 
### Great, Once

1.

I close my eyes and I still see them. The sun was baking our skin, but we didn't care. I spun my youngest daughter, Georgina, around and around and around. She held my hands tightly and I spun on the balls of my feet. She floated in the air.

The whole backyard was a blur. I could only make out the green blurs of the palo verde tree and a solid crap brown stain of the wall. Th mud-colored gravel under my feet crunched with each twist of my body.

My shirt was soaked. It stuck to my back but so what. This was where I belonged. With my daughters. With Georgina. Just her and I and Gwen. And laughter. We used to laugh all the time.

All of us, the whole family.

My ex-wife too.

I could hear Gwen behind me, giggling nervously. She was just trying to keep herself under control. She wasn't one to laugh out loud. Had to keep control at all times, or she'd come undone. But Georgina's laugh is infectious so Gwen couldn't keep it all in.

I love her.

I love Georgina.

I loved that house. And what you will read here is the results of my fuck up. And then how I tried to fix it.

I had to stop spinning Georgina at one point. I was dizzy and started to feel dehydrated. It was 105 and the middle of July. Why did she have to leave me in the middle of July? Mary couldn't move them out in November. When the weather was better. No, she waited until the middle of the goddamn summer.

Georgina stumbled around catching her breath. Gwen went up to her and tied her ponytail. Gwen is motherly. I sighed because I knew in my heart Georgina would be fine.

"Let's go!" my ex-wife yelled from the front yard.

Mary wasn't going to be patient that day.

As Gwen and Georgina passed me, I put my hand on Gwen's shoulder. I leaned over and whispered my love to her. She kissed my cheek and I followed them out the side gate to the front yard.

I could hear Mary get into the Ford Edge and slam the door. Gwen took Georgina's hand and my little one skipped across the front yard. She was still caught up in the twirling and the fun and the laughter.

Damn, my heart hurt. They were leaving and I couldn't stop it. I tried. Earlier. But the girls needed to be with their mother and their mother didn't want to be with me no more so they were leaving this house I bought for all of us.

I stopped at the edge of the driveway and jammed my hands in my pockets. My stupid-ass nosy neighbor jogged past and smiled and waved. I nodded. I hated that woman. Who the hell jogs in 105 degree weather? She just wanted to see what this was all about.

We stuck out anyway. The only black family on the block. Well, mostly black. Mary is white and Gwen and Georgina were products of us both. Now we were the first family on the block to be splitting up and so everyone had to get a good look at the process. I looked across the street and saw my neighbor Harry's wife looking out the window of her daughter's bedroom. She saw that I caught her and went back to making the bed she had already made that morning.

The sky was clear as glass. Not a cloud anywhere in sight. I looked down the street and the tan homes and brown roofs and gravel yards with cactus suddenly made me sick. Why did I live here?

The schools. That is why we picked that house, that street, that development. And it was good for a while. But then it wasn't. And the girls would have to get permits to remain in the schools.

I wiped the sweat off my forehead and felt my throat tighten up. The pit in my stomach was a solid mass and my back felt like someone had jammed a thousand knives into it. It was like the sun was cooking my brains along with the pavement.

I heard Mary swear and she threw open the door to the white Edge I bought her for Christmas. It was a solid present and I thought it could start repairing the damage I had done.

But it was no use. She gladly took the keys and drove it and used it to stay away from the house and me.

The back of the vehicle was jammed with the girl's luggage and belongings and toys. On the other side of the Edge was my conversion van. A big, grey piece of crap that I would never get rid of — I loved it. I had put in couches in the back and converted the inside to a living room with a TV on one wall. My girls loved it.

Mary attempted to set it on fire a week ago. The night she found out. The night she announced she was leaving.

Mary nearly ran into me as she stormed toward the house. She was as white as snow, her hair was cut short, her medium build made her look like a bull-dog when she was mad. She rushed into the house through the front door.

Gwen and Georgina erupted out of the car and ran to me. I swallowed them up in my arms. Gwen was so tall. She was sixteen then, and her skin was a shade paler than mine. Her ponytail was tight and her eyes were blood shot. I could feel her heart pound in her chest. My neck was wet with her tears. And she wouldn't let go of me.

Georgina was twelve and as dark as me. She was short for her age and those chubby cheeks still make me smile when I remember them. She was wrapped around my leg and wouldn't let go.

I could hear Mary huffing and puffing as she rushed past me with a leather jacket in hand. My leather jacket. One that she gave me two Christmas' ago. One that I never wore. Damn thing still had the tag on it. I don't know what she thought she was going to do with it. Guess a second hand store would take it. Beautiful thing. Smooth black leather. Shinny silver button, silver zipper, silver thread. Nice. I never wore it 'cause it's fucking Phoenix and never gets lower than 50 degrees.

"Gwen, get in the car!" Mary yelled.

I kissed Gwen's head and held her at arm's length.

"I said let's go!" Mary yelled again.

"No! Please mama! Please!" Georgina screamed. The weight of everything had finally hit her.

I looked down at my girls and faked a smile the best I could. They wouldn't go on their own so I walked them towards the car. They weren't moving fast enough, so Mary lunged over and yanked them away from me. She nearly shoved Georgina into the car.

Gwen glanced back at me as she climbed into the SUV's front passenger seat. Her tank top was damp from tears and sweat. Her mascara streaked her face and her nose was red. Her eyes were pleaded with me to change things.

I hid my anger and winked at them.

Gwen mouthed, "I love you" as she shut the door.

I whispered "I know".

Georgina pitched the fit of all fits and shouted, "I want to stay with daddy!"

Mary was saying something but, I couldn't hear it. I cleared my face of tears as she started up the car.

Earlier that morning I had told her she didn't have to do this now. She could wait. But she had responded that it was never a convenient time to start over and she was right. The next week, the next month, it wouldn't have mattered. It would have sucked and my heart still would have died.

Something came over me and I yelled out, "I will fight to get you back!"

Georgina pressed her face to the window and I could hear muffled voice yelling, "Daddy!"

Mary was quite pissed and shouted at her.

I yelled, "I love you!"

The last thing I saw as they pulled out of my driveway for the last time was Georgina weeping, her hands clawing at the window.

I found myself standing at the end of the driveway watching that white vehicle disappear in the tan colored houses and round the corner and vanish from sight.

When I got to the door leading in from the garage I leaned over and lifted up a small, toy plastic rabbit. I turned it over and burst into tears when I saw the word "Georgina" written in permanent marker on the bottom. I put that rabbit in my pocket.

2.

I could hear the damn water dripping from our - my - master bathroom faucet. Piece of crap. I've fixed it a thousand damn times and it still drips. Drip. Drip. Drip. Like a Chinese torture chamber. Drip. Drip. Drip.

