

"J.W. Nicklaus is a masterful storyteller, one whose work shows a depth seldom found among writers today. These stories are masterfully imbued with poignant insight, and a smooth, silky narration that permeates like incense. " ~ Mary Hay Davis, San Diego Family Magazine

"Some of the stories made me smile, others had me pondering and still others stirred the emotion of sorrow, but isn't that the mark of a good writer, to touch upon our very spirit with their words. This is not easily done, especially in short works, but our author has succeeded in this." ~ Shirley Johnson, Midwest Book Review

"Beautifully poetic and breathtakingly real . . . how can one not help but fall in love with the delightfully poetic tone and voice of this author." ~ April Pohren, Café of Dreams
**The Light,** **The Dark, & Ember Between**

By J.W. Nicklaus

Copyright J.W. Nicklaus 2011

Smashwords Edition

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

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Dedication

To those who have been quietly supportive and encouraging, you have both my genuine respect and unreserved gratitude.

To the concealed yet ever manifest angel watching over me, I need not reveal what you possess, for you already know.

Amor Vincit Omnia

Foreword

Intelligence and heart shine through in _The Light, the Dark, and Ember Between_ , a rich collection of short stories demonstrating tremendous insight into the human condition. Lush descriptions deepen the emotional impact, drawing in the reader from the start as J.W. Nicklaus explores love in its many forms.

Relationships—fragile, yet enduring—unfold throughout the pages. From a youth's first love channeled through carefully crafted paper dolls, to an old man's enduring devotion to his wife, the thread of Hope remains.

J.W. Nicklaus weaves his tales with a luminous bittersweetness that will touch your soul.

I have the honor of recommending _The Light, the Dark, and Ember Between_ to you. Read on. I promise you won't be disappointed

Carrie Weaver

Award-winning Author, Harlequin _SuperRomance_ series

http://www.carrieweaver.com
Preface

Every child is taught in school about the Four Elements: Air, Earth, Fire, and Water, each as disparate as they are harmonious with one another, each undeniably necessary.

Air surrounds every living creature, its oxygen component supporting respiration; Earth supports all that life needs to exist and grow; Fire cleanses and warms, its heat and intensity can assuredly raze and destroy all matter in its path, but in its wake nitrogen is returned to the Earth allowing new life to spawn; Water—as essential to life as Air—cools, hydrates, and feeds, encompassing the other three elements at any given time, to extinguish Fire by depriving it of heat and oxygen, by relinquishing moisture to the Air to condense into clouds and fall back to the Earth, simultaneously being reborn and feeding life as well.

A Greek philosopher named Empedocles is widely accepted as the first person to submit that all matter is comprised of these elements, but he also believed that Love strives to combine them harmoniously, while Strife, conversely, does its best to breach and rip asunder. Therefore, he proffered, Love and Strife explain the elements' variation and harmony. Both principles were old news by the time Empedocles raised them to a temporal level. Perhaps Adam and Eve were the first to experience both in the human context.

It can be argued that in the absence of one, the other flourishes. Darkness seeps into fading light, and light caresses away darkness. Somewhere, bridging the two, is a lifeline for the penitent and fatally optimistic—Hope: the ember between.

An old adage says that every life has a story to tell. Mark Twain wrote, "If you wish to lower yourself in a person's favor, one good way is to tell his story over again, the way you heard it." Since the short stories herein are fictional, I shoulder no burden of concern. Any story, in some fashion, is an emancipation of life's components; experiences and emotions are conditions to narrative flight. While I'm not retelling any one individual's story, perhaps save my own, I am in some granular way attempting to reflect a piece of something within each of us—the human spirit and experience.

Empedocles' postulations assuredly have their cabal of detractors, but perhaps, even in our own time of petulance, dichotomous greed, and pills for once obscure maladies, we may not have to search too long or too far to find superiority in true believers. For those who genuinely feel, who possess honest compassion and embrace Hope, each provides equal variation and harmony to the collective heart, each indelibly acquainted with the acute sensibility of breath, hard reality, heat, and tears—the human equivalents of the elements. Just as Water nurtures and cleanses in the physical world, in far smaller amounts it accomplishes the same in the biological and metaphysical realms, washing our souls little by little, and almost without our realizing, renewing and leading us to new life. **  
**

Table of Contents

Foreword

Preface

Table of Contents

Emissary

Requiem for Linny

Streetlamp

Broken

Short Attention Span

The Run

Paper Doll

Elevator Shoes

10:18

Four Letter Session

Blind

Ten Word Quickie

One Washington Diner

Winter Rose

In the Name of Love

About the Author
Emissary

Even at four stories up I could hear the waves as they greeted the rocky shoreline; the hum of the rotor that turned the lamp couldn't drown it out. With each smooth sweep the beam cut through the Atlantic night, almost a violation of a sea which seemed to demand privacy. The warm glow gave just enough light to draw the graying skyline into relief. I heard the lamp house door squeak as it opened behind me.

"You all right, Pop?"

I stared off into the distance, watching intently. "Yes, I'm fine. Couldn't sleep again."

"Same dream?"

"In some respects, yes." I tugged my sweater around me, almost subconsciously.

"Pop, it's been two years since—well, we both know—and what, about a year since the boat mysteriously appeared again? Had I not seen the life preserver myself I would have had you committed long ago." The pause that followed was only vaguely uncomfortable, but the gusts of wind carried a lot of the tension away. "Your need to hang on to what happened is as unnecessary as this old lighthouse. Let it go, Pop, for your own good."

I turned to stare at my son, a grown man, living with and badgering his retired father. "Aury, do you remember why your mother and I gave you that name?"

"Well, as I recall, Mom was fascinated with old Rome."

"Right...and?" Aury had leaned against the railing with his forearms and hung his head in resignation as he talked above the sound of the careening waves, wind, and rotor. "Her favorite was Marcus Aurelius."

"But a name by itself really isn't much of anything. Do you remember the quote, the reason why she associated you with Aurelius?" I could tell he couldn't remember.

"Pop, it's like 3 a.m., and I want to go back to sleep."

"You don't remember, do you? I'm disappointed for you and your mother."

"C'mon Pop, don't be so melodramatic."

"The answer to why I won't 'let it go' is written within your name, Aury." He did nothing more than turn his head to look at me, then pushed away from the railing and clasped my shoulder.

"Don't stay out here too long, Pop. I'm going back downstairs to Sally. She probably thinks I'm having an affair with the sea, too."

"I'll be down in a bit," I said.

Aury nodded, turned to leave, then stopped and turned around again. "Deep down I admire your patience, Pop. I just have difficulty accepting what it takes from you, and you get nothing in return."

"But you're wrong, Aury. Perhaps the better answer is that only I can understand what it gives to me." And with my explanation, he turned and descended into the spiraling darkness.

I turned back to watch the horizon, eyelids as heavy as the morning felt. Lightning raced through the clouds like blinking lights on a Christmas tree. Pre-dawn dripped with tainted sweetness, a taste I'd acquired but would never learn to relish. Sleep drew her velvety cloak around my shoulders, urging me to let slip vigilance and allow my physical self-rest; my soul had long become restless.

***

Comfort and warmth from the thick plaid blanket was an embrace I didn't want to break from, but the mischievous aroma of hash browns and bacon toyed with my early morning sensibilities. Eggs and a soothing mug of steaming tea would likely be part of the enticement. Judging by the minimal amount of floorboard groaning from upstairs, I figured Sally was the only one up and must want to talk. She often made a little something each morning, but a hearty breakfast usually meant something was on her mind. I'd always figured it was a pretty square deal—she made an insidiously good breakfast; I listened and proffered whatever advice was appropriate. God forbid she made her cinnamon rolls with orange icing; I'd essentially be her slave for the day if she made them. No scent of cinnamon though. Somebody was looking out for me already, and my feet hadn't even hit the floor.

With half-hearted reluctance, I tossed aside the blanket and slipped my bare feet into soft, wool-lined slippers; my trusty flannel robe flowed over cotton pajamas, and I began trekking upstairs, yawning as I went.

The breakfast nook just off the landing is nestled next to a bay window large enough to stand up in. Morning had come, austere and grey, just as the prior night had promised. Sally had her back to me, apparently juicing some oranges, for drinking I hoped, not icing. I softly stepped to the window so as not to startle her and watched the whitecaps through the veil of drizzling rain. I thought of how fortunate my son was to have a woman of Sally's class put up with him. She'd always been nothing but kind, honest, and without an ounce of pretension—a genuinely good soul—easy on the eyes at any time of the day or night. She was no model, but had grace and poise—simple beauty, the essence of all man's weaknesses. I'd told both of them it had been a good thing Aury married her, because neither he nor I could cook to save our lives. I grinned, half at the thought of my light-hearted teasing and partially at the morning weather; something about the rain and an overcast day always soothed me.

"Get some sleep last night?" Sally asked, walking up behind me and gently stroking my back.

I reached up and massaged my head for a moment. "Yeah, some," I replied through a yawn.

"Thought you would like a good breakfast."

"You know I could never turn down one of your breakfasts. The only reason I got out of bed was because I couldn't stand to miss out. It smells delicious." Even if I had been upset at her for some insane reason, her smile would have immediately disarmed me. "You're going to join me, aren't you?"

"What, you think I cook for my health?" she teased, raising an eyebrow. Giving her my best half-awake grin, I motioned her toward the table. "Well, then quit monkeyin' around at the stove and come sit down and eat."

"I'm comin', I'm comin'."

I'd already salted my hash browns and eggs, and sprinkled pepper over the whites; bacon and egg melted in my mouth by the time she'd finally taken a seat. "No better way to wake up, Sal. Thank you very much."

"You don't have to thank me, Dad," she said, spreading her napkin on her lap. She'd called me Dad since she and Aury became serious. Just as well, I loved her like a daughter. I waved the fork in circles before speaking, for no good reason, really.

"The oranges are for drinking, right?"

Her stare said it all. "What else would they be for?"

"Oh, nothin'. Just asking." She knew I loved her rolls with orange icing. She was being a coy, understated, diabolical female. She reminded me so much of Emma, my wife. No wonder I felt so comfortable around her.

"Aury came back to bed around three this morning. Said he'd found you up on the lookout again." I nodded and stuffed my mouth again, partially to avoid having to answer. "As many times as I've asked him to tell me what happened, he always says I wouldn't believe him."

"He's probably right," I managed, swallowing the last forkful. "Is he still asleep?" Taking a bite of egg she nodded and finished chewing.

"I'm sure he'll be up within the hour," she said. We sat and ate for the next few minutes, each seeming to take turns staring out the window and then at one another. The drizzle outside served to blur, ever so slightly, the harsh and rugged contours of nature. The jetties on either side of the sound seemed, when viewed through the gauze filter of the rain, more like arms embracing the encroaching ocean than the stony extrusions they were. The image always reminded me of my Emma and how much I missed her embrace. Sally reminded me so much of Emma, possessing the same gentle, innate goodness.

Sally had become my confidant. She wasn't always empathetic, but she had the patience of Job and an equal capacity for listening. If Aury ever broke her heart, I'd write him out of my will. It was time I told her what happened, but I couldn't let her cooking go to waste.

"Did you learn to cook from your mother?" I asked, genuinely curious but also half-heartedly trying to postpone the inevitable.

Sally looked up and smiled, "Pretty much. My mom was a great cook. Dad used to say to her 'I can't afford to have you outside the kitchen.' Then he'd kiss her...every time." She looked back down at her nearly empty plate and absent-mindedly drew the fork tines through leftover yolk.

I gulped down the last bit of orange juice and wiped my mouth. "Sal, it's time." She looked up again, completely uncertain as to what I meant. I took her free hand and gently tugged. "C'mon. Grab your galoshes, windbreaker, and slicker. Let's take a walk down to the dock—the water looks to have calmed down and the rain's more of a nuisance now than a threat." Her eyes never left mine, filled with concern and curiosity; her fork tinked against the plate as she dropped it.

Just off the kitchen was the mudroom, a space just large enough to hang six sets of coats, rain slickers, and galoshes. It measured only six feet by six feet, but what it lacked in size it made up for in coziness. Plastic and rubber slapped and wobbled as we donned our gear, the clasps clicking in an almost-natural syncopation with the rain falling on the roof above. Neither of us said a word as we stepped out of the mudroom and into the morning rain, the soft drizzle on the slicker and the ever-present sound of surf reminding us who was really in charge.

The air was brisk yet fresh—a mixture of rain-clean tinged with salt spray. Our footsteps slickly whisked against the tall grass that grew up to the sand of the small beach. I leaned in toward Sally as we walked so she could hear me, "The missus and I always loved this kind of weather, the smell of the air. We called it angels' breath."

Sally closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled. "The description is perfect," she replied. We walked silently another twenty yards to the dock, hands stuffed deep inside our pockets, shunning September's nip.

Stark white pontoons floated on either side of the small dock, its full twelve-foot length bobbing up and down with the approaching waves as they petered out against the shoreline. The planks and handrails were made of marine-grade aluminum and covered in a protective sleeve of white PVC as additional protection against the harsh battering of nature and the sea. Everything about it was artificial, right down to the nylon ropes wrapped around the cleats. Conversely, the short wooden walkway leading to the dock was all natural cedar, aged and weather beaten, beach sand filling every nook and cranny of each board. Our galoshes thumped softly against it as we stepped toward, then onto, the lilting dock, timing our steps with its cadence. I knelt and wrapped the loose rope around my hand, waiting for it to reveal some secret I didn't already know, then turned and looked up at Sally.

"Tell me, what do you see out there?" I said, nodding at the water. She stared for what seemed like minutes, scanning left and right.

"Nothing, really. A buoy almost directly ahead, a couple of gulls sitting on it. The fog," she paused. "It's just thick enough to obscure the horizon, but I can make out the dim outline of the jetties to the north and south." She turned and looked down at me. "It feels peaceful, yet there's something that doesn't sit right, as if I'm being pushed and pulled at the same time."

I stood up, facing seaward with her.

"Listen close. Hear that? The sound of water everywhere. It laps against the dock, rolls and bubbles onto the beach, crackles and patters as it falls from the sky and onto everything around us. It's partly Nature's way of telling us to pay attention, partly Neptune's way of beckoning us to come to him. Depending on our level of arrogance or stupidity, we choose one, brushing off the other. Sometimes we get lucky despite ourselves," I paused and closed my eyes, drinking in the grayness. "Sometimes...we don't."

Sally remained stoic, unflinchingly silent.

"We had a small sailboat, nothing fancy, about a fifteen-footer, painted in differing shades of blue down to the waterline." I pointed to the two salt-encrusted tires mounted on the end of the dock where it once was berthed. "She had a beautiful sail and a small outboard motor we rarely used since there's normally enough wind here to put a boat underway. I insisted we name it after her, _Emma Jeane_. She fussed about that for a while, but relented to my stubbornness. I can still picture it here, bobbing up just ahead of the dock, then down as the dock rose. You would have loved it, Sal."

"I'm sure of it," she mused.

I motioned to a pair of Adirondack chairs that sat at the land's edge of the dock. "It's been a while since I've given these chairs any attention. Emma and I would sit here when the weather allowed and watch the sun sink into the ocean. Once in a while I'd roll the old Weber down here, take off the grill, and we'd have a makeshift fire pit—just sit and talk, in between listen to the water."

Sally eased herself into one of the chairs, then asked, "Dad, what happened?" The inflection in her voice told me she was more than curious—she was both concerned and ready. I'd put it off long enough. I pulled the other chair next to hers and sat down.

"It was a day very much like this, it felt just like you described it—like you were being simultaneously pushed and pulled. We'd lived here five years at that point, so we'd had a lot of days like that. Nothing out of the ordinary for us. Emma wanted to sail down to South Harpswell and spend the day just walking around, maybe have some lunch, then come back before dusk."

"That's not too far, why not just drive?"

"It's about an hour's winding drive, but only thirty or forty minutes around the point by boat if the winds favor you. I can't tell you how many times we'd sailed it before; we could practically do it in our sleep."

I was suddenly aware of how easily my memory had taken me by the hand; I hadn't noticed anything around me—save Sally and the nuanced throbbing in my temples. I took a deep breath, fresh, moist air clinging to my lungs.

"We set off, got the sail trimmed, and had everything in order. Emma sat next to me for a bit, with her arm around my waist. I remember looking at her and leaning over to give her a kiss. Then I took the rudder. We'd been out about fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, having just skirted the outer part of the point. The fog seemed thick enough to snatch out of the air by the handful. There were no shipping vessels, really no marine traffic to speak of at all that morning. The boat had tacked against the wind into a dead spot and the sail went limp. Not a big deal; I was preoccupied with navigation, so Emma got up and put it into the breeze again."

I dropped my gaze to my feet, not quite sure what I'd hope to find—perhaps my resolve. I felt a warm hand upon my own; Sally had reached over and gently taken my right hand. I looked over, only to find her eyes fixated upon mine. She said nothing, only waited. I swallowed hard, knowing my voice would crack if I spoke, and then turned my gaze out to sea again.

"'Watch that jib!' I called to her. She waved me off, and I just smiled. Emma had grown up around the water, and knew her way around a boat far better than I." I caught myself looking down again. "She unwound the line from the cleat so the sail could swing freely to catch the breeze, which is exactly what happened. It caught a gust and the sail billowed. The boom swung free catching her smack dab in the gut. She doubled over, lost her balance, and the wind caused the boom to push her overboard. The boat had been pitching a little, so it took some doing to get forward and secure the sail to the cleat. It was just seconds, I'm sure, but it felt like minutes. I fully expected to hear Emma yelling any second. The boat took off once the wind caught the sail, as if some unseen hand had shoved it forward. I called out, over and over, 'Emma! . . .EM!' I didn't dare use the outboard for fear I'd hit her. She had her life vest on, but the water was so murky it would have been easy to miss." I paused, replaying the event in my head—and heart; no idea how many times I've seen the movie, but it always leaves the same emotional impression. I sighed heavily and then continued.

"Sal, I scurried around that boat, from bow to stern, looking everywhere. I couldn't see her. I didn't have a lot of time because the water was cold—not winter cold, but cold enough." I felt Sally's other hand enclose mine, warming it on both sides. Only then did it occur to me how tense my grip had become.

"I grabbed the rudder and did my best to steer and search the area. I couldn't figure out why I didn't hear her call out or see her bobbing in the water. I tried so desperately to find her, and in doing so, waited far too long to radio the Coast Guard for help. It must have been fifteen, twenty minutes, before I called in. They did what they could, hauled me aboard and tethered our boat to theirs. Emma and I knew some of them because of our work with the lighthouse. God bless 'em, they did everything they could for me. But they never found Emma. Not a trace."

Sally stared out to sea for a minute before saying anything. "Forgive me, Dad, if I seem improper," she started. I shook my head slightly, urging her to say whatever she wanted. "Nothing ever washed up on shore? Clothing, or, umm, her body?"

"Not a damn thing. No shirt, not the picture she always kept with her for good luck...not even the life vest." We both sat quietly immersed in physical and emotional greyness.

"There's more, isn't there," she finally said.

"Yeah, a little."

"Would you rather tell me later?"

I'd been staring at the dock, almost mesmerized by its rise and fall. A lone gull lit upon one of the railings. "No. Now is good. Now is best, actually." Her presence was comforting in a place that wasn't.

"I could never accept that she could be so cleanly, almost surgically, cut out of my life," I began. "She would never leave without saying goodbye. I could still feel her around me...even in me." I squirmed a bit in the chair. "Something nagged at me. I'd left the boat tied to the dock for a long time. Once in a while Aury would use it, even do a little upkeep on it just to keep it seaworthy. But I wouldn't set foot on it. It was _our_ boat, not mine alone. So one morning I did what I knew I really needed to do—I set her adrift. It was a stormy morning, so I could always blame it on the weather. I undid the line from the dock cleat and turned my back. I never looked out to sea the rest of that day. I feared I'd see the boat lingering in the middle of the sound, mocking me."

"You could have sold it."

"I know, I know. Aury and I went round and round about that. Took him a while to accept what I did."

Sal's brow raised in thoughtfulness. "I suppose it wouldn't seem right having some financial gain from something you shared."

"Precisely."

She gave my hand a mild squeeze. "Go on."

"Shortly after that, the dreams started. I could make out the shoreline, the sound, the jetties, everything—but nothing audible. The water would roll on the beach and foam, and moonlight would shimmer, ghostlike upon the water. The first few times I'd see her standing about midway on that jetty over there," I said, pointing to the northern outcropping. "I could see her hair streaming in a breeze that didn't exist. I'd yell to her, and she'd turn, but then I'd wake up."

"I'd imagine it was a natural response to your sub-conscious dealing with the emotional trauma," Sally said.

I managed a weak grin. "Spoken like a true professional. Am I being billed for this?"

She grinned back.

"Anyhow, that's about what I thought too, but that didn't make it any easier to shake the dream hangover I'd have the following morning. Didn't take long for them to start becoming more frequent. Slowly, I began to make my way closer to her, and she to me. Every dream, the closer she got the more painful it was, simply because she looked just as beautiful as she did the day I lost her." The rain had let up for the moment, and I looked over at Sally. I thought I saw a tear upon her cheek, but it could just have easily been a stray raindrop.

"Eventually I'd worked at trying to remain in those dreams as long as I could, willing my lucid self into staying put. That's when we started talking." I paused, more to remember her voice than from any need to momentarily halt.

"And?" Sally insisted.

"At first all she would say is, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' And I could wrap my arms around her—actually feel her. Anytime she held me, I felt like I could melt in her arms; I felt no distinction between the dream and my memory. Then the dream's languid decay would leave me haunted until the next evening, hoping she'd return."

"She would, eventually, right?"

"Of course, not always the next night, but eventually. Then in one dream she told me to watch the beach. No reason why, simply a solemn beseechment to be vigilant."

"She never described what to look for?"

"No. But I didn't have to wait long to find out." The morning fog had begun to burn off leaving the sun to glisten off the water. I pushed off the poncho's hood and tousled my hair. "You mind walking along the beach for a bit?" Sally rose almost before I'd finished asking. "Ready when you are."

The air was still crisp with the remaining fog and everything in sight had a sheen of moisture from the rain. Sally watched as I picked up an empty shell and tossed it ahead of us, about thirty yards down the beach.

"See where that shell landed?" I asked.

"Yeah," she replied.

"I was up in the lantern room one morning, cleaning the lens, you know, doing basic maintenance. Through the glass I saw something lying on the beach, just about where that shell landed. You've been here long enough to know that we see stuff wash up all the time—I've seen messages in bottles, hats, oars, bathing suits, all kinds of stuff. This was bigger, though, probably a piece of driftwood I figured. I finished upstairs then walked out here to get a closer look. I stepped through the mudroom door and immediately broke into a jog—I never bothered to close the door." Sally glanced back at the house, then back down at the beach. I wondered if she was getting the same hollow, gut-wrenching, adrenaline-tinged feeling I was.

"It was the boat...she'd beached herself; looked a little weather beaten, but completely intact." I noticed I'd kept waving my hand in a shaky figure eight over the area, perhaps subconsciously dispensing my own aching blessing on the sand where it had come to rest. "I thought perhaps Aury had found it on one of his salvage trips, but he would have tied it to the dock," I said, nodding in its direction.

"The Coast Guard, maybe?" Sally ventured.

"No, they would have called first, and the police would have been involved—lots of paperwork and such. Nobody called or left a note. Nothing, save for the life vest Emma had been wearing. It was lying on the bench seat close to the mast."

"It could have been any life vest someone tossed in, Dad."

"Ordinarily I'd agree, but Em made a custom slipcover for hers from light blue, heavy-duty nylon, and she'd embroidered our anniversary date on the bottom left panel: February 9. The color was a little faded, but it was her vest, all the same. To this day I can't figure out any rational way to explain how it got there."

Sally looked at me, brushing her hair behind her right ear. "What about your dreams? Did she ever tell you anything about it before or after?"

I didn't need to contemplate the answer; it had been something I'd thought about for a long time, like a sculptor considers his subject before putting chisel to stone.

"No, never specifically. She has often come to me and told me she's waiting," I paused to let the wind carry the words away, "that she'd send some sign of comfort."

"Do you think that was it?"

My head started shaking before she'd finished the question. "No, the vest wasn't comforting at all. It raised too many questions. At that point it had been two years since I'd lost her. Hope wasn't an option. I did keep it, though."

Sally looked at me questioningly. "Hope?"

"Well, my heart holds onto _that_ , foolish and empty though it may be. I meant I kept the life vest—the only tangible thing I have from that day. In retrospect it seems almost debilitating how we cling to artifacts and memories...but in some strange way I suppose they help bring clarity once the haze clears." Half-consciously I'd been looking at the sky as I spoke—the clouds had begun clearing in some spots allowing the sun to make the water sparkle. I could see Sal in my peripheral vision, looking here and there around the sound as if trying to locate something.

"Obviously the boat isn't here now. What did you do with it?" Sally asked.

"I struggled with that for about an hour that day. Went looking for Aury, 'cause at the time I didn't know if he had found it and returned it in an attempt to raise my spirits or what. After about fifteen minutes I figured he wasn't around. The next time I saw him I told him what happened, showed him the vest. He told me he'd driven up to Harpswell to see you. I spent the next forty-five minutes agonizing over whether to cast it adrift again—which I wound up doing."

"So much for comfort?" She half asked, mostly stated.

I nodded, then turned to look back at the lighthouse. "Shall we head back?" Sal threaded her arm around mine as we stepped onto the path, well worn from countless trips to and from the beach in happier times.

"Dad..." I turned toward her voice. "What was the last thing she said to you, I mean, in the last dream?"

My eyes closed of their own volition, a weak, if natural, attempt to shut out the light and resurrect her memory.

"'Soon.' That's it." I could hear Emma's voice clearly in my head, soft as a satin whisper.

"And how long has it been since the boat...," Sally let her question trail off.

"Just over a year ago," I intoned.

"I can see now why Aury worries about you."

"I'm more convinced he thinks I'm crazy than really worried."

"Well, if the two of you talked more often you may just see things differently," Sally chided. "Both of you are so busy trying to avoid the mountains you're missing the veins of gold."

I stopped cold, mid-step, and looked into her eyes. She was right, of course, but neither Aury nor I would admit it to the other. "Truth is, Sal, he resents that it's my thing—that I won't let it go."

"No, I think he resents that you won't let him in."

I couldn't help but smile at her brashness Her wisdom belied her youthful years. Once again we began walking; neither of us uttered a word until we reached the landing in front of the mudroom. Sally tugged at my arm.

"Dad, for what it's worth, I don't think you're crazy," she said. "Thank you for sharing it with me." Gently her arm untwined from mine and she strode into the house.

I drew in a last lungful of angels' breath, and watched a couple of seagulls in the distance as they settled into the mottled waters of the sound. It felt good to have told her.

***

That night, try as I might, sleep would not have me. The biological mechanics and cognitive gears in my brain had managed to scale the castle walls of disquiet and lured my mental self into a thicket of foggy turbulence, where thoughts and emotions collided with one another; their din kept me awake. I heard the occasional creak of floorboards upstairs, so I figured Sally must have been up milling about in the kitchen. A hot cup of tea and some warm companionship would be soothing. Hiking up the stairs, I had to squint to allow my eyes to adjust to the light spilling into the hallway from the kitchen. Much to my surprise, it was Aury in the kitchen, not Sally. He seemed slightly disquieted, and certainly preoccupied.

"Want some tea, Pop?"

I sat in the chair directly facing the bay window, and then nodded, "Please." It was blissfully dark outside, save for the cycle of the light from upstairs.

"Dreams again?" he asked.

"No, just couldn't get to sleep." Steam rose from the cup as hot water gurgled from the kettle. Aury placed the teabag into the cup, then brought it over and set it in front of me with a spoon and some honey.

"Thanks."

"Sure."

Filling the spoon with honey, I set it gently into the cup to let it dissolve. "Sal asleep?" I asked.

"No, she's up on the lookout."

"Oh?"

"Said you told her about what happened." The silence, as it usually was between us, was awkward.

"Yes, I did. Has she said much about it?" I asked.

"Not really. We talked about it for a few minutes, then she got on me for not talking more to you."

I wrapped the teabag string around the spoon and bag, and carefully wringing it out said, "You too, huh?"

He nodded, sipping at his tea

"She means well, Aury," I said, trying to be comforting.

"I know she does," he sighed.

"Did you two argue about it?"

"No. No, we discussed the lighthouse..."

"Really. What about it?"

"Pop, we've been over this a dozen times before."

"Yeah, I know—how most ships use GPS or sonar to map courses around the shoreline, blah, blah, blah."

"I love this lighthouse, Pop, I really do," he protested. "But nowadays lighthouses are more a function of nostalgic romance than practicality."

I took a cautious sip of tea. The warmth and sweetness of it was most comforting. "But even if nostalgic, romance is good," I said, setting the cup down again. "Romance warms the soul."

Aury opened his mouth to speak just as Sally came around the corner, "Both of you need to come with me," she said without breaking stride.

