

"Why?"

"Don't know Toot."

Becca nodded. "Ecu Ministry types O.K.?"

"I'll practice the word."

"I visit on Tuesday mornings. I'll let other volunteers make their own arrangements. Your phone work?"

"If this chair don't bust it first."

"I'll see if I can get a serviceman to check those controls."

Tuck nodded. "Don't want to plow over my angel."

Becca stood. "She can run pretty fast if she has to."

"I see that."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Tucker." She shook his hand. It was as strong and sure as his legs were limp and helpless. "I'll let myself out—deprive your gremlin of the fun."

"He lonely already."

Becca skipped her visit to Marlene Saunders. Father Mark had told her that Mrs. Saunders was in the process of moving into a cottage in a newly opened retirement community south of town. She'd be sure to get Marlene's new address and stop by for a visit next Tuesday.

That left only Solomon Murphy. She had a week's worth of newspapers for him along with a battery-powered cassette player. She hoped to one day coordinate the sharing of cassettes between Solomon and his grandson Isaiah while Isaiah was on active duty; but for now she had to settle for cassettes of weekly news features and books on tape that she'd got from the Library for the Blind downtown. Though Solomon wasn't blind and apparently could read well enough, she guessed he'd appreciate the sound of a voice when hers, or the occasional neighbor's, wasn't available. She hoped he'd like readings of Haley's Roots and White's In Search of History. Both cassettes were first volumes of multi-volume sets, so she could add to them or end the experiment if he weren't interested.

The twenty-minute ride into the county gave her a chance to reflect on her already full morning. The visit with Tuck left her confused and uneasy. On the one hand, she was encouraged by his apparent resilience and equanimity in the wake of a horrific tragedy. On the other hand, she couldn't help but see a possible future for Jonah, and countless promising young boys like Jonah, in Tuck's inexorable implosion—a precious life pushed along by forces outside anyone's control till that life crashes one time, not to rise. The sound of Tuck's voice with its matter-of-fact pop-pop-pop sent a shudder of foreboding down her spine.

But the sun and the hot wind blowing through her hair and the pine woods and intermittent tobacco fields racing past steadily shouldered her confusion and doubts aside. Soon she was singing along with the radio, chanting the words of Pat Benetar's "Hit Me with Your Best Shot" and trying hard not to take the refrain's dare too much to heart.

When she stopped in front of Solomon's shack, the farmstead again appeared deserted. She climbed out of the car with a canvas tote containing the newspapers and cassette player and tapes, and peeked around the shady end of the house expecting to find him in his former place on the rough-hewn bench. But the bench was empty. She walked all the way around the shack—it didn't take long—but saw no one. She stepped up on the creaking porch and knocked on the plank door that didn't have a lock, just some leather hinges and a crude but ingenious wooden latch controlled by a wooden lever cut through a snug hole in the door.

"Mr. Murphy," she said softly. "Anybody home?"

No answer.

She lifted the latch and pushed the door open partway. "Hello?"

Still no answer.

She glanced around the inside of the shack. There wasn't much to see—a couple wooden chairs, a simple board table, a galvanized tub on a tall bench, a couple shelves nailed to the pine-log walls, a cot off in one corner, a woodstove at the back with a rusty pipe extending through the roof, a few lanterns placed strategically around the room. It was only then that Becca realized that one of the buildings behind the house must be a privy—Mr. Murphy had neither plumbing nor electricity. She was glad she'd got a battery-powered cassette player from the church supply room and bought extra batteries.

She pulled the door shut till the wood latch fell securely into its wooden strike. She turned and looked out across the farm and drive from the shade of the narrow porch. The only bright color in the entire landscape was the teal blue of her car, and she couldn't help but wonder—her mind drifting outside itself—how that color had found its way into this time-frozen place, who had let it into this world of muted earth tones, everything a shade of brown or green or gray, even the sky a hazy dull steel gray despite the full sun.

Becca sighed. It really was a stage set from a Caldwell drama, and Solomon an actor playing the role last week, off today. So what were these newspapers, these tapes? And what was her mission? Like last week, her head swirled, though in a crisis of identity this time. What did she think she was doing, playing in a world so far from home, on this vast stage for which she had no training, no history or instinct? And if this were a stage set—a place for her to visit but not live, certainly not impact or reshape—then what about Tuck and Ronique and even Jonah? What right did she have entering these other worlds, trying to change these foreign lives, and at whose invitation? The canvas bag felt like a lead weight. She couldn't budge from where she stood.

Then the sound of metal striking metal rang out across the land—ping, ping, ping. She gazed in the direction of the sound, across the long tobacco rows out into the hazy distance where pines that looked like gray feathers brushing the hair of a silver horizon marked the end of one field, start of another. Ping, ping, ping—the sound rang out again. This time she saw a silver glint there near the pine shadows, beyond the tobacco. She dropped her canvas bag near the door and started across the drive and through the field toward the sound, toward that flash in the gray, walking slowly at first then faster, then jogging through the tobacco plants, down the long and dusty fresh cultivated rows, jogging faster and faster till she could make out the tractor in the shade of the trees at the edge of the field and a dark arm rising above the body of the tractor with that glinting object and the ping, ping, ping of metal on metal clearer now, louder, like a homing beacon—in sound, in the glint of sun on chromed steel.

She slowed her jog to a fast walk to a slow walk. And her heart slowed too, eased as her panting breaths gradually calmed to long gulps of the close and humid air tainted by the acrid scent of the tobacco sap that clung to the skin of her calves where the leaves had brushed against them. By the time she reached the near side of the tractor parked in the shade of those pines she was laughing at herself—at her sudden irrational fear, at her panting run through the tobacco, at the sweat pouring off her face, staining her pink T-shirt. Looking at that shirt she realized now, a little late, that it wasn't just the teal-blue car that disrupted the earth tones of this ancient scene.

"Mr. Murphy?" Becca said tentatively.

The old black man stood on the far side of the tractor and squinted her way.

"It's Becca Coles, from the Ministry. It's Tuesday morning. I brought you your news from the outside world."

Solomon chuckled. "The fainting girl." He shook his head but didn't come around the tractor. "I'm glad to see you. I'd decided you was all in my imagination—some kind of mirage like they say they have in the desert. I'm glad you're real and glad I'm not as addled as I feared."

Becca circled around the tractor and extended her hand. "You're not half as glad to see me as I am to see you."

Solomon held up his grease-covered hands in explanation for why he didn't accept hers. "You do look a little out of sorts. Sun get to you again? That's a long hike from the house and not a lick of shade."

"Sir, I don't know what got to me!" she said with the glee and relief of one spared. "But I'm O.K. now—no fainting today. What's wrong with your tractor?"

"Nothing wrong with the tractor. Cultivator hooked a rock and bent the tine so it don't pull even. I knew that rock was there, hit it every year since I had this tractor and on back to when I trailed mules. I told myself this year I ain't going to hit it. And what I do? Hit it. I reckon the year I don't hit that rock will be the year they plant me in the ground—and probably be rocks down there too."