I stood in the middle of that empty living room, the 52 inch flat screen blaring some Cartoon Network show. It was muted. I couldn't hear it. I grabbed the remote and sat down on my large leather couch. Chocolate brown leather. I ran my hand over it and shut my eyes. I could see Georgina sitting next to me, watching the show.

What was the show?

The clock in the kitchen ticked away. My neighbor's dog barked. I wanted to choke that stupid dog. Why did it have to bark all the time? Why? Train your dog.

I remembered I had Georgina's rabbit in my pocket. I got up and went to her room. I stood in the door way and surveyed the clean and tidy space. I could hear a radio playing, muffled and guessed it was coming from Gwen's room. I went to Georgina's closet and slid the door open. I refused to look at myself in the mirror. My reflection would have repulsed me. I let my family go. I let her take them. What kind of man was I?

Laying near the closet door was a Strawberry Shortcake doll. I picked it up and set it on the little chair at the base of the two-story, Victorian style dollhouse I had built for her two years ago. It had a pink roof and plastic plants and a little red convertible. The front door was open and I set the rabbit down, half in, half out of the house.

Gwen's clock radio, on her pink night stand, played a current hit from the top 40 radio station. She hadn't been here to turn it off. I sat on her neatly made bed and stared at the room, pink paint, covered by posters of boy bands and the Twilight movies. I chuckled to myself and then caught sight of something. My musical amp and part of my bass guitar were poking out of the partially opened closet door. You could see the "ed Francis" on the body of the bass. I wasn't surprised she had it. I was surprised that she had snuck it out of my closet without me knowing it.

I rose and thought about picking it up. Instead, I just shut the door and left.

My bedroom was total chaos. Mary had ransacked it. Drawers lay on the ground. My clothes were scattered all over. Out of habit, I scooped up my underwear and undershirt, put them into a pile in the corner, next to the bed. A pair of my underwear fell at my feet. I held it up and noticed that she had cut ten holes in them. Nice. Mary wanted me to know how she felt. As if taking my daughters wasn't enough.

I went into the bathroom and turned the handle on the faucet as far as I could. The drip, drip, dripping stopped for a moment. I lifted up the orange bottle sitting on the counter and shook it. Nothing. I could see there was nothing in it. My script was empty. But I shook it anyway. The plastic clattered on the tile floor when I missed the wastebasket.

At the sink, I caught sight of my eyes and decided to put drops in to get rid of some of the bloodshot. I noticed that she had taken her hand towel and left mine with REED stitched on it. I placed it back on the towel rack. The empty spot next to mine shouted at me. SHE'S GONE!

The silence in the room hurt. The sorrow slugged me in the gut. I couldn't breath.

I ran out and stripped off my shirt and threw it into the living room. I nearly tore the garage door off the hinges as I went out. I flipped on the light and stepped out. Except for the washer and dryer, the garage resembled a second living room. I had decorated it that way. In the center of the garage was my large leather sectional. It faced a wall covered in martial arts weapons: swords, nunchakus and whatever else you can image from that Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie. I had it. The wall behind the sectional held my gold record albums — but that isn't the story I am telling — not yet, at least. The garage door was open and a hot breeze blew in for a moment. I could still see the heat waves flowing up off the black top.

The heavy bag hung near the front of the garage. And I kicked it with a simple round house. I'm a ten-degree black belt. I know what I am doing. I went though my whole routine and only forgot to warm up. Man. I wish I had warmed up. I was skillful. I was precise. And I beat the crap out of the that bag.

I then took my swords down off the wall and executed a well regimented routine. I was in the flow. The sweat was pouring down my head. Down my back.

I grabbed the the nunchakus. Fluid, man, fluid. I was like water over rocks.

But then I saw the vinyl sign in the corner of the garage. It reads PHOENIX ACADEMY OF KARATE. It was cockeyed, and weather beaten, and it pissed me off. The nunchakus slammed against it. Completely overcome with rage and grief, fury poured out in spin kicks and jump kicks and then SNAP!

I crashed to the floor and writhed in pain.

I don't remember getting up. I just remember being in the kitchen, with the phone pressed to my ear. And orange pill bottles, empty and discarded all around me on the floor, on the counter, leading a trail to my bedroom. I had searched every nook and cranny of the house and found nothing. My medicine was gone.

A brown box lay at my feet. Somehow I had pulled it down from the small cabinet high above the fridge. It was empty and it was never empty of my stuff.

I fingered the wore sheet of paper and waited for the goddamn nurse to come on the phone. Rule number one: never be hurt. Rule number two: never get in a position when you need a doctor quickly — they will never fucking be there.

"Dr. Watts office," a nurse said.

"I know who I am calling. Hi. Reed Francis. I need to talk to Dr. Watts."

"Are you a patient?" the nurse asked.

"My name's Reed Francis."

"Mr. Francis. Francis. Reed. Yes. Ok. Found you. He can see you tomorrow at 11 AM."

"I need to see him now. Right now. Can he see me today?" The room spun around me.

"I don't know. Let me see. Oh, yes, he can see you tomorrow."

Shit. "I was in..."

I tried to read my slip of paper but I couldn't make it out. My vision was blurry, so I guessed.

"...three months ago. For my back. It's for my back. Can he see me today or not?"

"He might be able to squeeze you in. Let me ask. Oh, wait, like I said, he can see you tomorrow." She was condescending to the nth degree.

Reed writes on the slip of paper. Folds it up. Puts it back in his wallet.

"Tomorrow?"

She didn't respond this time.

"You know what, all I need is for him to call in a refill on my script. Can he do that? Is he too busy to do that? To make a call?" I asked.

"Hold."

Here's another rule for you: never, ever let old white men pick their hold music. It sucks. And it makes one very angry.

She finally came back to the phone.

"Mr. Reed, Dr. Watts will phone in a refill, to the Walgreens on file, correct?"

"Yes," I said.

"Will you still be coming in tomorrow? The doctor wants to re-evaluate your con —"

"Yes, I'll be there. Thanks." I hung up, cutting her off.

Oxycodone is the wonder drug of this era. And Jazz music is the elixir of the soul. My much too expensive speakers, sitting on opposite sides of a leather couch, oozed Jazz music that night. I slowly lowered himself onto the sectionals cushion and popped the top of a beer can. Kids rode past my house. And the elderly couple waved as they passed by. I have met them a thousand times, but still can't remember their names. I waved and forced a smile.

A silver-grey I-roc rolled up and stopped in front of the house. It was dented, rusted and loud. It's proud owner was my Gwen's boyfriend, Evan, a tall, lanky, red headed seventeen year old. He climbed out of the car and was the complete opposite of the piece of junk he loved so dearly: clean, well dressed, and nerdy. His glasses sat precariously on the end of his nose.