"Honey, Pop and I were just..."

She was already in the mudroom donning her jacket. "This isn't about you and Dad, Aury. Now c'mon."

Aury and I looked at each other. I took a last sip of my tea, and then pushed back my chair. Sally had stepped outside onto the porch landing, flashlight in hand, while Aury and I slipped into our boots and jackets.

"What's this about, Sal?" I asked.

She gave no reply, only beckoned with her free hand, which within seconds was clasping Aury's. Sally briskly led the way with her husband practically in tow and me close behind. The beam from the flashlight cut softly through the darkness and bounced around in front of us. The brisk night air slapped me on both cheeks, waking me up, yet my mind was just as clouded and busy as ever; I hadn't quite noticed the pair had stopped and turned to face me. Sally had one arm around Aury's waist and shone the flashlight on my chest.

"Dad..." she said, nodding at the flashlight, then back over her shoulder. Aury leaned over and whispered something in her ear. She shook her head and motioned again with the flashlight. I looked between them, over their shoulders, but couldn't make out anything.

Taking the flashlight from her grasp, I mumbled, "Okay," and stepped around them, eyes constantly moving from the muted illumination at my feet to the cloaked beach ahead. I looked back again to see if they followed, but could only make out their vague silhouettes against the house.

She meant for me to go forward, alone.

Plodding through the wet sand, I stopped as soon as the sand gave way underfoot. The flashlight hadn't revealed anything new or surprising: a few strands of kelp, some broken shells, and a small sand crab that skittered away from me as I continued to move across the beach. To my left...nothing. I turned my head to the right just as the beam from the lighthouse passed overhead casting just enough light to allow a quick, visual scan of the beach. It disclosed something bulky about thirty yards away. As I walked toward it my brow furrowed.

With just a few steps I could hear the water lapping against the object. As my pace quickened, the flashlight moved back and forth with each swing of my arm.

Everything around me melted away as my concentration leveled and fixed upon her: there she was again—the _Emma Jeane_ had found her way back to our beach. She rose and fell, almost imperceptibly, with each wave that slipped underneath her hull and hit the shore, instantly reminding me of when I would just sit and watch Emma sleep, the sheet gently rising and falling with each breath. I reached out and touched the railing, ever so gently, wishing it were her soft skin under my touch.

"Em," I whispered aloud. Say what you will about dreams and their fallibility. I had, under my gaze and caress, certain proof that mine were not the result of subconscious malaise.

In the year that she'd been gone, I hadn't forgotten any part of her; with great care I let the flashlight's beam reveal every viewable inch, scouring the sun-and-salt-bleached interior for a trace of something, anything. Crawling aboard, I was able to scrutinize each crevice, screw, and rivet. Nothing seemed to have changed since the last time she beached herself. I finished inspecting the starboard side. When I began searching the port side, I noticed the open hasp.

Perhaps it was like that last time and I never noticed, but we'd always kept a lock on the small compartment. It was the boat equivalent of a glove compartment, and as such, we kept important documents inside. Maybe the Coast Guard cut the bolt during their investigation. I reached for the hasp and hesitated, momentarily fearful of what I might find—or not find. My craving to know won out.

The hinges stuck at first, but gave with a second sharp tug. The cover creaked open. Leaning it against the port rail, I brought the flashlight to the lip of the compartment. All the documentation was gone—not that it mattered at this point. Casting the beam to the opposite side, it caught the corner of something. I gently pinched it between my thumb and forefinger, not sure if it would be stuck or what condition it would be in, but it withdrew easily. A large Ziploc baggie enclosed a smaller one with a piece of folded paper inside.

I looked over my left shoulder to see Aury and Sally still standing in the same spot, then turned my attention back to the package. It looked startlingly like a letter I'd written to Emma when we'd first been engaged. Long ago I'd placed it in a cardboard box along with other sentimental treasures. It was one of many notes she and I had exchanged over the years. She must have pulled it out when we first bought the boat. Why she would have hidden it on the boat was beyond any reasonable explanation I could think of—yet here it was. The plastic bags preserved it well. The bag trembled slightly, a by-product of my own shaking hands. I opened the baggies and retrieved the paper as carefully as a parent holds a newborn for the first time. The flashlight revealed every word, and every word breathed Emma. With sublime delicacy I replaced the letter in the big baggie and zipped it closed, then slowly climbed out of the boat.

Aury and Sally stood in the exact spot where I'd left them. I walked up and handed Sally the flashlight.

"Was it there?" she asked.

I looked into her eyes and smiled, then looked over at Aury. Taking a single step forward, I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him as hard as I could.

"Pop, what was there?" he asked excitedly. I could hear the worry in his voice.

I stepped back and wiped my eyes. "The _Emma Jeane_. She's on the beach again. Go and look if you like."

Aury placed his hand on my shoulder. "Not tonight, it's late. We'll dock it in the morning."

Sally gently grabbed my elbow. "Did you find what she promised?"

Her husband looked first at her, then at me.

"Sal, did he ever tell you how he got his name?" I asked, pointing to Aury.

"Uh, I remember he said his mother held an interest in many things of Roman antiquity," she said, shaking her head with confusion.

"Yes, she did," I replied, handing her the baggie. "Go ahead and read it, if you can. When you get to the postscript, read it aloud, please." Nodding, she gently opened the bag and extracted the letter.

So as to minimize any disruption of her reading, I stepped closer to Aury and asked, "Remember when I told you the answer to why I wouldn't 'let it go' was written in your name?"

He nodded.

Sally looked up, visibly shaken. "Dad, this is beautiful. You loved her so much."

"Did you reach the end yet?"

"Yes."

I motioned for her to read it.

Her gentle voice floated like an apparition over the sound of the water lapping upon the shore, "Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart—Marcus Aurelius."

Calmly I set my hand upon Aury's shoulder. "There's the answer, son. That's why."

I felt like the hardest part of my journey was over. The _Emma Jeane_ had become my emissary, my bridge between loss and love. Finally, I was ready for sleep, and couldn't wait to dream.

Requiem for Linny

The dig had taken longer than expected. The early winter of mid-November stung and made the earth harder to excavate. With four seasoned men digging it took the better part of three hours to get to easier shoveling. Few words had been spoken, out of respect for Buck, but with the grave completed and the unforgiving cold, the gray silence took a back seat to human nature.

Brant, all five-foot-three of him, plopped down in the snow and wiped his brow with a dusted-white coat sleeve. "Damn I'm hungry," he stated flatly, shooting Jayce a look. "Ya' think Linny's got any of that stew left over..."

Jayce, normally patient, left no room for his feelings on the matter, swinging his spade close enough to remove Brant's hat and a few hairs as well. "What in the sam hell's wrong with you? Have you not been here the last three hours?"

Brant's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. "Buck, I'm real sorry, I didn't mean nothin'..." Buck just held up a gloved hand, gaze still fixated on the hole in the earth before him. Walt, his best friend of thirty-odd years stood beside him, easily able to discern the presence of another hole—if not nearly as visible, equally tangible.

"Jayce, Brant...you two have done what you can here. Why don't both of you ride back to the house and take the truck into town, get some chow and a cold beer."

Brant stood up and then bent over to retrieve his hat. Faded denim stood out against the dark blue denim now displaying where he'd sat. He straightened up, face red, and shot Jayce a menacing glare. "You coulda' split my head open, jackass."

"Shut your trap while you're ahead, Brant, and just get on your horse. I'll be right behind ya'." Brant mussed his hair to remove the drifting snow before donning his hat again, and then shuffled off toward his horse, small fans of white splaying out in front of each step. Jayce turned his attention to Walt and Buck. "He don't mean no harm, just got a head thick as a mule's."

Walt shuffled his feet, feeling awkward. "I know, Jayce, and he thinks with his stomach. The damn thing's as big as a bale of hay, so it ain't surprising he talks with it too." Both men watched Brant as he simultaneously hopped and kicked his foot up to get into the stirrup. They didn't see Buck lift his head and look at them, then peer through the silent snow in the same direction.

Buck stood almost six feet tall, with wide shoulders and a face experienced beyond his years. Despite his outward masculinity he kept his coat wrapped around him, hands thrust firmly in the pockets. The air hung veiled, like a wisp of melancholy when he spoke. "Never could understand what Linny saw in the snow. Damn stuff gets everywhere..."

"Too damned cold," Walt added.

"And makes a devil of a mess," Jayce finished.

Buck stood for a moment, stoic in the midst of the graying white. "Guess I mentioned it before, huh?"

Walt grinned a little, his wiry moustache barely lifting under its own weight, "Once or twice, Buck." Try as he might, he could only muster a wince through his sorrow—the smile would remain on the dark side of the silver moon for some time yet.

Jayce stepped over. "You sure I can't do anything else for ya'?" he asked, placing his right hand on Buck's shoulder.

"No, you've done quite enough, Jayce, and I honestly can't thank you enough, my friend."

Jayce held the tip of the shovel handle in his palm and pointed a leather-clad finger in Buck's direction. "If you need anything at all..."

"I will. I promise." 'Promise' got lost in the cold November air. Buck looked down at the snow, watching it begin to dust the interior of the grave, then sniffed, hoping no one heard. "Linny loved you guys." His throat tightened from everything but the cold, "all of you."

Walt looked solemnly at Jayce, then to Buck, and back at Jayce. "She's here, Buck...her heart...her spirit...she's here. She's better off than the rest of us. I didn't know anyone, not one person, that ever met her and didn't take to her. The rest of us...well...to say she was our sister doesn't say enough. We loved her too, always will." Both his breath and words hung listless in the piercing air, Nature allowing the moment to remain gently aloft before mercifully dissolving it. Jayce nodded his mute affirmation.

"We'll be back in a bit, Buck, keep ya company if you'd like," Jayce offered. Buck patted the hand upon his shoulder.

"Thanks, Jayce, but don't worry much about me. Walt'll be here for a while." Jayce tipped the brim of his hat then ambled off to his own horse, snow crunching with a whisper under each boot step. Walt eyed the sparsely powdered sepulcher before them.

"We're almost done here, Buck. Jayce and Brant stripped some pine boughs from those trees over there so we could lay them over the opening until tomorrow's service. I figured they'd come in handy for keeping the snow from piling up inside the—" he halted mid-sentence, suppressing the urge to apologize for a mistake he hadn't yet made. "Well, help me out, then we'll get out of the cold."

Most men would rub their hands together, or shuffle their feet and bounce up and down to keep the heart pumping and blood moving. Buck, however, stood in place, the flakes which fell about him a blur compared to his inertness. As well protected as he was against the encroaching cold, he was numb from the soul outward. Walt leaned forward a bit, unsure if he'd been heard. "Buck?"

Buck's eyes remained in a lost stare as he replied. "You know, Linny wouldn't mind a little snow in there, Walt." The stubble on his face made the cotton mist of his breath stand out.

"I know, Buck. The thought crossed my mind too." Walt motioned toward the boughs lying twenty feet away. "Give me a hand?" Quietly looking over, he simply nodded.

The older a friendship gets, the less needs to be said. Things were no different between Walt and Buck. Arguments, both grand and pointless, had come and gone, as had more auspicious times. They'd leaned on each other through several heartbreaks, more Walt's than Buck's—but nothing between them came close to the loss of Linny. Walt's heart broke equally as much for Buck as it did for her passing. There was so much he wanted to say, if only to bring Buck some small measure of comfort, yet he knew Buck well enough to know that simply being a presence was enough. Words were too small to be of much value. So the pair trudged wordlessly through the drifting snow, dragging the boughs behind them, leaving impermanent trails in their wake much like broom bristles in the sand.

Buck walked around one end of the grave, reverently laying each bough across the somber cavity. Walt was a little more utilitarian in his approach, tossing the boughs into place then kicking them as needed to cover the opening. Buck shoved his hands into his coat's extra-large pockets again and walked back to the stand of pines bordering the grave site. Walt wasn't sure what he was doing, but stayed put and watched.

Buck almost blended into the shadow of the tree's drip line as he maneuvered underneath it. He seemed to bob and weave here and there, slowly stepping in a semicircle as he looked up into the lowest branches, arms reaching up once in a while to tug on this branch or that. He'd almost completely circled the tree when he stopped and reached up again, his hand loosely running the length of a dead branch the size of his forearm. For whatever reason, it hung only partially connected to the trunk, so with a couple of strong pulls Buck was able to break the branch free of its host. Walt watched, wondering what it was for, but knew Buck had a good reason. His friend turned the branch over and over in his hands, moving it from right to left much like the platen on an old typewriter would move. Apparently satisfied, he dragged the branch behind him, stopping once he again was alongside Walt, and then just looked up at him.

Walt pulled his left hand out of its protective pocket and thrust his thumb behind them. "Let's go get some coffee or somethin' back at the house."

Buck gave another look around, and then nodded his agreement. "Yeah, get us and the horses out of this white mess." Both turned and headed for their horses, which were huddled against each other under the cloaking branches of a towering pine tree. Snow continued to fall, white and sedate, while the only other noise was the wet crunch of powder under their boots and the sliding of Buck's branch behind them.

Minutes later they began the short ride back to the stables. The wind sifted through the pines as they rode, reminding Buck of Linny's gentle sigh. Often she'd get bundled up: scarf, full hood, heavy gloves—making sure every possible inch of skin was covered; then they'd go out to the stables and take the horses out, just riding around through the pines—no special reason other than to simply be enveloped by nature's beauty. Her voice echoed in his head, replaying the question she'd asked him, without fail, every time they rode in the snow: "Isn't it beautiful, Buck?" He hung his head and allowed the tears to mingle with the snow as it melted on his face. Walt's seemingly abrupt question violated the sullen moment.

"Why that spot, Buck?" He looked back only after asking, immediately noticing Buck's sagging shoulders and heavy head. "I'm sorry, you don't need to answer," Walt began, cursing himself under his breath. "I should have thought better of asking—"

Buck raised his head, squinting a bit. His face was heavy with loss, eyes burdened with grief. "It's alright, Walt," he managed.

"Buck, really, my fool curiosity overrode my good sense." Both men swayed gently back and forth with each step their horses took. Buck straightened up a little, then reached up and adjusted his hat. "Walt—really—it's fine," he assured him. "Riding through here, through these trees—Linny and I," he paused, swallowing hard, "I can't tell you how many times we'd been through here before, on days just like this. Just like now, the only sounds were the horses' hooves shuffling through the snow and the breeze making the trees whisper. I'd just as soon be working on something back at the stables than be out in this stuff, but she adored it, so I rode out here for her, just to be with her." He pulled back gently on the reins and his horse stopped, and then shook its mane; a dusting of white fell silently to the ground.

Walt followed suit, his horse stopping as well. A light pull to the left and the horse turned a bit to stand almost perpendicular to Buck and his horse. Buck looked over his left shoulder at the horizon. The earth rolled with small hills, up and down, the stands of trees along them mimicked their rise and fall. Through the veil of drifting snow the scene took on an almost watercolor feel, the snow muting colors to shades of gray and scenery layered upon itself as if it were designed as a series of huge cardboard cutouts for a stage production.

"Look out there, Walt." Buck paused a second, caught within a moment of insight. "To the untrained eye—hell, to the unappreciative eye—it all looks the same, don't it?" Walt scanned the view as he had countless times before, but never embedded within a moment like this. The turbulent mixture of disconsolation and pristine beauty slapped him square in the face.

"Buck, we've worked out here so much that I've come to take it for granted." Walt dropped his head for a second, feeling ashamed to have confessed it aloud. "That's not to say I don't appreciate, or don't respect it. As much as we've worked to take care of it, it's given back. So I'd say it doesn't look the same. I say it looks as it should."

Buck turned slightly in his saddle to eye Walt, trying to put his reply into some context within his own feelings. Walt seemed momentarily mesmerized by the sweeping view, then suddenly came to and drew his gaze back to Buck. "Is that part of your answer?"

"In a way...yeah." Buck watched the snow swirl as it fell, trapped in an invisible eddy, then continued. "This place, all of it...it was Linny. She belonged here. She loved every stone, every tree, everything. She was as beautiful as nature itself." Walt wanted to interject something comforting, but came up empty before Buck spoke again, voice cracking. "Walt—I can still see her standing in the same exact spot where we dug her final resting place. Her dark red hair blooming in the breeze. You know better than anyone the power she had over me." Both men sat still, flakes of winter's touch dusting the brims of their hats and shoulders. "Anyways, she picked that spot herself. Told me years ago that's where she wanted to be buried when she died. The rest of her family had passed long ago, so there was no one to contest her wishes, and since we owned the land, I promised her that's where she'd be placed, unless I went first, of course." Another wave of brute emotion washed over him, and his eyes welled to overflowing again. "Wish it was me instead, Walt."

Walt could only pat his friend reassuringly on the back. "C'mon Buck. Let's get inside."

Neither Mother Nature nor Father Time had bestowed much kindness upon Buck or any of his friends. All day long the Montana sky had been draped in a shawl of pewter clouds, making the wind and snow sting a little more than seemed fair; each passing hour felt like the loneliest of years. Buck felt certain his horse could feel his heavy heart pounding against its side—it seemed to drop more with every passing thought and remembrance of Linny. His horse knew the way back to the stables from the path they took.

Just as well, as lost as Buck felt.

Walt gently nudged his ride a couple of lengths ahead of Buck, eager to get both man and beast out of the elements and put something warm in their bellies. Both horses seemed to instantly recognize the stable as it slowly materialized into view, slightly weatherbeaten but well taken care of. Paint peeled a little here and there, and knotted wood proudly stood out upon every door brace and shuttered window. Walt's horse stopped without direction at the entrance, and he dismounted, patting the horse lovingly on the neck as he moved to slide the double-wide door open. He reached for the reins, unnecessarily, as the horse moved forward on its own, well aware of the comforts to be had within the stable walls. Buck's horse followed suit with Buck still saddled up. Once clear of the door Walt slid it shut, staving off the chill in trade for the cozy warmth of the six-stall room. Brant and Jayce had properly stowed their gear and made sure their horses were attended to. Inwardly, Walt felt a huge sense of relief, having figured Brant would have taken off to stuff his face without thinking about the animals.

Buck extended the long, thick branch he'd dragged back. "Take this for me?" Walt hauled it off, setting it against a nearby wall, while Buck dismounted then brushed the remaining snow off his steed. "I'm sorry, Molly. Papa shouldn't have left you out there so long. I'm sorry..."

"Buck?"

Walt's voice snapped him back into reality. "Huh? Yeah—what?"

Walt led his horse into the first stall, the clomping of hooves masking the tension he felt. "Look, there's something I need to tell you...," he began, voice partially obscured by his reluctance to turn around and face Buck. He busied himself with getting his horse settled in and fed while he talked. "I got a call early this morning, before we set out with Jayce and Brant."

"From?"

Walt's conscience and stomach tangled in a constricting knot. "Glen." There, it was out, although he still hadn't squarely faced Buck. He'd fully expected to hear the rare profanity bellowed from Buck's gut, but it didn't come. In its place was the angry clatter of an empty aluminum feed bucket as it rolled across the sawdust-strewn floor and crashed into a wall. Molly turned her head and shuffled a bit. "Buck, you had to expect..."

"The only thing I expect from him is to stay the hell out of my life!" barked Buck. He stroked Molly's nose so she knew he wasn't upset with her. "How can you possibly side with him, especially considering the not-so-disguised fact that Linny is gone?"

"I didn't say I was taking sides, Buck, I'm simply telling you he called."

"Fine, you've told me." Buck led Molly into her stall, mirroring the same preparations Walt had done for his horse. Walt's news was the last thing he'd wanted to hear today, much less have weighing upon him.

Walt wouldn't—couldn't—drop it. "You're not the least bit interested in what he had to say? He's your brother, Buck—family."

"Was, Walt... _was_ my brother. You know that. I will never forgive him for what he did to Linny. Never."

"He lived with both of you for five years, Buck. For five years the two of you tried your best to help him get on his feet. Don't get me wrong; you know I ain't making excuses for his actions, but it was, what, fourteen years ago? He's been sober twelve of those." He stepped out of the stall, and then gently swung the gate closed and locked it. He couldn't help but turn and face Buck now. "From what you and Linny told me, the man has tried—I can't tell you how many times over the years—to put things right."

Buck looked up as he put the finishing brush strokes on Molly's mane. "Did I ever tell you how I found out?"

Walt crossed his arms and furrowed his brow in thought. "I recall you tellin' me 'bout his drinking problem, how he wouldn't give it up. I remember all the fights you two had when he was drunk, and three times you bailed him out of the sheriff's jail."

He paused for a moment, hoping maybe Buck would jump in. After a few seconds, it was obvious he had no intention of interrupting, so he finished. "Not likely I'll forget how angry you were when you told me he was no longer living with you." Walt looked down at the floor and shook his head. "Even then, you never told me why."

Buck finished scattering fresh hay, straws of gold and umber covered most of the stall; little of the concrete peeked through. He stroked Molly's neck once more, then patted it a couple of times, content to let the conversation hang leaden between them. He stepped outside the stall and swung the gate closed, latching it as well. He stood silent for what seemed like minutes, facing away from Walt, running his hand back and forth across the top of the gate, then finally turned around and simply said, "C'mon, let's get in the house."

The enclosed walkway between the stables and the house proper had been built almost ten years ago, but served its purpose well. Large dual-pane windows could open in the warmer months to circulate the fragrant valley air, but closed tight against the cold during the winter, providing a much warmer walk between the two structures. Time-worn boots clapped along the hard floor as they walked. In his head, Buck could hear Linny's stride as she had traversed the hallway over the years. He'd always taken comfort in hearing her footsteps approaching when they'd left the old mudroom door open in the summer. From the kitchen he could hear her coming, and always watched the door until she stepped through. The hallway wasn't the same now without her footsteps to echo through it.

Both men hung their coats in the old mudroom, gloves set upon the small vented shelf that hung a full foot above an old cast-iron radiator. Though small, it was the perfect size to warm just the mudroom, and the ventilated shelf above allowed cold gloves to be warmed through. Walt slowly closed the door behind him as they entered the kitchen. The kitchen reflected none of the romantic notions of the open range; nowhere would be found a large blue and white speckled coffeepot or a huge wood-burning stove with a rotisserie. The main coffeemaker was larger than ones in most homes, mostly due to the number of ranch hands who drank it in the morning. Buck and Linny had a smaller ten-cup version for themselves, which he fumbled with at the moment. "Want some coffee?" he asked.

"Sure," Walt said. He welcomed the steam and warmth it would bring his hands and stomach.

"Help yourself to whatever you can find in the fridge," Buck added, still fidgeting with the coffee machine. "There should be fixin's in there for a sandwich or two. You know where everything is."

Walt wasted no time in getting plates out. "Want me to make you one?" He knew Buck had to be hungry.

"I really don't feel much like eating, Walt, you know?" He hit the brew button, and then pulled two plain mugs from the cabinet above.

"You should eat something, Buck. Been a long, hard day for everyone," Walt insisted.

"Not right now, thanks. I'll stick with the coffee for now." Walt just nodded and returned to pulling pickles, sliced meat, and various condiments from the refrigerator.

"Linny told me two days later," Buck stated out of the clear blue.

Walt swung his head around and stared at his friend. "About wha—" he started asking; then it dawned on him what the reference was to. "Oh, okay." He turned back to one slice of bread and began spreading mayonnaise upon it. "You don't have to talk about it if you'd rather not."

Buck slowly sat down at the large oak table. Eight chairs surrounded it, which normally didn't feel lonely, but now took on a deep sense of foreboding without his late wife sitting with him. Thoughtfully he removed his hat, setting it almost soundlessly upon the tabletop. "I'd always promised Linny I'd never speak of it when she was around. Not much point in rehashing it anyways. She knew how much it upset me, and I certainly didn't want her to relive it." He sat back and crossed one leg over the other. "But now, I guess it's just as well I talk about it."

Walt cut his sandwich in half diagonally, then set the knife next to the sink and sauntered to the table. The chair groaned against the floor when he pulled it aside to sit down. He was careful not to sit in the spot Linny had always used. "It's just these four walls and me," he drawled. "If you'd rather keep it between you and these walls, I can certainly understand that." Buck looked up at him. "These walls haven't been with me over thirty years, my friend." He wrung his hands together, trying to rub away some of the ache that always accompanied the cold weather. Walt lifted the sandwich, tearing a large bite from one corner. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Buck's hat, then respectfully removed his own and set it upon the table as well. The scent of fresh coffee began to permeate the room, and Buck looked over at the machine.

"It's almost done," Buck noted. Walt continued his assault on the sandwich. The mood indoors was no less somber than it had been outside, but at least there was physical warmth to be had with the ever-present melancholy. Buck's mind raced with memories of Linny—of her wavy tresses that seemed to bounce when she walked, the way her eyes partially squinted when she smiled, or how she sighed sometimes when trying to emphasize a point of conversation. Then his thoughts abruptly returned to his brother, causing malice and sorrow to collide within.

"I'd been out doing some repairs on the far west gate that day," Buck recalled aloud. "I remember it taking a while because I couldn't get the damn hinge to sit right and it kept binding up. My mind was working on Linny, too, 'cause she'd been acting different. She wouldn't admit it, even when I asked. Said things were fine, she just felt like being quiet. I shrugged it off, I guess. I'd never known her to lie to me, so I let it go figurin' it would run its course. Well, by the time I finally got the hinge fixed I was late for lunch, so I rode back to the house and tethered Molly outside the stable. I noticed Glen's car was gone but thought little of it. I walked in the side door and saw there were only two places set at the table for lunch.

"Where's Glen," I asked her, "he's never one to miss a meal.

"She says, 'We needed feed for the horses and a few things from the market, so I sent him on errands. He won't be back for a while.' I remember thinking she looked preoccupied, kinda' nervous." The coffee machine beeped, breaking his train of thought. Seemed odd that something so important and deliberately emotional should hold equal rank with a fresh cup of coffee, yet as he paced to the machine he found one stream of thought didn't necessarily trip over the other. Walt had stopped eating for the moment, absolutely engrossed in Buck's recounting of the story.

Cotton strands of steam vapor climbed out of each mug as Buck poured. Even pouring coffee made him think of Linny; he could almost hear the tinking of the spoon as she stirred in her sugar and cream. He replaced the carafe on the warming plate and then stared at both mugs, as if hoping she'd appear in the wisps of steam, eventually delivering both mugs to the table and dejectedly taking his seat again. Walt wrapped his large hands around his mug, raised it to his lips and sipped carefully.

"We sat there, Linny and I, and got about halfway through lunch before either of us spoke a word, which was unusual. She always talked about the horses, or some gossip she'd heard in town. But that afternoon was completely different. I couldn't steer clear of the feeling she was avoiding me." Buck's eyes went down to the mug of coffee, and then closed as he lifted it and sipped. "So I finally grasped her hand, looked her dead in the eyes and asked her, 'Lin, what's wrong?'" Walt sat motionless.

Buck looked down at the floor, as if ashamed, as if he'd said too much. "She...," he began, but choked on the words as they tried to come out. He took a deep, if labored, breath and continued. "She started to...cry." His mouth turned into an excruciating frown, every facial muscle seemed to pull downward. He looked away from Walt, mumbling weakly "I'm sorry."

Walt leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Ain't nothin' to be sorry for, Buck," he whispered. "Remember that girl I dated back in college, Allyson?"

Buck nodded as he wiped his eyes.

"Remember how crushed I was when we split up? Of course, now I know it was for the best, but then—damn—I couldn't help myself but cry it hurt so bad. Wasn't long after that I remember someone told me something that made a whole lotta' sense." He paused to make sure Buck was listening. "They said, 'Tears are words the heart can't express.' Remember who told me that?"

"Linny?" he replied, wrapping his hands around the coffee mug again.

"No...you did, Buck." Walt leaned back in time to see Buck's expression. "I know I'd heard her say that before, so that's probably where it came from."

Walt picked up his sandwich again, but stopped short of biting into it. "Doesn't matter who said it—no disrespect meant to Linny," Buck nodded. "What matters, Buck, is that it's true. Hell, man, I'd be cryin' if you weren't, but it's my turn to help you out. You can help me later, alright?"

Buck tried his best to manage a stoic grin. "Fair 'nough." He sipped his coffee for a minute, and Walt polished off the first half of his sandwich. Then Buck mindlessly turned his mug a half turn. "So, obviously, she'd validated my suspicion—something was really wrong. I remember standing up, real sudden, and pulling up on her hand. I can picture it clear as day. She didn't so much stand as fell toward me, Walt. You know what a rock she usually was."

"Shoot yeah. I could break ten wild horses before Lin would crack." He washed down his last bite with some hot coffee.

Buck pointed knowingly at his friend. "Exactly. So this wasn't any small matter." Walt sat back again, ignoring his sandwich.