Becca laughed. "Not where you're going, sir."

Solomon fixed her in his steady gaze. "I thank you for the kindness and will hope it's true." He paused then added, "I would like to see Lilith again—and I know where she's at."

Becca nodded. "You'll see her, Mr. Murphy." And just like that, she was whole again—sure of herself and her calling.

"In the meantime, I got this broke cultivator. You see how to fix that in my future?"

Becca laughed. "I can tell good souls when I see them, but I'm no mechanic. Afraid you're on your own."

Solomon shrugged. "I'll straighten it enough to finish this cultivating. Maybe Isaiah be back before I need it again."

Becca's eyes lit up. "My boyfriend grew up on a farm. He's got a truck full of tools. He could give you a hand—not only with this but with other chores, till your grandson gets back."

Solomon laughed. "Most boys that get off the farm don't ever want to see one again."

"Not Zach. He misses the farm, talks all the time about plowing and planting and harvesting. They even raised tobacco, but not this type."

"Tobacco's tobacco—all grow about the same, I believe."

"And all needs cultivating. I bet Zach has plenty of experience fixing cultivators. He could help straighten that tine, or put a new one on."

"You got a lot of confidence in your boyfriend."

"Zach can do anything."

"Like his girlfriend."

Becca shook her head. "I can't do anything without help from people like you, Mr. Murphy."

"I'm just a farmer, child. Been one all my life."

"Saved my life last week, my hopes today."

"Just being me."

"All I could ask for." She pointed back toward the house. "I left you some newspapers and a tape player by your door. Try it out. If you like it, I'll bring more tapes, maybe see if I can get Isaiah to send some."

"Now you talking gibberish, girl."

"Just try it, Mr. Murphy," Becca said over her shoulder as she headed back down the tobacco rows. "I'll ask Zach to stop out."

Solomon waved above the tractor with the hammer in his hand, its shiny head glinting in the sun.

"Thank you, Mr. Murphy," she shouted—to the tobacco and the day as much as to the man.

"Anytime, child," Solomon said quietly before giving the cultivator tine a few more well-placed whacks, the metal striking metal ringing out over the field of pungent green.

Chapter 14

When Becca arrived at the school, Jonah emerged from the crowd of students huddled in the shade of the portico around one of the other teachers overseeing end-of-day pick-up. He strode confidently out into the bright sun and pointed toward the empty parking lot on the far side of the pick-up lanes. Becca stared back at him and raised her hands in question. He gave her an indulgent grin but didn't say a word despite her proximity and the car's open windows. He waved for her to follow and, after checking in both directions (there were no other cars in sight), stepped out into the pick-up lanes in front of her car and led the way to the entrance to the lot and over to the nearest marked space, waving for her to follow over his head, then signaling her with hand gestures into the parking space and signing for her to stop just as her front tires hit the curb. He crossed his arms and gave her a nod of approval from his perch on the bank beyond the curb.

Becca shook her head from behind the windshield, then turned off the car and stepped out into the sun. "They training you to be a traffic cop?"

"Teacher say no parking in the lanes. I need to show you where."

"Now I'm here, what do I do?"

"Follow me." He took her hand and led her back toward the school, pausing again to check the lanes in both directions before crossing and striding confidently up the long walk and past the other students.

Becca glanced at the monitoring teacher—a bald man with thick glasses and a slight pot belly hanging over his khaki pants and woven belt—and gave him a shrug and a smile as she passed the group and entered the school. Despite her light-hearted gesture, she felt a momentary foreboding at this after-school excursion, recalled detentions and teacher or principal's conferences as the only reasons one ever stayed after school. "Jonah, where are you taking me?"

Jonah said, "It's a surprise."

"A good one, I hope."

"You see."

He led her down the hall and up to the door to his classroom. He knocked softly and looked through the slot of glass. The lights were out but the windows let in plenty of natural light, and they both saw movement on the far side of the glass. Mrs. Anders opened the door with a big smile. "Good," she said. "You convinced her to come."

Becca shook her head. "No convincing about it—he gave me no choice."

Mrs. Anders nodded. "That works. I hope you have time to spare."

"All the time in the world."

"Come on, Me-bec," Jonah said, tugging at her wrist.

Mrs. Anders stepped aside and let the pair pass.

Jonah led Becca to his table. There, spread out in neat order, were three drawings. The first two were rough sketches in pencil on large sheets of newsprint—the first of stars in the sky, a crescent moon, planets (including not one but two with rings like Saturn's), and roaming spaceships; the other was a landscape of water striking the shore backed by mountains and a sky with clouds and the sun. The sketches, though crude and clearly hurried, each showed Jonah's nascent gift for blending the surreal with the literal. At the far end of the table was a smaller dark print on heavy mauve-colored construction paper. Jonah reached the end of the table ahead of her and turned on a small goose-necked lamp next to the drawing.

It took Becca's eyes a minute to adjust to the light, then decipher the drawing's intricate interlocking of geometric shapes all in black ink pulling the eye toward an octagonal center where three simple figures stood: a black woman in a pale-blue dress, a blond woman in tan shorts and a pink shirt, a black boy in white shirt and dark pants between the other two. Though the figures were very small, like miniatures inside a sugar-crystal egg, their facial features and even their hands and fingers were all clearly defined—and recognizable. The combination of geometric detail in austere black and white with the human detail in color at the center was striking and, to Becca at least, completely original.

Jonah, normally so quiet, couldn't stand the silence. "What you think, Me-bec? You like it?"

Becca reached out and pulled his head into her chest in a quick hug. "It's amazing, Jonah. Where in the world did you come up with such a unique idea?"

"You say Me-maw's pen for pretty designs. I decide to try them designs here. But I don't like just the designs. So I put you and Me-me-maw and me in the middle with some color. I like people more than designs and color more than black and white."

"But the patterns are beautiful, Jonah. You need to experiment more with that."

"Maybe later, Me-bec. First I got some big pictures. Miss Anders have me practice draw some ideas. That's what on the other paper—practice pictures. You like outer space or ocean?"

"I love them both. Which do you like better?"

"I drawn the ocean. Maybe I try space next."

"The final frontier," Becca said.

"What's that?"

Becca laughed and scrubbed his curly head. "A new thing to draw."

"Plenty more where that come from," Jonah said.

Chapter 15

Late the next morning, Zach drove out to Solomon Murphy's farm and spotted him in the hazy distance walking the rows of his tobacco. As Zach got close enough he could see that the old man was worming, checking under any leaf that showed the tell-tale signs of tobacco worm—a ragged raw edge where the bright green caterpillar with the nasty-looking but harmless red spike had just completed its last meal. These exotic caterpillars looked like they were taken directly out of a child's book of fantasy monsters. But the damage they could wreak was all too real, consuming a full leaf in a day, most of a young plant in a week. If you didn't keep them in check, an infestation could decimate a crop. And the only way to keep them in check was to go through the rows on foot, turn the gnawed leaf over, pick the worm off by hand, and squish it under foot.