"Mr. Francis," Evan said.

I shook the cobwebs from my head and slid the orange bottle into my pocket.

"Evan, son, I told you to get a car that fits you."

"I know, Mr. Francis. I just like this car. It's a classic."

"A classic heap of crap."

Evan pushed his glasses up his nose. "Yes, sir."

"Gwen isn't here."

Evan shrugged. "Yeah."

"She told you."

"Yes, sir."

"She sent you over to cheer me up."

"Mr. Francis..."

"Reed, boy, Reed. My name's Reed."

"Mr. Francis, she's in a delicate state right now. She was very emotional and —"

I slapped the couch. "Sit down. Take a seat."

Evan sat awkwardly on the end of a cushion. I struggled to get up and retrieve two more cans of Miller Lite. I handed one of the ice cold beverages to Evan. I popped the top and he nearly spilled it on himself.

"Careful now," I said.

He held the can like it was nuclear waste. "Mr. Francis, I'm driving."

"It's just one beer." I chugged half of mine while he starred at me.

"I'm not supposed to drink."

I belched. "Drink or I kick your scrawny white butt and bash in the windows of your shitty car."

Evan eyed the can, took a deep breath and took a sip. He coughed and spit and I laughed at him. He rested the beer on his lap. I used my big left hand to gently push Evan back against the couch.

"Relax."

Evan complied and we sat in silence.

"So. What's the message?"

"She misses you. Something bad is happening. She's not sure what."

"Things can't get much worse."

"She says that it's...escalated."

"Son, seriously."

Evan shrugged. He only knew what she had told him. I was being unfair. But I was angry and he was there and he was going to bear the brunt of it. He said, "She just wanted me to warn you. She hopes that you can stop it."

"This isn't a crime drama, Evan. Mary left me."

Evan sipped his beer. And I finished mine. I tossed the can across the garage into a large, green trash can.

"They're at her grandma's house."

Mary wouldn't tell me where they were going, but I figured as much. "Thank you."

"Gwen said you'd want to know."

"I appreciate it."

It took that skinny white boy far too long to finish off the beer. He rose and dropped the empty aluminum into the trash.

"Gotta go?"

"Yes, Mr. Francis. Gwen and I have a date tonight."

"Dammit, son, call me Reed."

He ignored me. "I'm taking her to Chili's."

"Chili's?" I was ashamed.

"Yes." It was all he could afford, and I made him feel ashamed.

"No you ain't." I tried to stand but I was stuck. "Give an old man a hand."

Evan pulled me up and I hobbled to the cabinet near the back door. I pulled out a wad of cash from the drawer under the tool counter. My very secret, desperate as hell cash stash. I peeled off three one hundred dollar bills and slapped them into Evan's hand.

"Take her to Ruth's Chris. Or Roy's."

"Mr. Francis..."

"Shit, I ain't talking to you anymore. Go."

"You sure?"

"I will beat your ass. Go."

Evan folded the money. Pocketed it. Walked to the I-roc.

"Make her laugh," I said.

Evan smiled and climbed in. His car rumbled when it started up and it rumbled as he drove away. I wasn't sure it would stay in one piece or not. I chuckled and sank into the couch.

3.

Evelyn Haun. What a woman. She called me two weeks after my wife left. She was sitting in her office in Los Angeles with her boss, Todd. He had challenged her skills and doubted she had found me. But she had found me.

I was sitting in the living room, half conscious, some stupid house hunting show on the tube. I was eating a bowl of oatmeal, resting in my exercise shorts. The phone rang. I answered it.

"Hello," I said.

"May I speak with Reed Francis?" she asked. Her voice was clear. Her voice was confident. Her voice was sexy.

"You may," I said, never turning down a sexy voice.

"Mr. Francis? My name is Evelyn Haun, how are you today?" she asked.

She was baiting me. I could feel something coming—a sales pitch, something.

"I don't need anymore ginsue knives, Miss Haun," I said.

She played along. I was surprised. "Who does?" She laughed after she said that. A smooth, silky laugh. Nice. "Are you familiar with Ivy Records?" She followed up.

I was going to have fun. Nothing serious. "No hibachi grills for sale?"

"Mr. Francis, I'd like to discuss a new project here at Ivy—"

I cut her off. "So you're not selling needless kitchen equipment?"

She paused. I had stumped her — a little. "No."

I sighed. Her tone had changed. Probably Todd's fault. Prick. She wasn't going to play for very long. "Miss, I don't know how you got my number, but throw it away. Better yet, burn it."

"Mr. Francis. May I call you Reed?" She wasn't going to back down.

"I'm no longer in the music world. And if you are really in the biz, you'd know that." I was tired and didn't want to talk to her anymore.

"I am well aware you are no longer—"

"Erin?" I asked. "What's your name?"

"Evelyn. Evelyn Haun."

"I have no desire to be in that monkey-grinder anymore. You all are a bunch of leaches." I nearly hung up when she softened her tone.

"Reed," she said.

"Mr. Francis."

"I am putting together a tribute band of the living jazz legends—" she began.

"You're barking up the wrong tree. I don't play anymore and I never will. Have a nice life." My thumb was on the answer/end button. I to this day don't know why I didn't hit end.

"Reed, please, wait for a minute." She was desperate and I could hear it.

"Whoever told you to call me was a dumbass."

"Reed."

"Good luck."

"Reed."

"Goodbye."

"Reed."

Don't call me again."

"You're a important part of jazz history, Reed."

The way she kept saying my name— Reeeed—I don't know. It struck me wrong. She was trying too hard. Trying to be strong and commanding and womanly and sexy. Shit. I didn't have the time. Or I had too much time, but I didn't want to spend it on her.

"And I will stay just that, history. Good bye. Get rid of my number. Good bye." And then I hung up.

She had been hunting me for a long time. I was not an easy find. Evelyn was medium height, brown hair, rail thin. She is a fireball of a woman: a passionate, gutsy, go-getter.

Her office sat in the far northern corner of the Ivy Records building. Her door was wide open and was always wide open. She had stood there, amidst her walls of platinum records and photos of her standing with musicians —a few of them held their instruments in the photos (saxophone, trumpet, upright bass, etc.) and few of them were grabbing her ass out of frame.

The view of the Hollywood alternated with the view of the office as she rotated around and around in her swivel chair. Todd Evans, her boss, the CEO of Ivy, was a jovial man. Until he died a few months ago. But that's not for this story. That day, he took a seat across from her and told her she had to book me or the project—the greatest living jazz legends—was a dead dog.

"The Vanishing Man tops your list," Todd said, looking at a spreadsheet of her top musicians.

"Reed Francis."

"The guy's dead," he didn't believe that, but said it anyway.

"He wants us to believe that."

"He's a ghost. Impossible to find."

"I found him."