"She sobbed for a couple of minutes, and I just held her," Buck continued. "I couldn't have felt more completely helpless." Leaning forward, he ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the tabletop. Telling the story was as bad as reliving it, but he needed to get it out. "Then she started with the list of things Glen had said—and done. About how he was angry drunk, mad as a badger 'cause we'd tried to hide his bottles. He only found one, but had hidden two others in places we didn't know of." Walt could see the anger beginning to take hold in Buck again. He'd considered that for the moment it was better than his sorrow.

"She said, 'He was stompin' all over the place, arms flyin', and cursin'.'" Buck threw his arms about wildly for emphasis.

"You surely weren't in the house, 'cause you wouldn't have let things get that far," Walt interjected.

"Damn right I wouldn't've. I honestly don't remember where I was." He gulped at his coffee before returning to the story. "It must have taken her ten minutes to tell me everything. Accusations flyin' everywhere, threats—but that was the easy stuff. He'd cornered her against the pantry door, over there by the fridge," he said, sternly pointing at the area by their oversized refrigerator. "Kept leering at her, standing way too close. Linny would forgive a lot because he was drunk, but she was real scared right then. So she kneed him in the groin then pushed him away. Kept yellin' at him to get out of the house and not come back until he was sober. She said he staggered back toward her, calling her all manner of things." Buck stopped long enough for Walt to see the fire in his eyes, the same ones that peeked at his remaining half sandwich. "You gonna' eat that?" he asked.

"Go ahead; it's all yours," Walt grinned, figuring it might be the only thing he eats for a while once the heat of his anger burned off. He scooted the sandwich quickly in Buck's direction, which Buck wasted no time in stripping a large bite out of, and then chased it down with a heavy gulp of coffee. He took another large bite and chewed it good while considering how best to finish; reaching across the table for a napkin, he wiped his mouth, then picked up again.

"By this time, Linny had backed away from me and was pointing here and there, showing me we he stood when he said such-and-such, or where she'd moved to while trying to stay away. She told me he was furious, his face was red and eyes as glazed as an icicle, but he could hardly stand. Then he slurred four words that did the most damage to her." Buck agitated his mug to swirl the coffee, then gulped down another mouthful. "He hollered at her..., 'You're impossible to love!'"

"Now, Buck, you know that's not true..."

"I know, I know—but it came out of nowhere and Linny took it to heart. Damn, Walt, he knew she had no family left. Even now, I can't imagine how she felt." Buck tore the third quarter of sandwich away and talked from the side of his mouth that wasn't busy chewing. "I don't think I had ever seen that woman so deeply hurt in all our years—and heaven knows I'd done some damn fool things to upset her, but never anything like that. Not even close."

Walt shifted slightly in his chair and rubbed his left temple. "Well, now I understand why you were so angry with him." He brushed a few stray crumbs off his jeans. "That's when you threw him out, right?"

Buck shook his head. "Linny tried her best to persuade me to let him stay on, that it was the alcohol talking, but I put my foot down. Five years we tried to help him, and I wasn't about to let him treat my wife that way and get away with it."

"That's a tough call, Buck." Walt crossed his arms.

"No, it ain't."

"Buck, the man is your brother..."

"And she was my wife. He should've treated her as such," he vented, draining his coffee mug and setting it down heavily upon the empty plate for emphasis. "As far as I'm concerned that's all there is to be said about it."

Walt just nodded respectfully, "Okay."

"He didn't show up again until the next day, almost like he knew Linny had spilled the beans. I told him he had a week, no more, to find someplace else to live. We didn't discuss why—didn't need to." He stood up and ambled back to the coffeepot again, pouring a fresh mug. "Want a refill?" he asked, gesturing toward Walt with the carafe.

Walt walked the mug over. "Please."

Mugs in hand, they walked through the large portal separating the kitchen and the living room Linny had always kept immaculate and warm. Large area rugs covered parts of the hardwood floor, and most of the furniture centered around the stone fireplace set in the far corner. Exposed beams and plenty of bare finished wood gave the room a resort feel without all the stodginess. Though beautiful, the fireplace, with its impressive lodgepole mantel, wasn't the visual centerpiece of the room. That distinction belonged to the grand picture window, which seemed to look out for mile upon mile of rolling Montana countryside. Outside, on the other side of the window, Buck had built a wraparound porch, simple but elegant. On the far left he'd hung a porch swing, and facing the railing were two large rocking chairs with a small table in-between; Linny had chosen that spot and the furniture for a specific reason: the view was unobstructed by columns, allowing for a stunning view of the sun as it dipped beneath the horizon each evening. Buck walked up to the window, and then stopped, seeming to lose himself in the view.

"That whole week I never left Linny's side, Walt. Just before he left, he tried to apologize to her."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing at first, just looked at me, like she wanted my approval. Then she turned and said, 'You should be gettin' on now. It's getting late.' She always felt bad about what happened, and every so often she'd try to convince me to patch things up with him, 'What's done is done,' she'd say." Buck paused to watch the breeze blow snow along the railing.

"I made sure I took every opportunity I had after that day to insure she didn't just know, but felt, how much I loved her." He looked down into his mug as if to summon a little more courage to stave off his grief. Turning to Walt, he asked, "Did she ever tell you about the card I gave her for our anniversary the year after all that happened?"

"I don't think so," came the thoughtful reply.

"She rarely cried, you know that," Buck intoned. Walt nodded affirmatively. "I'm kinda' proud of that card, because that's the only time I recall seeing her that emotional about a simple note."

Walt stood quietly for a moment, waiting for the rest. "Well, what did it say?"

Buck rubbed his forehead then shut his eyes tight trying to remember the exact wording. " _Love is not impossible, for if it is, then nothing is possible. I love you, more than any possibility, which surely means the impossible can't exist_." He let his voice trail off, almost as if simply remembering had taken a great physical toll on him.

"That's damned fine, Buck. You wrote that yourself?"

"Imagine that, huh." Walt gave him a friendly pat on the back and smiled. "I've never known you to wear your heart on your sleeve, except where Linny was concerned. I've seen you corral cattle, helped you build all kinds of things—I've known you since college, but rarely have I seen the heart inside the man. Knowing how you've always felt about her...it's not hard to imagine, Buck."

Buck gazed down at his rough hands, fingers chiseled from years of gritty work outdoors. How many times, he wondered, had he reached for Linny's hand without a thought—and now, they only held and reveled in the warmth of the ceramic mug. He peered up again, eyes darting, searching, in the milky twilight for some brief solace, a reprieve from the dense affliction he couldn't feel past.

Walt took another gulp of coffee, staring at his friend's profile. "Hey, Buck, you should try to get some rest. You look like hell, man." Buck shook his head once. "I know, but I can't sleep. I'm so tired...but I can't sleep." Walt just nodded quietly.

"Jayce and Brant should be back soon. If you're okay with it, we'll bunk in the guest quarters downstairs tonight." Walt turned to step back toward the kitchen, when Buck looked up. "Hey, Walt..."

"Yeah?"

"All the same, I'd appreciate it if you stayed in the guest room up here. The other two are certainly welcome to stay downstairs. There's food and..."

Walt held up his palm. "I'll be across the hall then, if you need anything. We know where everything is, so you let us know if you need something, alright?" Buck nodded weakly. "Yeah—yeah." Walt gave him another reassuring pat on the shoulder and then headed back into the kitchen. Buck listened to his boots click across the floor as he walked, but kept his eyes on the painful blanket of white gathering outside. A steamy shower and an attempt at a nap might help a little, so he turned his back on the vista and headed down the long hallway to the master bedroom, his steps echoing as he went.

***

Walt lazily opened his eyes for what seemed like the tenth time, noticing it was still dark. The blanched red glow from the bedside alarm clock reminded him to check the time—again: 6:15 a.m. He rolled onto his back and crossed his long arms beneath his head and listened—no sound at all. No doors closing, no rattling from the kitchen, no running water rushing through the pipes in the wall. He thought for sure he'd hear Buck up and about. Perhaps it was a sign that he was still asleep, and if so, he certainly wasn't going to wake him up yet. The service didn't begin until nine, so he had lots of time yet.

He got up and showered, dressing in the fresh change of clothes he'd brought from the downstairs quarters last night. In the corner nearest the bathroom sat an overstuffed easy chair, a large floor lamp next to it for isolated reading. He hadn't turned the lamp on, opting instead for the light from the bathroom to spill into the cozy bedroom, now awash in the soft white glow it provided. He lowered himself into the chair sinking slightly in the abundant cushioning and then wiped down his boots in the pale light. When he was satisfied they looked proper for a funeral service he leaned back and let his eyes drink the room in. Being alone in it was one thing, but the loneliness of it this morning made him uneasy—not that today would be the least bit easy in any regard.

Spreading his towel methodically across the towel bar at the foot of the bed, he then turned off the bathroom light, leaving only the alarm clock's ghostly pallor to occupy the dark room. A couple of steps further down the hallway and he leaned over to see if the light was on in Buck's room; no indication of any escaped from under the door, but he did notice it was slightly ajar. Walt hesitated, uncertain as to what to do. Stepping forward he gently pushed on the door, expanding the gap between the jamb and door roughly six inches. He waited a moment, listening for any movement—nothing, so he gently knocked. "Buck? You up?" No answer. Palm flat against the door, he slowly pushed it open and stepped in. The bed looked like it hadn't been slept in at all, and there was certainly no sign of Buck anywhere. Walt's brow furrowed as he turned and headed for the kitchen.

All the lights were off in the dining area and kitchen except the pale amber light spilling from the stove hood at the far end. Out of habit Walt glanced at the coffee machine. Most mornings Linny would already be up and about, the smell of frying bacon would linger in the air, its sizzle like a homing beacon to any who stepped into the area. He could hear her voice as he had countless times before: "Mornin' Walt. Want some breakfast?" she'd ask in her wonderful Midwest accent. Unless he stayed overnight he would have a bumpy twenty minute drive to the ranch, and always arrived hungry.

"You bet," he'd say. She'd grab a couple of eggs and he'd listen to the shells crack on the side of her cast iron griddle.

"Buck'll join you in a few minutes," she would add. "Want some fresh coffee? Just finished brewin'."

"Thanks, Lin," he'd reply, "But I'll get it." She'd smile and turn back to tend to the eggs.

No smell of bacon frying this morning, and the small coffeepot was half empty already, the warming plate indicator glowing red in the relative dark. Walt drew his eyes around the forlorn kitchen and sighed deeply. He grabbed a clean mug from the cabinet above and poured himself a hot cup of java. He sipped at it, letting the steam warm the tip of his nose. Opening the mudroom door, he donned his coat and stuffed his gloves into the side pockets. They were toasty warm from sitting above the radiator. Mug in hand, he stepped into the connecting walkway leading to the stables. Through the huge windows he could see patches of stars twinkling, and a blanket of snow covering everything visible.

He sighed again, knowing Linny would have loved it.

Cooler air greeted him as the interior door to the stables opened and he stepped through. A couple of the horses swiveled their heads to look in his direction. All six of them had flannel blankets covering their backs and sides. Walt could hear occasional sawing coming from the workshop in the far corner. On his way, he stopped to rub the nose of each horse and then approached the open door. He should have known.

Walt rapped gently upon the door. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

Buck looked up from his work and wiped his brow. "More of a nap than sleep," he said. In the bright light of the workshop Walt could see his eyes were bloodshot, dark circles underneath each one. "Have any breakfast yet?" Walt asked.

Buck shook his head. "Still not hungry, really."

"I can make a couple of eggs real quick if you'd like. I'm going to have some. Could use the company." Buck busied himself with measuring off a couple of arm-length pieces of rope. "You're as stubborn as she was," he said, looking over his shoulder at Walt.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"I guess it was, wasn't it?" He coiled the length of rope, laying it gently at the edge of his workbench. Walt admired Buck's handiwork with the large branch he'd dragged in yesterday. He had removed the ragged ends and stripped away all branches, large and small, and left the bark in its natural state. Split into two different lengths, he'd created a notch on both pieces where they would intersect. The effect was beautiful for its simplicity—the pieces came together as a proper cross, the marker for her final resting place.

Buck had used his hand axe to roughly hew the top and horizontal ends into knobby caps, and sharpened the bottom portion into a pointed stake so it could be driven into the ground. Without even thinking about it Walt had removed his hat, perhaps as a subconscious display of respect.

"You've always been good with your hands, Buck," Walt began. "The porch, the walkway, the stables...every repair this place needed. But this," he said, gesturing with his hat, "this is perhaps your best work—and by far your most important." Buck had rigged the vertical length between two vices as Walt spoke, but stopped thoughtfully as he'd finished.

"Thank you kindly, Walt. It's not much, but it will do until I can get a proper marker for her." He then set the horizontal piece into the small notch, assuring the two pieces nestled together.

"Buck, I sure don't think there could be any more proper a marker for Linny. I really don't."

Buck grabbed the coiled rope and slowly unwound it. "Thanks again, Walt. That means a lot to me." Walt replaced his hat, then tugged the brim down just a little as a silent you're welcome.

"I'll go start a fresh pot, and get the eggs cookin'. See you in a few."

Buck just nodded, already absorbed in the task of winding the rope crisscross about the middle of it where the two pieces met. When finished, he held it upright, briefly scrutinizing it for some imagined flaw, then whispered tenderly, "I love you, Linny," and gently kissed the heart of the cross.

***

From treetop level, those gathered to pay their respects cast a mottled scene upon the snow below, like pepper sprinkled upon an uneven tray of salt, among them Walt, Jayce, Brant, and almost two dozen others from the nearby township of Hungry Horse. Walt scoured the crowd, and just beyond, for any sign of Glen, but never saw him—unless he was well out of view or obscured by the surrounding forest.

Jayce and Brant had ridden out about half an hour before the service began and used an auger just slightly smaller than the cross's girth to loosen the hard earth so placing it wouldn't be an impediment. Father Whitten blessed the homemade marker and then stood aside as Walt held it and Buck drove it firmly into the ground with a sledgehammer. For a few minutes, the only sounds heard were Buck's labored grunts as he swung the hammer, and the dense clunk as iron met squarely with wood. When finished, he stepped just in front and to the right of the cross and knelt upon his left knee with his head bowed. No one moved or said a word while he remained quietly in place.

The mid-November wind drifted across the valley, causing loose raiments to flap and the boughs atop the simple casket to timidly jitter. Soft flakes began to glide and tumble amidst the gathering. Buck rose and took his place next to his beloved Linny. He wouldn't stand with the main body of mourners. His place was next to Linny, as it always had been.

The service itself was somber, bereft of light despite the early morning hour. Each and every soul in attendance stopped to impart their condolences to Buck: men shook his hand, women warmly embraced him. It took all he had to remain standing, his knees desperately wanting to buckle in spite of his willing them not to. Walt, Jayce, and Brant were the last to approach him, each man forgoing the handshake, opting for a heartfelt hug instead. Then the three slowly meandered off, leaving Buck and the pastor alone. Father Whitten stepped quietly in front of Buck and gently grasped his elbow.

"Buck, there's little I can add that hasn't already been offered here this morning. She gave so much to these folks, and today they all gave back." He paused, if only to let the first thought blow gently about them. "I assure you, her soul has returned from where it came—she's beginning her true life now, Buck."

The preacher titled his head, trying to look into his downcast eyes, finding only the expected darkness of loss and unfettered concession to sorrow. Buck's head remained down and still, the preacher's voice playing out in his head.

"At your ages so many couples are either divorced or working on second or third marriages. You and the missus—well, you seemed perpetually on honeymoon." Buck had grasped the mans hand and shook it, looking over his shoulder at Linny chatting with two other ladies, her Sunday dress gently stirring in the prairie breeze, dark autumn hair waving about.

"Buck...," a soft voice called out. "Buck?" A sympathetic hand landed carefully upon his shoulder, severing his connection with the quiet memory. "Sorry Father, I was . . . uh . . . remembering."

Father Whitten gave him a half smile. "It's alright, son. That tells me she's here, watching over you." A time- and weather-worn cowboy stood before him, trying incredibly hard to be strong and resilient, yet quivering under the weight of his heartbreak. The priest stood close with his black-and-white Roman collar barely exposed by his coat, and his thinning hair tousled by the crisp breeze as it sailed through the open meadow, kissed by pines dusted in icy white. Buck looked up, aching eyes boring into the cleric's own, then slowly wrapped his arms around the minister and let the squall of melancholy inside loose upon his shoulder.

Walt looked on from a distance, Brant and Jayce on either side. He turned to both men, gesturing toward the house and nodded. Both nodded back, glanced once more at the now solitary Buck and pastor graveside, then solemnly trudged off toward the house. Walt crouched down and ran his gloved forefinger through the snow, then scooped up a handful and sifted it through his fingers with his thumb. He looked up at the drifting clouds, gathering and grey, then back down at the pristine snow around him—and for the first time, allowed himself to openly grieve her passing, tears falling to the powder without a sound.

***

Minutes dissolved into the unrelenting cold as both men acceded to their surging emotions. Mercifully, the breeze had died down and the snow continued falling amidst the utter stillness.

Walt slowly stood up and turned about, satisfied for the moment that he'd exhausted some of his pent up grief. Not far away stood his best friend and the minister. Then out of nowhere—a thought, a memory that had eluded him for far too many years. He stepped forward with a new sense of urgency, long strides eating up the distance. Once within proximity to the pair, he stood patiently and waited for them to finish.

Father Whitten shook Buck's hand one last time and Walt began walking slowly toward him. "Father, I can't thank you enough for being here for Buck."

"Well, I was here for Buck _and_ Linny. You'll let me know if there's anything else I can do, won't you?"

Walt shook his hand firmly, "Absolutely, Father. Thank you again." The preacher smiled warmly and then went to stand next to Molly and wait for Buck to ride back to the house. Walt continued walking a few more feet until he stood right next to Buck.

"I remember, not long after the two of you met, you told me she'd found you when you weren't looking." Buck looked up at him questioningly. "What do you mean?"

"Linny. You told me you weren't looking when she found you. Remember that?"

Buck nodded, slowly at first, then more rapidly as the memory returned. "Yeah, okay, I remember that now. But I don't see..."

Walt held up his hand. "I remember how much it took you to finally summon the courage to tell her how you really felt. I threatened to steal her from you if you didn't tell her, remember?"

Buck looked down at his boots and kicked mindlessly at the snow. "I didn't think you would do it, until you said, 'Try me.'"

Walt grinned a little. "I know you weren't real happy about that."

"No, not at all. But I have to admit, that's what finally forced me to tell her I knew I loved her."

Walt shrugged slightly. "And? Wasn't I right?"

"Yes, that time." Buck sniffed then produced a sheepish grin.

"And what did she tell you once you finally opened up?"

Buck dropped his head again, then looked up, straight faced. "She said it was scary. She wasn't at all certain she was worthy of that kind of attention."

Walt stepped sideways, for no good reason other than to change his view a little. "Obviously you didn't give up on her."

"I couldn't, Walt. I told you that."

"Several times, I recall." Walt waited, hoping to see the light go on above Buck's head.

"My point, Buck, is that I'd bet you have much the same feeling right now—that same sort of scariness that she felt. Sure the situation is different, but the emotion is probably much the same. If there are feelings where she is now, I'd bet the farm that she's just as scared now to be without you as you are without her."

Buck stared intently at Walt, then turned and waved to Father Whitten, acknowledging he'd be there soon. Turning back, he extended his hand to Walt, pulling him in to a hug only deep friendship can define.

Walt knew he got the message.

Buck stepped back then and turned to face the pine-branch cross. Walt asked what many others wanted to know.

"Buck, y'know we'll be around to help as long as you need us; it's what we do. But what about you...what're you gonna do now?" He looked around as if the answer would appear shimmering in the pallid air. "Maybe head somewhere warmer, without snow?"

Buck knelt on one knee, gently embedding it in the snow and thoughtfully removed his hat, giving it a last careful brush off. Leaning forward, he hung the hat from the makeshift cross. The ever-present breeze rocked it lightly from side to side.

"I've already begun," he said, still staring at the hat as it fidgeted on the marker.

"I don't getcha'."

"I always looked forward to seeing her at the end of the day." Buck paused and wiped his eyes, wanting to blame the snow for stinging them, but knowing it was blameless. "Remember when we were kids, and we'd jump from the hayloft into those huge bales of cotton below?"

Walt dug his hands deeper into his coat pocket and grinned. "Yeah."

"Coming home to Linny was a lot like that, Walt. I mean, sure, sometimes you'd be uncertain or intimidated by the drop. But the fall was always exhilirating and the landing always soft...and warm." Buck rose and stepped back to stand alongside Walt, both men enveloped by winter's wide expanse and the wind's bitter caress. For a moment the only sound came from the hat as it rapped against the cross. Buck's mournful sigh punctuated the moment.

"I've already begun missing her, Walt. I miss her voice and her smile. A huge part of me is gone." He paused to pull his handkerchief from his back pocket and wipe his eyes again. Walt did the only appropriate thing he could do—just listened attentively.

Buck's tired eyes never lifted from Linny's grave. "So, what will I do next?" Walt looked up from the grave to his friends face.

Buck exhaled deeply, his breath captured in the ensuing vapor, then looked skyward and squinted, extending his glove-clad hand, palm up. Both men watched silently as snowflakes lit upon the worn hide and melted. "I'm gonna' start by learning to love the snow."

Streetlamp

Ethereal wisps of smoke and fine dust helped define the amber rays of dusk that lit the otherwise melancholy sidewalk bar. Like filtered sunlight through aching clouds, each stray beam of light was created by obstacles that blocked its intrusion: a railing, louver blinds, and the limbs of a small tree growing, almost inappropriately, at the curb. Paul's eyes itched from all the smoke and dry air. He hated the discomfort, but was too unmotivated to move. He'd been comfortable sitting in the same spot most of the day, almost settled in—in a temporary sort of way. He'd read the same newspaper several times over, the business section currently in his lap. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed one ankle over his thigh, creating a figure-four parallel to the floor. His ever-drifting concentration—or lack thereof—made it difficult to rationally process the crests and valleys of thought and emotion rising and falling within.

_Paul Modun,_ he thought, gazing out the window at the late afternoon. He sighed only loud enough to hear it himself. A woman with long black hair and beautiful piercing eyes strolled by. Mournfully he closed his eyes. _Paul Moron. Yes. Definitely moron. Much more the part I think_. He added this latest self-deprecation to his long list of things to analyze and anguish over later, too maudlin to consider it now. The front door opened with a familiar creak, allowing a quick exchange of fresh air for stale. Soon it too would be used up.

A familiar and expected voice spilled across his once solitary table. "Damn, Paul, been here awhile today?"

"Give it a rest, Bobby," Paul groaned.

Bobby gave the interior a cursory once-over before assertively seating himself. "You're right, I should. Let's just have a nice quiet conversation."

Paul turned to face Bobby and then rubbed his eyes. "Sure," he sighed. "Pick a topic."

Fifteen years Bobby had known Paul, and in all that time he'd always known him to be the level-headed type, seemingly always on an even keel. But his recent heartbreak had reduced even Paul's otherwise steely resolve. He wanted—no, needed—to get Paul's mind off the reason he had been sitting in the bar all day. Bobby's eyes sparked as he asked, "Okay. Looks like you've got the newspaper absorbed, so what's news?"

"Not much. Same stuff, different day." Awkward silence enveloped them, despite the happy-hour clamor.

The waitress materialized seemingly from nowhere—the second for Paul today. Bobby pointed at one of the six empties on the butcher-block table and nodded. She smiled and glanced at Paul. Bobby nodded again, and she disappeared into the darkening bar.

"So then, let's drink!" Bobby said.

"To?" asked Paul, wearily

Bobby looked unflinchingly at his friend. "No women," he said.

Paul lowered his stare to the paper in his lap.

"C'mon buddy," pleaded Bobby. "You're better off without her. Dude, cheer up, would ya'?"

"I'm sure you're right," Paul moaned.

"When have I ever not been right?" Bobby grinned while leaning back in his chair for the first time, arms splayed wide in questioning modesty.

"You really don't want me to answer that, do you?" Paul retorted.

"No. It was a rhetorical question anyways." Bobby was a one-trick pony but was utterly at ease with it. Romance didn't suit him; lowbrow living did. He admired, even respected, the comfort of the moment.

Again the leggy waitress appeared. She wore glasses and had a librarian presence about her. Not Bobby's type, but...

She put two cold bottles on the table with a _thunk_.

"Would you consider going out with my friend here?" Bobby proffered, without prior discussion, of course.

"Me?" Her voice was softer than Paul had imagined. He'd watched her gentle, efficient manner since she started her shift. Bobby just nodded emphatically and supported his temple against his index finger.

"I don't know. Does he speak?" she asked.

Paul cut in. "I apologize for my friend here. He lacks many a social grace but he means well." Bobby just smirked. She tipped her head toward Bobby.

"C'mon, buddy," Bobby implored. "Look at her. She's really pretty, seems nice enough, bet she likes to do fun things once in a while. What's wrong with getting to know her?"

Paul hastily flipped the business section to the floor. "Did it occur to you that maybe she doesn't like being come onto by derelicts or, in your case, assholes?"

"That's a little strong, sir," she said. "You've just been so quiet. I wouldn't know what to say if you did actually ask me. I'll be back in a bit to see how you're doing."

"Please, don't call me _sir_. That's for those deserving of title. Paul is fine." He managed a forced grin.

"Okay...Paul," she said. "Anything else you'd like? I noticed you've been sitting here awhile, you must be hungry."

"Ask for her phone number," Bobby whispered loud enough for half the patrons to hear. Paul shot one palm toward Bobby "Do you mind?" He looked downward again, half embarrassed, half ashamed. He looked up again at the waitress, feeling both sheepish and annoyed by Bobby's outburst. "No, thank you, I'm fine, really."

"Okay," she said, smiling sweetly, and disappeared into a dim mixture of neon and fluorescent light.

"I thought we were drinking to no women?" Paul asked.

"Yeah, that's good," agreed Bobby.

"It is."

The sweat on the bottles reflected the dying sunlight as it struggled to stay alive. Paul sat and watched the streetlamp next to the tree slowly flicker on, unlatching the blinds and swinging the panel open for an unobstructed view of it.

Bobby's worn fingers clenched his beer bottle and raised it aloft.

"To getting my friend back," he said.

Paul raised his bottle as well, tapping the neck against the barrel of Bobby's bottle. He nodded knowingly in response. He liked the clinking sound. It was comfortable. He liked comfortable. He had to be careful not to get too drunk. He was starting to like the alcohol, and it scared him—but not too much.

Bobby stared at the TV that was just above the rows of backlit liquor bottles behind the bar. It hung there as a noisy companion to the brewery-sponsored neon and Day-Glow promotional signs. Bobby found romance in the elegant flight of a well-thrown football. He sipped at his now half-empty bottle.

"Wanna' shoot some stick?" he asked Paul.

"Pool is a good game. Requires focus. Concentration." Paul sat motionless.

"It's actually called billiards, if you wanna' split hairs," Bobby corrected.

"Very right you are," Paul confirmed.

"Any way you look at it, it's a good game," Bobby countered.

"Yes. It is." The tip of his beer bottle seemed to point to the man lighting his female companion's cigarette a few tables over. The tip of the cigarette glowed like an earthbound star.

"So, do you want to play, or just sit and talk?" Bobby prodded.

"I'm comfortable here. Been here most of the day, you know. I'd really hate to lose my spot," Paul mused. He was really trying to be careful. He couldn't get drunk.

"Yeah, okay. Where is that cute waitress?" asked Bobby, looking around the room.

Paul shrugged and slogged down the last of number seven.

"Hey, Bobby?"

"Yeah?" He looked closely at Paul. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked so time worn and weary.

Paul hesitated; leaning in on his forearms, he turned to stare at the growing presence of the streetlamp. He spoke at the window, seeing his own lips move in the glass. "You can't imagine how it is to love, to wait, and want."

"If it's what I'm seeing right now, no thanks. What's the use? She'll go off with someone else. You can't trust 'em, Paul." Bobby hefted his bottle again, "Here's to no women!" he said to no one in particular.

Paul hoisted one of his empties. "No women!" he blurted, rather loudly.

"What ya' gotta do to get a beer in this place?" Bobby grumbled. "I'll be right back. You want another? C'mon, we're drinkin', remember?"

"Yes. We are. And we're good at it, too. I'll have another," declared Paul.

"You got it, buddy." Bobby shuffled off to a distant corner of the bar.

Paul turned back to the window and cradled his chin against the heels of his palms, elbows planted firmly on the table. A couple walked into the triangle of light underneath the lamp. The man wore a business suit and pushed aside a tree limb as they strode by. The woman had on a very plain but pleasing skirt and white blouse. Her shoulder-length hair bobbed with each step. They held hands as they passed through the lamp's glow. Darkness had finally claimed the street for now.

"Paul, are you okay?" Her voice was instantly recognizable. The waitress Bobby couldn't find materialized tableside. He could see her soft reflection in the window. Nightfall had given the glass a mirror-like quality so he didn't have to move much. His chair was part of him—very comfortable. _Good to be comfortable and not drunk_ , he thought.

"Paul?"

He turned slowly as he spoke. "Yeah," he looked up at her. "I'm okay."