This was a hot and tedious chore Zach had done on his family's farm from early childhood, sometimes—like Solomon today—in bare feet, feeling the masticated tobacco pulp squirt out from the caterpillar's guts and up between his toes. Zach realized just now, as he approached Solomon, that there was a farmer's visceral satisfaction in feeling the worm squish under a bare foot—intimately feeling the protection of one's crop, one's livelihood—a visceral gratification necessarily absent in broadcast pesticides or even the worm squished under rubber-soled boot. Zach found a caterpillar Solomon had missed, pulled it off the leaf and squished it under his boot toe, glad this day to be spared the singular sensation of worm guts squirting between his toes.

"Miss Coles don't lie," Solomon said without looking up.

"Never, to my knowledge," Zach answered, stepping one row over and coming abreast of the old man in his denim overalls with no shirt underneath. "But how so?"

"You been around tobacco. You know the drill."

"Since early days—broad-leaf, not gold-leaf, but all pretty much the same. Used to think if they cut me, tobacco sap'd come out instead of blood. Might still, though it's been years since I suckered or stripped leaves. Or squished worms."

"Plenty work here if you feeling homesick." Solomon stood up straight and fixed a wide-eyed gaze on him despite the bright sun full in his weathered face.

Zach nodded. "Might just take you up on that, sir. Haven't been in a spot that smelled this open and free since back home."

Solomon returned to checking plants—strolling down the row and lifting leaves with a rhythmic, swaying motion. "Open, yes. But nothing free about this. Hard work, and lots of it."

"Part of what makes it free—got to earn the gift."

"Been earning all my life, still waiting the gift."

"Forgive me if I presume to say it's coming."

"Forgive me if I presume to say I hope you know what you talking about."

Zach laughed. "My dad would love you."

Solomon scoffed. "Farmer talk. Nothing but a bunch of nonsense. God have the final say—all we can do is try to keep up. Harder each year to keep pace."

"If you'll have me, I'll come by now and again to help you."

"Could use a hand with Isaiah gone."

"Monday and Wednesday afternoons O.K.?"

"One day same as the other out here."

"It's a deal, then."

"Can't pay much."

"Try me out for free, sir. Pay me what you can spare after you sell your crop."

"You a trusting soul."

"Don't worry. I'll be getting plenty in return."

Solomon dropped an especially big worn to the dusty soil. It squished with a faint pop. "Like worms to squish?"

Zach laughed. "That and more." He turned to head back down the row.

Behind him, Solomon said, "You young'uns got strange ideas."

Zach stopped and faced him from ten feet away. "That reminds me—Becca wants to know if you fixed the cultivator?"

"Straightened enough to finish. Still cock-eyed."

"We'll take a look at it when I come back on Monday."

"Suit yourself."

On his way back to town, Zach pulled off onto a gravel turnout to eat his lunch under a solitary and massive pecan tree that divided its shade between the turnout and the edge of a field of young soybeans that stretched along this side of the road for a flat quarter-mile in either direction. At first he thought he'd eat that lunch while seated in the relative security of the truck cab. But at the last minute he changed his mind. He climbed out of the truck with the brown bag holding a bologna and mayo sandwich, two oatmeal cookies from a batch Becca'd made and frozen weeks earlier, and a banana, along with his insulated thermos containing home-made lemon zinger iced tea. He sat against the tree's rugged trunk and looked out across the broad field that merged with the horizon in all directions—at least those he could see from where he sat. By looking out over the field and parking his truck between the tree and the road, he blocked what was on the far side of the highway—the manicured lawn and tree lined two-lane drive that led up to a sprawling contemporary office building labeled by the sign beside the road as the southeast headquarters of a federal agency. This time of day, there was little traffic in or out of the facility; but around quitting time there'd be a back-up of cars exiting that drive, and several pick-up trucks parked in this turnout, loaded down with melons and peaches and tomatoes from early season crops harvested down east, for sale to those home-bound federal employees.

But for the moment, Zach ignored the building's looming and incongruous presence as he nibbled on his sandwich and sipped his cool, mint-spiced tea and gazed across the sea of green, only the occasional approach then fade of a car racing past to disrupt his tranquility. For the first time since moving down here over a year ago, he felt almost at home. More accurately, he felt he could make this place a home. The incessant heat was still oppressive, the thick humid air almost unbreathable (at least in anything other than shallow sips), and the lack of natural water a nagging deprivation. But green was green and open space open space and well-tilled rows of crops—whether corn, soybeans, tobacco—still well-tilled rows of crops: nourishment for heart and soul to be found in that order and growth, wherever you found it.

He also recognized the importance of Solomon's voice and words in prompting this new-found optimism, that old familiar tone of indulging God and nature, bearing their wild and fickle impulses, a kinship of common struggle whatever the color your skin or your soil. He'd not fully understood till this morning how much he'd missed the farmer's voice and ethic, how much he needed it as a part of his life.

And finally he saw a potential home in Becca, not only in her body and abundant natural grace (gifts he'd identified and honored every way he could since the day he'd met her) but also in her discovered calling to offer her bottomless open heart to those most in need. He could never be that generous and kind, but maybe he could participate in that goodness by fulfilling his natural calling to love and support her.

There was a home to be found, to be made in this place. Zach took a moment to recline in the serenity and peace of that understanding. Then he balled up the now-empty lunch bag, screwed the cap on his thermos, and climbed into the hot truck for the drive to Snake's house—to pay the price, or at least make a down payment, on the purchase of that precious home.

Chapter 16

Later, after finishing the repairs at Snake's—reinstalling the toilet, clearing clogs in the drains of the bathroom and kitchen sinks, reconnecting the ground wire to the fuse box—Zach had just got home and was headed for the shower when the phone rang.

"Can you pick Jonah up at school?" Becca asked with an unfamiliar edge to her voice.

"Sure. What's the matter?"

"I've got a flat tire."

"Where are you?"

"At the church."

"No problem, Bec. I'll get Jonah home, then come help you with the tire. Just sit tight."

"Zach, I've got two flat tires, both on the driver's side." Her voice cracked ever so slightly on the last word.

Zach felt his heart fall, way down into his stomach. "Anyone else's car get hit?"

"They're all gone. But no—if they'd been vandalized, they'd be in here with me, calling a tow truck or triple-A."

"Any other damage?"

"Not that I noticed, but I didn't look very close. I came back in here and called you."

"Call the police."

"What should I tell them?"

"That your car's been vandalized."

"Anything else?"

"I don't know, Bec. That's your call. Is the church locked?"

"Yes."

"Stay inside till the police arrive. I'll get there quick as I can."

"Don't tell Jonah."

"What?"

"About the two tires. I don't want to worry him."