"Liar."

She snatched the paper from his hand. "You doubt my mad skills?"

"Blatantly. Prove it."

"Todd, Todd, you have learned nothing over the last decade." She took her seat and pulled her phone close to her.

"You get him, this will go a whole lot smoother." His tone carried an air of trepidation.

"Uh oh."

"Corporate is—how did they say it?—dissatisfied with our bottom line. They're holding out on funding this new foray."

"Come on. A tribute concert, tour, album? Look at Police's success."

He snagged a hand full of M&M's from the candy dish on her desk. "The key word is the 'Police'."

"And this is the cream of the crop. The living jazz greats."

He shrugged at her as he chomped on the candy. "Produce the Invisible Man..."

So she called me and our conversation ended with me hanging up. She was pissed. She slammed the receive down. Todd stood and walked to the door.

"Good try," he said.

"The fat lady has yet to sing."

"Heads up. We're a niche label. The whole industry is taking it in the shorts."

"We're a big fish in a small pond."

Todd shook his head. "A niche is a niche is a niche."

"I've worked for months getting venues set up, things in place. Go to bat for me."

Todd stood . "Get Reed Francis."

"Come on Todd."

He stepped out the door. "Get him or no deal. I'm updating my resume. Do the same. Good luck."

I sat in the empty waiting room. The TV blared CNN. It was too loud for the size of the office. I flipped absentmindedly through a People magazine. I checked my watch and my little slip of paper. I needed to remember who I was seeing..

I grew too impatient and went up to the counter. I leaned over. The Office Attendant stood in the hallway, talking with Dr. Patterson. She pointed toward the desk. Toward me. I waved. And I could see his shoulder's slump. He motioned for me to come back.

His office was tight and crammed with papers and books. I sat in a leather chair in front of Dr. Patterson's desk. A clock ticked in the background, on a shelf with medical books, anatomy simples and whatever else filed his shelves.

I rubbed the palm of my hands.

He spoke to me as he opened the door. "Reed."

"Dr. Patterson."

Dr. Patterson sat his fat butt on the end of his desk and laid a file down behind him.

"How are you?" I asked. The clock ticked louder as he merely sighed. He folded his hands. "I'm not sleeping well, myself," I continued.

I switched positions in the chair — my butt cheek had fallen asleep.

Finally he spoke. "How can I help you?"

Why dance around things? "I need another script. Oxy."

Beads of sweat grew on his head. The ticking from the clock was almost deafening. Was he pissed? Hot? Why was he sweating?

He never blinked. "You blew through a 30 day supply in 15 days."

"They must've miscounted."

"Not likely."

I shrugged. "It was an accident."

He looked at his hands. "Really?"

"I could barely stand this morning."

Dr. Patterson didn't respond. His eyes searched my face. I have no idea what he was looking for, but he didn't find it.

"Please help me."

"Mr. Francis..."

"Just give me a goddamn refill! I've got a ruptured disc in my back. Help me, dammit!"

He kept his cool. "I'll be frank. My admin says that you've called, well, often, in the last few weeks, trying to set up appointments with doctors that neither she nor I know."

"It wasn't me," I stammered.

"You gave her your name. Every time. On top of that, out of concern for you and your welfare, I called your wife. She faxed me copies of multiple prescriptions from multiple doctors."

"My wife? Who left me? Took my kids?" I asked, throwing my arms around.

He stayed calm. "I'm not the smartest man alive. But I've been around the block. I know when I see a problem. And you are a problem."

I got up as quickly as I could. I wouldn't hear any more of his crap. I hobbled out and slammed the door behind me.

Kids crowded the loading zone and teachers patrolled the lane, opening car doors, letting kids in, making sure deadbeats wouldn't steal one of the precious kids.

I waited on the sidewalk across from the school. Cars moved slowly past me, forming a line.

Georgina took her time getting through the play yard. She was talking and laughing and enjoying herself. I waved so she could see me. Her smile grew even brighter.

I crossed the street to get her. Georgina ran to me, beaming with joy.

"Oh, my big girl. You've grown," I said.

"It's only been a week, dad," she squealed.

"It's been a lifetime."

"I miss you."

"How was school?"

She beamed. "Good. We're talking about the Civil War in history."

"Good."

Gwen walked over, her mother's SUV across the street from us, and stood next to me. She stared straight ahead. Her back was rigid and her arms were pressed to her side. She looked like a statue.

"Why, now my day is perfect!" I hugged her, but she wouldn't return the affection. "Gwen?"

She took Georgina's Dora the Explorer backpack.

"Don't make a scene, ok? Mom's taking us home."

"We're supposed to have dinner tonight. The three of us."

Gwen looked at the ground. "I know."

"What happened?"

Gwen wouldn't make eye contact with me.

"Gwen?"

Gwen spoke calmly, but I could see she wanted to cry. "Dr. Patterson called mom yesterday. Asked her about your medications and stuff."

"Darling, I've never lied to you."

Gwen took Georgina by the hand.

"I've got problems. But I'm working on them."

"This isn't going to end well."

"We'll be fine," I said weakly.

"No. We won't."

Gwen and Georgina crossed the street.

"I'm working things out! Trust me."

Gwen didn't look back. My girls climb into the SUV and Mary pulled away.

I yelled at them anyway, "I'm working things out!"

4.

There is something wonderful about a street filled with the sound of music. I love all the variety that exists. Rock, rap, pop, salsa — it's all good for the soul. Because of the feelings that overcome me when music is played, I subject myself on weekly basis to the crowds of the "downtown" section of my city.

I walked the street and music thumped my chest. I walked amongst the students, the middle aged men just trying to look not middle aged, the women wearing too little clothing and I soak in the melodies and rhythms. I stopped in front of a rock bar, the electric guitar wailed and slammed into me. I shut my eyes and could feel the song entering my blood stream, causing the hair to stand up on my arms. The raw power is the only thing that I think jazz misses.

Other than that, my music, my "jam" as they say now, is found around the corner from the crush of bodies.

I rounded the corner and found a mostly darkened street, not five hundred feet from the hum and glare of the main strip. I stop in front of a nondescript building with the word "Henry's" painted above a wooden door that has seen better days. The lettering had been hastily painted on the stucco. But who gives shit when the music is just so wonderful.

As I stepped inside, a three piece jazz band —bass, drum, and a trumpet, in the corner of the room—welcomed me. They played to a packed house.

I saw my seat at the bar is open and I amble up — the oxy was wearing off and my right leg was beginning to go numb. With no word, Frank the Bartender set a whiskey down in front of him. I nodded to him and held the glass up for a moment then, I slammed the drink. The liquid fire rushed down my throat, into my mostly empty belly and into the fibers of my body.