She sat down as she spoke. "I saw your friend at the bar talking to Sarah, so I thought I'd come over and see how you were doing..." Something wasn't right in his eyes; she could see it. They weren't just blue in color.

With a feather-light touch her fingers rested on his hand. He felt warmth and concern, a total stranger showing compassion. Paul glanced up, eyes moist.

"What do you make of that?" he asked her.

Puzzled, she asked, "What? Make of what?"

"That," he motioned out the window. "The streetlamp."

"Umm," she began, "I guess I see something that helps remove a little bit of darkness so we can see." She paused for a moment, trying to ponder the question amidst the conversational hum of the bar. "Gives some small measure of security to make us see what we couldn't before. Tell me what you see."

Paul stared through the reflecting glass into the light, focusing intently on the lamp.

"I see mechanical moonlight. It's man made, but romantic. But when the sun comes up, the promise of romance fades, and so the moonlight goes out."

She looked at it again, and squirmed a little in the chair. "But it's always there," she stated softly.

Paul looked at her again. She could see the overhead light reflecting off the gathering moisture in his eyes. Smiling as best she could, she stared, unsure of what to say.

"It's so long. So good. So cruel. Love is good, isn't it? Don't you think?" he asked. He was feeling a little warmer now. He'd been so careful not to get drunk.

She looked one last time at the solitary lamp and gently nodded her agreement, "Yes, it is. If nothing else, love is hopeful."

"I wish you hadn't said that."

"I'm sorry, just thinking out loud," she replied.

"It's okay." He managed a weak, numb smile. "Really. Thank you."

"I'll, uh, send your friend back over." She leaned over so he could hear her with clarity. "Let me know if you need anything, okay?" She smiled and gently patted his shoulder as she stood up.

"I will," he promised.

He gathered the newspaper, now dog-eared and crumpled, and set the empty bottles neatly on top of it. The streetlamp cast a pale hue upon the newsprint. It was a comfortable thing, and he liked being comfortable.

Once again the front door creaked open, as it had many times over the hours he'd quartered himself at the now almost familial table. A middle-aged couple slipped through it, wordlessly, and strode into the pale evening on the other side of the glass. He watched, almost in hushed reverence, as they walked arm in arm past the streetlamp. As they did so, his eyes followed the lamp from its base all the way to the lithe arch which held the lamp aloft. Floating serenely, just above the arch, was a creamy-gray moon and a few companion stars surrounding it, twinkling as if trying to speak to him.

Paul rubbed his eyes one more time—part habit from the smoke irritation and part to clear the mist from them. In the window's reflection he could see Bobby making his way back to the table, a reminder of the comfortable numbness he'd been nurturing.

A last wistful glance from the lamp then up again at the moon. "Shine on," he whispered to both, "the sun will rise soon enough."

_The sun would be up soon_ , he thought.

Broken

"Asphalt has a way of taking the beauty and life out of something that, at one time, held meaning to someone," Slim declared above the arctic blast from the trucks air conditioner. Outside, heat enveloped the vehicle in small dancing waves.

We sped by the scattered remains of a wooden chair on the left shoulder of the freeway.

"We'll swing back around and pick that up in a bit," he stated flatly, reaching for the CB mike.

"Dispatch, this is Slim." A quick burst of static and then silence. "Slim to dispatch, over."

Again, no response.

"Must be on another damn coff—"

"Hey, Slim, go ahead." The voice clearly that of a smoker. It was dry, a little raspy, but unmistakably feminine. He depressed the transmit switch for the third time. "'Bout time, Marci."

"Sorry, Slim, had to step outside for a few." Slim rolled his eyes and gave me his 'go figure' look.

"Listen, we just rolled past a chair on the northbound side of the freeway, south of Simpson. We'll pick it up in about a half hour," he said.

"Ten-four. Dispatch clear."

"Unit 29 out." Slim clipped the mike back onto his visor.

"She's not much for words, is she?" I half-stated, half-asked.

"Must be that time, you know," he said with a wry smirk. "She seems a bit moody today."

Traffic flowed around us like snow melt during spring thaw. Staring at my notepad, I tried to focus on the story at hand. Slim wasn't talking much and my brain was too busy processing storyline and haunting memories. I was here to do a job, but it wasn't easy with my thoughts elsewhere. Slim rested his left elbow on the window frame as he drove, holding the wheel with his left hand. His right hand motioned as he spoke.

"So tell me again what you did to deserve this assignment."

"Actually, I requested it."

Slim's brow lowered in wonder. "Okay, and why?"

"It's off the beaten path, no pun intended; more human interest than the day-to-day tragic stuff. I'm numb from reading the police blotter every day and listening to the scanner to get stories about the misfortunes of others."

A Jeep filled with hormones and thumping music went by and broke the flow of conversation.

"You haven't asked me too many questions. Isn't that what reporters do?" Slim asked.

"Sure we do. But a part of the job that gets overlooked is simply observing. In some respects the details tell more than the verbal answers do."

"That makes sense," he nodded in agreement.

Slim fit his nickname well. He didn't fit his birth name, Gordon. He was tall and lanky, burnt sienna brown from daily sun exposure, but had crystalline gray eyes that looked right through you. The stare was a result of having seen much of life's detritus spread along the roads of his town. He looked in his rearview mirror and signaled left to switch lanes.

He didn't miss a beat as he spoke, "Look, I know it ain't my business, but you seem a little preoccupied. It has nothing to do with roadway safety, does it?"

Grinning sheepishly, I replied, "Nope. No it doesn't."

"Only one thing makes a man that way, Kid."

"And what's that?" I asked.

"I really don't need to tell you that now, do I." It was a statement, not a question.

"I doubt it, but just for argument's sake, suppose you fill me in."

Slim took his eyes off the road just long enough to be dangerous. Long enough to see what most guys wouldn't.

"I tell you what, Kid—"

"Dakota," I cut him off. "You can call me Dakota, if you'd like."

Slim's eyes widened; then he smiled, "Dakota Straub?"

"Yeah, that's me," I said, smiling.

"Hey! I read your stuff all the time! I really like it!" He shook my hand like I was some celebrity.

"Thanks." I have to admit to being a little flattered by his staunch appreciation of my work. Never knew I had readership, much less a fan.

"Sorry, I interrupted. You were saying?"

His gaze seemed to disappear somewhere far beyond the hood of the truck; he looked like he was watching a concert pianist, lost and enraptured by every note. "Do you know how to swim?"

"What? Uh, yeah." Jeez, from piano to foghorn.

"Stay with me here," he said, reaching forward to adjust one of the air conditioning vents. "Remember standing at the edge of the pool, then walking along the side sorta' watching the bottom as you walked?"

"Sure," I agreed.

"I remember thinking it didn't look so tough," he reminisced. "Before the day was over, I thought for sure I'd be swimming from the shallow end to the deep end, no problem. Piece of cake."

"I remember wanting to go off the diving board," I said, smiling at the memory. "That was the cool stuff." He'd sucked me in, and I didn't even know it yet.

"Yeah! Me, too. It was just water, and we were kids. We learned how to climb trees without even trying. How hard could learning to swim be?" he posited. "That's what you think until you get in the water. It's a whole 'nother ballgame when you're in the pool and not outside." Slim shot me a leathery grin, then silently pointed a finger to the tip of his nose. "The water's always deeper when you're in it."

I wasn't entirely certain why, but I knew he understood my state of mind, or lack thereof. I looked down at my notepad again—very few notes. I began to wonder who was writing the article, him or me. Illegibly I noted 'Time@job:'. "How long have you been doing this job?" I asked, abruptly changing the conversation's direction.

"Going on twenty years."

"Lots of time to think in this kind of job, huh?"

"Oh, yeah. Sometimes too damn much. But," he paused thoughtfully, "in the long run the asphalt is a pretty good teacher, if you know how to read her."

"How so?" I wrote as fast as I could and still wasn't swift enough.

"You drive the freeways and streets long enough you see and understand things in a different way." His stare looked out my window briefly, checking for clearance on my side. The signal clicked as he moved into the right lane. "You learn to see things in patterns and shapes, instead of things or objects," he continued.

"I don't get it," I confessed.

"Look at the road itself. It disappears into something called a vanishing point. All day I watch people rushing to that vanishing point but never reaching it. It's an optical illusion, you know. It's there because you can see it," he mused, "but it doesn't really exist."

I scrawled two diverging lines on my pad with an arrow pointing to where they intersected, and labeled it _vanishing point_. Jotting a couple of more thoughts down, I gave Slim's perspective some analysis of my own.

"I think there is some sort of mathematical correlation between emotion and logic."

"How do you figure?"

"You ever reached that point where no matter how things sum up logically, the answer just feels wrong?" I asked.

For the first time in two days of riding with him, I saw him react without a word.

"Of course you have," I said.

I could see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to work out my logic. "So you're sayin' that no matter how much the head says stop, your heart says go?"

"Yeah."

"Dakota, it's been my experience that few things in this world are worth hanging onto if they hurt," reasoned Slim. "If you touch something hot, you let go, right?"

"Sure," I agreed. "But that's physiological. Your body makes you let go to avoid further damage."

"Exactly." Two weathered fingers sprang up between us. "But name me two things you don't let go of, despite the pain or potential for more of it."

All I could do was look down at the vacant page of my notepad.

"Hope," I said, allowing my voice to trail off.

"And?"

I hadn't a clue.

"The love of a woman. The _right_ woman," he said emphatically.

Shaking my head, I said, "I should have guessed."

"You didn't need to guess," protested Slim. "You knew the answer."

"It's hard to let go, Slim. No matter how I try, it's something absolutely inexplicable that refuses to die."

He just smiled and glanced in his rear-view mirrors for the seventh time in five minutes. He spent his day waiting to pick up the trash of careless or unfortunate others, while I spent mine making sure my own refuse didn't decay. In the minutes that followed I'd been so lost in thought I hadn't noticed Slim pull over to the shoulder.

"Ya' wanna' help me pick this stuff up, or stay in here?" he asked.

"What...oh, sure. Yeah." Opening the door reminded me of Mom making cookies when I was much younger. Standing next to her when she swung down the oven door, the blast of hot, dry air grabbing your attention. But it's a dry heat, as they say out here.

Old wicker baskets and what had been rattan furniture of some type lay strewn along a twenty-yard swath.

"This happened last night," he stated as if it was obvious.

"How can you tell?"

"Look up ahead toward the next off-ramp. See how pulverized it is? There used to be more here, but there's always someone who likes to run over someone else's stuff." He had to shout over the din of traffic, which made his statement eerily emphatic.

I kept looking back and forth over the stretch of now malformed straw as Slim opened the back gate of the truck. We started from the closest object and moved away from the truck.

"Hey, Dakota, give this some thought," he shouted.

"What's that?"

"Think of stuff that gets broken." His smile was stoic, but harmless.

After picking up the first piece I learned to kick the items forward instead of carrying them. The less time my skin spent in contact with sun-baked furniture the better. I'm sure it looked disrespectful to the passers-by, but it wasn't their flesh getting seared. Fifteen minutes and a small bottle of water later we had it cleaned up and retreated to the grateful coolness of the truck cab

"What possessed you to get into this line of work?" I asked, slamming the door shut with a loud metallic thud. He kept staring out the driver-side window looking for a spot to merge, so he appeared to be talking to the window instead of me.

"Used to be your garden variety garbage man." He paused a moment then looked at me and pointed a finger. "Be damn sure you write 'sanitation engineer' if you quote me! They don't like to be called garbage men," he said.

"You got it," I stated, making a note of it.

He turned to his left to talk to the window again. "Anyhow, I was asked to fill in one day doing this job for someone who called in sick." He shook his head, but I wasn't sure if it was because of unrelenting traffic or something else. "The guy I filled in for wound up becoming my ex's second husband. I never trusted that scumbag."

Suddenly the truck lurched forward, rubber grabbing hot asphalt and squealing. Once we were up to speed, he continued.

"I learned quickly that I much prefer accidental trash to the stench of everyone else's. Make sure that gets printed."

"You bet. I like it," I couldn't help but smirk. "It works on a few levels."

A toothy grin ripped across his sweat drenched face. His eyes went right back to the mirrors, ever vigilant, always attuned to surrounding traffic.

"Take a look over your left shoulder." His voice lacked casualness. I turned expecting to see a police chase in progress or something of that nature, but instead saw nothing.

"Okay, what am I looking for?"

"See that orange Camaro a few cars back?" he asked.

"Yeah. What about it?"

"Notice anything odd?" The humor had gone from his voice.

I couldn't see much detail. The remains in the bed made sure of that. "Hard to tell, but in general, no. Should I?"

"His front, driver-side tire has a huge bulge in it. On top of that he's been weaving in and out of traffic for a few minutes—at least as long as I've seen him. Damn, with the heat outside and the heat generated from road friction...I'm not sure I like the possible outcome."

Glancing back at the hot shot and then at Slim, I wondered aloud, "What d'ya' mean, the outcome?"

"Forget about it for now, Kid. Probably nothing now. But it will be something eventually, I guarantee you that."

I let the 'kid' reference go. Someday maybe I'll appreciate it instead of letting it annoy me. Instead I turned around and settled back into my prior mental routine. I stared outside the window, unfairly mesmerized by the broken white lines as they zipped past. I recalled when I used to stick my hand outside the car, testing the wind resistance with my hand parallel to the road, then palm turned up and my hand would swing back from the resulting force. Now as an adult I choose to keep the window rolled up. Less wind resistance leads to greater fuel efficiency. Plus it keeps the cool air inside. All that rational adult thinking completely cages youthful curiosity and wonder. At least as a child you know little, if anything, of love. Plenty of time to learn how it can leave ashes at your feet.

I looked over my left shoulder again to see the Camaro just off our left rear bumper. Something about the car was familiar. The windows had limousine tint so I couldn't see inside, but an ungodly strong feeling gripped me. I knew the feeling immediately, but quickly dismissed it as an impossibility, chalking it up to my all-too-active imagination. I couldn't help but stare at it. Trying to gaze through the obscurity of the tint, I had fixated without even realizing it.

"Something wrong?" Slim's voice seemed tinged with concern once I snapped out of my daze and ran it through my head a second time.

"Um, not really." I casted, hopeful he'd take the bait.

He glanced over at the Camaro as it glided past. Our speedometer read 77 mph, the Camaro was doing at least eighty.

"You know that car?" he asked.

"No, not entirely." I kept my answers terse to avoid any lengthy explanations he may not have understood. Slim allowed my tone to pass without comment.

"So," he began, "given any thought to my earlier request?"

"What request?" My mind was blank.

"Back when we were picking up what was left of that weed-weave furniture." Still nothing came to mind. Slim sighed, "I said to think of stuff that gets broken."

"Oh, yeah, right!" One of the largest pieces in the bed banged against the tailgate. "Well, there are certainly a huge number of things."

"Give me a few," he prodded.

"All right. How about broken dreams?"

"Good start." Slim nodded approvingly.

I looked out the windshield over the hood. "Broken lines," I said, motioning for no good reason. "Broken home, broken down..."

"You got the idea."

I didn't understand his point. "Okay, so?"

"So, notice how negative it all seems." He paused. "Now look at what I do for a living. I take things that get left behind while people are in transit, and, in some case, I make something new out of it. I find a use for something that was useless and forgotten. If it's broken sometimes it can be fixed."

I'd been jotting notes in my own doctoral-fashion shorthand, when something compelled me to look up. The Camaro slid in front of us, sped up and cut off a rather nervous-looking, gray-haired man in a Cadillac. Slim and I watched in amazement as the Camaro maneuvered—or more precisely, dangerously weaved—from one side of the road to the other and back again until it was just out of sight over a hill. Never a cop around when you need one, but come to a rolling stop and they materialize out of nowhere.

Slim had slowly made his way over to the left lane. He'd become accustomed to sighting things far enough ahead that he could pull over and pick it up almost immediately, provided he stayed in the left lane.

Outside the cool safety of the cab, the blue afternoon sky floated in a seamless sheet over a brutally sun-scathed city. Slim had spent the last few minutes regaling me with tales of Old Man Time, what he called his own personal collection of war stories. I scribbled once in a while when something pithy caught my attention.

Then it happened.

"Holy—! Did you see that?" Slim shouted. We both looked up at the same time.

"What the hell was that?" I asked him.

"Nothing good. That much I know." His once calm, almost jovial demeanor instantly changed to one of uncomfortable seriousness.

Slim signaled left and eased onto the shoulder. I could tell it was second nature to him. There was no thought process. His eyes focused on the growing dust cloud ahead, which began to darken with what looked like smoke. Reaching up, he yanked the mike off the visor.

"10-18, this is Slim." A half-second pause. "Dispatch, this is an emergency, come in!"

"Go ahead, Slim." This was concentrated professionalism on both ends. No games, all business.

"We have a possible 42 just north of the Pesham overpass. Possible 37 and 38."

"10-4. Dispatch clear." Slim let the mike dangle as we approached the cloud. Traffic was already slowing down due to rubbernecking. As he slowed down, he spoke sternly. "Let's do what we can, but if you smell fuel get the hell out."

I just nodded. "What's a 42 and the other numbers?" I quickly asked.

"A 42 is a possible accident; 37 and 38 mean possible wrecker and ambulance needed." His eyes never left the cloud. Then he flatly stated, "I knew it."

Dust began to clear, only to be replaced by smoke. At its center lay a mangled and bent orange Camaro, upside down. Unforgiving sunlight glittered off the broken glass now sprinkled in the median. I suddenly had that same feeling as before. I tried harder to push it aside, again to deny its plausibility. I knew this car seemed familiar.

Slim threw his door open as he yelled. "You take the passenger, I'll get the driver!"

I gave him a thumbs-up sign. The clamor of traffic and oncoming sirens would have drowned out my reply anyhow. My gut wrenched—there was no way to dodge the feeling that I was about to find a place of no tomorrows.

The front part of the car—hood, doors, top—all looked like a corrugated tin roof: wavy and undulating, only more acutely angular. The passenger door folded outward in a haphazard manner. I kicked it away from the body of the car so I could get down and extract the passenger. As I looked across the belly of it, I could clearly see the front driver-side wheel; no rubber, just twisted metal.

Coughing, I dropped to the ground, placing myself between the kicked-open door and the passenger side, every fiber of my being concentrating on the task at hand. The passenger was female—an all too familiar female—although her head was turned to the side so I couldn't see her face. Grabbing her wrist I checked for any sign of a pulse: present, but faint. Then she slowly turned her head toward me, and my heart and stomach collided.

She was here, in this horrific, twisted metal coffin. I heard Slim shout something but had no idea what it was, nor did I care.

"Heaven help me," I muttered while slowly stroking her face. Multiple cuts from glass cast tiny rivulets of blood down her cheeks. I started to cry, so helpless, but needing to help her.

"It's okay, Angel, you're going to be fine." I mustered. "Hang in there. I'll have you out in a minute."

Tears began to burn my eyes, acrid smoke and approaching sirens assaulted my nose and ears. Slowly, anger filled my heart. Anger from lack of care, absolutely irresponsible driving, and a cavalier attitude about everything.

This was _his_ fault.

Putting aside my rising testosterone I moved fluidly as I began extracting her. Half kneeling, I would have been better positioned to genuflect in church than rescue someone. I managed to get a careful grip on her so I could undo her seat belt without having her drop on her head when it released. I had no idea what other internal injuries she might have, but I sure as hell wasn't about to let her perish in the car. Not next to _him_.

"I've got you. It's okay." I had to raise my voice above the commotion. It wasn't so loud I couldn't hear the buckle as it unsnapped. Then her weight was on me. As carefully and methodically as I would thread a needle, I moved her outside the car. The ambulance was rolling up as I laid her down, cradling her gently in my arms.

I stroked her hair as I tried to soothe her. "I'm not leaving you. I'm here. Everything is going to be alright." How I hoped it would be. As if in slow motion, her eyes looked up at me, a pained smile crept upon her face, and I felt the kindest of grasps on my hand. I kept trying to dab blood away with my shirt while keeping her calm.

"Don't you leave me, don't even think about it!" I demanded. I could see my tears fall and dilute the drying blood on her cheek. All I could do was hold her. So helpless. So dark. Carefully I stroked back her dark bangs and kissed her softly on her forehead. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm here. I'm here," I kept repeating, trying more to convince myself than her. I heard the rattle of a gurney and shuffling feet. Then Slim's voice, gentle but firm.

"Dakota, they gotta' take her." My arms wouldn't let go. I just shook my head.

"Dakota, they can help her, but you gotta' let them do their job!"

"No! No!" I lashed back. "I'm not leaving her!"

Aluminum and metal clanged as the gurney dropped flat next to us. One of the paramedics grabbed my arm.

"Sir, please. We need to get her to the hospital. You can go with us if you like but we have got to get her on the gurney." I didn't want my eyes to leave her face. "Okay," I mumbled through growing sobs. Leaning forward quickly I whispered in her ear, "I love you."

I rose slowly as the paramedics took over.

I was amazed at the activity around us—two ambulances, two police cruisers, Slim's truck in the middle, the crumpled mess just to my right.

"Dakota?" someone said. "Dakota, hey. You alright?" It was Slim trying to get my attention.

Considering the buzz around us, my senses were far from overloaded. Thousands of years of emotional conditioning took over.

"No. No, I'm not." I said, spinning on my heel.

I briskly stepped to the other side of the car, where a second team of paramedics huddled over a separate gurney. My entire body grew taut, fists clenched, anger seeping from every pore.

I snapped.

With one frantic lunge I began my assault, shouting from the top of my lungs at the body strapped to the other gurney.

"You pestilent cancer! This is all your fault!" Fury screamed from every sinew. "Remorseless, thoughtless waste of skin!"

I planted my left foot, leaning over to kick the gurney with my right foot. Two solid arms suddenly locked around me pulling backward. I kept screaming.

"You took her from me once—you will _not_ get a second chance!" I struggled and sobbed at the same time.

Vengeance wasn't my style, but the moment made it natural. My head slumped between my shoulders, at once embarrassed and ashamed.

"We need you to calm down, buddy," a stern voice said from behind. I relaxed enough to turn around. It was an officer. "I know you're upset, sir, but we can't have you hurting yourself or someone else here. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir."

He relaxed his arm lock, making sure I wasn't going to lurch forth again.

"I understand you helped extract that woman from the car," he said. "We all appreciate your assistance, but let us take it from here." I simply nodded, and then suddenly remembered her ambulance.

"Slim!" I yelled. It came off sounding like a frightened, lost child. "Don't let 'em leave!"

Slim motioned to a paramedic as he started shutting the left rear door, then waved me over. Five running strides and I was leaping into the back of the ambulance, Slim right behind me. The right door banged shut and instantly we began rolling.

The paramedic tended to his patient carefully, but methodically, calling ahead with her vitals to the emergency room. I sat quietly, just cradling her hand between mine, softly stroking it. A couple of minutes went by without a word spoken, but it seemed like an hour. My introspection took over.

"Slim...," I said quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Her face...her heart...," I ever so gently squeezed her hand as I spoke. "She is the one God meant for me to love."

My eyes never left her face, but I knew Slim was listening. Reaching up I wiped new tears from my dusty and sweat-laden face.

"Broken heart," I whispered aloud.

Slim's voice was quietly inquisitive. "What?"

"Your question to me, about stuff that gets broken. Broken heart should be at the top of the list."

"I wondered when you were going to say it," he said quietly, laying his hand on my shoulder.

The muffled siren outside was the only thing invading my concentration. Respectful silence stayed with us for the remainder of the ride. Minutes later the sound abated and the ambulance rolled to a quick stop. I bent over and kissed the back of her hand, telling her one more time, "I'll be waiting."

Light and heat streamed in as the double doors flew open. The driver deftly rolled the gurney out the back and locked the wheel struts in place. The other paramedic quickly followed suit. Not a moment wasted.

I ambled out of the vehicle's bay behind Slim, thinking about the wheels on the gurney as they hustled it through the wide double doors into the ER. With certain clarity I knew how my story would start. Three days later it ran:

"Asphalt has a way of taking the beauty and life out of something that, at one time, held meaning to someone."

Some things should never be broken.

Short Attention Span

As far as he was concerned, television loved him, and he loved television.

Thaddeus Volkson rested his solid carcass in the worn channel he'd created on the couch. He rarely moved, save to get up to get something to eat or drink—or, of course, to heed Nature's call. If television was in fact a vast wasteland, as Newton Minnow eulogized, then Thaddeus was its first trailer-park squatter. He hated his first name so he shed the Thaddeus moniker once he hit high school. Anyone who knew him also knew his love for television, so ironically he became TV.

Inactivity was a badge he wore with honor, even pride. His weight had increased in direct proportion to his slovenly lifestyle. He had worn off the finish from the coffee table where he always propped up his feet. He was even on his third remote for the same television. The right side of the couch looked all but untouched compared to the anatomically correct imprint of his form embedded on the left side. This was a man who put the potato in couch potato—and reveled in it.

Living room shadows shifted eerily with each change of scene, the only light in the room blinking from the ever-present, perpetually running television. Thaddeus munched dutifully on the bag of cheese doodles in his lap, reaching occasionally for the dwindling supply of White Castle burgers he bought on the way home from his job at the DMV. A _Charlie's Angels_ rerun slid by on the set, so he surfed backward to watch it. His phone rang at the same exact moment the one on screen had. What were the chances?

"Hello?" he grumbled. "For cryin' out loud, Raydeo, you live across the hall, just knock on my door! You don't have to call...Yeah. Sure. Hey, bring a six-pack with ya'!" Thaddeus dropped the phone on the base with a wrist flourish he'd perfected over the years.

Raymond DeOlgothipani had been his neighbor for the last five years and was his only friend. Any friends of Ray's which Thaddeus met always called him Raydeo for short, so he took to using it as well; it just seemed better suited to him than plain old Ray, not to mention the sheer linguistic effort it took to say his last name. Ray was only slightly less lethargic than TV, with the added onus of lacking cerebral credulity.

What he lacked in smarts, he made up for in compassion. He'd been a true friend to TV, even dreaming up things to do on odd occasions when he could drag TV from his apartment. It was high time he intervened in his friend's lifestyle, at least try to help him come to grips with some modicum of health. Grabbing a six-pack of cheap beer from the fridge, he headed out the door and walked the few steps to TV's place across the hall.

"Yeah! Come on in!" Ray heard Thaddeus shout through the door, not wanting to move off his perch, of course, to let him in. Sauntering in, he silently held up the six-pack and TV nodded acknowledgement. Ray all but felt his way to a chair as his eyes adjusted.

"Damn, TV! When you gonna' pick up this pigsty, man?" Ray reached underneath himself to remove an errant foil bag, which probably once held Doritos. TV waved without removing his gaze from the flickering screen.

"Eh, I'll try and clean up this weekend sometime. What's the rush?"

"TV, I've been meaning to talk to you about somethin', man." Ray hadn't thought through how best to paint the picture for him.

"Yeah. Well, out with it, man. What's eatin' ya'?"

"You are...I mean look at yourself. I'm your friend so I have to tell ya' that you really let yourself go."

TV didn't even blink, unfazed by the assessment of his physique, yet it still demanded a response.

"Yeah, well I don't see you winning any fitness awards either. Look, could we discuss this at commercial?" TV was clearly annoyed at Raydeo's lack of manners. Talking during the show—what arrogance. Ray looked down at the slightly stretched fabric of his shirt. Compared to TV he was practically an Adonis. Had TV averted his eyes from the screen for a split second he'd have seen a mixture of curiosity and hurt on his friend's face. Farrah's butt encased in painted-on jeans took precedence.

"I'm just sayin' that I'm concerned. I care about you. Don't want to see you get sick or somethin', y'know."

"Thanks, Bud, I appreciate it, really," came the reply.

Ray found TV's ability to simultaneously watch the screen and listen or respond a little unsettling, yet he'd become accustomed to it over time. At first, it was downright creepy. Now it was just a quirky part of his character. Raydeo stood up.

"Mind if I use the can?" he asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the bathroom.

"Go ahead. Hey, get me a beer while you're up, will ya'?"

Ray shuffled to the fridge bathed in the sterile, if not tepid, glow of the television. He had to squint when he opened the door to the refrigerator. That light never seemed so bright before. He closed the door and rubbed his eyes, then delivered the beer to his sofa-bound compatriot, finally heading to his destination for some much-needed relief.

At the first of several commercials, TV stood up to stretch. He didn't move away from the sofa, just stood, then bent over to take a swig of beer and set the can back down on its appointed coaster. He breathed deeply as he straightened up, and then grimaced tightly, his entire face contorting from pain. Eyes clenched shut, he gripped his chest; couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. TV sank to his knees and leaned on the coffee table for support. The entire attack took no more than a minute. Sheer body mass caused him to slide backward off the table, knocking the beer can over as he went, soaking the carpet where his prodigious bulk would violently come to rest. And the commercial break wasn't even half over yet.

"Oh yeah, that's the stuff!" Ray triumphantly proclaimed upon departing the throne.