Zach scoffed. "What about me?"

"Too late."

"Yeah. For us both."

Becca sat on the passenger-side seat of the truck with the door open, facing out with her feet on the running board. She watched as Zach raised one tire with the jack from the truck, then the other tire with the jack he dug out of the car's trunk. "You sure I can't help?" she asked in a thin and tired voice.

"Sit tight, Bec. No need for you to get covered with sweat and grease when I'm already grimy."

"I feel so helpless just sitting here."

"You're not helpless—you're supervising."

She laughed. "Straighten that jack!" she ordered. "Don't get your fingers caught! Pop that hubcap off!"

"That's the spirit!"

"Tell me this didn't happen!" she ordered, her voice trailing off at the end.

Zach sighed. He broke free all the lug nuts on the front tire then raised the jack to take the weight off. He put the cross-shaped lug wrench on the first of those nuts and gave it a sharp flick. The wrench spun easily on the cradle of his palm and the nut came off the lug, cradled in the socket of the wrench. He repeated the sequence with the other four nuts. "What did the cops say?"

"Vandalism."

"That's it."

"That there's lots of it in this part of town. The other night, they had twenty-eight tires slashed on one street; last week, four windshields shot out with a pellet gun."

He lifted the tire off the lugs and leaned it against the side of the truck. Off the car, the tire regained its normal symmetry. Zach saw the small puncture in its sidewall. It looked like it was made by an icepick or a small-bladed knife. He didn't look at it closely or point it out to Becca. "Any other vandalism in this area today?"

"He didn't say. I didn't ask."

Zach turned his attention to removing the rear tire. "What did you tell him?"

"Name, rank, serial number, insurance company. What else was there to say?"

"Who might've done this, or had it done."

"What should I have told him, Zach?" she said, her voice rising in volume and emotion. "That I've hijacked the eight-year-old son of a crackhead to give the kid a chance at a better life and now the crackhead is maybe straight, is maybe pissed, is maybe looking to get even with the girl who took her son or maybe scare that girl away or both? How would that sound in a police report?"

"Like the truth, if you switched a few of the 'maybes' with 'probably'."

"Like a scared child with an active imagination. And even if the guy wrote it in the report—shaking his head the whole time, I'm sure—what good would that do? Nobody knows where Latonya is. And even if you could find her, no cop's going to scare her away from doing what she wants or needs to do, if it is her that did it—which we don't know."

Zach gave the lug wrench such a furious spin that the nut came loose and the wrench kept on spinning so fast it twirled out of his palm and rolled a few feet across the pavement before falling to the asphalt with a high-pitched clatter. "So what are you going to do?" he asked, staring at the tire hanging from the hub by one lug.

She touched his shoulder lightly, hoping not to scare him. Then she squatted beside him and laid her head on that shoulder and looped her arm around his neck and pulled him against her. "I'm going to keep on doing what I've been doing," she said in a low firm voice near his ear. "If Latonya wants to talk, I'll talk—anytime, anyplace. Well, anytime and anyplace that's safe. She's Jonah's mother and she should be involved in his life. But I'm not going to abandon Jonah now, Zach." She paused a moment, then added, "No matter how scared I am."

Zach released a long slow sigh, then turned his head just enough to kiss the back of her hand hanging limply in front of his chest. He slid out from under her embrace and finished removing the second tire, loaded them both and all the tools into the back of the truck. By then Becca was again on the passenger seat of the truck, facing forward this time. Zach got into the driver's side, started the engine and pointed them toward home, leaving the car, tilted askew on its paired jacks, in the encroaching dusk.

Chapter 17

Jonah sat stiffly on the truck's seat between them staring at Zach's hand on the gear shift as he guided that lever on its climb through four gears while accelerating out of the gravel road onto the main road to the school. "When you get your car fixed, Me-bec?" he asked, his eyes still fixed on Zach's hand on the lever though that hand was finished shifting, for the moment.

"Zach'll go by the tire place this morning. Should be fixed in time to pick you up this afternoon."

"Why they two tires back there?"

Becca glanced at Zach above the boy's head.

Zach said, "Spare was flat. Figured we'd get them both fixed."

Jonah thought a minute, then said, "When Momma have a car, she drive on the spare till it give out, then just leave the car by the side of the road and we walk away. Never see that car again. Never have a car again."

"She needed Zach to help out," Becca said, touching the boy's shoulder with her near hand.

"Soldier," Jonah said.

Becca nodded. "Always there when you need him," she said, winking at Zach above the boy.

"Needed Soldier," Jonah said quietly, staring at Soldier's hand on the shift knob in front of him.

That afternoon Zach rapped loudly at Snake's front door. Though somewhat distracted, Zach couldn't help but feel pride at that door's sharp-edged symmetry and full engagement of the new vinyl weather-stripping at the sides and top, and the lack of a gap at the sill. The house might fall down around it, but that refurbished door with its new hardware and hinges and weather stripping would stand solid and sure. That absurd image of this door straight and true amidst a pile of rubble brought an ironic grin to Zach's face.

"Thought you finished," Snake hissed from his slot behind the shade.

"I am."

"County happy?"

"Inspections accepted my report of compliance. You're good for another six months. After that, you're on your own."

"Snake always on his own."

"Of that I'm sure."

"What you want?"

"I want you to keep Latonya away from Becca."

"She ain't my bitch, fool. What you talking to me for?"

"Because I can't talk to her. Don't know where she is."

"Think I do? Ain't seen her sorry ass since I cut her off two days gone."

"And you don't know where she is?"

"You think I her Momma? She go where she please. I told her don't come round here less she got some green. Ain't nothing but trouble no how."

"So we've discovered."

"You choice, fool. What you think going to happen, messing where you don't belong?"

Zach nodded. "I'm asking for your help. I'm asking you to tell her to back off before someone gets hurt."

"Not my problem. Snake got enough mess without jumping in another's."

"A favor, then," Zach said.

"Favors get people hurt."

Zach stared directly at where the eyes were behind that dark slot. "If anything happens to Becca, I'll be back with something other than favors."

A derisive laugh came out of the slot. "And I thought we was friends."

"We could be."

"Then stick with repairs, friend. The other don't fit, get you killed."

"That a threat?"

"A warning, fool. Not me you got to worry about." The shade fell back to its natural place.

In the middle of the night Becca rose above him in an exchange well-practiced yet utterly new. All her weight drilling down from the shadows above balanced on his hips, twin foci of support—almost too much to bear, too much to fathom. The rest of her light as air, this strange exotic other-worldly air that not only brought breath and life but engulfed and upraised and exalted, paused him, poised him in a momentary eternal stasis that knew no hunger or harm or fear or aloneness, a glimpse frozen in time, God's snapshot, of perfect love and congruity.

This pause then tumbling forward to the old frantic release, the clawing screaming in the ear panting grinding of teeth cramping of toe foot calf unburdening that was this night somehow different for that which had appeared before, that which would descend after.