With my back to the band, I allowed the music to wrap me up and hold me tight. My pain disappeared. The issues at home didn't exist at the moment. All I could see was the notes in my head. My fingers strummed the bar top and I performed my own version of the song. I could feel all the anxiety in my body flow out and I held my finger for another whiskey.

Then she spoke. I didn't even have to look and I knew her voice. She had taken the vacant seat next to me and as she sat said, "One for me as well."

Frank poured my shot and then Evelyn's. I didn't look her way. I didn't want to know what she looked like. That voice was spellbinding and I didn't want to ruin it with the real life person behind it.

Evelyn downed the shot and slammed the glass down.

"Who are these guys?" she asked.

I sipped my whiskey and kept my mouth shut. I didn't feel like talking and just wanted to hear her voice a little longer before I told her off.

She leaned over and I caught the first smell of her $300 perfume. Light, breezy and perfectly applied—not too much, not too little. "Who are these guys?" she asked.

The band hit a fever pitch. The song was crescendoing. And her voice filled my ears. I waited one more moment, finished my whiskey and turned to her.

"They ain't nobody," I said. I was more than pleasantly surprised by her appearance. Her looks matched her voice.

"Everybody's somebody," she said. Her make-up had been applied with as much grace as her perfume. Her lipstick was red and glossy and I couldn't stop looking right at her lips.

"I mean they ain't a band," I responded.

She held out her hand. "I'm Evelyn."

I held her hand and shook it. Silky smooth skin and perfectly done nails. She was making it hard for me to dislike her. She watched me, waiting for something.

"I didn't catch your name." She motioned for two more whiskey's.

"Harry."

"Harry?"

"Harry Houdini."

She laughed and toasted me. "Well, Mr. Houdini, here's to you."

She slammed it back. Turned and faced the band. I attempted to avoid watching her, but I couldn't help but watch her move to the music. Very subtle. Almost subconscious.

At one point, the trumpeter broke off into a solo. The room was lost in the sound; Evelyn most of all. I knew right away she was a musician, but this proved it to me.

"I grew up playing the saxophone." Was she in my mind? How did she know I was thinking she was a musician?

"Sure you did," I said.

"Tenor sax."

I laughed at my joke before I even said it. "Where? Guitar Center?"

She ignored me. "Elementary school, junior high, high school and finally a scholarship to USC. I know my jazz. You doubt me? Charlie Parker, Sidney Bichet, and John Coltrane."

She left the door ajar, so I went through it. "So you read a jazz history book."

"All right. Frankie Trumbauer, Zoot Sims, Sonny Stitt, and my favorite, Pepper Adams."

Frank the Bartender laughed. He tossed his towel over his shoulder and mouthed, "Wow."

"Shut up." I tossed a peanut shell at Frank.

I turned to her.

"You went deep. You went deep. Well, then, tell me why these guys sound so good together?"

"'There are some people that if they don't know, you can't tell them.'" She took another sip. "Louis Armstrong."

"Yeah, I know the quote." Ouch. In that moment, she proved was not a suit — but a true jazz lover. Damn.

"So do you tell every single, white lady that you're Harry Houdini? "

"Nope. First time. Rolled with it." My back pain returned with a vengeance. Time to go home. I slapped a twenty dollar bill on the counter.

Evelyn picked it up and handed it back to me. "I got you tonight."

I squinted at her. "Nah."

"Seriously. It's not everyday I get to meet Harry Houdini." She touched my hand a charge surged through me. I nearly fell off my stool. I collected myself and rose slowly. I took the twenty and saluted her.

The next morning, I found myself sitting down at a long conference table in an enormous law office conference room. I was surrounded by floor to ceiling bookshelves loaded with law books. Behind me was a large window looking out on a very extensive Japanese garden. An oval shaped concrete pond held five of the largest gold fish I'd ever seen.

A young African-American girl came into the room.

She asked me, "Would you like some water, Mr. Francis?" Her name tag said Lisa.

"No, thank you." I stared at my hands.

She left the room and a sharply dressed, Africa-American lawyer entered. Mary followed.

"Mr. Francis, my name is Gail Knight." She thumped down the briefcase on the table. She and Mary took their seats across the table from me. Mary fixed her gaze on the wall behind me. Gail arranged her papers with the speed of a card dealer. Checked her watch.

"Mr. Francis, is your lawyer on their way?"

"No."

"No?" Gail repeated as if I had not spoken the words. Her nostrils flared. Her starched white shirt collars were folded perfectly over the lapels of her black blazer.

"I'm representing myself."

"Is that so?" She folded her arms and sat back. She cocked her head to the side.

Mary sniffled. She wiped her eyes. I thought for the moment maybe there was a glimmer of hope for us.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I question the wisdom there."

I sat forward and folded my hands on the table.

"Wisdom plays no part in this. I don't have the money. And I'm sitting here, looking at this beautiful room and office and wondering how the hell Mary can afford you."

Mary rolled her eyes and drew a tissue from her purse. She dabbed her eyes and the blue mascara came off on the cotton.

"Now, Mr. Francis, let's not get irrational and angry." Gail sat forward and folded her hands. She was matching my body language.

"I'm not angry." I lowered my voice.

Gail eyed me. I could see her mind spinning. She slowly sat back and unfolded her hands. She relaxed and smiled for a moment. She smelled blood.

"You do realize why we are here and why you probably need to have a lawyer on your side?"

I motioned at Mary. "My wife is divorcing me."

"And...?" Gail rowed her hands as to if she could draw more words out of me.

I starred at her.

"Mr. Francis..."

I looked at her. I looked at Mary. It never dawned on me what was coming. "Spit it out, Miss. I ain't got all day for guessing games."

"Knight. Mrs. Knight."

"Mrs. Knight."

Gail sat forward again. Her palms were flat on the table now. She was ready to spring over the table and tackle me. I imagined her devouring my face. The oxy was working overtime.

"Mr. Francis, we are here to discuss your wife's appeal for full custody of the children."

That cleared my mind quickly. "What?!"

"Full custody. You do understand that, Mr. Francis?" She squinted at me this time.

I could find no words at the moment. I turned to my wife. "Mary?"

"Then you also understand without professional help you will lose."

"Mary?"

"I am speaking for Mrs. Francis," Gail declared.

The lawyer was no longer present to me. "I haven't been bad by the girls. I've never harmed them."

Gail pushed her chair back. She was prepared to stand. "You are to address all questions and comments to me."

I turned to Gail. "This ain't kindergarten. We're adults. Mary. Look at me."

"Mr. Francis—"

I had enough. "Shut up!"

She shoved her chair back and stood. "Excuse me!"

Mary put her hand on the table. "It's okay." Mary finally looked at me.

"You're gonna take them from me?" I asked.

"Come on, Reed."

"Were they ever in danger?"