While widely considered socially inappropriate behavior, it was something he and TV had bonded with. Disgustingly male, but they giggled like schoolboys every time. Raydeo washed his hands and dried them on the nearby stiff towel without a thought. It seemed strangely quiet. He could certainly hear the television, but usually he heard TV grunting or belching.

"Hey, man, you got any burgers left?" he shouted.

Getting no response he stepped into the living room. He immediately noticed the lack of TV's bulk on the couch, but wasn't prepared for the shock of seeing it on the floor.

"TV, c'mon man, quit messin' with me!" he said, his voice escalating a notch as each word left his mouth. He prodded the bulk, trying to get a reaction. "TV!" Ray couldn't see him breathing, nor could he feel a pulse. "Phone. Phone. Where's the phone?" he muttered spastically. The dimness made it hard to make out the phone. since it was made of black plastic. "Where's the phone, man?" he shouted. As if shown, he suddenly noticed the red LEDs in the semi-darkness. "Okay, Raydeo, don't panic—don't panic!"

Good thing the keypad was lit. As calmly as he could, he dialed 911. The response was almost immediate.

"911. What is your emergency?" came the disembodied voice.

"I think my friend is dead!" Ray proclaimed in a rush of adrenaline.

"What happened, sir, can you tell me anything else?"

Exasperated and confused Ray blurted, "I came out of the bathroom and he was laying here on the floor! He's not breathing, and I don't feel a heartbeat! Send someone!"

"There's an ambulance on the way, sir. Stay with me on the phone until they get there, okay?" The operator's voice was calm and level.

"Yeah, sure," Ray panted.

"Okay, and what's your name, sir?"

"Raydeo." Fingers could be heard tapping manically on a keyboard at the other end. "And your friend's name?"

"TV. That's all I've ever called him. I don't even know his real name."

And so the dispatch notes were sent to the EMTs as follows: Cardiac arrest. Radio says TV is dead.

The Run

We was only two blocks away from the orchard, an' Jimmy kept yellin' at me ta run.

"Run!" he hollar'd, "Run!"

How fast is a seven-year-old s'posed ta' run? I'd done everythin' but cry ta' get 'im ta' stop, or least slow down. We could still hear that fat fly catcher of a dog raisin' the devil back at the orchard.

"Jimmy, wait up!" He didn't answer me none, jus' kept a' runnin'. He was four years older 'n me, so I figure he just naturally run better on account he's bigger.

"Jimmy!" I started ta cry 'cause I was mad at 'im. An' my chest hurt from chokin' an' coughin' on the dust we was kickin' up. I looked up an' seen Jimmy lookin' back. His eyes showed he was a'scared, but his face showed he was mad, prob'ly at me for slowin' him down again. I jus' stood there bawlin' an' sputterin', tryin' ta catch my breath. He come runnin' back, an' I 'spected 'im ta yell at me again. Always been that way, I guess, 'cause he's my brother an' all.

"For cryin' out loud, Patchy! What'cha cryin' for?"

"''Cause you won't—wait—up," I sobbed.

Jimmy jus' stared at me. His face had at least as much dust on it as mine, 'scept where sweat ran. He was tall an' skinny, with eyes too big for his head. His friends called him "Bug" ' 'cause of it. I jus' call 'im Jimmy.

"C'mon, Patchy, we gotta' hide. Mom'll tan our hides for sure we get caught again." He took my hand an' squeezed it a little. "And quit your cryin', we're gonna be fine. 'Sides, if ya' don't, the hound will hear ya'." I jus' kept a' starin' at 'im, but I felt better 'cause he was holdin' my hand 'stead of runnin' ahead. He wasn't as mad as I thought he was. "Now hush the hell up and let's get us behind them tangled trees and stuff by the creek."

He pulled me a little bit, but at least I could breathe now. Jimmy hopped an' jogged down to the creek; I ran an' jumped, but never let go 'is hand. The sticker bushes scraped on our jeans an' old sneakers 'til we come across a little openin' in the bushes. I kept watchin' over my shoulder t' see the hound. I couldn't see 'im but sure could hear 'im barkin' an' fussin' somewhere. We finally done made it t' the creek, and we splashed in t' it. The water felt good on my hot, tired feet, an' it made a sorta laughin' sound as it went 'round us.

"Jimmy," I tried ta' whisper over the creek, "our shoes is wet. Momma's gonna kill us!"

"Momma ain't gonna kill us, Patchy, damn, shhh!"

"How come you say so many cuss words since Daddy died, Jimmy?"

"On account I promised him I'd be a man an' take care of you and Momma, and all men swears a bit."

I thought 'bout that while we walked in the creek. My pant legs was soppin' wet below the knees, but I kept thinkin' anyways.

"But Jimmy," I said, "the preacher don't cuss none, an' he's a man."

All of a sudden we stopped dead. Jimmy put his finger against his lips so's I know ta' not talk, then he looked all 'round. I didn't hear the hound no more, but Jimmy was bein' real careful, so I didn't move or nothin'. After a bit he bent over an' looked at me funny.

"Do you know for sure the minister don't swear?"

I hadn't thought of that. Jimmy was smart too, so I'm glad he's _my_ brother an' not someone else's.

"C'mon Patchy, I think we're in the clear now. Damn it, I hate that smelly hound!" Jimmy mussed my hair as we walked up the other side of the creek, our feets squishin' an' makin' mud where we stepped in the dirt. I didn't care what Jimmy said, I still worried Momma was gonna be real mad 'bout our soakin' feet. Worse, she'd prob'ly spank us an' send us to our room without supper for what Jimmy had in his pockets. I was too hungry for that.

Our lil' two-room house wasn't much t' look at, but it was all we had. Jimmy 'n me was finally on the dirt road that stopped at our house. Jimmy was walkin' kinda' fast, so I had t' skip a bit jus' t' keep up. When we reached the back corner, the part where all the wood is split 'n cracked, Jimmy stopped real sudden,

"You let me talk to Momma when we go in, okay," Jimmy said grownup like. "You go wash up real good while I get supper ready." I jus' nodded an' ran straight from the porch, through the front door then straight to the bathroom an' took off my soppin' shoes first thing. Wasn't too long 'fore I heard Momma's voice yellin' for me.

"Patchy," Momma hollar'd, "time for supper."

"Comin', Momma!" I ran through our small livin' room an' into the kitchen.

Jimmy was jus' sittin' down an' Momma had rolled up t' the table already with her fav'rite shaggy blanket over her legs. Her wheelchair was the best chair in the whole house. Jimmy knows all 'bout the accident an' said he'd tell me later, when I'm older.

Momma cleared her throat like she always does before sayin' som'thin' serious.

"So, Patchy, Jimmy tells me y'all had quite an adventure comin' home from school today."

I looked at Jimmy first before talkin'.

"Yes, Momma."

She didn't say nothin' for a minute, jus' looked at me then at her plate. Guess the apple halves an' bread was interestin' t' her.

"Did you put them wet sneakers in the tub?" she asked while cuttin' a piece of apple.

"Yes, ma'am, I did."

"Then sit down and say your grace before ya' eat." She smiled, so I knowed we wasn't gonna get spanked. I told God thank you for that when I said grace.

"Sure wish I could'a seen you runnin' today, Patchy," she said with a smile in her eyes. "Jimmy says you're gettin' faster all the time."

I felt a kick under the table. Jimmy grinned at me with his mouth full.

"I'll run for you anytime, Momma. Jus' tell me when."

Momma, she looked right at me, her pretty eyes sparklin' jus' like her smile. I grinned back at her then took a bite of my apple.

Maybe runnin' ain't so bad after all. Good thing I like apples.

Paper Doll

She cried.

The tears fell like flecks in a snow globe, slow and pristine. Few things break my heart like a woman crying. How awful is the outward manifestation of empty, broken dreams, with a companion broken heart to mend.

It stung. It didn't matter that she wasn't upset or melancholy. It still folded my heart in half. The crease would disappear in time, but for the moment, it hurt.

They unfolded and refolded against one another with each gentle press and tug of her hands: four simple paper dolls, joined by mitten hands. I wiped away some stray tears with my thumbs. She looked up, oak-brown eyes glistening like moist diamonds.

"I've never forgotten these," she started.

"How could you forget when I just gave them to you?"

She traced the outline of each figurine with rapt attention. Her auburn hair fluttered as she quickly shook her head.

"No, no." She forced a weak smile. "Something happened to me when I was a little girl. I never told anyone about it because it seems so trite. But I knew, even at nine years old, that it had an impact." Carefully, she folded the string of dolls together until they were a four-layered singularity.

We'd been sitting on the beach-front porch of a small restaurant just yards from the Pacific Ocean. The dinner rush hadn't begun yet, so we could hear the tide wash up on the shore. She had always adored watching the sun set against the ocean, and always remarked about the saltiness of the air. For the moment, though, she was quiet, looking down at the simple gift in her hands.

Given her cursory confession, I was lost, uncertain. With just one small kiss she brought me back into the moment. Sliding my arm around her, I pulled her to me.

The sun was fully a third of the way below the waterline when she kicked her feet out from under the bench and crossed them. Her long dress drifted with the pacific breeze.

"What had an impact?" I asked. She look up at me, slowly, as if trying to see if I was just toying with her, and once satisfied I was genuine, she glanced out at the ocean, then back down at the paper dolls in her fingertips.

"My dad had just transferred to teach at a new school in Bakersfield," she began. "I didn't know anyone at school. Nine years old, new girl in town, I was never what you'd call a social butterfly."

"You were every bit as pretty as the Monarchs, though," I said.

She stared directly into my eyes and asked, "How would you know? We didn't meet until twelve years later." She always had a disturbingly uncanny knack for remembering dates and such. Secretly, it annoyed me. I was envious of her abilities.

"You've always been beautiful. I always tell you that. Please, go on," I urged.

Satisfied with the answer, she continued. "I remember the day perfectly."

_Big surprise_ , I thought.

"I'd been in school for three weeks and hadn't made any real friends. I was something of a social pariah," she remarked wistfully. "Not pretty enough, not agile enough, not this, not that. I was so lonely for such a little girl."

She'd been staring out to sea, almost trancelike. I could see a couple of tears fall again in the warm light of the setting sun. Again came the sting of helplessness.

She thumbed the thick edge of the paper doll and sighed.

"The day was overcast, but I felt so blue. I still remember the shouts of the other children as they played and laughed: other groups of girls teasing each other about liking boys, boys playing kickball and swinging on the monkey bars. And I sat by the bike racks, like I did every day, waiting for the bell to ring so it would end and I could get back to class. But this one day, it happened." Her voice was mesmerizing. It dropped to an emphatic whisper when she said _it happened_. Emotion bled into the timbre of her speech.

I didn't dare utter a word, but my eyes begged her to keep going.

"A boy walked around the corner, by the equipment room. I recognized him from my class. Didn't know his name. He was new too, I think. Didn't say much in class and kept to himself outside of class. He was wearing a blue and white striped shirt and blue jeans. I just sat there and watched him. It suddenly dawned on me that he was walking toward me. Why me? What does he want?" She paused again to gaze at the doll. It was not much more than a bloated stick figure on bleached paper, but to her, something far more engaging.

She unfolded the doll in the middle, holding it up in the failing light. Two small figures seemingly came to life with her touch.

"He stopped directly in front of me. Didn't say a word for what seemed like minutes. Just looked at me and smiled. All I thought to say was _Hi_. His eyes smiled back at me." She closed her eyes for a second, grinning sheepishly. "I know, how could I tell at nine years old, but I swear they smiled at me."

"Anyway, he'd had his hands behind his back since he'd walked around the corner. All of a sudden he swung his hands out in front of him and said, 'I made this for you.'"

She stretched the dolls apart so all four seemed to dance against the last quarter of the sun that hovered above the horizon. "I never saw him after that day. He had no idea how good he made me feel."

I could hear her sigh above the encroaching tide. I leaned over and kissed her softly on the temple.

"He handed you a set of paper dolls, almost exactly like those." She nodded. "You say you never knew his name or saw him again?" I asked.

"We finished class that afternoon, and I never saw him in class again. I never got the chance to thank him."

"But you have, sweetheart. You just don't know it."

I could tell she was trying to figure out how or when, and gave her a reassuring squeeze.

"You were wearing a denim-blue dress with a red and white checkerboard stripe at the bottom." Her hands dropped to her lap, the dolls lying slack upon her dress. "I'd known your name since the second day—Kelsey Fulsom. I was only ten, but just as alone as you. Instead of going outside and playing with the other kids, I'd stay inside. Sometimes I'd play my dad's records. One song I always liked was called 'Paper Doll.'" I sang a couple of lines:

I'd rather have a paper doll that I can call my own

A doll that other fellas cannot steal

Her eyes lit up. "I've heard that song before! My grandfather used to play it on his clarinet." Looking down, I gently reached over and held her wrist.

"I knew my family was moving the next day, so I made the dolls with the foolish hope you'd keep them. I had a schoolboy crush on you. And you didn't imagine the smile in my eyes, it was there. I also knew I'd find you again—someday. And when the time was right I'd give you another set of paper dolls."

She started to cry again, for the third time. But these tears didn't sting as the others had.

"See, I'd always wanted my own paper doll. Whether it was the song or some other influence, I don't know," I said, my own eyes becoming watery. "But I knew, from that moment on that you have been my paper doll."

"But how did you find me?"

"Serendipity. Nothing more. But I found you. That's what's important."

My wife settled against me just as the last shred of sun dipped into the ocean. I got that same feeling I had the day we crossed paths again. All was right—perfect in its warmth and simple grace.

"I always thought I'd wind up alone," she said while rubbing my fingertips.

I paused to watch night put its hand on day's shoulder, crisp and clear, and the stars began to play. I turned to look at her, bathed in twilight.

Leaning forward, I whispered in her ear, "Love is the reason you'll never be alone."

Elevator Shoes

"Those are quite the conversation piece," I declared as the elevator doors closed.

"What are?" she asked.

"Those. Your shoes."

"What's wrong with my shoes?"

"Well, nothing really...if you crush grapes for a living."

"Oh, come now, they're not that bad," she protested.

"They've put me off wine," I retorted.

"That's just plain rude," she said, glaring at me.

"The shoes you mean?"

"No! You!"

The muffled arrival chime of the elevator prevented further escalation over the footwear. The woman in fashionably questionable shoes practically stomped off the elevator. In her wake, a bike messenger wearing a Hawaiian print shirt and Lycra shorts entered.

"What's her problem?" he asked. A firm finger lit up the button for the fourth floor.

"Besides the shoes?"

"Those were some ugly shoes. Couldn't help but notice."

"Seems I offended her sensibilities by giving my opinion on them," I said, smiling.

"I wouldn't put those shoes on my dog." He shook his head in disbelief as he spoke

"Thank you. That's what I'm saying—but that's a cool shirt."

"Thanks. Got it dirt cheap, and it's comfortable."

"Perfect combination," I agreed.

Not another word was mentioned regarding clothes. We stared at the floor display as it ticked from two to three to four. As expected the doors peeled open and the messenger hurried off.

"Have a good day," I said.

"You, too," he called, waving over his shoulder.

A few minutes and floors later, the elevator became occupied by a woman cradling a terrier in her arm, and a man in a sharply creased three-piece suit, obviously a salesman. The dog seemed very casual about the confines of the elevator, and very well mannered. It's human transport spoke first.

"Hi."

"Good afternoon. Cute dog. Just got a haircut, huh?" I asked.

"Yeah. Eleven please. I have a few clients in this building so they bring me their dogs and I pretty them up, then bring them to the office at the end of the day. This here is Zeke."

"Zeke?" I asked. "Doesn't sound like a terrier name."

"I just trim 'em. I don't name 'em."

"Fair enough. May I introduce Stan from the ad agency on ten." The introduction was intentionally tinged with smarminess. The groomer calmly petted the dog.

"Um, hello, Stan," she said.

"Hello. Say, I bet you could use a good slogan for your business," he abruptly offered.

"Actually, I—"

Stan cut her off, beaming, intensely proud of his quick imagination.

"How about 'Doin' it doggystyle!'" he quipped, making cheesy six-guns with his hands and pointing them at the dog. "Whadya' think?"

The uneasy silence only lasted a second.

"I think it needs some work, Shakespeare," replied the groomer.

Stan looked a little hurt by the supposition that his idea didn't cut it. The floor signal chimed and displayed an amber "10" above the doors. Stan shuffled out and down the hall. The groomer gently scratched Zeke behind his tiny ears as the doors quietly closed again.

"He's a character, isn't he?" she commented.

"Pffft. You don't know the half of it. He suffers from verbal masturbation." Zeke looked up at me, but the groomer just grinned.

"Would you actually put shoes on a dog?" I asked, thinking back to the bike messenger's comment.

Zeke craned his orange-sized head up to look at the groomer, as if he understood the question.

"Well, personally, no," she said. "But there are certain occasions when booties are used for the animals' protection."

Zeke seemed satisfied with the answer, looking at the door when the control panel chimed again as the elevator arrived on the eleventh floor.

The groomer stepped forward as the doors opened. Smiling back, she said, "Have a good afternoon."

"You, too."

A man dressed in a pressed shirt, pastel tie, blue jeans and sneakers strolled in, pressed "L" then leaned against the side wall of the elevator, seeming very relaxed.

"Hey, you're the news guy, right? Steve Blackwell?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm him."

"You look taller on TV. At least your shoes match your outfit."

"I'm afraid I don't follow you," he said, obviously confused.

"Few do. There was a lady here a few minutes ago wearing some atrocious shoes. She didn't care for my opinion."

"You gotta' love freedom of speech."

"Right on."

"Nice hairdo, by the way."

"Thank you very much." I smiled. "Pretty low maintenance. Speeds up my morning prep time." We watched the floor display countdown from ten to seven before breaking the silence. "Where's the rest of the suit?"

"What? Oh, the shirt, tie and jeans thing," he said. "The camera only shoots from the waist up."

"So the desk isn't much else but a cover?"

Steve snickered. "That's about the size of it, yeah."

Moments later the elevator opened up into the lobby.

"Break a leg!" I called.

Steve gave a thumbs-up as he exited, and a woman wearing a stark white T-shirt and slacks walked in with her little boy in tow.

"What floor?" I inquired.

"Eight please," she said, smiling. The boy took a couple of moments to size up the elevator, and then asked, "What do you do?"

"I fix elevators."

His eyes lit up, "Is it hard?"

"Well, you have to know what makes it go up and down for starters, but it's interesting. How about you. Do you have a job?" I asked, winking at his mother.

"Noooo," the boy giggled. "I'm only seven years old. I go to school."

"Ohh. So is this lady your girlfriend?"

"Noooo, that's my mommy!" he stiffly declared.

Number six glowed from the display above the doors.

"Do you have a little boy, too?" asked the mother.

"No. I used to."

"What happened? Where is he? Is he lost?" the boy implored.

"No, not lost. He was very sick. He's in heaven now."

Not missing a beat, the child asked, "Is that where you're going in the elevator, to heaven?"

"No, not today," I answered with a warm, if not slightly uneasy smile.

Number eight appeared above the door.

"Number eight. This is your floor," I announced, returning to my prior cheery disposition. Once again, the chime was followed by the doors gliding open to reveal the hallway outside. I pushed the _Door Open_ button to give them both time to exit.

"Be a good boy for your mommy!"

"I will." The child tugged at his mother's shirt as they departed. "Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"What will I be when I grow up?"

Picking up her son, she replied "You can be anything you want. It's entirely up to you."

His little mind worked her answer to a fine mush.

"Mommy?" he asked again.

"Yes?"

"I want to do what the elevator lady does."

Releasing the button, I waved at the boy, smiling as the doors slid closed.

10:18

There he stood, atop a boulder the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. All six feet of him, dressed in a sharply tailored suit, jacket buttoned in the front, practically every hair in place. All very businesslike, dapper despite the oppressive heat, which cast a shimmering aura around everything it touched. Desert cicadas hummed in the near distance.

From his perch he could make out the wavy silhouette of a vehicle on the horizon, dust billowing behind as it bounced along a dirt road. He looked up at the sky without so much as a squint, then down at the position of the boulder's shadow.

"Remarkably prompt," he uttered, words melting away in the sultry late-morning air.

Inside the Jeep, things were slightly less peaceful. A thick cloak of suspicion enveloped both Sheila and Toby as they sped toward their meeting. Toby pushed his sunglasses back up on his nose after a rough bump in the road.

"I still don't get it, Sheila."

"Get what? We've pretty much talked this to death."

Toby raised his hand and started counting on his fingers. "First the skydiving, a true stumper considering you hate both heights and planes." Sheila waved it off. "Second, our deep sea fishing trip to Cabo—"

"—That was just fishing!," she barked over the noise of the bouncing Jeep. "For crying out loud, Toby! You're being a little dramatic."

"Uh, huh. This from the same little girl who, according to her own mother, wouldn't go near an ocean for almost a full decade after seeing _Jaws_." Toby allowed himself a grin. He always found that story amusing.

"You know Mom likes to exaggerate," she asserted.

Yeah, but your dad and brothers don't. They tell the same story."

Sheila glanced off to the left at nothing in particular and moved her auburn hair behind her left ear. "So I've opened up a little. You didn't seem to mind my new bikini on that trip." They'd argued about that, too. Toby was more than a little unprepared for all the attention she'd gotten when wearing it.

"You wore a one-piece before; that was a big deal. And you know it."

"What is your problem with my wanting to live a little?" Sheila asked defensively, nimbly containing the steering wheel as it vibrated with every bump.

"I have no problem with it, but most people nibble at life, ease into facing their anxieties. You hardly chew your bites lately. You're even driving _my_ Jeep. You all but ripped the keys from my hands an hour ago." He gripped the door handle as the Jeep skidded a little coming out of a left turn. Sheila just turned and smiled.

"We're almost there," she said. "Do you have an answer yet?" Toby stared ahead, eyeing the man stepping off a boulder. "I'm working on it."

He expected a rooster-tail stop, but she eased the vehicle to a halt about five yards from the boulder where the stranger now stood. Her unexpectedly restrained stop did little to ease the tension.

"Ready?" she asked confidently.

"No, but let's get this done."

They exited the Jeep simultaneously; Sheila left the keys dangling in the ignition. Who would possibly steal it? The only other living things out here were smart enough to remain in whatever shade could be found—except her mystery man, making Toby feel more uncomfortable with each step forward.

"Sheila! Nice to see you again, my dear." Gently he took her hand and raised it to his lips, then looked askance at Toby. "This must be him. Toby, isn't it?" Accusing eyes met each other.

"Yes, it is." Toby bristled.

The stranger extended his hand. Toby reluctantly shook it, noticing a lack of warmth in his flesh.

"Good to finally meet you. Sheila has said much about you. All of it good, I assure you." He backed up a couple of steps to stand between them. "She seems duly convinced that you and I could do business together."

Toby noticed that despite the desert heat the stranger had no visible perspiration. And his eyes—yes, his eyes glistened with an eerie darkness, like sheer obsidian.

"And you are?" Toby questioned, nervously adjusting his sunglasses.

"Luke. Call me Luke."

"Well, Luke, if I may say so it strikes me as more than strange to meet you out here in this blast furnace. Not to mention your attire. And Sheila never explained what you do."

"I'm in—lower management. And the locale, well...it reminds me of home."

"Not from around here?" Toby asked, still uncomfortable.

"Not per se, no."

Sheila had taken to the sparse shade of a nearby Palo Verde tree.

"Relax, Toby. My relationship with Sheila is strictly business. Surely you've noted a change in her lately."

_Couldn't help but notice_ , he thought. Despite his sunglasses he held his hand to his forehead to shade the sun's glare from his eyes and then looked from Luke to Sheila and back.

"Toby, you've doted on her, supported her, shown her every kindness you could provide," said Luke. "Safe to say you love her?"

"Of course. She knows I do."

"But you couldn't give her something she'd been missing—so she sought me out." Toby took an emotionally fueled lunge forward. "Easy, Toby," Luke stated calmly. "Your manliness was never the issue."

"What the hell makes you such an expert on her?" Toby growled.

"We had a nice chat about her deepest desires, things she'd wanted to do and accomplish during her life. So we struck a deal. We have a contractual agreement, she and I. Very binding, I might add." Even in the arid heat his words felt winter cold. "Everybody has dreams, Toby. You're no exception." Luke eased forward a couple of steps as he spoke, making a spherical shape with his hands. "Genghis Khan and Adolf Hitler both wanted ultimate power. Van Gogh desperately wanted to impress a woman," he said, bending an ear. "Some crave fame, others fortune, or perhaps—revenge?"

"You think I want revenge? For what?"

"No, but some people do; some are so fanatical about it they'll do anything to achieve it."

"Revenge isn't on my list," said Toby trying to keep his voice level.

"Fair enough. So what is?"

Toby looked over at Sheila again. She nodded approvingly.

"The things I desire you couldn't possibly provide."

"Don't be so sure. Try me." Luke had casually made his way to the Jeep, opposite Toby, who's eyes followed every step.

"What kind of deal? Sheila wouldn't give me specifics, just told me that would be up to you."

"A traditional business deal. Each party gets something for their individual investment." Luke slowly reached inside his jacket and extracted two tri-fold pieces of paper, one with and one without a seal, then held them up in quick display. "All perfectly legal and explained herein," he said.

"I want to read the contract first."

"In a moment—there's no contract without some sort of service or product provided, so first you need to decide what it is you want most."

"There's certainly a catch, or some dark contractual stipulation. Do I have to kill someone first?"

Luke stifled a laugh behind his salesman grin. "No, no. You needn't take any life." He laid the documents on the Jeep's hood, then straightened the jacket and stuck his hands in his pants pockets. "I can help you with just about anything outside of things involving free will. Like love, for instance." Luke motioned for Sheila to come forward. "So—whadya' think, Toby?"

"What's the rush?"

"I'm a busy man, Toby. I make deals all over the world, so my time is very valuable. I can help you, but you have to let me help you."

"Toby, I want this for both of us," Sheila added. "I want you to be as happy as I have been these last few weeks. I'm living proof that the man keeps his word."

"No way. Not until I get to read the contract." Toby shook his head.

Luke acquiesced after a moment of consideration. "Alright. Open up the one without the seal."

Toby unfolded the paper and read. Sheila watched patiently, but patience quickly succumbed to troubling concern. Even in the parched daylight she could see him turn pale.

"Toby? Honey, you okay?" No reply. Crystalline panic gripped her. "Toby, what is it?"

He leaned against the vehicle, oblivious to the heat of the metal. "My, uh, Latin is pretty rusty." Again he stared at the opaque sheet in his hands. "Sheila, that cut on your thumb—you told me that was a paper cut, right?" She held up her thumb as if she'd forgotten all about it. "Tell me it was a paper cut, Sheila." His voice had recovered, and was now very emphatic. "Tell me."

"Toby, I—"

"Did you or did you not get that cut from paper?" His voice wasn't raised, but clearly urgent.

"Tell him the truth, Sheila." Luke crossed his arms.

She began to slowly choke on her guilt. "I used the edge of the contract to draw blood. Luke said the contract wasn't valid without it!"

She watched Toby frantically grab the other document and break the seal. He found the stain he was looking for and angrily tossed the paper aside. " _Pactum cruoris per subscriptus animam tuam proceris debis._ Have you the slightest notion who this man is?"

"Luke," she mustered through welling tears.

As frustrated as she made him, Toby still couldn't stand to see her cry. He pulled her against him in a weak effort at reassurance.

"No, Sweetie," Toby almost whispered, "it's not Luke." Sheila leaned back to look at him.

"What do you mean, not Luke?"

Toby gently wiped her cheeks. "Ironic that he should use a biblical reference as his name."

Sheila looked wide-eyed at Toby, then at Luke. "I, I don't understand, Toby—"

"The Latin roughly translates as 'by signing in blood, you owe your soul to the Prince.'"

"Prince?" she sniffed. "What prince?"

Toby held her tight as he spoke to Luke. "You can't possibly bind her to the contract. She had no idea who she was dealing with. It's entirely unfair!"

"Fair?" Luke's laugh was menacing. "You talk to me of fair?"

"She didn't know!"

"Toby! Didn't know what?" Sheila broke in. "Luke's a prince?"

Toby stared directly into Luke's serpentine gaze. "Luke 10:18: _I beheld Satan fallen as lightning from heaven_." Sheila spun halfway around to stare at Luke. "Something we were taught in high school catechism to scare us. It's always stuck with me."

With a haunting calm, Luke reached down and unbuttoned his jacket before continuing. "But what's in a name? It's a non-essential detail. We have a binding contract, Sheila. I have given what you asked. You, however, have not delivered as promised,"

"Delivered what?" asked Toby.

"You." Luke stated flatly.

"Me?"

"Her contract stipulates that without delivering you she immediately forfeits any further claim and the contract is invoked. It's all there." An unhallowed grin let loose upon his face. "It is time, Sheila."

"Toby!" she screamed, knees buckling and body quickly collapsing under its own weight. Toby gently lowered her until he was kneeling, cradling her.