She remained seated astride him, both finished, her weight slowly spreading outward from his hips, across his pelvis, his thighs, his belly, his waist. Her weight spreading upward and downward though she stayed froze upright above him, her weight spreading outward like gentle waves to knees shins ankles toes, to ribs nipples neck chin lips nose eyes crest of head. She swallowed him in her ocean. He gladly drowned.

Zach sat up with Becca still atop him, brought his face even with hers, laid his damp left cheek against her same skin, slid his arms around her waist as she draped hers over his shoulders. And from that ending that was also a starting, he with both hands did a slow search of every inch her body, from her toes curled tight beside his knees and upward over her precious palpable presence to where his fingers gently separated hair from hair where the follicles entered her scalp at the part, his thumbs hooked lightly on her ears. And she endured his praise, freely surrendered this time to adoration.

Chapter 18

On the clear hot Saturday morning, Zach and Becca decided to take their landlord up on his offer of a day's use of his double-wide parked on a waterfront lot at Bodie Lake, the state's largest manmade reservoir, the lot about an hour's drive north of Shefford along a thinly travelled interstate and a few miles of country roads. Becca's first impulse was to call Mrs. Brackett to see if Jonah wanted to join them, but she suppressed that initial urge. Jonah was safe with his great-grandmother and well-supplied with art projects and weekend reading assignments from Mrs. Anders. This day would be for her and Zach.

They hurried about the small kitchen like excited school kids before a field trip and threw together a lunch commensurate to that theme—diagonally sliced peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches with store-bought white bread, potato chips in pleated plastic bags, seedless white grapes washed and wrapped in paper towels, and a four bottles of cream soda buried in ice in a small red and white cooler.

Becca closed the bedroom door before slipping into her one-piece bathing suit and Zach wondered about this sudden modesty. After a couple minutes, he tapped on the door.

"Yes?"

"You O.K.?"

The door swung partway open. "Couldn't be better," she said as she stepped back and pulled on her shorts over the bathing suit and tucked in the pale blue T-shirt. "Why?"

He took two strides forward and hugged her with all his strength. "Because I love you."

"Not too tight," she said and squirmed in his embrace.

He relaxed his arms but kept them loosely wrapped around her. "And I also do as I'm told."

She laughed. "Then you won't throw me in the water if I'm not ready?"

He reached down, grabbed her around the hips, and tossed her over his shoulder. "What about when you are ready?" He carried her into the kitchen then the living room as if prowling around for some body of water to toss her in.

She giggled into his shoulder and lightly pounded on his back with her fists. "Zach, let me down," she cried though, like the long-ago schoolgirl she once again was, she hoped against her plea that this frisky boy would never set her down.

The double-wide shoe-horned between two behemoth pines was adequate to their needs—a place to park the car, stow their lunch, pee, freshen up. But the tidy sandy beach on a picturesque cove and the clear cool water sparkling under the blue skies and bright sun—that was far better than they'd expected or dared to hope. It certainly wasn't the ocean—lacking the waves, the incessant sound of surf, the salt-scent, the pesky gulls—but it was darned good enough, in some ways even better than the ocean—calmer, more private, no human visible along the tree-dotted shoreline undulating in either direction: a human-scale big-water shore, only without the humans. What more could they ask for?

Zach posed that exact question to Becca after they'd spread their blanket then towels on the white imported sand, after she'd laid down on her stomach in the sun on one of those towels and he'd taken a quick swim in the cool but not cold water, doing a series of backward somersaults in the clear water then reversing his spin and doing a longer series of forward somersaults, glimpsing the sun at the peak of each loop before descending again into the dim deep to rise to the sun, time and again, embracing with youthful joy the water and the sun and the day and his life. "What more could we ask for?" he said to her and the blue dominated setting after sitting on the other towel with his arms resting on his wet knees and staring across their small cove and into the broad channel to the trees on the far side.

Becca closed the paperback Dune and laid the side of her face on the warm towel, looking up at him with one eye open, the other hidden below. "For time to stop."

He thought about that a minute then nodded slowly. "How long?"

"Oh, about a thousand years."

"Then we resume where we left off?"

"No. We're a thousand years smarter. The world's a thousand years better."

"Or worse."

Becca closed her one eye and nestled her face into the soap-scented towel backed by the soft blanket backed by the soft sand. "Don't say that, Zach; don't even think it," she whispered into the towel.

Zach turned around and lay on his stomach beside her, let his face slowly slide along the soft cloth till it came up against and nuzzled her lotion-scented neck. "Will your skin be a thousand years drier?"

"Mmmm," she cooed. "Mummy-dried skin with sunk-in cheeks and a sharp-edged jaw with big yellow teeth sticking out under dark holes for eyes."

Zach lapped lightly at the moist and incredibly soft skin beside his lips. "Then you know what I think?"

"What?" she said, her face still buried in the towel.

"Before you freeze time for a thousand years—"

"Yes?"

"The one thing we absolutely must do—"

"Whisper it to me, Mr. Always Horny and Can't Ever Get Enough."

"Is roll your twenty-two year old body over—"

"Yes," she cooed as he slid his hands under her thighs and breasts and gently rolled her over.

"And slide my twenty-four year old hands here—" He slid one hand up under her butt as she raised her thighs slightly to give him better access.

"O.K."

"And here—" And slid his other hand up under her shoulders and around her neck.

"I like where this is heading."

"And I lower my face to your young and warm and expectant lips—"

"Sounds better by the minute," she said, her eyes closed the whole time.

"And just before I touch my lips to your soft ruby-colored lips of youth and vitality—"

"Yes."

"I pass my lips close to your ear—"

"Tell me."

"And whisper that if we're going to be frozen for a thousand years—"

"Mm-hmm."

"Then I might as well say—"

"I'm waiting."

"It's time to—"

"Please."

"Throw you in the water whether you're ready or not!"

She screamed as he picked her up and cradled her in his arms and ran best he could across the narrow beach and splashed out into the water still holding her and stumbled and splashed still holding her, refusing to let her go and Becca screaming and laughing hysterically the whole time till he finally stopped in chest-deep water still holding her in his arms and her screams and laughter stopped as her lips locked on his and simply wouldn't part from there as he spun slowly eyes closed in the brilliant flashing stars inside their heads and the one brilliant star outside their heads and the world of blue with seconds passing into minutes passing into a thousand years though their welded lips remained soft and pliant the whole time.

Chapter 19

Becca woke with a start in the middle of the night and grabbed the receiver of the phone and pulled it to her ear. "Hello."

"Me-bec!"

She sat bolt upright. "What's the matter, Jonah?" she shouted into the phone.

"Me-bec—." The line went dead.

"Jonah?" Becca shouted into the receiver. "Jonah!"

A dial tone filled the silence in her ear.

Becca jumped out of bed without turning on the light and started to pull on the jeans she'd draped over the chair before going to bed.