"You don't need an explanation," Mary said.

"I've made mistakes. Mary? Mary?" I begged.

"You're a goddamn drug addict, Reed," Mary was getting really pissed. "You know it. You take pain killers like M&M's."

"My fucking spine is blown out! I can't stop the pain."

"Always an excuse."

I don't know why I did it, but I stood up and moved to her side of the table. Before Gail could intervene, I pulled out a chair and sat down next to her. Mary backed up instantly.

"I've stopped."

"Since when?" She folded her arms across her chest.

"Since you left."

"Bullshit."

"I'm serious." I touched her hand.

"Don't touch me!" Mary jumped up.

"Mr. Francis, back away right now!" Gail shouted.

"Fuck you!" I yelled at Mrs. Knight.

"Reed!"

"You've made my life a living hell!" I looked at Mary.

"I made -- your life -- hell?! I had to leave our house, our life because of you! I live with my mother again! Shit!" She couldn't handle it anymore. She stormed out. I could see that the young girl, Lisa, was standing at the door and had heard the whole thing.

Gail stacked her paper as quickly as she could.

"Mr. Reed, due to your violent behavior, I'm filing a restraining order. I highly advise you get a lawyer. A good one."

5.

Tail spin is putting it lightly. Evelyn showed up to my house on the worst day of my life, up to that point. My phone rang on the counter near the back door. I was reclining on the couch. I saw later that on the caller id it was Gwen who had called. My head was pounding so I plugged my ears to stop the sound from entering my skull.

Evelyn's red Mercedes-Benz rolled down the street, out of place amongst the middle-class neighborhood. I could see her jabbering away on a bluetooth headset blinking in her ear, she drove past my house, leaning over the steering wheel, looking for my house number. She slammed on the brakes when she saw my house number and parked right next to the mailbox.

I let her go to the front door and knock. I was hoping she wouldn't think to look in the garage, even though the door was open. I had forgotten about the Fedex boxes and prescription bottles laying on the floor next to my couch.

But she did think of looking in the garage. She stopped when she saw my clothes hanging all over everything. She took in my appearance and the myriad of orange bottles and balked for a moment. But her job meant more to her than my issues, so she stepped over the clothes and weapons and bottles.

"Hello?" she said.

I covered my eyes. "Go the hell away."

She was used to dealing with attitudes. Musicians. "How are you today?"

"Do not come in here." I waved her away.

She stepped over one of my punching bags. "Mr. Francis? Evelyn Haun."

"Get the hell out of here."

She held out her hand. "Nice to meet you again."

"Shit."

"Mr. Houdini."

She scanned the room. "Nice place you have here. Wonderful odor of pity and self-loathing."

"Beauty is in the eye of me."

"Pigs to their slop."

"Watch yourself."

Evelyn walked over to the gold records. "Out of the biz, but haven't forgotten it."

"I told you "no" on the phone."

"That was over the phone."

"And my answer is still no."

Evelyn gathered her beige skirt with her hands and sat on the end of the couch. I could smell that damn perfume again. "You haven't heard my offer," she said.

"I'm tired. I'm sick. Please go the fuck away."

She set her Kate Spade, crocodile green purse with gold trim on the ground near her feet. "You are one of the greatest jazz bassists to have ever played."

"You've quickly become a boil on my ass, you know that," I said with my eyes shut.

Leaning forward, her hands clasped in front of her, "Mr. Francis, I'm putting together a tribute band. Earl Hawkins, Lenny Shuv, Carl Dinkins, and —"

"No." I slapped the couch with my hand.

"-- You."

"No, goddamit."

"Mr. Francis," she said with that air of confidence that boils my blood.

"Stop it. Stop saying my last name. Stop repeating it over and over. It won't work. I am fucking done. Get the hell off my property. Leave the me the hell alone."

Evelyn looked the records over one more time. She stood and walked slowly towards them. She tapped one of them with her long, manicured nails for good measure.

"For what it's worth, your work with Hawkins was masterful."

She walked past the couch, over the punching bag and around the corner. I uncovered my face and peeked out. She was gone so I relaxed for a moment.

Then she poked her head back into the garage.

"There's money involved," she said.

"Shit!"

She stepped into the garage. "I also have access to the best lawyer in the west. He's a big fan and would love to help you."

At this, I turned to her. My eyes must have been wide as saucers and the anger must have registered because she drew back a step. She didn't realize I couldn't stand if I wanted to. "Now why would I need a lawyer?" I asked.

"It's amazing what friends will say after a drink or two."

"Frank."

"I want to help."

"And then I help you."

I rubbed my face and muttered to myself. She could see that she had baited me enough for the day so she backed away.

"Think about it."

She set her business car on the punching bag and left. I heard that Benz start up and she drove away.

I am more convinced than ever that Gwen is a superstar softball player in the making. Most father's are. But this is different. I know what it takes talent wise to be the best in the world at something. And she has that level talent. From the moment I put a glove on her, it was obvious that she was a natural.

I picked my way through cars and students on my way to the high school softball fields. Her high school was one of the few that I had seen that actually put money into the girl's softball program. And it was evident on the playing field that it made a difference to the girls.

Her team was in the middle of practice when I climbed the bleachers. Gwen was warming up on the mound. She was confident, skilled and purposed, and she hadn't noticed me yet. Which was good. I had a tendency to make her very nervous. I sat at the top row, behind home plate.

For twenty five minutes, she blew down her teammates. They couldn't touch her. It was a sight to behold. They she climbed into the batter's box. She sprayed line drives all over the field.

I forgot myself and clapped too loudly. I followed a homer that she hit with a "Yeah!" and she turned around and spotted me.

She immediately grew sullen. Her shoulders slump. She couldn't hit another pitch. Practice ended shortly after that. As her team streamed off the field, Gwen climbed through the bleachers. She stood at the farthest end from me.

"You're not supposed to be with a 100 yards of me."

I motioned for her to come down to me. She didn't move at first. Then, she walked toward me. Her spikes made a clinking noise on the bleachers.

"'You look good out there," I said with a smile.

"Dad..."

I patted the bench. She sat. I put my arm around her shoulders while she crossed her arms. She smelled like dirt and sweat and a girl all at the same time.

"You gonna tell, cause I sure as hell ain't."

I took her glove and slipped it on my hand. It barely fit my large paw.

"I remember the first time we played catch,"

She smiled. "Yeah."

"You've still got that hitch in your swing."

"Don't."

"If you'll relax, drop your hands when you get in your stance—"

"Stop."

"—then you won't drop them as the pitch comes in. Start there—"

She jumped up. "I said stop! Dad. This isn't a game. This is serious. Things are serious."

She ran down the bleachers.

She was angry, crying and crossed the infield. I ran despite the numbness in my legs and the pain in my spine.