Luke practically crooned his appraisal. "I've certainly underestimated you, Toby, which is unusual for me. You're not as weak as I thought." Luke paused to briefly take in the surroundings again. "So much like home," he sighed.

"You can't do this! Please! She had no idea!" Toby pleaded, his voice cracking with emotion.

"Oh, but I can. _Ut diabolus filiam_ , Toby!"

Toby mouthed the words, trying to remember—devil— _filiam_ . . ."

"Toby!" Sheila clung to him and cried hysterically.

Words failed him. Only thing he could do was hold her tightly, gently rocking back and forth.

"Toby! No! Don't leave me!" Sheila cried.

Luke quietly turned and headed back toward the boulder, finally disappearing behind it.

Suddenly all was quiet, save for desert cicadas in the distance and the hot breeze that floated by. Sheila's body had gone limp, lifeless. Toby pulled her head against his chest, and cried into her hair. With vile cruelty the words came back to him: To the Devil, a daughter.

Four Letter Session

"The drumbeat is fading now, little by little. It used to have an actual feel to it, what I imagine a blind person would feel when they ride a wooden roller coaster. The rumble tugs at your muscles, makes your heart race. Sensations you never knew existed rush at you all at once."

The office lights were off, as they were most all day long. Two small table lamps provided the light necessary so doctor could see patient. Phillip Strauss reclined and sank into the overstuffed couch, which, by subtle design, was meant to be warm and inviting, allowing patients to open up and speak freely. Phillip had no issues with such openness.

"I don't understand the connection between a drumbeat and—"

"—I'm paying for this time, correct?" he said cutting the doctor off.

"Well, yes you are."

"Since no one else will listen or allow me to talk, I pay you to do it. It's an odd stretch of irony that seems to make you something of a conversation whore, doesn't it?"

"Mr. Strauss, I didn't get those certifications and diplomas on my wall by lying on my back or holding a phone to my ear," she scolded. "I'm a psychiatrist... _your_ psychiatrist. I take umbrage with your description of my profession."

"And I, Doctor, take umbrage with your insipid interruptions on my time," he shot back. "That is, unless, I'm being credited for time wasted?"

A heavy pause of denial hung in the air. Phillip laid his head back again and closed his eyes. While not without merit, she knew her articulation of her feelings wasn't appropriate.

"I apologize, Phillip," came the reply. "I'll note my questions for later, when you're finished." Dr. Maya Reata leaned forward again, resting her left forearm on the desktop, and jotted a quick note on her pad.

"Doc, would you do me a small favor?"

"Sure. What?"

Fingers interlaced, he let them rest upon his chest and exhaled deeply, never once opening his eyes. "Close your eyes for me."

"Alright." He could hear the slight squeak of the oversized leather chair as she leaned back in it. "They're closed. Now what?"

"Do what you tell me to do, what you tell all your clients to do—take a deep breath and clear your mind." She dipped her head and gave a questioning glance through her wire-rimmed glasses. "You opened your eyes. You _said_ you'd do this for me."

"How could you possibly know I opened them?" she asked, amazed at her patient's seeming sixth sense.

"I just know. The same way you know a patient is somehow imbalanced—trust me, I just know."

"Okay." Again, she settled back in her chair, the leather exuding a hushed groan as she did. "I'm ready. So talk to me."

Phil wet his lips and began.

"It was always silent. Only I could hear it, feel it. Just because it's intangible doesn't mean it doesn't exist." Dr. Reata furrowed her brow but kept her eyes shut and fought the urge to question her patient.

"The sound of it inside your heart is like standing close to a Harley when it starts up. The sputter and chug makes the air around it ripple. When throttled, the bike thunders, the noise rising and falling. But as the motorcycle goes off in the distance, the rumble dissipates. You can still hear it, if only because it's loud." He faltered only a moment; time enough for the imagery to set in.

"So it is with the drumbeat I could always feel before. It was like Alex Van Halen pounding away at his double-bass kit. Exciting. Vibrant." Again, a momentary emotional lapse. His words came softer now, bereft of harshness, floated with care and a genuinely unfettered heart.

"Now it sounds like a tribal beat in a misty jungle. I know I'm near, for I can still hear the rhythmic echo of tom-toms and bongos. Distance, trees, mist, all conspiring to cheat me of the ritualistic vibration I've sought for so long." His voice trailed off to a quietly despondent whisper. The doctor broke her reverie to glance at her notepad. Excepting the earlier scribbles, it was empty. And she had no real idea what to write.

"You took no notes, so I know you listened, Doc."

"Kind of eerie that you can do that," she replied.

"You mean know what you did or didn't do?"

"Yeah."

"I can't read your mind, but I can hear your actions." He glanced at the timer on her desk while she stared at him. "Our time's up, Doc."

Habit made her check the timer.

"So it is," she said, and adjusted her glasses. Phillip rose slowly and tugged lightly at his shirt sleeves, then readjusted his necktie.

"Mr. Strauss?"

"Yes?" He stopped mid-reach for his jacket.

"I'm not entirely certain who was the student and who was the teacher today." Phillip managed a weak grin. It was just enough to break his otherwise stoic expression. "To be fair, today's session is on the house. I'm admittedly puzzled by something though."

"By?" he asked, donning his jacket and brushing off his sleeves.

The doctor swiveled slightly in her chair, then contemplatively removed her glasses and set them atop the nearly blank notepad. "The drum beat in the distance—you still chase it, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," his affirmation almost a gentle whisper.

"Why?"

"Because I know it's right. I can feel it's right." He reached for the doorknob and turned it when she broke the silence a last time.

"Mr. Strauss, what is this rhythm you pursue?"

Slowly he drew the door open before turning to face her.

"Love."

Blind

"Joe...Earth to Joe..." Ed's voice taunted through the wispy cigar smoke.

"What?"

"You in or out?" Pat, seated next to him, nodded at the small pile of ones and quarters in the middle of the table. Joe shook his head to clear the cobwebs. "What's the bet?"

"Three and a quarter, man—where have you been?" Ed tried not to sound irritated, but the effort needed more work.

"You've been miles away all night," Pat added. "Everything okay at home?"

"Yeah, fine." Joe set his cards face down on the table then leaned back in his chair, his dark blue shirt blending eerily with the surrounding darkness. "Sorry, guys, I've just had this nagging feeling all week."

Pat looked across the table at Ed, the overhead light casting a glare off his glasses. "Like what?"

"Nah—it's nothin'." Joe ran his fingers through his tousled hair, exhaled, and then shook his head.

"C'mon, we've had poker night together every week for the last five years. You've been to my daughter's wedding and stayed with Pat's wife in the delivery room when his second son was born 'cause mister man-of-steel here passed out."

"He's right, Joe. Except the part about me passing out. I'd been up all night, I was exhausted—"

"Yeah right, whatever," Ed cut him off mid-sentence. "Your eyes don't roll back into your skull when—"

"—Don't start, guys." Joe leaned forward into the light and glanced at both men. Cradling his forehead in one hand, he made prompting circles with his other. "You ever had that feeling of—what's the word? Premonition?"

The pair seemed to squint at him through the pyramid of light that bathed the table. Ed slapped his cards face down in front of him and leaned back in his chair. "I think I know what you mean," he began, then leaned forward again into the gambler's light. "There's a little girl a couple of doors down, she's got some kind of cancer. She's only six years old and already bedridden."

Suddenly the only bright thing in the room was the overhead light.

Pat somberly added, "Some kind of malignant tumor in her kidneys—I think you told me it's called Wilm's tumor, right, Ed?" Ed slowly nodded.

"That's incredibly tragic, but, see, you already know about her sickness. I don't know what it is that's bugging me, but it doesn't give me the warm fuzzies. I feel like I'm stumbling around blind." An uneasy silence hung between them. "I better go. Sorry, fellas. Obviously, I'm not in the game." Joe stood, causing the wooden chair to loose a low-frequency rumble upon the already gloomy atmosphere. "Thanks again for the sandwich and cigar, Ed." A respectful, if not concerned, nod was the quiet response.

Joe tossed his cards atop the kitty, then disappeared into the darkness. He got as far as the end of the driveway, where he was abruptly stopped by an old man with a cane who appeared to be talking to himself—until he called out to Joe.

"Excuse me—could you please help me?" he asked.

"I suppose. What can I do for you?" Joe noticed the pungent aroma of booze and cheap cigars.

"I'm blind, and I must've walked past my house. I'm looking for forty-seven." He tapped his white cane for emphasis.

"If you mean 47th Street, you've quite a ways to go..."

"No, I mean number forty-seven. Could you help me find it, please?"

"I, uh..."

"I surely appreciate your help. By the way, I'm Richard," he introduced himself, grabbing Joe's wrist with an assertive, weathered hand—almost too assertive.

"I'm Joe." The nagging, foreboding feeling slithered inside him. _But he's blind_ ; _he should be harmless_. As they walked, the white-haired man effusively thanked him for his help.

Rounding the corner, Joe remarked, "You're two doors down from my friend."

"I don't get out much, so I'm sure I've never seen him." His white beard seemed to shine when he chuckled.

Joe grinned uneasily; surely the man could hear and feel his uncertainty. After five years of poker nights he'd never encountered anyone outside, not a soul.

"Thank you. I know my way now." Releasing his grip, the old man walked through a side gate and into the house.

The next morning Joe awoke with the nagging feeling that he needed to go by Ed's on his way to work. He skipped breakfast and made quick time to the house. His stomach sank as he turned the corner. Morning sunlight filtered through the trees, punctuated by a solid yellow line around the perimeter of the front yard two doors down. It read: Police Line-Do Not Cross.

"They've been here since six this morning." Joe jumped; he hadn't heard Ed approach. He gestured at the two police cruisers parked in front of the house.

"Wow. What happened?" Joe asked, visibly shaken.

"I talked to one of the cops earlier..."

"Oh no, please no," Joe whispered.

"What?"

"Go on." Ed shrugged and adjusted his tie. "Seems the little girl said something about an old man with really white hair and a beard showed up last night. Said he smelled funny."

"Please, tell me no one was murdered."

"Take it easy, Joe," Ed patted him on the shoulder, "nobody was murdered. Quite the opposite."

"Then why are the cops here?"

"Seems the old man just vanished into thin air. The parents were hoping the police could track him down so they could ask him some questions."

Joe's gut clenched. "Did he hurt the girl?"

"That's the weird part," Ed drawled. "She's up and out of bed this morning as if she was never sick. Practically a bona fide miracle. The family doctor and oncologist made a house call and they can't explain it. They're going to run tests, of course, but this is the last thing they expected. I couldn't be happier for them."

Joe gave the area a thorough visual twice-over, even looking over both shoulders as he ran the previous night through his head.

"He sure works in mysterious ways," Ed marveled.

"What? What'd you say?" asked Joe.

"I said," Ed pointed skyward, "He works in mysterious ways."

Joe thrust both hands into his pants pockets, suddenly feeling very much at peace.

"That he does, Ed."

Turning to face Ed, he placed his left hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I can surely say he's taught a blind man to see."

Ten Word Quickie

I was given a list of ten words to use as I saw fit. By whom and why I honestly don't recall. One of the ground rules was that the words be random, and each one used only once. Listed below are those ten words, and the subsequent result:

quip gallant seraphim perilous reasonable green inspiration baseball flirt rhino

***

The first meet was a near complete lesson in male indiscretion and ill manners, yet she sensed he wasn't a total write-off, not without one more chance for her to salaciously flirt with him. She'd laid down the rules, and he'd studied them with an almost religious fervor over the preceding week. Jon really liked her, and accordingly was determined to go from green to gold by the end of the evening.

The restaurant was only a few blocks from her house, yet the drive made him sweat. She looked beautiful—no, stunning. She'd pounded him with a wit and intelligence no one ever had before. This was no simple rainbow trout to be released after the catch; this was an iridescent, shimmering marlin. The stuffing and mounting had nothing to do with it; a man with such a beautiful specimen was proud of its beauty, not of simply displaying it.

At each stoplight the engine obediently hummed while they passed the moments with idle banter. "I hope you like seafood," he said.

"I rather prefer eat food," Tanya quipped. Jon slapped the steering wheel. "Can I just take you to meet Mom right now?"

"Easy, Sport. You're still on deck. Don't start swinging until you're at the plate."

"Good point and entirely reasonable." Jon immediately deflated.

He eased the car across the intersection and rolled into the parking lot. It was early, so the dinner crowd hadn't shuffled in yet. He'd committed the next three gestures to memory.

"Stay here," he stated. Tanya stoically nodded.

Jon fluidly unbuckled his seat belt and opened his door in one smooth motion, then closed it and stepped lively to her side of the car. Opening her door, he offered his hand to help her out. She couldn't help but smile; such manners were hard to come by anymore.

"Thank you very much," Tanya said with a smile.

"My pleasure." Last time he had gotten out of the car and stood at the rear waiting for her—in the Denny's parking lot, no less. This was a huge improvement, but the night was still very young, and Jon still a male.

"I'm far more impressed than last time, Jon," she said. "The Oak Rhino is pretty classy."

"I know I came off as pretty rusty last time."

"Jon, rusty is for pipes and badly cared for boats. You were, let's say, in a league of your own."

"That's fair. Would it help if I told you I like to live dangerously?"

"Living dangerously is jumping out of planes or kicking the school bully in the crotch." Tanya gave him an incredulous stare. "Taking your dates to Denny's is borderline perilous—that is, if you expect at least a kiss goodnight. In my book, it's more like the kiss of death."

Jon persisted, undaunted. "If I may latch on to your baseball metaphor from a few minutes ago..."

"You may."

"Tonight, if I strike out, it will be because I went down swinging for the cheap seats," he offered.

"My, but you do know how to melt a girls heart with all that sports talk," she said, eyelashes aflutter in mock flirtation. "How incredibly inspirational."

"Ah, sarcasm. That's a good sign. Well, I wanted to work Edgar Allen Poe's _The Raven_ into the conversation, but the sports metaphor was far too tempting to pass up."

Jon walked her to the front door, her hand tucked inside the crook of his elbow, and at the door he opened it, allowing her to step through first. At the table, he even pulled out her chair so she could sit down.

"Jon, I must say, you are far more gallant tonight than last time."

Even if he hadn't wanted to smile, he couldn't have stopped himself. "Thank you. I felt bad about last time. I was raised better than I let on."

"So, tell me about _The Raven_ ," she prodded.

"You're going to think it's infantile,"

"Try me." Tanya propped her chin upon her palms, elbows resting on the table.

Jon took a healthy swig of water then cleared his throat. "Well, my first thought when you opened the door, and I saw you..." Tanya raised an eyebrow. "The word that popped into my head was _cherubic_." Her brow furrowed a bit.

"And that correlates to Poe how?" she inquired.

Jon folded his hands and closed his eyes. "Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor."

"Jon..."

"I know, the plural of cherubim is—"

"—Actually, I was going to say I'm not sure who's pitching here and who's hitting."

One Washington Diner

2:30 a.m.

I couldn't sleep, what with the incessant muffled chatter of the television in the apartment next door, and a pillow that couldn't—and for the umpteenth night in a row wouldn't—support the weight of a filled mind.

Not to mention the soft, staccato beep that never seemed to go away.

I'd rolled repeatedly onto my left side, then my right, and back again, entwining the sheets around my calves and ankles. I had to get out, anywhere; the silent roar of darkness would thrust me headlong into some witless state of sleep-deprived insanity if I didn't. A quick splash of cool water upon my weary face, a rinse of the mouth, and the next thing I knew I was standing in the diner parking lot, nary a soul around. Ironically it felt as if I'd slept on the way over. I couldn't remember any singular action I'd taken to make the trip from point A to B.

The interior lights punched holes in the dead of night, and in the stillness I could hear the buzz of glowing neon from the sign above. I'd hoped there would be the slim chance of some distraction from the empty, laughing darkness that taunted me. Pinching the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger, I shuffled through the front door, greeted by the hostess/cashier/night manager, who apparently was thriving on the not-so-delicate thrush of caffeine. Her uniform bore the hallmarks of traditional diner-dom: bobby sox, her skirt hemline right around knee level, and wide, flat lapels on her blouse. She looked me over for all of two seconds before making her vocal appraisal.

"Let me guess...can't sleep?" Her voice was disarming, welcoming, like a puppy that jumps in your lap. Managing a frustrated grin I hoarsely replied, "That obvious?"

"Your eyes, your body language—yeah." I should have had some snappy retort, but my mental haze precluded any such response and subsequently I let slip my small window of opportunity for any suitable comeback.

Instead, I yawned.

"Jeez, my only customer and I'm already boring you," she blurted out. I thought she smirked, but couldn't be certain in my unwillingly wakeful state. I glanced around the dining room and motioned from left to right. "Looks like you're swamped. Should I come back later?"

Soft brown curls played upon her left shoulder as she turned her head slightly. "Early a.m. sarcasm—I like it. Sit wherever you like, I'm good at finding people in crowd." Even in my sleepless haze, I had to admit she was delightful. "If you don't mind I'll sit at the counter," I croaked. "I'll try not to be a bother." Her hair gently fluttered as she shook her head. "Works for me. Cop a squat and I'll be right with ya'."

Yes, delightful, in a common denominator kind of way. Having never exceeded the mathematical scope of algebra during my academic career, that suited me just fine.

The decor was predictably chromed most everywhere and included the almost requisite white tables with red vinyl booths. A solid string of red neon glowed from its hiding place close to the convex ceiling, broken only in the center of the room by the Elvis clock that swung its hips in time to each passing moment. A pie display sat two-thirds empty next to the cash register, and at the far end of the room I could see a ketchup bottle turned upside down upon a red squeeze bottle, the round openings of each perfectly aligned against each other.

"Want some coffee?" she suggested.

"Since I'm having trouble sleeping, it's probably not the best idea..." She spun as if on cue, like she had completely anticipated my remark. "We have this new stuff we put in this pot with the orange handle, called decaf. Amazing what they can do with a simple coffee bean, ya' know?"

"I, umm," I stammered. She raised one eyebrow. "Sure, why not." The plain white ceramic mug in front of me landed with a soft thud as she turned it over and set it down and then carefully poured.

"Sugar or cream?" she asked, topping off the mug. Folding my arms in front of me, I nodded. "Help yourself, they're right in front of you." She grinned mischievously.

"I'm going to play a hunch here," I began, reaching for the condiments.

"What's that?"

"I'm guessing you only drink the leaded stuff, judging by your keen focus and energy level." Sugar cascaded into the steaming blackness.

"Here and there. Makes the long night bearable."

The cream didn't swirl so much as float like some newly manifested apparition as I drizzled it into the mug. A pyromaniac is fascinated by the dance and destructive fury of a flame; a prospector's eyes twinkle at the discovery of the smallest flake or nugget of gold shining at the bottom of a pan. I sat cosmically mesmerized by the suspended cloud of whiteness slowly ballooning inside my mug of coffee—until her voice snapped me back to harsh reality.

"Anything interesting, you know, like a famous face, or did you see the future?"

"No, sadly," I began, picking up the spoon to stir. "But it's entirely possible that through some altered state of metaphysical being I've become privy to the meaning of the universe." The spoon blended the fading cloud of cream into the coffee, turning it a velvety caramel brown.

"Ooh, goodie! I would love to know what it is!" she squealed. Whether being playful or not, she seemed genuinely excited, or perhaps she was simply patronizing me—either of which were welcome at this point. I raised the mug halfway and stopped.

"It's quite simple, really," I teased before taking a cursory sip. She thrust her hands into the hip pockets on either side of her blouse and stared at me.

"Oh, you want the answer."

"You've poised me at the brink of a soul-bending epiphany, so...yeah. Hit me."

Setting the mug down, I glanced around the diner in mock secrecy, then leaned in toward her and whispered my reply. "Forty two." The sound of air rushing from a balloon filled my head as I watched her expression change.

"I think my cerebrum just imploded," she mocked. "All that from a cup of coffee? Hmm, perhaps I should switch to decaf."

"It's a very zen-like thing, actually," I explained. "A profound sense of existentialism; call it 'coffee spirituality' if you like." I began raising the cup for a second sip.

Clasping her hands together, she leaned her forearms on the counter, glimmering eyes of honey amber peering back at me. "And you divined that from staring at your coffee, all by yourself?" The lip of the mug never made it to my lips.

"Well, number one, if you're going to be condescending, I won't order any food," I grinned. "Second, I had a little help from Douglas Adams." She never moved, never blinked, just stared as I sipped nonchalantly at my coffee. "Questions?" I asked.

"Who am I to question such mystic philosophy? So, what can I get you?"

"Whatcha' got?" I stopped her as she reached for a menu. "Nah, just tell me. I'm enjoying the company." Placing her hands behind her, she leaned against the back counter and crossed her ankles. "Well, what we have is whatever I can cook."

"You're a one-woman show, huh?"

"I'm a hit, as you can tell." She spread her arms wide to as if to fashionably display the empty diner, like some game-show model gesturing at the prize car as the curtain lifts.

I patted my pockets pretending to check for something. "Dang, I seem to have forgotten my pen, otherwise I'd sure love your autograph."

"This is your lucky morning, isn't it? Just so happens I always have one handy." Reaching into the front pocket of her apron she produced a thick pen, clicking the top button several times for cartoonish emphasis.

I cupped my hands over my mouth and feigned rapturous joy. "Oh my gosh, I'm your biggest fan!"

"I must admit, it's always nice to meet a fan." I could tell she was clearly enjoying herself. She reached into the opposite apron pocket, bringing out a receipt book. "Now, fanboy, what would you like me to write on this here check?"

Not-so-subtle reminders of the diners offerings were plastered at every conceivable place a pair of eyes could look: upon the walls, table tents, refrigerated display cases, even as advertisements on the floor: pancakes, fried chicken, chili fries, milk shakes, all vying for one's stomach and wallet. The eat-what-you-see school of persuasion was hardly lacking reserve judging from the decor.

I swiveled on the stool while contemplating the cornucopia of unhealthy choices. "Do you know the concept of mindless eating?" I asked. She crossed her arms and considered the question. "No, can't say I do."

"Interesting, actually. It says that even the most seemingly inconsequential things can influence what or how much we eat, like the size of a plate or the lighting in the room. The science of it is predicated upon a whole slew of studies done in just about any place you would find food: restaurants, movie theaters, malls, homes, and yes, even diners." Her body language screamed indifference, but I could tell she was paying attention.

"They've termed it mindless eating because through the studies they've found that people, on average, make some kind of decision about food somewhere in the neighborhood of 250 times a day—as it turns out, that's about twenty times more often than they were aware of doing it." I paused to take another sip of coffee and gauge her interest, which wasn't easy. She hadn't moved since I'd begun my little lecture. "If you have things to do..."

"There's a party of six over in station two I need to get to," she deadpanned, "but they can wait. Please continue." I couldn't help but look to my right. I hadn't heard anyone come in, but my natural curiosity wouldn't be denied. The diner was still empty—except, of course, for me.

Then it struck me how eerily quiet it was.

"I couldn't help but notice how little noise there is in here." She shrugged. "Never occurred to me, actually." I closed my eyes for a moment, concentrating. "Do you...do you hear that beeping sound? It seems to be coming from outside?" I asked, gesturing to the left. After a few seconds of peaceful alertness, she shook her head. "Nope, I don't hear a thing."

"Been hearing it a lot lately. I mean, like, everywhere." I looked down at my coffee, then back up at her, trying to remember what I'd been ranting about before. "Where was I?"

She waved her pen in small circles. "People thinking about eating..."

"Oh, right. So anyhow, in one study they found that people sitting near a clear bowl filled with Hershey's Kisses ate something like close to 70 percent more than those seated near a white dish filled with the same candy."

She seemed unimpressed. "Okay, and that has what to do with me or the diner?"

"Suffice it to say, no one leaves here hungry, I'd bet."

"Well they're not coming in for the entertainment, if that's what you're gettin' at." she mocked.

I cleared my throat before speaking. "Clearly, that's their loss."

Waving both hands briskly in front of her face, she put on her best Southern drawl. "I do declare...aren't you quite the charmer!" I shrugged before taking another gulp, "Eh, it's a gift." She smiled, perhaps a bit too coyly.

"Well, Santa, are you going to order or just keep tryin' to sweep me off my feet?"

"You got waffles?"

"How many?"

"Two would be good."

"Bacon, hash browns...anything else with that?"

"No, but thanks," I replied. Something about her seemed very familiar, as if I'd known her from somewhere. As we grow, some of our fondest memories are those kept from childhood, of friends you'd run around with barefoot or go on trips with their families during summer break. Still others come from high school, laughs and rumors shared and started in the bleachers during a pep rally—neither of which did I have much recall. From college on, though, that was different. Perhaps because the onset of adulthood blurs into the somewhat structured chaos of college life. I knew her, just couldn't remember from where. I watched as she dutifully strode around the corner and into the kitchen.

"They should be ready in about five," she yelled.

"That's fine," I countered. I listened to the sounds of utensils banging against aluminum bowls and the eventual sizzle as batter hit the hot waffle iron. She came back around the corner briefly to offer to warm up my coffee and disappeared into the kitchen again. The lack of noise had grown beyond the point of conspicuous, and coupled with the inability to feasibly remember how I'd arrived here, I felt the gnawing onset of inconvenient disquiet. Something was amiss, something intangible yet important. I swiveled upon the stool to look outside, but the windows looked out into nothing—not so much pitch black as just the absence of light drifting aimlessly.

And yet, as indistinct as some of the surroundings were, I could still hear—if I could call it that—the soft electronic beep that seemed to follow me.

"Order UP!" she called from the kitchen as she slid the plate upon the chrome shelf in the delivery window. I jumped slightly, jarred from my self-imposed preoccupation. She seemed to glide around the corner as she picked up the plate and set it before me. "Dos barquillos, verdad?"

"If _barquillos_ means waffles, then, si," I replied, staring blankly at the plate.

"Well?"

"I'm sorry—they look delicious, really."

She turned around and reached down to pull some butter out of a cooler. "You can look as long as you like, but they ain't gettin' any warmer." Three pats of butter materialized in front of me, followed by a small container of syrup. She looked directly into my eyes, her gaze perforating my addled thoughts. "Something wrong?"

"What?" I said dryly, "uh...no, no it's fine really."

"Uh, huh." Sharp, this one. Smoke and mirrors wouldn't suffice with her, so I had to settle for the one thing many men want but fear the most—the truth.

"I remembered a quote from Mark Twain; just made me think, that's all." She walked around the counter and sat next to me before speaking. "And it was?" I gave her a momentary glance, trying to discern if it was worth the utterance; the reluctant conclusion was that I had little, if nothing, to lose by sharing my thoughts with her.

"Why is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral? It is..."

"...because we are not the person involved." Her look was one of wanting to smile blended with concentration. "You look—surprised."

"Well, yeah, I am," I blurted. "I mean, I hadn't expected you would know the quote." Somewhere, neurons in my brain were firing faster than I could measurably conceive, bringing to bear one inescapable thought: _Hey, idiot...had you filled your mouth with waffle that little verbal misdeed wouldn't have happened_. Apparently it decided to take matters into its own hands and began to move my own, cutting off a chunk of waffle and impaling it upon my fork.

She only smiled, a knowing, sweetly insidious smile. "It might surprise you, what I know." My jaws moved as they chewed, preventing some other malfeasance of thought from diving off my tongue, while that little voice crossed its arms and chided me, _you got lucky, buddy_. I just nodded and chewed. Wasn't until the third bite I sensed there was no taste—it wasn't dry, stiff, bland, doughy—it just...wasn't.

"Do you fear death?" she asked matter-of-factly.

I finished chewing and swallowed. "No, not really." I paused, considering my words. "It comes to each of us one way or another," I added pragmatically. Lifting another fork full, I stopped midway and quietly dropped my fork to the plate again. "Why would you ask that?"

"Twain's words, on the surface, have a subtle comic truth to them, I think you'd agree." I nodded silently. "But its deeper premise, it's emotional power—that's what made you think, made you pensive."

This little excursion I'd taken to try and relieve my sleeplessness had just added a few new eggs to my deprivation basket. "You understand, don't you, that your ability to perceive my state of being is most unsettling." Suddenly she sat up straight, completely removed from her prior relaxed demeanor.

"I honestly didn't mean to scare you or make you nervous..."

I waved her off. "Please—really, I suppose I'm a little disappointed to find out I'm that easily read." I took another quick sip of coffee. "I, uh, can't seem to avoid this feeling that I know you from somewhere. You seem very familiar, but that—you know— _knowledge_ feeling, that sensation you get when you suddenly recall something—it's like, way out of my grasp at the moment—and it's buggin' me." Her posture changed slightly, certainly less rigid.

"Well, who do I remind you of?"

"That's part of the problem; I know you remind me of somebody, but I can't seem to get the gears to mesh. I can't quite clear this...this...mental fog that seems to keep me from reaching out and connecting with that memory."

"That has to be incredibly frustrating."