"What's up, Bec?" Zach said sleepily, his head still in the pillow.

"It's Jonah. Something's wrong."

Zach sat up and scrubbed at his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know. He just said my name then hung up or had the phone taken away. I don't know, Zach. Something's wrong." She tried to put on the T-shirt by feel and got it backwards. "Can I please turn on the light?" she shouted.

"Sure, Bec. Go ahead." By now he was out of the bed and moving around to where she was standing in front of the dresser in the dark.

The lamp on the nightstand came on with a blinding brilliance. Becca had her jeans on and a bra and quickly straightened the T-shirt and slid it on over her head and arms.

Zach came around and slid between her and the dresser. He put his hands on her shoulders and tried to fix on her eyes with his still somewhat clouded by sleep. "Calm down, Becca. Tell me what happened."

She took a deep breath. "It was Jonah on the phone. He said my name twice then the line went dead. He sounded terrified."

"How do you know it was him?"

"I recognized his voice, Zach. I know his voice. And he called me Me-bec."

Zach nodded. "So what are you doing?" He checked the clock on the nightstand. It was 2:12.

"I'm going to Mrs. Brackett's."

"Whoa. Whoa, Bec. Wait a minute. You can't go over there in the middle of the night."

"Why not?"

"That's a warzone after dark. Besides, you don't even know if that's where he is."

"I don't know anywhere else to look." Her hands and shoulders were shaking violently.

Zach hugged her then guided her to a seat on the edge of the bed. "Sit here a minute. Take a few deep breaths."

"We've got to do something, Zach."

"I know. We will. If you'll promise to stay put a minute, I'm going to call Mrs. Brackett's house."

Becca nodded. "O.K." She took a long deep breath and held it in her lungs before releasing it in a drawn-out exhalation.

Zach went to the kitchen and dialed Mrs. Brackett's number taped beside the wall phone. He let the phone on the other end ring twelve times before hanging up, each plaintive ring like a groan of increasing intensity in his heart—not for Jonah or Mrs. Brackett but for Becca gasping behind him.

He returned to the bedroom. "No answer."

"She says her phone sometimes doesn't work."

"If Jonah was calling from there, then it was working."

Becca nodded. "So maybe he's not there."

Zach shrugged. "Maybe not, but it's a place to start. Even if he's not there, she might know where he is." He took his jeans off the hook on the closet door and put them on.

"Maybe we should call the police," Becca said.

"And tell them what? That you think you got a call from a boy no relation to you and he might be in trouble but we don't know where he is or what kind of trouble?"

Becca nodded. "So what should we do?"

"I'll drive by Mrs. Brackett's house."

"Zach—."

Zach raised his hand to stop her protest. "I won't even get out of the truck if there's any hint of trouble. I'll just drive by and take a look. In the meantime, you keep trying her number and stay near the phone in case Jonah calls again."

"And I'm just sitting here waiting?"

"You're here if Jonah calls. You're trying Mrs. Brackett's number."

"And if you don't come back?"

"If I'm not back in half an hour, or call you from Mrs. Brackett's to say everything is O.K., call the police and send them over there."

Becca nodded. "I hate sending you out there. It's not your fight."

"It's ours," he said as he finished tying his work boots.

She nodded in resignation. "Be careful," she said, not rising from her seat on the bed, feeling all but paralyzed with fear and confusion and doubt.

"Always am," he said. He leaned across the bed and kissed the top of her head. "I love you."

"You too," she said, barely a whisper.

Chapter 20

The street was totally deserted and totally dark. In all his earlier visits, Zach had failed to notice the lack of streetlights, but now their absence was all too apparent and ominous as he turned off the paved road. He down-shifted into first gear—a creeper gear designed for fieldwork—and the truck moved forward at a crawl. Not only was the street dark but so were all the houses. This made sense for the numerous structures that were boarded up or vacant, but even the occupied ones were not marked by even a nightlight's glow. He tried to remember which houses were occupied then realized he couldn't. This late at night, they were all the same. To a carload of punks driving by with guns pointed or bricks to throw, they were all equal, all dead and deserted.

He slowly approached Mrs. Brackett's house on one side, Snake's on the other. Both were dark. He wished his headlights had a wider spread so he could better see around each house, but their glow only reached a little ways off the road and showed nothing along the houses' sides or back yards. To get a fuller view, he'd have to angle the truck in the road and shine his lights directly at the house; and he chose not to disrupt the peace and quiet of the setting through such an aggressive action, an action that might prompt a call to the police or a volley of gunshots.

He reached the dead end of the road a quarter-mile farther on, littered with more trash than the county landfill and looking especially forsaken in the limited reach of the truck's lights. He turned around, careful not to run over a discarded mattress, and headed back the way he'd come at the same creeping speed. As he came up on Mrs. Brackett's house from the other side, the bedroom side, he was praying to see some glimmer of light through those gable-end windows. But there was nothing. He could barely make out the end of the house from the surrounding night. Then he recalled how Becca had said Jonah's windows were all taped over with dark paper. There's no way he'd know from outside if anyone were inside.

As he crept past the house, his first thought was to keep going, drive on home and wait for morning—it wasn't but a few hours away—to try to sort this all out. But then he imagined Becca's face after telling her he hadn't found Jonah and didn't even know if he were at Mrs. Brackett's or not. He couldn't bear that sadness, that confusion, that desperation. He directed the creeping truck to the side of the road just beyond the house, the spot where he and Becca always parked when visiting, though facing the opposite direction and in dark black as pitch now.

He switched off the engine and cut the lights. He closed his eyes to let his pupils adjust to the darkness behind the lids, hoping it might be just a little darker than the darkness outside the lids, that his eyesight so adjusted might extract more from his surroundings. And when he opened his eyes it did seem he could see better, perceive more out of the night—the edge of the road as it threaded off toward the main road, the silhouette of the abandoned house on the next lot ahead, a leaning mailbox on the far side of the gravel track.

He reached into the glove compartment for the flashlight that was always there—and discovered it missing. He immediately recalled last using it while clearing the clogged drain under Snake's kitchen sink. It must still be in that cabinet, just yards from where he sat but useless to him now. He shook his head, more troubled by his negligence at forgetting to collect the flashlight than at its absence. All his life, through childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood, he'd prowled the night alone—spying on unsuspecting friends in the neighborhood, hunting foxes, roaming deserted Boston alleyways—and he'd never carried a flashlight, felt that such artificial light would be an affront to the enfolding night, and would only draw attention to his presence. So he didn't have a flashlight now—that was small concern. He could see what he had to see. Mrs. Brackett could add artificial light or not, as she saw fit, once he knocked on her door.