"Gwen? Wait. Please."

Gwen stopped abruptly and I nearly ran over her. I held up the glove. She snatched it from my hands and stormed off. Then she stomped back toward me.

"Things are different now. It's not like it used to be. It never will be, dad, never."

"Things are going to work out."

"Bullshit."

"Don't swear at me."

"You told me you quit. You told me 'no more meds'. Now a fucking restraining order?"

"Gwen..."

"Full custody, dad. Full. No rights. All you had to do was stop..."

She walked away.

"It's complicated."

"Not if you loved us."

I followed her. She pushed open the gate in the outfield fence. We walked through it.

She talked to me over her shoulder. "Are you going to fight for us?"

"I don't..."

"Are you getting a lawyer to fight for us? Or are we the next dojo?"

I was holding it together but she was jamming her finger into some very rough, raw and tender areas of my life. "The dojo was taken from me. You don't know what your talking about."

She slammed on the brakes. She turned to me and look me square in the face. The eye black was running down her cheeks from the tears. "And we're been taken from you too."

I looked at the ground. I couldn't meet her eyes.

"That's what I thought."

Gwen jogged away from me.

Mary's SUV was waiting for her. Gwen slung her equipment into the back. She threw the hatch down and climbed into the passenger seat. Tears streamed down her face.

Mary looked at her. "Gwen."

"Drive." Gwen slammed the door.

"Tell me what's going on."

"Please. Just drive." Gwen held her head in her hands.

"No way."

She turned the car off and caught site of me walking through the lot.

Mary hit the steering wheel. "Son of a bitch."

Gwen slumped down in the seat. "I just want to go home. Please. Let's go home. Don't ask me questions. Don't ask how I am. Just drive the car."

"Did he hurt you?"

"Mom."

"If he touched you I will have him arrested." She shook her finger at Gwen.

"Mom."

"He's in deep shit."

"MOM! Drive the car! Now! It's fine."

She reached over and turned the car on.

6.

The sun sliced into the room through the slightly opened front blinds. I paced the front room, looking through the cracks in the blinds at the empty street in front of my house. She was late and the one thing I don't like is being late. Our reservations were for 6:15 and it was 5:34. I checked my watch again and again. 5:35. 5:36. Finally, her red Benz pulled up to the house.

I was at the door and out, with the house locked up behind me; before she even had turned the car off. I hobbled across my yard and opened the door to the car. Evelyn smiled at me as I sat. She was wearing a short black dress with enough of a neckline to leave somethings to the imagination. She flicked her hair as I shut the door.

"Wow."

"Why thank you, Harry," she said as she put the car in drive.

"Funny."

"You don't need to be nervous. This isn't a date. It's business. A business dinner."

We sat at a small table in the center of the room. Maestro's is an elegant steak house in the northern part of town. I hadn't eaten there since the grand opening of my dojo.

I glanced around the room, while Evelyn scanned the wine list. The waiter — a twenty year old hipster with hair plastered in an angle — tapped his pencil. He sighed more than was necessary. I wanted to yank on his black tie.

Finally, Evelyn said, "We'll take the house wine?"

"Of course." The waiter snapped up the menu and walked away.

She shrugged. "I know jazz, not wine."

"It's been a long time..."

"Since...?"

"I don't go out much."

"Ah, yes. The reclusive artist." She sipped her water and crunched on the ice. I cringed a little. I hate that noise.

"No, the not working, gotta watch every penny artist."

"Well, tonight, it's on me."

No way. "I'll pay my way."

"Business dinner. The company will pay. Order the fillet," she said.

"Business."

"Yes. And since I leave in the morning, let's get down to it."

I sat back and folded my arms. "I haven't agreed yet."

She folded her hands on the table in front of her. "Alright then. Issues?"

"I'm -- unsure."

"There's nothing to worry about."

I relaxed a little. "I haven't played in quite a while." I know I blushed.

"How long?"

"Eighteen years."

Evelyn, having taken a sip of water, nearly spit it on me. "Come again?"

"Eighteen years."

"So you walked off that night..."

"That was it."

"And Little Bell?"

I smiled. "She's well preserved."

"Time to get back on that bike." She took a tissue from her purse, patted her nose with it.

"No bike metaphors."

"The band won't rest on your shoulders," she said, assuring me.

I nibbled on a piece of bread. "I've played with all of them." I could feel the butterflies rushing up to my head. Hadn't felt those in years.

"That's why I, we, they need you—they won't play without you."

"There's better bassists out there."

"There's only one Reed Francis."

The waiter placed two wine glasses down. He popped the cork on the wine. Poured a sampling into Evelyn's glass. Evelyn tasted it and nodded. The waiter poured two glasses.

"Are you ready to order?"

I stared across the table at Evelyn.

"Say yes," she said.

"Yes."

As dinner wound down, she held up her glass. All I could see was her lips. Desire for her had grown as I had relaxed and realized she wasn't the blood thirsty producer I had made her out to be. She was flesh and blood, like me, only sexier.

"To Reed Francis. The best damn bass player I've ever heard."

Her compliment sounded genuine. I clinked my glass to hers.

I had wondered all night if she was going to bring up the lawyer...or was it going to be me. I broached the subject. "So...the lawyer?"

She set her wine down. She smiled wide, her eyes were a little glazed over. The wine had hit her as well. "When I get back to L.A. tomorrow, I'll call Hank. He'll get with you over the phone. And you all can take it from there."

"Why will he help me?"

"Let's just say he owes me. Big. Huge. Gi-normous."

We laughed and joked and made small talk. The business side of things were gone and it had become a full blown date. She finished off the bottle and it was time to call it.

"I'm done." I waved at her. "Better give me your keys."

"No. I'm good." She blew raspberries at me.

I motioned for her to hand them over.

"Sir, please." She resisted.

"Keys."

She saw that I was serious and finally gave in. But she almost fell out of her chair handing them to me. She giggled and then realized she was close to embarrassing herself. "Yes, seems I drank too much." She combed her hair back and tried to be serious.

I smirked at her. "Is this normal?"

"No. Tonight I'm celebrating."

"And what are we celebrating?"

"Your re-birth."

I lifted an empty wine glass in a mock toast.

I drove her to the hotel, helped her out of the car and gave her my arm. She rested every spare pound she could on my arm as we slowly made our way to the elevator. It took a minute for her to remember what floor she was on. But we eventually go there and stepped out. She fumbled with her purse, trying to find the room key.

"Which room is it?" I asked.

She couldn't read the card, so she held up her fingers: 1, 2, 5. A couple passed us in the hall and the man gave me a thumbs up. I rolled my eyes. She lazily handed me her room card and I opened the door. I gave her a little shove, made sure the door shut before she could step back out into the hall, and reached to the elevator in time to join the couple on their way down.