"Maddening is the word you're looking for. Kind of like when you feel a sneeze coming, but it won't come. You know it's there but you can't get to it."

"I hate that!" she spouted. "That's so—irritating."

"So now you see my dilemma."

"See?" she exclaimed, "I so get it now!" She leaned over onto the counter, left forearm outstretched, regarding me with a calmness I found hypnotic—she knew something I didn't. Her mute intimation of enlightenment should have felt like fingernails scraped against a chalkboard, but instead only served to amplify my intrigue. Her every move, nuanced or exaggerated, seemed not so much planned as purposeful, like she was supposed to do it. I began to convince myself it was she that was there for me, whether by design of prudence or some inexplicable twist of fate. All manner of sensibility pointed less to random chance than to some calculated arrangement of whispered prayers answered. No, she wouldn't reveal anything to me that she knew I wasn't ready for. I wasn't even sure how I knew...but I knew.

I wiped my mouth with a napkin and set it atop the remains of tasteless waffles. My hunger was different now. Gently pushing the plate aside I carefully scrutinized her uniform.

"I don't see a name tag, and you never told me your name...you know, most good waitresses do that. 'Hi, I'm Michelle and I'll be your waitress,' something noticeably lacking in your presentation I might add."

"Well, Michelle, nice to meet you. My name is Brenda—Brenda Carty."

I suddenly felt woozy, my dizziness blurred and blended all streams of thought into one muddy stream of confusion. I knew that name—it meant something. Something profound. Like a fish nibbling at a baited hook, I could feel her name tugging repeatedly at me, the sound of it careening in my head.

Still the heady sensation of cognizance eluded me; I couldn't connect the dots.

"Whoa," she said, alarmed, "you okay?"

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "Yeah," I said, exhaling. "Yeah, I guess so."

"You got pale all of a sudden. I don't know about you, but in my experience that's not usually associated with pleasant feelings."

Steadying myself against the counter, I hung my head in an effort to clear my thoughts and focus on remaining conscious. "Just, uh—your...your name," I mumbled at the white Formica countertop. "Seems pretty silly to have that strong a reaction to a name, but it feels like my mind and my emotions are going out of their way to avoid one another."

"It'll come to ya', hun'. Give it time." Her voice was soothing, strangely reassuring. I looked at her and nodded gently. I knew it would, but it seemed to be taking its sweet time getting there.

"Now it seems I'm at something of a disadvantage, sir. You know my name, but I don't know yours." I looked up and caught her beautiful brown eyes. "Umm..."

"Take your time. Morning rush shouldn't start for a couple of hours yet," she needled.

"Daron—if I remember correctly, it's Daron." Her eyes, her hair, the way her smile stole a moment and made it a memory—I desperately wanted to remember. I ached for it.

"Seems to me, Daron, like you have a lot on your plate. No pun intended."

"What really bothers me is I can recall childhood rhymes, but I can't piece together things which I know mean something." I stated flatly, pounding my fist lightly upon the counter. The fork barely clattered against the plate as I did so.

"Maybe it's because you're so tired. Maybe once you get some rest things will start making sense again," she offered.

I pressed my palm against my forehead, then let it travel through my hair, fingers pulling lightly as they went. "Maybe. I hope it's that simple."

Brenda rose and stood behind the stool. "Let's try to keep it simple, then," she said, stepping to the spot where she'd greeted me earlier. "You remember coming in the door and seeing me, right?" I spun slowly on my stool and turned to face her.

"Sure," I remarked calmly.

"Do you remember what you felt when you first walked in?"

My eyes fell, almost automatically to the floor, myopically expecting to detect the answer glowing with a resplendent shimmer upon the crisscrossed tile surface, then they lurched toward the obsidian windows, and finally came to a thoughtful pause upon her now familiar countenance. I squinted in the way one does when trying to force a thought to the front of the brain.

"All I can remember...is, uh...feeling tired, I guess. Like when you feel so deeply tired you can't begin to sleep, you know?"

Brenda considered my answer before forging onward. "Okay, I can understand that. When you saw me, I mean when you first came in the door—did anything strike you? I mean, you almost passed out on me a few minutes ago when I told you my name, so I thought perhaps..."

I shook my head definitively. "No, no I'm pretty sure I would have remembered reacting like that when I first saw you."

She crossed one arm over her chest and rested the other elbow upon it, looking very much like an upright version of Rodin's _The Thinker_. After a few more moments of disquieting silence her eyes widened in some sort of partial epiphany. "What about your trip over here. You must remember that."

"Strangely, I really don't. I'd say it was a blur, if it was, but I can't even say that." With every passing sentence things felt increasingly surreal.

Brenda walked forward and stopped directly in front of me, her line of vision boring into mine. Her eyes shifted quickly back and forth as they searched for something I couldn't begin to fathom. "Do you remember anything from the last day or so?" I clasped my hands together and held them in my lap, then let my eyes wander of their own free will, hoping they'd hit upon something that would flip at least one switch, draw that one elusive line and connect just a couple of dots for me. Some cosmic force had decided to hide the truth behind an obscure locked door and conveniently misplace the key. And yet, I could make out bits and pieces if I carefully spied through the keyhole.

Pensively I inhaled and closed my eyes. "Vaguely. Something about an argument." A slow, festering ache began to bleed through the emotional haze. "Yes...yes, that much I feel is certain," I murmured as I opened and lifted my eyes to hers again.

The ache: it was in her eyes too.

"What was it about?" she asked softly.

I struggled with the recall, but her face, especially her eyes, provided an enigmatic spark that danced along some frayed neural pathway. A murky, distant image taunted me from deep within, the undefined blur of shapes gesturing in the heat of disagreement, muffled words floated about, bubbling and sticky like melted marshmallows.

"A chair?" I heard myself question aloud. Brenda's face contorted slightly, perhaps in syncopation with her puzzlement. I gently shook my head, trying to jar a little more definition loose. A raised voice drifted by, indistinct in form but undeniably feminine. Then a masculine laugh followed by heavy silence.

"Umm, something about," I gestured, hands flapping in mid-air, "a gift for a relative."

"The chair, perhaps?"

I nodded. It seemed to fit. "I think so."

"So, you and someone else had an argument about a chair that was given as a gift..."

"There's more to it; little bits and pieces are coming to me—shards and quick, blurred glimpses. It's kind of like—like driving in the mountains at night. I mean, you can barely see the road or scenery as you drive through, but you can make out something as your headlights pass. It's quick, but it's something." There was no attempt at persuasion in my explanation, only the excitement of fleeting remembrance.

Brenda sat back down as she spoke. "Okay, okay, that's a good start. So what are you feeling or seeing?"

I closed my eyes as if I had to emphasize the process, to make it somehow more believable. "A...a...woman. I can't see or make out her face or any of her features, but the voice that keeps playing, it's definitely a woman's voice." I hung my head in concentration. "Her voice seems frustrated," I said, and then paused. " No, I think it's perhaps more—"

"More what?" Brenda whispered.

Holding my head up, I opened my eyes and looked at her. "More—angry."

"About a chair?" she asked, seemingly incredulous. I sat motionless, hoping whatever fragile waves of grace were washing over me would continue and not suddenly ebb. My inward vigilance paid off.

My expression must have been quite confusing, I wanted to grin and frown simultaneously. "I, uh—"

She sat quiet this time, apparently content to wait for my entire reply.

My brain felt like a merry-go-round—one memory would come, however faintly, but then would shrink as it faded around a corner, and another would come around the other side, only to shrink as the other had; at least they were coming, though. "I think I said something off-handed." Recall seemed to flicker and jump, like an old movie that won't synchronize with a projector. "Ok—yes," I nodded, "it was meant as a joke."

"Do tell," she quipped.

"Mother-in-law," I murmured, the words barely leaving my lips.

Brenda smiled again, that _I_ _know something about you_ kind of smile. "You made a crack about someone's mother-in-law?"

"I should have thought twice before saying it, but it seemed so natural to say it, and next thing I knew it was out there."

"Must have been a doozy," she said with a snicker.

Part of the puzzle came together all of a sudden. "She—this female person I can't quite put my finger on yet—was very upset because I said something about wanting to get a different chair for her mother, but I knew she wouldn't plug it in."

Brenda erupted with laughter, covering her mouth as she did. "I'm sorry, I know it's probably inappropriate to laugh at that," she replied. I was half-ashamed, half-pleased at her response.

"See, _that's_ the result I was going for."

Brenda tried to stifle another laugh, "Plug it in. That's pretty funny."

"I thought so."

"But you say this other woman didn't see it that way?" The moment of warmth quickly passed, replaced with a palpable greyness.

"No. Not in the least," I sighed.

Now the events came steady, almost streaming and pulsing. "We argued," I uttered, my eyes closed. "I know I meant it to be funny at that moment, but I suppose there was some deep rationale for my saying it." A wave of revulsion washed over me, a grudging antipathy in the wake of remembering the dispute. "Her mother," I began and stopped as I reflected upon the words _her mother_. I strained to bridge the mental chasm, to make sense of it—because I knew it was supposed to make sense. It seemed my mind, or perhaps my subconscious, was willingly preventing any connection from being made.

Again, Brenda sat quietly while I gathered my thoughts.

"All I can make out now are raised voices," I said as I rubbed my temples. "She's clearly upset about the chair thing—we go back and forth for a while. I..." I paused again, letting my voice trail off and my thoughts catch up, "I tried to apologize but she kept hammering on me about how I didn't care and I didn't understand, and I was being unfair. I got really frustrated and bitter. I remember grabbing my keys and practically running toward the door."

I looked up at Brenda, my eyes locking onto hers. Suddenly I could remember words again. "'Where're you going?'" she barked at me. 'Apparently it would be unfair of me to assume that I care about where I'm going,' I yelled back at her, 'and since you don't understand that I've tried to honestly apologize then why should I begin to care about laying out the next half hour of my life for you!'" I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as the argument rushed back at me, heated words jettisoned at one another, some glancing blows while others cratered upon impact. Brenda said nothing, only staring back in rapt attention.

"I turned around and marched into the garage, slamming the door behind me. I had the engine turned over before I saw the door open and she stepped through. I didn't stick around to see what she had to say—I figured she was just going to yell more anyway. I glared at her through the dirty windshield, then threw the car in reverse and squealed out of the driveway."

"Did you two argue often?" Brenda asked.

"No. Rarely, actually."

She looked up over my shoulder, then stood suddenly. I didn't turn around to look. "Mornin," I heard her say.

"Good morning," came the warm male voice. "Mind if I join you at the counter?"

"Suits me," she replied. I felt her hand gently lay upon my shoulder. "Daron, do you mind?" I turned around and motioned to the stool next to me. "Not at all, please sit down."

There was something uncommonly welcoming about him. I didn't know this elderly man in a navy blue hooded sweatshirt, jeans and sandals—but for whatever reason I immediately felt comforted by his simple presence.

"Thank you kindly," he said, sitting down cautiously. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Not at all," I assured him. "Miss Carty and I were just discussing—well, _I_ was discussing—something that had happened recently."

"World events, politics?" he asked, apparently intrigued. I looked across the counter at Brenda; she'd wandered back behind the counter again. "No," I said, "something that had happened to me." Brenda wordlessly held up the coffee pot and the stranger waved her off with a smile.

"Must have been quite something," he remarked. His smile struck me the same as Brenda's, like he knew something about me that I didn't. It seemed to radiate through his white beard.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"When I came in you didn't turn around to look. You were very absorbed in some kind of thought. You didn't turn around until Brenda put her hand on your shoulder." I looked at him first, then back at her.

"How . . ."

He motioned toward Brenda. "I come in here all the time." She gave me a confirming smile.

"Well, no wonder Brenda is so good at reading me then." The gentleman stranger just chuckled. "It can be a symbiotic relationship, to be sure," he said. "We help each other out now and again."

"Whatever inexplicable magic or transcendental wisdom you two possess, I'd be incredibly grateful if you could put my mind at ease, you know?" I caught Brenda's gaze as her eyes darted in the stranger's direction. It seemed as if she was waiting for him to make the next move.

"The existence of forgetting has never been proved. We only know that some things don't come to mind when we want them." His comment had every appearance of damming what had been a smoothly flowing conversation. I looked again at Brenda in the hopes she would be able to clarify it for me.

"Nietzsche," was all she said.

"Thanks, that really helps," I groaned.

"Think about it, Daron," she implored. "It makes perfect sense—or it should."

I raised an eyebrow.

"You're frustrated, to say the least, because you instinctively know you have the memory stored somewhere, but you can't call it up, right?"

"You got it right—to say the least."

"So you really haven't forgotten. Those memories are there, kind of like...like...a kite that's stuck tethered to a tree limb, but the limb is just barely out of reach. You just need to find a way to reach it and pull the kite back down." She grinned proudly at her nostalgic metaphor. While I clearly understood the parallel it seemed no less odd, but then my entire morning thus far had been anything but normal.

I turned toward our latest companion and stated flatly, "Kites." He just smiled. No point in belaboring it; in all fact she was right. The stranger, I'd noticed, seemed keen on observing me, his gaze only occasionally straying from me to Brenda. He hadn't so much as reached for a napkin or asked for a glass of water—he just sat there, apparently very content to simply watch. I thought it only fair that if he were studying me I that I know the man's name.

"Would appear you know both our names, yet I don't know yours?" I asked pointedly,

He extended his hand. "I'm Eloy," he said, shaking my hand firmly. I felt as if I was shaking my grandfather's hand after not having seen one another for years. Grandpa had always smiled and laughed when I saw him. "A pleasure to meet you, Eloy," I said.

"The pleasure, I assure you, is mine," he replied. "Would you mind terribly if I made an observation?" Brenda looked at me and shrugged. "No, sir, not at all," I said "By all means do."

Eloy breathed in deeply and slowly exhaled. "It's self-evident that you are very much drawn—I'd even say connected to—Brenda." Many things in life you can see coming, even when unannounced: your birthday, filing taxes, a waitress with your order, or even the hug from an aunt with a hairy upper lip every Thanksgiving.

This was not one of those things.

"I, uh..." I stammered, looking over at her for some outward sign of approval or otherwise. She said nothing but her face had question marks written all over it. "We, uh, had discussed something earlier, umm, along those lines."

"Come now, Daron. I didn't say you were passionately in love with her."

"Well, no, you didn't," I managed.

"Then?" he countered.

"She is acutely aware that I feel some emotional connection to her."

Brenda chimed in, "It's true. The mere mention of my name practically made him keel over."

"Keel over is a little dramatic, I think..."

"Oh please!" she admonished playfully. Eloy laughed out loud. "So the safe answer is yes, correct?"

I felt like a schoolboy whose secret crush had been revealed. "Yes, I'd say so."

Eloy nodded in confirmation. "Okay then. What is it about her that you feel drawn to?" He seemed to look right through me. I had the unmistakable impression he could easily discern even the most translucent of white lies, so being evasive wasn't a gambling man's best bet.

"I've only known her for the last half hour I suppose, but there's some profoundly inexplicable feeling I have that tells me we have some kind of past, that we've known each other for half a lifetime." Again Eloy shifted his gaze back and forth between us.

"And what else? Surely she possesses some—what's the word I'm looking for?" he asked himself thoughtfully rubbing his chin.

"Redeeming?" Brenda offered.

"Perfect!" he shouted. "Yes, surely she has some redeeming qualities?" I cast my eyes ceilingward and melodramatically drawled, "I don't know."

"I haven't charged you for the waffles yet, have I?" she asked pointedly.

"Obviously," I spouted, "she's philanthropic to a fault." She seemed amused with my reply.

"Or she's fishing for a large tip," Eloy added. I smiled; Brenda grimaced. "She has certainly earned it, my friend. She's been nothing short of delightful thus far: sharp, funny, quick, and..." I paused to look in her direction, "I freely admit she's a beautiful creature."

I thought I detected the slightest trace of blush.

"You are most observant for only having been in her company for less than an hour," he stated. "In all the times I've come here I've never known her to be anything but those things."

Brenda smirked. "Nice recovery, Eloy." He tipped the brim of an invisible hat upon his head.

"The two of you seem quite compatible, not the slightest whiff of pretense or awkwardness. I'm sure that's part of what you sense, Daron."

"Absolutely," I answered. "It may be painfully obvious, but it's not the knowns that bother me."

Eloy leaned in a bit, a twinkle glinted in his eyes. "And what of the unknowns? Is it not those same intangibles that you feel most connected with?" He halted mid-thought and smiled. "This woman you hardly know," he continued, gesturing toward Brenda with stately but graceful fingers, "stirs something inside you."

I couldn't help but stare at her as his voice dropped to an emphatic whisper, his words slipped upon the air with silken fluidity.

"Think Daron," he urged, "reach back not with your conscious self, rather with that place where your fondest memories and heart meet. A touch, a kiss, a wordless look—think of those when you look at her. She's there, I assure you."

My masculine side wanted to spring to my defense, to lay claim to disbelief in such vagaries; truth stepped in the way, and wouldn't budge.

"The soft breathing you hear in the watercolor darkness of the night—she's there. The warm voice, sweet and smooth as honey—it's hers. All you need to do is remember."

I felt transfixed as I gazed at her. I all but muscled my will to not physically think, to just allow things to flow, unfettered by the largesse of cerebral deductions. Eloy was right—she was there. But I could sense only the slightest pull of emotional reminiscence, like the twinkling of a star in the night sky. Even though I couldn't see the very sun that gave light to the stars' glimmer, I knew it was there nonetheless.

Yet with delicate but spirited insistence I began to feel an indescribable warmth, which I could only attribute to her—and the more I let go, the easier it came, tranquil and soothing. I felt Eloy's hand upon my shoulder. "See what I mean, son?" Wordlessly, I nodded. His gentle question had not been intended as an intrusion, yet it effectively severed the connection with all the grace of cold water on hot glass.

I winced in automatic response to my frustration. "I was so close," I protested, "and now I still don't know..." Eloy smiled, causing the corners of his eyes to lift ever so slightly, and raised his hand. He spoke not one word, uttered no sound in the least, but reached into his left jeans pocket and slowly withdrew a crisp one dollar bill and handed it to Brenda with a nod; she thoughtfully inspected first the face of it, then the back. She smiled and reached into her apron again, producing the pen, then carefully splayed the bill on the counter, face up, and with focused consideration inscribed something upon it. I started to reach for it, when Eloy once again requested my attention.

"Daron, look outside the windows and tell me what you see."

"There's nothing, I mean, literally," I began without turning around.

"Look again, son," he said, slowly waving his palm toward the portals. I shot him a questioning glance, then looked at Brenda as if to quietly state, _This guy's boat has sailed_. She only nodded her affirmation of his request. Overruled, I reluctantly turned around.

The lingering obsidian nothingness had been displaced by a bleary, milky blue paleness; in no way as direct or harsh as sunlight, it seemed to surround and embrace the diner.

All I could do was stare.

The heavy cloak of dark had lifted, yet in its wake a new set of questions emerged: different, yet indelibly entwined and woven within the rest of the hour's fabric. I turned to face Eloy, certain that he and he alone could explain—but he wasn't seated next to me anymore. I looked to Brenda, who hadn't moved from her spot since he'd arrived—she just grinned and motioned over my shoulder. There he stood, in the same spot where I had first encountered her, hands hidden in his pockets, and his smile melting away my apprehensions. He looked over my shoulder at Brenda and nodded.

"Hey," she gently called. I was suddenly gripped by the fear that I may never hear her voice again. I wanted her to keep talking, but my own mouth wouldn't move to form the words—to tell her what I felt. My heart sank as my head turned toward her felicitous voice.

She reached over the counter and tenderly grasped my wrist, then leaned forward and kissed my cheek in the most delicate but reassuring manner. I felt her fingertips place the dollar bill in my hand, then curl my own fingers around it. She wrapped both her hands around mine and squeezed ever so lightly. "You be careful with that—you're gonna want to hang on to it." Her smile immediately carried me back to the moment I first saw her as she greeted me. Although I didn't recognize it then, I did now: it was filled with warmth and a zest for life.

I couldn't help but stare directly into her eyes as I started to speak. "I—uh—think I have to—uh—go now," I stammered pathetically. She nodded, and with a sweet smile gently released my hand. Without any forethought, I automatically turned to Eloy.

"Whadya' say we blow this pop stand?" he asked, extending his hand. Giving Brenda a quick last look I saw her silently mouth the word _Go_. I grinned as best I could, then turned around and grasped his hand, the dollar bill clutched securely in the other. As we approached the door he stopped and squared himself to me.

"You're almost there, Daron," he said. "You just keep walking toward that beep..."

I'd almost completely forgotten about the beep. "You can hear it too?" I asked excitedly.

"Of course, son," he smiled. "Things will start coming back to you now, I promise." I shook his hand firmly.

"I'm not at all sure what I'm thanking you for, but I know I need to thank you."

"My pleasure. You take care of yourself, alright?" He'd taken on an almost paternal demeanor.

"So long as you keep an eye out for her," I bargained, thumbing in Brenda's direction.

"Deal," he said.

Leaning my shoulder into the door, it slid open and I stepped into the chalky light. Each footstep toward the haunting beep was a confusing blend of elation and parting sorrow.

Each purposeful step forward carried with it an unquestionable sense of relief.

***

Repeated shots of talking heads and scrolling stock market information played upon the wall-mounted television; she'd muted the sound the moment the doctor and nurse stepped in to update the charts. They stood at the corner of the bed, whispering back and forth, occasionally glancing at their patient. Some days she felt they treated him more as a case, a statistic, than as a human being. Those days were always harder for her, and only compounded by her utter feeling of helplessness. She wasn't alone—the medical staff felt just as helpless; both parties could do little but wait and hope.

And hope was something she'd become intensely good at.

For the moment, though, she sat with her left hand in her lap, her right forearm grazing the cool brushed aluminum bed rail as her fingertips tenderly caressed his hand, stopping every so often to gently squeeze his wrist. Outwardly tired and eyes heavy with exhaustion, she steadfastly maintained her vigil, black sweater ever present around her shoulders.

The doctor approached, removing the stethoscope from around his neck. He placed the ear pieces in each ear as he bent over to listen to his patient's breathing. When finished, he placed the stethoscope back around his neck then jotted a couple of notations on the chart.

"How are you this morning?" he asked with a smile.

"Tired."

"I bet. Anything happen last night—anything different?"

She wanted so much to have better news, or at least _new_ news. "No. It was another quiet night," she said dejectedly, "But things will change soon. I know it, without a doubt."

"I've seen many things that I can't medically explain—good and bad," he said, brushing his tie aside to slide the pen into his shirt pocket. "But I can tell you without reservation that those who have had a loved one sitting by their side have always done better—so he already has an advantage."

"I'm not going anywhere," she stated, grinning weakly.

"Good!" He stepped just outside the door and set the chart in the wall file. "We'll be back in a couple of hours. Buzz the nurse's station if you need anything."

"I will."

The nurse turned and gave her a warm smile. "If you don't mind, I'll come back in a few minutes and keep you company for a bit. I'm caught up for now, unless something else comes in."

Her eyes lit up. "That would be wonderful! Thank you, I'd certainly enjoy that." For the first time in over a half a month her face appeared lighter, betraying perhaps the slightest hint of giddiness. The congenial 'hellos', 'good mornings', and 'how-are-yous' traded with the staff each day were nice, but fleeting and mechanical. Having another person to truly interact with—this was a small event in her current world.

"Okay then. I'll see you in a few," she said, then turned and disappeared around the corner. The low, steady chirp of the heart rate monitor and occasional chime from the elevator in the hall provided small comfort amidst the heavy silence; yet they seemed far less intrusive for the moment. "We're going to have company," she said softly, gently rubbing his shoulder.

Minutes later the nurse returned to find the woman carefully wiping the man's face with a damp cloth. "You're doing my job, yet I'm getting paid for it," she said with a laugh.

"Just seems natural, I suppose," was the reply. "Please, sit down," she said, gesturing at the spare chair just feet from her own. "Thank you so much for taking some time to sit with us—it means the world to me."

"I'd been wanting to, but we've been a little busy up 'til now. I know how incredibly lonely it can be to someone in your position. I mean, this," she said, thrusting her outstretched hand toward the door, "this is my job, my career—but this," she kindly gestured toward the patient, "this is your life. I wish I had more time to spend like this, but it usually doesn't work out that way. Now that it has, I'm only too happy to."

Her answer drew the slightest of smiles from the woman.

"So," the nurse continued, "how did you find out?

"Find out? About?"

"I'm sorry, the accident."

She looked down at her lap then adoringly at her husband lying quietly prone beside her. "I remember so clearly," she began, her eyes welling with tears. "You know, I can remember two weeks ago like it was two minutes, but sometimes I can't remember what I did half an hour ago."

"You're not alone," said the nurse, trying to lighten the moment a bit.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. I never asked your name." she said, momentarily sidestepping the remainder of her story.

The nurse smiled as she extended her hand. "My full name is Persephone, but please, call me Percy." The pair shared a warm handshake. "A delight to meet you Percy. I'm Brenda. Were your parents fans of Greek mythology?"

"Daddy is. Turns out I'm a daddy's girl anyways, so he didn't need an extravagant name to win my affection," she smiled.

"But it's a beautiful name!" Brenda effused.

"Thank you very much."

"Oh please, I'd talk about your name all day if meant having company, not to take anything away from your name, mind you."

Percy chuckled. "It's quite alright. It usually makes for some interesting conversation, I assure you."

"I imagine," Brenda said. The two sat still for a moment, only the distant chirp of the phone at the nurses' station passed between them. Brenda seemed to slump a bit in her chair, though her right hand never left her husbands.

"I apologize if I was too personal before, you know, asking about the..." Percy started.

"No, no, not at all!" Brenda seemed to spring to life again, straightening her posture. "I suppose I stepped off the beaten path for a bit on purpose."

"If it's too hard to talk about you really don't..."

Brenda waved her off. "It's okay, really. I don't mind. I really haven't had anyone to talk to about it, so it'll be good for me to get it out."

"If you're sure?" Percy questioned.

Brenda nodded and smiled. "So," she began with a deep exhalation, "where was I?"

"I asked how you found out, and you said you remembered it clearly."

"Yes, absolutely. I'd been stewing—well, fuming actually—over an argument we'd had about an hour before. We rarely argue, but this one was pretty stupid, and he knew it. But for some reason I wouldn't let it go. He tried apologizing but I kept at him. I guess I was trying to prove to myself I had won the battle." Brenda swallowed hard; her throat felt tight. "He was beyond frustrated. We barked at each other for a few minutes then he stormed out of the house and into the garage. I didn't follow him right away, thinking he'd come back to fight some more, and when he didn't I went after him. I opened the garage door just as he started the car." She paused and the room again felt more like a library than a hospital.

"He looked right at me, then the car lurched into reverse and he sped out of the driveway. I was so angry at him, I think more because I felt I didn't get to say everything I wanted. In retrospect I said more than I needed." Brenda drew a heavy breath. "Just over an hour later I got a call—"

"From the police?"

"Yeah. I froze, or rather it seemed like everything around me froze. I couldn't speak. The officer had to keep saying 'ma'am...ma'am.' Next thing I knew I was here, mad as hell at myself for letting it happen, for not listening."

"Brenda, you're human. It's not your fault." Percy grabbed her hand in reassurance as her lip began quivering.

"It is my fault. It was an incredibly pointless argument. He wouldn't be here if—if only I would have let it go."

For the first time since arriving at the hospital, she cried in front of somebody. The staff had been gracious enough to allow her to stay overnights, and it was during those dark, fretful nights she had cried herself to sleep—alone. Percy stood slowly, pulling Brenda up with her, hoping a little compassion might lessen the pain her sobs shook to the surface.

"Brenda...hey, things are going to be fine," Percy assured her. Brenda backed away after a minute, accepting a tissue from the nurse. "I know they will," she said through sniffles. "Want to hear another quick story?"

The nurse gave her hand another comforting squeeze. "Sure."

Brenda regained her composure and once again took her all too familiar seat. "We'd been dating for a while, and one night we went to a movie—the name of which I've never remembered—then afterward we went to a local diner to get a bite to eat. He seemed nervous all night, so I finally asked him what was wrong. "Nothing," he says. Of course I knew better, so instead of saying anything I just sat there and looked at him. He stammered and stalled, tried talking in circles." She lapsed briefly to draw the backs of her fingers across his cheek with the lightness of a feather. "Took him half his chocolate malt to work up the courage to tell me," she continued, smiling.

"Tell you what?"

Brenda let the moment linger, just long enough to immerse herself in the memory. "That he loved me."

Percy giggled. "In its own way, that's kinda' sweet," she said.

"It was, but what he did next was, well..." Brenda stopped and looked directly into Percy's eyes. "We've been married over twenty years, Percy, and this is one of the fondest memories I have." Percy sat motionless, a study in attentiveness.

"He reached into his pocket and drew out a one dollar bill, then looked up and smiled at me." Putting her hands parallel to the floor and slowly moving them apart, she continued. "He placed it on the table, back side up, and smoothed it out, then took a pen and wrote his name on it. He was so nervous," she grinned, "his hands visibly shook."