He stepped out into the night and closed the door gently till he heard the latch click. He was surprised at how well he could see and wondered if some source of light had been added without his noticing—a cloud cleared from in front of the moon? a pre-dawn glow from the eastern sky? some back porch light he'd missed? He looked about but discovered no source for whatever light guided his way. He shrugged to himself but by now was completely comfortable in this night, felt an old kinship in this new setting. He turned and walked slowly but confidently toward Mrs. Brackett's front porch, using silent "Indian steps"—his heel-to-toe footfalls making virtually no sound on the rough gravel.

He reached the porch steps and was just starting to consider whether it would be better to knock on the door or call out through the thin walls when the club hit him squarely on the left side of his face. He fell hard to the porch floor, in that initial instant as much shocked by this treachery out of the old familiar night as by the blow itself. Then the club glanced off his shoulder and hit the other side of his face as he tried to sit up. The back of his head cracked against the floor.

The porch light came on. In a split second's clarity of sight and awareness that was really more a frozen snapshot of vision than any perceived sense of time-propelled motion, Zach saw an unfamiliar black man standing over him with a baseball bat, Latonya with a gleaming small knife in her hand just behind him, and a voice—the word was part of this snapshot, frozen in time, with shape and dimension—saying "No" firmly, absolutely.

He didn't see the muzzle flash or hear the boom that followed. He'd fallen beyond the time-driven order of things.

### Part III

Chapter 1

Becca stopped by Mrs. Brackett's on the way home from the hospital. She leaned forward to hug the small woman after she opened the door, but she flinched ever so slightly. So Becca stood back upright without touching her. In response Mrs. Brackett extended her hands palm up. Becca offered hers and the old dry but soft cream-colored palms cradled her hands in a long embrace somehow more meaningful and intimate than the strongest hug or a collapse together from exhaustion or emotion. Becca left her hands in that cradle of safety and trust until the woman used the point of contact to gently pull her through the doorway then released her to the dim sanctuary beyond and shut the door.

Becca waited until Mrs. Brackett turned and shuffled off to her chair in front of the blank T.V. Becca followed and sat on the straight-back wooden chair that now seemed to have a permanent place beside the well-worn upholstered one. The two women looked at each other with shy glances in the room's shaded light, almost like meeting for the first time or as if aware they shared a secret that neither was supposed to know. Becca decided she wouldn't be the first to speak. If she sat there an hour in this charged silence then rose and left, so be it. She would still have what she'd come for.

"I knew they was out there," Mrs. Brackett said while staring down at her beige poplin dress. "And I saw him drive by. But I never thought he'd get out. That's the part I missed."

"He told me he wouldn't."

"So why did he?"

"He said he thought it was safe."

Mrs. Brackett shook her head slowly and clicked her tongue against the top of her mouth.

"Said he wanted to be sure Jonah was O.K."

"Jonah wasn't here. She'd grabbed him and took him away."

"So he didn't call from here."

"Phone been dead all week."

Becca nodded—all the chances missed, all the false assumptions made in the night. "You O.K.?"

"Same as yesterday, same as tomorrow."

"Neighbors giving trouble?"

"Don't pay them no mind." She chuckled, the sound way down in her throat. "They say I'm the crazy woman shoot her kin to save a white boy. They never have no sense no how."

That seemed as good an ending as any. The two women sat in a new and spreading pool of silence. Becca wondered if she should leave.

Jonah emerged from his bedroom and walked silently up to Becca's chair. She greeted him with a surprised and delighted smile though he wouldn't meet her eyes. He tucked his face into her shoulder and she wrapped her arms around him. Tears streamed down her face and splashed onto the top of his head and trickled past his ear.

He slowly pushed away from her embrace and handed her a folded piece of blue construction paper. "This for Soldier."

She looked at the card. On the front was a bright yellow-orange sun, outrageous in its promise. Inside the card was a glowing red heart with two tiny drops of red falling to one side. On the back in thick, black letters was printed By Jonah. She smiled at him through her clouded vision. "He'll love it, Jonah. Thank you."

Jonah nodded while looking at his feet. "How he doing?"

"He's lots better," she said with sincere optimism. "His vision's cleared up and the headaches are not as bad. He's tired of the milkshakes, though. At first he loved the idea—listed off all the flavors he could try: vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, banana, coffee, blueberry, even watermelon." She checked the flavors off on her fingers. "Now he says he'll never drink another milkshake after they take the wires out of his jaw."

Jonah's eyes got big. "He got wires in his jaw?"

Becca nodded. "To help it heal straight. They'll take them out in a few weeks."

"He be O.K. then?"

"They say good as new."

Jonah nodded. "Soldier tough."

"Has to be, with us to protect," Becca said. "How are you, Jonah? How's school?"

"It's good. Miss Anders pick me up and take me home."

"I know. She's kind to do that."

"I rather have you."

"Why? Like my driving better?"

"Like you better." He gave her a sly grin. "Plus don't have to get up so early."

Becca rubbed his head. "You rascal—want me just to get a few extra minutes of sleep."

Jonah smiled shyly. "And you do drive better. Miss Anders always shouting at the other drivers and honking her horn."

Becca laughed and shook her head. "We'll keep that as our secret. I'll start driving you again on Monday, if that's O.K. with you and your Me-me-maw." She looked to the old woman in her chair.

Mrs. Brackett nodded as emphatically as her staid demeanor would allow.

Jonah shouted, "Yay," and threw his arms around her neck.

Becca hugged him back then stood. "I'd better be going—lots of chores to catch up on."

Mrs. Brackett stood and walked with her and Jonah to the door.

Becca paused in front of the door and stared directly into the woman's eyes. "Thank you for saving Zach's life."

"Thank you both for saving Jonah's." Her return gaze never faltered.

"Me thank everybody," Jonah said.

Chapter 2

Becca shook the hand of Jennifer Hopkins then took a seat beside her desk in the small cubicle at Child Welfare Services. The thin and attractive young black woman sat behind that desk and took the top folder off the stack set to one side. She opened the folder and read aloud from its contents. "Jonah Bingham, African-American male, eight years old, Lakeview Elementary, completed second grade." She glanced up at Becca.

Becca nodded. "Yes, Jonah."

Ms. Hopkins continued. "Latonya Williams, mother, incarcerated waiting trial, aggravated assault, attempted murder, child abuse, Raleigh Central Prison. Vernette Williams, maternal grandmother, incarcerated, serving eight to ten year term for forgery, felonious drug possession with intent to sell, assaulting a law enforcement officer, Raleigh Central Prison." The woman paused and looked up. "Guess they don't have to go far for family reunions."

Becca's frozen stare wouldn't let her laugh or even grin.

Ms. Hopkins shrugged then continued. "Dorothy Brackett, maternal great-grandmother, assigned custody, 121 Lafayette Drive, Shefford." She raised her eyes to Becca. "I also see your name down here as a non-family contact and resource."

Becca nodded stiffly.

"Child Welfare thanks you for any assistance you have provided in this case."

Becca said quietly, "You're welcome."

"This all seems pretty cut and dried, Miss Coles. What can I help you with?"

"I'd like clarification on a few points."