"Poor thing!"

Brenda pointed at the edge of a dollar bill she'd placed in his hand. "He folded the dollar twice, then handed it to me and said—and I quote—'No matter where I may travel, or what may happen, so long as you keep this I will always come back to you. This I promise.'"

Percy clasped her hands together and dropped them to her lap. "And you've always kept that dollar bill with you, haven't you?" Brenda nodded slowly as she tried to blink away resurgent tears.

"It's so easy to take for granted that someone will always be there, or they'll always return," Brenda said with a timorous crack in her voice. "But I'll tell you, ever since that evening, every time he's traveled I've pulled that bill out of my purse and kept it, somehow, on my person, until he returned—and he always has."

Looking up at Percy again, eyes brimming and glistening from tears, she finished. "He promised me, Percy. He's never once broken his promise to me. That's how I know he'll be okay. He'll come back to me." Silent tears began their graceful procession down her rosy cheeks.

Percy leaned forward in her chair and gently brushed Brenda's bangs aside. "You've made a believer out of me," she said warmly. "Why don't you go to the sink and splash some water on your face, or shower if you want. You'll feel better, I'm sure. I'll go check in at the station real quick then come right back, okay?"

Brenda nodded in agreement. "You're right. I'll freshen up a bit." As the pair stood Percy placed her right arm around Brenda and hugged her. "Like you said, he promised. Hang in there, hun."

Brenda grinned sheepishly and patted her hand, "Thanks."

The two parted ways at the door as Percy headed for the nurses station and Brenda turned on the light in the small bathroom. It wasn't roomy, but certainly functional, with a small shower stall, toilet, and sink with vanity mirror. Brenda looked in the mirror and traced the dark circles under her eyes with her fingertips, then turned the cold water knob on the faucet. Water splashed playfully upon the white ceramic sink. She bent over and cupped her hands, letting them fill with brisk cold water and splashed it upon her face. After soaping up her hands she washed her face, then rinsed it clean, and turned off the water. She reached for the towel as the last of the water trickled down the drain.

The nurse's raised voice split the moment of calm. "Brenda, you're needed—now!" she yelled, lacking poise or any nuance of calm. She wasn't certain if it was panicked or just racing with excitement; in either case, it was urgent. Brenda scurried around the corner of the bathroom door, towel in hand, hurriedly drying her face, to find Percy quickly checking monitor readings and looking into his pupils.

His eyes had opened, and he lay fully awake and conscious. She threw the towel on the bed and rushed toward him.

"I have to get the doctor. I'll be right back!" Percy exclaimed. Her feet didn't wait for her mouth to finish. She was out the door in more than a hurry. Brenda had to stifle every urge, consciously will every muscle not to lean over the bed and embrace him tightly—intravenous tubes and miscellaneous wires hung like a loose web around him. She locked her eyes to his, tears quietly rolling down her cheeks, then with extreme care, cupped both her hands around his and leaned over to tenderly kiss his forehead. "I knew you'd come back," she whispered.

Percy reappeared not sixty seconds later. "Doctor will be right here," she stated softly. Brenda waved her over to the side of the bed where she was standing. Percy quickly stepped over and Brenda threw her arms around her, squeezing as tightly as she could. "Thank you," she sobbed, "thank you so much."

"But it wasn't me, or the doctor, who brought him about," Percy explained. "It was you." The doctor raced around the corner, white lab coat swirling behind him, then froze as he reached the foot of the bed—the three of them stood speechless, watching a miracle in bloom.

His eyes intently followed his hand as he weakly raised it up then turned it over and slowly uncurled his fingers. The dollar bill within lay in stark contrast to his pale skin. Brenda delicately picked it up and slowly unfolded it, then respectfully handed it to Percy.

"But, I don't understand," the nurse mumbled.

"Look at it." Brenda whispered.

Percy carefully grasped the bill between her thumbs and forefingers handling it as if it were a newborn. She smiled and pointed at her husband's name scrawled on the back: Daron. "Just like you said." Brenda motioned for her to turn it over.

On the face, a first and last name were written: one clearly in her husband's handwriting—her first name, Brenda. The second had different penmanship. Percy pointed to the second name.

"I added that the night of our wedding," Brenda whispered.

Percy read the name aloud. "Brenda Carty." Then, leaning over, she slowly pushed the dollar bill partially under Daron's hand. "Your wife never lost faith, Mr. Carty. She was here the whole time." She looked up as the doctor gestured for them to leave the room.

"We'll leave you two alone for a few minutes," he stated smiling ear-to-ear and nodded in the direction of the door at Percy.

As she crossed the threshold Brenda called out. "Persephone..."

The nurse turned around. Yes?"

"Brenda looked at her husband first, then back up at her. "Daron and I would love to have you join us sometime at the diner, you know, when things are settled."

Percy practically beamed as she broke into a huge smile. "I would love to. Oh, and Mr. Carty—this time, the malt is on me," she added with a wink.

Winter Rose

Each warm mist of breath hung in the air like temporary lace, for seconds—not moments—seconds. The biting cold did nothing to cover the stench of destruction; carcasses of buildings still aflame, clouds of smoke rose the color of death. In some places it billowed like airborne foam, seemingly from everywhere. A blast concussion halted her run home when the air raid sirens had blared. She remembered the sound of her hard leather school shoes tapping on the pavement with each small stride, her lungs aching from gulping the frosty air as she ran. There was an explosion from somewhere behind her, followed by blackness.

She awoke curled in a ball, her tidy school uniform covered in black soot and dust. Her knee stung a bit. Looking down past her heavy coat, she could see her stocking was torn around the kneecap and a healthy scrape underneath. The blood had long since dried, but the sting remained.

Every movement she made included shivering that was a mixture of winter chill and fear. At a mature eight years old, all she wanted to do was find her parents. She had been but a few minutes away from home when she felt the blast, now she could only vaguely recognize her surroundings.

There was no scent of fresh baked goods wafting through the cold December air like there used to be. Mr. Tillingham always baked extra cookies and pastries the week before Christmas, and simply breathing made you hungry, even if you'd just enjoyed afternoon tea and scones. Now the smell of burnt everything permeated the area. She coughed, causing her to gulp down a blend of icy and filthy air.

All she could do was prop herself up against the shattered wall behind her and cry.

***

The hands holding the newspaper hadn't seen soap and water for three days; war had settled on them, looking every bit the worse for wear. _"Enemy Continues Air Attacks"_ read the bold-print headline—the date along the masthead read December 24, 1917.

"Not even Santa Claus can stop 'em," he muttered.

His fingers tingled painfully from the cold. Dropping the tattered paper he replaced his gloves and hugged his khaki coat tight to his body. As bleak as the city was, he was grateful to not be in the trenches. His squad had spread themselves among the ruins of five city blocks to root out snipers and help any survivors. An odd dichotomy: kill to save.

With each labored step he'd scan every possible hiding place for the slightest hint of activity. Every breath lodged the foul odor of death and burnt flesh in his lungs—he'd have gagged if he hadn't become accustomed to it. Every so often, he'd tap his chest just to feel the ring he wore on a chain around his neck, a tangible reminder of the humanity and love he had left back home. As all soldiers did, he had promised to return to her, to marry her.

He hadn't heard a civilized noise for days; no chirping birds, no idle chatter of passers-by. In the distance there would be an occasional explosion, or the filtered _whump_ of a brick wall falling into the street. As he walked he could hear the pop and crackle of burning wood, mixed with the sporadic burst of gunfire in the distance.

Parts of the city had long since been evacuated, but some people remained behind in the blithely optimistic hope their part of the city would be spared. The surrounding air told him some fled, but others had their hopes die with them.

The latest bombing provided a chorus of flames everywhere, devouring and charring anything flammable. Looking back, he could faintly see the outline of one of his squad through the gray and white haze of battle. The figure silently raised its rifle up in recognition. Returning the gesture, he continued his slow walk along the gutted block of what used to be restaurants and sidewalk cafes. Cautiously he eyed the upcoming intersection less than ten yards away.

Off to his left he heard what sounded like bricks and wood tumbling to the pavement, not altogether unnatural in this landscape, but still a good reason to crouch and focus every sense. Quietly, he duck-walked to the corner. A quick glance to his right—nothing. He remained as still as the cold would allow so as not to become a moving target. His buddy hadn't been so careful a week ago, so he had become the recipient of a few scraps of his food and some ammo. A steady glance across the street revealed nothing.

The sound of a shoe sliding on dirt dropped him prone, rifle in front. The sudden break of quiet brought on an adrenaline rush he really hadn't wanted.

It was hard to breathe in that position, more so because he didn't want his exhalations to give away his position. Forward movement was slow; he had to wait for some other noise to cover his crawl. At least the stench at this level wasn't as bad as standing up, yet still just as dusty. He wanted to cough, but survival instinct suppressed the urge. The chain around his neck reminded him to be cautious.

Pressing his left side against the corner, or what remained of it, he tried to remain still. Every sense was heightened and tautly focused, yet all he could hear was the lighter dirt blowing against the pavement and the distinct pop of fire-eaten wood. Eyes closed, he listened again.

Then he heard the scrape of something against the pavement, followed by some small scraps of wood and chunks of mortar. Training took over; roll to the right, elbows up, weapon raised, then stop and verify target before firing. It all took place in one fluid movement; the business end of the rifle was brought to bear on the noise-maker.

Her palms pressed desperately against the sidewalk, pushing her backward, her hard leather shoes trying to get traction amidst dirt and debris. Immediately the rifle barrel dropped and the soldier was on his feet in a partial crouch, and hustling toward her. She scurried back against the remains of the brick wall, every inch of her frightened.

"Hey, hey, I'm not going to hurt you. I promise. Look..." He gently lowered the rifle to the pavement, away from her. "Are you okay?" She gave no vocal response, just cold, frightened eyes boring back into him. "Are you hurt?"

She looked down at her knee but said nothing.

"I can get that fixed up for ya'," he said, turning to call for a medic. Her wild headshake stopped him. She began to silently cry, tears leaving clean streaks upon her soot-caked face.

"Everything is going to be okay. Really. I'm not going to leave you, all right?"

He watched her eyes stare back at him for what seemed like an eternity, the whites glistening from tears, then a slow nod. He smiled back through three-day-old stubble.

"My name is Jake. Well, I'm Private First Class Jake Reddiger, but you can call me Jake if you wanna'." No answer. "A pretty lady like you must have a name," he prompted.

She looked down into her heavy coat. He noticed her shiver for the first time.

"Are you cold?" he asked. "Want a blanket?" Another nod, without looking up.

"Okay, I'm going to get the blanket off my backpack, that's all."

He could tell she was still scared; the puffs of air from her nostrils were fairly quick, not long and steady. Jake fixed his eyes on the girl, never once diverting his gaze while removing his backpack. His practiced fingers unlatched the straps holding the blanket roll to the rest of the pack. He slowly unfurled it and gently leaned forward.

"May I put this around you?"

A small nod, then she leaned forward, almost eagerly. Jake gingerly draped the blanket around her little shoulders, then softly wrapped it around her arms and legs.

"So, you never told me your name. I bet it's pretty."

She stared at him, no longer crying but still uncertain. Then, looking aside and reaching a small arm outside the warm confines of the blanket, she traced R-O-S-E in the dirt and dust. She wasted no time getting her arm back under the blanket again.

"Rose. Now that is a beautiful name." He thought he detected the slightest hint of a smile. This was progress.

Even caked with gray dust her face was nothing short of cherubic. Jake placed his hands on his knees, looking down at her.

"Do you mind if I sit for a moment?" Her gentle nod was all he needed. Just her presence lightened his mood. "So, Rose, would you like a little something to eat. Ya' hungry?" Another timid nod. "Okay then, let's see what I can find here."

Jake thrust his hand inside his coat and made a surprise face, then drew it out, fingers closed. Slowly he opened them, revealing an empty palm. He put on his best sad clown look.

He wasn't sure if she was disappointed or annoyed. He repeated the gesture but stuffed his hand into the other side of the coat, then plastered a huge, toothy grin on his face. Again opening his fingers, only to reveal a couple of small salt packets. Her almost latent smile was quickly fading. A gloved index finger was raised skyward then the hand arced and dove into the right outer pocket. Jake checked to make sure she was watching, then slowly closed his eyes and very slowly withdrew a small rectangular object. Grasping it with all ten fingers, he calmly opened his eyes and smiled from ear to ear.

So did Rose.

"I hope you like chocolate, it's all I've got 'til I get back to camp." A small, pale hand reached out as he held it toward her. "Now, you have to promise me you won't eat it all at once, okay?" She nodded her agreement without taking her eyes from the bar. "Good."

Silently, he watched her little fingers carefully pry the outer wrapping off and then break off a small chunk. She stared at it for a moment then looked up at Jake as if to be absolutely certain it was hers. "Yes," was all he said, nodding. He watched as she slowly savored the chocolate. It seemed precious to her, the way she held the bar, and gently broke off small pieces.

"Do you mind if I sit next to you?" She gently shook her head without removing her fixed gaze on the chocolate, now fully a third gone.

Jake slowly maneuvered around and sat just as she did, with his back against the crumbling wall. Out of habit, he pulled the rifle close, and looked around again.

"Rose," he quietly asked. She looked up at him. "I would really like to have a medic look at your knee. Please?" Jake saw a wisp of fear flutter into her eyes. "A medic is like—like a doctor," he slowly explained.

A small hand crept from beneath the blanket's protective warmth and reached for him. Leaning forward, she grasped his shirt and tugged. He wasn't a father, nor had he any child-rearing experience to speak of, yet instinctively he slung his rifle over his back, and ever so carefully scooped her up. She laced her arms around his neck and nuzzled her dark hair against his cheek.

He could feel her nod her approval. With that, they began the walk toward camp.

***

Doc Geone had been sitting on a stump next to his foxhole, enjoying the first warm meal he'd had in a week. It wasn't decent, but it was warm. His first name was Medic—his last name didn't matter most of the time. Most of the company was lined up for chow or refining their foxholes. Even with all the noise around him, it was a few precious moments of peace and quiet. He shoveled a spoonful of stew into his mouth and looked up simply to take in the scenery.

When the cup hit the ground stew spilled everywhere, not that he was around to see it. Snow crunched under his boots as he ran toward the soldier carrying the child, his breath brushing past his face with each stride. He met them just as they entered the camp proper.

"Doc."

"Private. What happened?" he asked, reaching for the patient out of habit.

"Whoa, easy Doc." Jake gently shook his head disapprovingly. "She's skittish around strangers." He gave her a quick hug. "Rose, this is Doc Geone." Her little arms never once detached themselves from around his neck. Jake turned a little so she could see, his harsh stubble making her look all the more angelic. She gave no reply, only pulled herself closer to him.

"It's okay, Darlin', really. Doc's a good man, he won't hurt ya'." She had no intention of letting go. They were beginning to draw attention, something Jake wanted to avoid. "Let's get her to the major's tent, I don't think he'll mind."

Doc nodded and escorted them to the tent at the edge of camp. He held open the tent flap as Jake and Rose ducked inside. It wasn't much warmer inside, but there was a cot, on which Jake reassuringly set her down. Soft daylight streamed in through an open window flap.

"She scraped up her knee pretty good, Doc. I told her you'd fix her up." Doc was already kneeling and digging through his supply bag.

"You bet I will, Private." Doc looked up as he set some bandages and other supplies on the cot. "She's a pretty lil' thing, isn't she?" Rose did nothing but clutch Jake's arm as Doc gently peeled back the blanket covering her knee. As the cold air wrapped itself around her exposed wound, she buried her face against Jake's arm. He stroked her hair gently again. He'd become accustomed to it as they walked to camp; it calmed him, and seemed to calm her as well.

"Rose?" She looked up, her sad eyes questioning. "I know you don't feel like talkin' much, but if you could ask Santa for one thing what would it be?" Jake kept his eyes locked on hers as the medic tenderly extracted the fabric of the hose from the dried blood. She only whimpered and stiffened, but never cried aloud. He kept stroking her hair as he spoke. "You don't have to tell me now. Just think about it, okay?"

He knew she understood because she tried to put her arms around him, but only clutched handfuls of coat in front and back.

The front flap suddenly flew open. Rose squinted against the intrusion. "Private Reddiger?"

"Yes, sir." Ordinarily he would have stood at attention and saluted—he quietly prayed the major understood his lack of protocol.

"At ease, Private. I hear we have a visitor."

"Yes, sir." Jake nodded at Rose.

Major Teece looked backward. Jake could see a man standing just to his right, but couldn't make out any detail. "Son, Father Parks and I, well, we need to have a word with you."

"Sir?"

"Won't take but a couple of minutes."

"Yes, sir." Jake tried to stand but Rose held tight, so he sat down again. "Rose, there's somethin' I've been meanin' ta' ask ya'..." She looked up at him, seemingly forgetting about Doc Geone at her knee.

"Well, see, I was wonderin' if you're—you know, married?" Her smile could have set the tent ablaze; instead her face turned a faint shade of pink. Jake smiled back. "I take that as a no?" She shook her head, but retained the smile.

"Great!" Jake glanced at Doc Geone, who was grinning too. "Sweetie, I have to go talk to the major and Father Parks, but I promise I'll be right back. I'm not leaving you, okay?" He paused. "I haven't broken any promises yet, have I?"

She shook her head again, but the smile faded. Jake placed his hand gently upon hers, almost completely engulfing it in his palm. "I'll be right outside, then come right back in." He nodded once, and felt her grip release. "Doc will be here with you."

As he stood, he watched her clutch the blanket around herself again, her eyes following his every step.

As he disappeared outside she suddenly recalled the word "father." Her family had completely slipped her mind amidst all the goings-on. She couldn't make out words of their conversation, just murmurs. All of a sudden she desperately wanted to find her parents, but Jake's comfort was more immediate. She knew he'd take care of her. She'd suddenly realized how incredibly alone she was; the dark, empty feeling hurt. She wanted to cry again.

Doc Geone interceded. "Okay, Doll, that should fix you up just fine."

Rose looked down and saw her knee wrapped in gauze. The dried blood had been cleaned off her leg as well.

"So, you sure are a pretty little girl," Doc started as the flap opened again.

"Hey now, Doc—you makin' time with my girl?" Doc grinned. "Just small talk, Private. I think she's spoken for." Doc winked then patted her hand and turned to face Jake. "She's fine. All cleaned up, on the outside at least. I can't do much about the inside, but maybe you can."

Doc clasped Jake's shoulder then ducked outside and into the light. Jake stepped forward and knelt before her. Rose sat up; the best he could do for the moment was stare, a meager attempt to sear her face into his memory. Reaching up, he lightly brushed aside her bangs.

"Major Teece and Father Parks wanted me to wish you a Merry Christmas." In the diluted light she could see moistness upon his lower eyelids. "Tomorrow morning we'll take you, Father Parks and I, to a place where there are other children. It's called an orphanage."

Jake saw that scared look again. Her arms bolted from under the blanket and locked around his neck like a vice, and his arms wrapped around her, too.

"You're gonna' be just fine, Rose. And guess what?" She leaned back enough to see his rough face; even at eight years old she thought him handsome.

"The people at the orphanage will be able to help you look for your parents."

He'd been told to be careful about his wording. Don't use _find_ , they said, use _look_. He hated himself for plastering the grin on his face; it was almost painful to do—to toss her some hope where none may be found.

Her small, round face slowly came toward him, her warm lips kissing him on the cheek. Jake closed his eyes; he needed sleep and food. But right now, she needed him more, and he was just fine with that.

The peaceful respite was broken by the sound of the canvas flap opening again. Soldier and child turned to look, cold once again nipping at their cheeks where only moments before was warmth. Jake leaned back again.

"Rose, this is Sergeant Wills," he stated, pointing to the red-haired man, "and this guy we call Beaky, on account of his nose." Both men had a light dusting of snow on their helmets and jackets.

"Hello, Rose," both men said simultaneously. She gave the slightest wave. Jake was impressed, but said nothing about it. Sgt. Wills stepped forward, hands behind his back. "Rose, All of us wanted to give you a present, but we don't have much, things being what they are out here." He looked down at the ground, seemingly ashamed, or perhaps just bashful. "I'd been saving this to send home, but once I heard you were here I immediately wanted you to have it. So, Merry Christmas, Little Lady."

From her perspective, his arms moved in slow motion, but his smile grew with every inch forward they moved. In his hand was a rag doll; its red-yarn hair was mottled, the striped shirt hastily brushed off, and the fabric body was worn thin in spots. Rose eyed Jake, waiting for his approval. With his nod, she tentatively reached out and grasped it, giving it a home between her left arm and her body. Her right arm remained around Jake's neck. She spent the next few minutes giving it loving scrutiny.

"Thank you, Sarge...and Merry Christmas to you, too." Wills nodded and saluted. Jake turned to the next man. "What's on your mind, Beaky?"

"I thought you and Rose could use some chow," he said, producing two tins of piping-hot stew. "It ain't the best, but it'll warm your bellies." He set the tins on the ground next to Jake.

"Thanks, Beaky. I really appreciate that. You guys let the rest of the fellas know we said thank you. Tell 'em Rose said Merry Christmas, too."

"Sure thing, Jake. Bye, Rose." Her hand lifted up just long enough to wave once, then clutched the doll again. In more ways than one, both soldiers left the tent lighter than when they had entered. Once again the flap furled shut.

For the next hour they ate slowly. Rose drained the tin of every last drop. Apparently she liked the stew, although she likely wouldn't have complained if she didn't. Jake told stories of winters past, and even remembered all the words to _T'was The Night Before Christmas_. She sat raptly, holding the rag doll against her chest the entire time. He was richly rewarded with a few smiles, and eventually a couple of yawns.

"Tired?" Rose nodded smoothly. "C'mere, then." Jake opened his arms and she crawled into his lap. Leaving her tomorrow would break both their hearts, but he had no choice.

At least for tonight, gone was the acrid smell of all things burnt or dead. Rose cuddled in Jake's lap, sound asleep. He caught himself rocking ever so gently, and once again stroking her hair. Through the cutout window snow drifted from angels wings to the ground, soft and silent. The cold tried to huddle around his body, drawing into sharp relief the loss of innocence he'd witnessed; almost as emotionally as it was physically numbing. He cupped his left hand against her small head, small strands of her hair spilled against the back of his hand.

"Love's a funny thing Rose," he barely whispered, his chin nestled atop her head. "If you don't feel it, later on you'll regret it."

A thought made him stop rocking. Slowly, so as not to disturb her as she slept, he dug under the collar of his coat and shirt, tucking a gloved finger between the chain and his neck. With skin-numbing slowness he worked it from around his neck and over his head. In the fading light he caught the glint of gold. He no longer needed this reminder; he was holding all he'd need to remember now.

His lap and chest were one mass of gray-blanketed child. A few strands of red yarn peeked out, the doll lovingly clutched against her left side under the blanket. With soundless effort he transferred the chain from his left hand to the right, then replaced his left arm around her shoulders. Gently the blanket pulled back away from her right hand; it lay limp against her tired body. Jake glanced one more time at the ring.

"If I make it home," he whispered again, "I know she'll forgive me." Carefully he coiled the chain and ring into her right palm, tenderly closing her fingers around it, and replaced the blanket again.

"Merry Christmas, Rose."

In the Name of Love

I wrestled with the decision of whether or not to include a non-fiction piece in a book of short stories, yet after much deliberation it seems absolutely fitting.

Having read this far, you have glimpsed not only a look inside my being, but inside each of us. I dare say there are few among us who don't feel the piercing sting and silken embrace of Love throughout our daily lives. Look up the word Love in the dictionary and you'll find phrases indicating ideas about strength of affection, deep admiration, or even devotion.

Each of the fictional stories has, at its root, a basis in these concepts, gently folded into any number of other emotions and sentiments. Its form may shift, but its nucleus always remains intact.

And so it is with this piece.

This was written during one of my trips to Washington, D.C. I had walked quite a distance in one day and came to settle upon the steps leading to the Capitol Building. Evening was at hand, so I settled in and let it wrap itself around me.

As dusk silently draped itself about the Mall, an obvious yet profound truth struck me: Love truly isn't just for people.

***

The well never truly empties, for if it does, then so does the soul. My feet ache, and middle-aged limbs begin their dire insistence for respite. Aged and ever-wizening eyes become the conduit for introspective appreciation: a solitary presence blessed by Providence to fill to the brim, once again, a chalice of self-evident truths.

It's late afternoon in front of Capitol Hill and a light breeze languishes across the grounds, overturning oak leaves, their colors cast in shades of faded mint and ember gold. The lawn is strewn with them. The area teems with people of many nations, different origins, languages, and belief systems. They're here as more than tourists. They descend upon the District to breathe the air of a system which, thus far, has exceeded the expectations of some, chagrined others, and been forgotten or taken for granted by the majority. Each person here is a willing participant in the passion and vision which history has bequeathed us.

God Himself crossed the paths of our forefathers. It seems unquestionable, beyond the scope of any plausible deniability—men of fortitude, vision, heart, and even pugnacious audacity, brought together not so much as conspirators of absolute rule or domination, but as the progenitors of the just, the parental accord for the children of freedom.

I have walked much for one day, yet every footfall a labor of love. I do it not from obligation, rather need—an almost insatiable desire to imprint the essence of America upon my deepest conscience. The humblest recesses of my heart know well this ardor; it manifests most every time I hear the strains of the Star Spangled Banner. Yet somehow I fear, however needlessly, I don't show it. That in my oft-resolute silence I shall miss the window of opportunity to hand to my son the gifted emotion of Liberty, derived not of loquaciousness, but from heartfelt observation and dutiful attention to sovereign pride.

We the people have within our grasp the perpetual honor of teaching our children things which sterile textbooks can only dream of imparting—what it took, what it _means_ , what it _is_ to be American.

I sit and write, literally under one of the lamp stanchions at the top of the steps leading to the Capitol building. Atop the balcony, just below the rotunda, a flag waves in the breeze—a flag borne of a people craving to make their own destiny, to "start the world anew." In mid pen stroke I'm approached.

"Excuse me, do you know where the Lincoln Memorial is?" I grin at the stranger, stifling the urge to point at my heart.

"Well, come over here and I'll show you." I leave my belongings at the base of the stanchion, stepping to the left until we can see down the center of the National Mall where the Washington Monument punctuates the halfway point.

"See the Washington Monument?" I say, like an idiot.

"Yes."

"Walk straight down the mall, past the monument, and you'll run right into it." He thanks me and disappears. On a clear day you can see the Lincoln Monument from the Capitol steps...but not today. A veil of dirty cotton haze obscures it. But he'll find it—She calls to anyone within proximity, beckoning everyone to be inspired.

As I return to my makeshift desk, I look up to see a group of three people, two women and one man, sitting upon the first tier of six steps leading to the Capitol building proper. One of the women fouls my personal sanctity of this place with a lit cigarette. A few moments later a family of four, perhaps Hindus, descends the same steps. Yet another group of British tourists meanders across the path in front of the Senate wing. Slight irony there, I'd say.

It has been a beautiful day to be an American in D.C. The large walls that once surrounded the Washington Monument are gone now. The fountains play in the World War II Veterans Memorial, and the Reflecting Pool once again undulates with water. And still, yet another unexpected surprise: I am able to walk around the south side of the White House, something I'd been unable to do until now.

I've made my way from Fifth Street and H in Chinatown all the way around the Tidal Basin to see the Jefferson Memorial, then continued around the back, through the FDR Memorial and to perhaps my favorite of the monuments, the Lincoln Memorial. Finally, I've traipsed back up the mall to sit, write, and wait.

For what?

For the sun to set and to watch the Capitol building light up. A cadre of men once did the same, watching the sun set on an oppressive British Empire and a new, promising light dawn upon an infant nation based in freedom and liberty...as it of right ought to be.

In 1852, in a speech before the Massachusetts Antislavery Society, abolitionist Wendell Phillips said, "Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty." I shall do my best to remain vigilant for my son, and quietly try to teach him the same.

Chayce, look...see the sun, how it sets. And see the lights push back the dark on the Capitol.

You too must do whatever it takes to keep those lights on, son.

About the Author

J.W. Nicklaus resides in a place not entirely fit for human habitation about five months of the year. No pets to speak of, only the apparitions from which all romantics suffer.

An Arizona native, he's been from one coast to the other, and a few places in between. Snow has been featured prominently in his stories, perhaps because of the seasonless climate he lives in. Nature was meant to be enjoyed and experienced, not hidden from the senses. So to that end, he hopes someday to live amongst those who are able to live through four true seasons, and not just _blast furnace_ and _warm_.

He enjoys the occasional Arizona Diamondbacks game with his son, as well as watching him grow up. The experience of being a single dad has taught him far more about himself than he ever thought possible.

Within the expanse of every waking moment, he hopes his guardian angel keeps its arms open wide and heart ever watchful, for there but for one true Hope goes She.

J.W. Nicklaus may be contacted at jwnicklaus@avomnia.com.