"I'll do my best, with the advance understanding that only a judge can issue a final decree."

"Understood. My first question is what are the chances Jonah's mother could ever regain custody?"

Ms. Hopkins took a moment to look over the paperwork again then said, "A judge has issued a removal order pending the outcome of the trial. If Latonya Williams is convicted and imprisoned, that removal order will be extended. When or if Ms. Williams is released from jail, she may petition the court to have the removal order rescinded. If it is, custody arrangements will be reevaluated."

"If Jonah were to visit his mother in prison, would her chances of regaining custody improve?"

"The child's rights are in no way encumbered by the removal order. He can visit his mother or not, according to his wishes—within prison guidelines of course, and at the discretion of his appointed guardian."

"But will it in any way help her regain custody?"

"That would be for a judge to evaluate, Miss Coles. But let me alert you to one important fact. It indicates in this report that the mother involved the child in the commission of a felony."

Becca nodded.

Ms. Hopkins continued. "There are few absolutes in child custody cases. But one of those absolutes is 'inclusion in felony.' There is no way Ms. Williams will ever regain custody as long as those three words remain in this case file—visits from the son or not."

Becca allowed herself the slightest relaxing of her shoulders, the quietest of sighs. "Thank you," she said, then took a second to catch her breath before continuing. "My last question regards ongoing care and supervision for Jonah—does Child Welfare have guidelines regarding how such care might be provided and who provides it?"

"According to this, Mrs. Brackett has been assigned custody and accepted responsibility for the child's care and the appropriate use of government assistance to facilitate that care."

"She has."

"How she provides 'a reasonable standard of care and supervision' is entirely up to her, utilizing the resources at her disposal."

"With no limits on who helps or how?"

"That is outside our jurisdiction," Ms. Hopkins said firmly.

Becca thought The system has holes; he seems to have fallen into one. She may have actually mouthed the words.

"Beg your pardon?" Ms. Hopkins said.

Becca smiled. "Nothing. Just remembered a funny thing someone once told me."

"Anything else, then?"

Becca shook her head. "No. Thank you for the information. You've been a great help."

Both women stood. "Good luck raising Jonah," Ms. Hopkins said as she extended her hand.

Becca took that hand. "We'll do our best."

Chapter 3

Zach and Becca finished their shared blackberry cobbler that'd been crowned with what must've been a double portion of rich vanilla ice cream. This finale on top of the preceding gargantuan feast was what it was intended to be—too much. That was after all the point, not only of the dessert or even the entire meal but of the whole experience: the rare pleasure and privilege of over the top over-indulgence.

Becca paid the bill with five crisp twenties she'd withdrawn from the bank that afternoon. As they waited for Shelley to return with her change, Sam suddenly appeared with an instant camera and a big sly smile directed at Zach.

"You didn't think you were going to sneak away without at least one little old keepsake, did you?" she said with the sweetest Southern drawl.

"Maybe I'd hoped," Zach said, then glanced at the beaming Becca before looking back at Sam. "But now I see I never stood a chance."

"You two lovebirds snuggle up and smile pretty."

Zach slid his chair beside Becca's. He tucked his arm around her waist, she leaned her head against his shoulder. The smiles both presented the lens were perfectly genuine, perfectly happy, perfectly in love.

The camera flashed then spit out the print. Sam caught it in her hand and set it on the table. All three watched as a couple slowly emerged from the black background, turned into Zach and Becca snuggled close, turned into a portrait of singular harmony and hope.

"Aww, aren't you two sweet?" Sam purred. "Happy birthday, Zach," she said and gave him a chaste kiss on the forehead. She slid the print into a slot in a card with the restaurant's logo on the front and handed the card to Becca. "Keep it safe," she said.

Becca said, "Don't worry. I will," and tucked the card into her purse.

"Good night," Sam said. "Thank you for spending this special evening with us."

"Thank you for making it so special," Becca said.

"Our pleasure," she said, then turned and left.

Shelley dropped off Becca's change, Becca left a generous tip, and they were free to leave.

But neither stood. They were held in place in part by the sheer weight of food they'd consumed, in part by their muscles locked in place, their bodies molded to the comfortable chairs. But they were also held in place by a shared sense of not wanting to let this moment go, not wanting to rise and set the clock moving again. It was almost as if they were holding their common breath, releasing their rights to the future in favor of the guarantee of this ideal present. Zach kept his arm loosely around her waist, Becca her head lazily on his shoulder.

Then, without a word, they both stood in unison. Becca picked up her purse and Zach grabbed the small box with his complimentary birthday cake inside. They exited their window-table home—royal setting for a king and his queen—by opposite sides. They walked the length of the restaurant with her arm in his, not speaking or looking around but seeming intent on getting outside before their will faltered and they returned, for good this time, to their refuge of total contentment.

Once outside in the cold damp air, they felt they could breathe easier, move more freely. Becca let go of his arm and did a little spin on the walk leading to the parking lot, threw out her arms to the sky then closed the gap to Zach and hugged him from behind.

"I love you, Zachery Sandstrom; but you're not allowed to have more than one birthday a year."

Zach nodded. "Don't worry. I couldn't handle it." He spun around and faced her. "But thank you for the extravagant gift. It was perfect." He kissed her lightly on the lips.

She smiled and nodded to him in the silver glow of the lot's lone light directly overhead.

Zach suddenly felt queasy, quickly handed Becca the box with the cake, then jogged to edge of the lot and bent over beside some bushes, his hands on his knees. He felt sure he was going to lose the whole wheelbarrow-full of rich food in one giant purge. He hoped Becca would look away or close her eyes, but there was nothing he could do to insure that. His gut was in command now, and his gut was commanding that he clean house. He took a couple short breaths and waited for the explosion to come.

But it didn't. And the nausea gradually passed and his breathing slowed and his head cleared and he cautiously stood upright again.

Becca had her hand on his shoulder. "Zach, it's all right if you throw up. I'll still love you."

He turned and looked at her with a pallid face appearing all the more sickly in the streetlight's silver glow. "Even if I hit your shoes?"

She instinctively slid her feet to one side, out of the line of fire. "Missing the shoes would be nice."

"But would you still love me?"

She made him wait a moment as she thought it all through, then smiled. "Of course."

Zach nodded in gratitude. "I knew you would."

"Besides, they're old shoes."

Zach sudden laugh burst forth along with a rumble from his gut.

"Are you sure you're O.K.?"

"I think so," he said. He took a couple deep breaths then let his whole body relax. "I think I'm just perfect."

"Tell me if there's anything I should do."

"Like run if I start to heave?"

"I meant to help you."

"I could use a mint or something."

She laughed and held her purse up to the light. She reached in and pulled out a stick of gum, past the photo of the beautiful couple smiling into their future.

The End

Thank you for reading Birthday Dinner!

For more information on my fiction, please visit

http://jeffreyandersonfiction.wordpress.com.