7.

Gwen was the only student left in her science room. The room smelled of sulfur as one of the smart ass boys had decided to burn some on the benson burner. She sat at the back of the room, at the experiment tables, with her head resting on the counter. Her classes were done for the day and she had her last period free. She doodled on a pad of paper.

Lisa —my wife's lawyer's daughter—entered the room. She stopped when she saw Gwen, while she retrieved a book from a desk.

"You ok?" Lisa asked.

"Yeah." Gwen mumbled when she was really upset.

"You're gonna miss practice."

"I'll be there." Gwen kept doodling.

Lisa's red and black Vans squeaked on the floor as she walked over. The chair scrapped on the ground as she pulled it out from a nearby table. She sat. "What going on?"

"Too much."

"Chin up, right? Like coach says." Lisa tried to get Gwen to look at her.

"I hate it when he says that."

"Me too."

Gwen turned to her and they smiled at each other. Lisa tossed her black hair back. Gwen sat up. Lisa stood and held her hand out.

"So, come on. Science rooms are not good places to try and cheer up."

"True." Gwen rose.

Lisa picked up Gwen's book bag and Gwen followed her out of the room.

I tossed and turned all night in bed. On my back, I stared at the ceiling. Sweat beaded on my forehead, on my upper lip. Finally, I'd had enough. I threw off the covers and slid out of bed.

In the silence that was now becoming my friend, I hobbled to the bathroom. I flicked on the light switch and I could see the sweat pouring down my bare chest, soaking the tops of my flannel pajama bottoms. Six orange bottles lined the sink. I physically shook and had to hold the sink to stay upright, staring the bottles down. My back was screaming at me. My mind was begging me to do it. Take the bottle. Take the pills. Take them all. Now.

I grabbed a bottle.

Then grabbed the trash can.

I threw open the garage door and stepped out into the blazing morning sun light. Luckily none of my neighbors were out. I walked to the trash can and threw the lid back. I slammed the trash bag into it and whammed the lid down again. Turning to go back to the house, I was startled to find Evelyn standing in the front yard, her luggage at her feet.

"Good morning," I managed to say.

"Missed my flight," she said.

I looked behind her. "Where's the car?"

"That was a rental."

"Ah..."

"I can't get a flight until tomorrow. Can't check into the new hotel until three, so..."

I picked up her bags and did my best to hide the fact that my back felt as though searing hot irons were being rammed in and out over and over and over.

Evelyn scoped out the living room as I set her bags at the entrance to the hallway. She chuckled.

"What?"

She motioned around the room, indicating the cow decorations. "So your fixation is...cows?"

"My wife," I said. I hadn't come to call her my ex yet. "Tea? Coffee?"

She asked for tea and she rested on the couch. I returned with tea and took up the recliner, the fire hot pain stopped for a moment.

I watched her drink the tea. "You don't drink much. Alcohol." I wanted to be clear.

"Not like that," she held the tea cup in both and looked at the liquid. "Thanks for helping me to my room."

"Not a problem."

She set the cup down and put her face in her hands. "Oh, god."

"Hey it's not a big deal."

"No, it's not that. Well, it's that, but not..."

"It's ok. Everyone has a bit too much every now and then."

She sat upright and stared at me. "I want to know—have to know—I just have to ask: did anything, you know, happen?"

I didn't get her meaning and cocked my head. "Happen?"

"I, you could've done, well, whatever, and you, we didn't, did we?"

"No. We didn't."

"Sure."

There was a long awkward silence that followed and I didn't know what to say. She stared at her tea cup for a long time and then rose quickly. She was suddenly angry and irritated.

"Thanks for the tea."

Before I could stop her, she grabbed her bags.

"Evelyn?" I wrestled with my pain to get to my feet. And eventually won.

"There's a Starbucks around the corner, right? I'll hang out there until I can check in." She was at the front door in a moment.

"You don't have to go."

Her hand was on the door knob. "Thanks again."

"Hey." I blocked her exit and moved her hand from the door. I was looking down on her and sparks flew for the moment. I spoke softly and gently. "I was a gentlemen. For once. All right? It wasn't a lack of desire."

Evelyn blushed and after a slight pause, she let me take her bags again. We sat again and she finished the tea.

"How long have they been gone?" she asked.

"Two weeks."

"Two daughters, right?"

"Georgina and Gwen."

The saucer clinked as she set the tea cup down. "Could I see their rooms?"

I obliged and went to Gwen's room first. Evelyn walk around it while I stayed at the door.

"Reminds me of my bedroom." At the night stand Evelyn looked over some of Gwen's items: a hair clip, a brush, her alarm clock. "She didn't need her alarm?"

"Never has. She has an internal one. Always knows the right time."

Evelyn walked over to the closet. It was still open and Little Bell was peaking out. "Does she play?"

"Hm?"

"Does Gwen play the bass too?" Evelyn reached into the closet and pulled out Bell. "Looks like she wants to." She spoke to the guitar. "Hi, Little Bell."

I stepped and took up the pride and joy of my life—outside of my daughters. I ran my hand down the frets. "I never taught her."

She smacked me with the back of her hand. "Selfish much. You could've passed the talent down to her."

"Too much heart ache in the business. She doesn't need that."

"Is that for you to decide? I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—she doesn't have to go into the business. She could just play for the love of it." His expression turned serious.

She was encroaching and I wasn't about to take parenting lessons from her. "Gwen's an athlete."

Evelyn caught my tone. "Play something. You might as well start now. Get some practice in."

I balked.

"Come on," she prodded.

I pulled the strap and amp out of the closet. I slung it over my shoulder and sat on the end of Gwen's bed. I plucked the strings and a deep boom came through the amplifier. I played a few notes, then chords, then a melody. The last few notes hung in the air.

Evelyn smiled. "That deserves a beer."

We moved to the garage and I pulled two cans of beer out of the mini-fridge. Evelyn pushed the punching bag.

"Give me the full story here."

"Karate?"

Evelyn hit the bag. Shook her hand. I gave her a beer.

"Freshmen year of high school, a kid beat me up. Friends scattered. The security guards watched. I hated the helpless feeling. I went home, my mother saw my face and said she'd help me out. She enrolled me the next day in a karate class. The sensei was a real hard ass. He worked us, man, he worked us. Five nights a week. By the time I graduated high school, I was dedicated and good. Confident. I kept it up, through college, and on the road. When music ended, I had money and nothing else to do, so I opened my own place." I help up the sign. "Then the banks crashed in '08. My line of credit was sold from bank to bank, which screwed everything up. So I shut the doors."

"So she stuck with you through all of that and leaves now?"

"She left because I'm an asshole."

We laughed and drank.

She held out her can. "Well, then, another toasts in order. Here's to starting anew. And getting off your ass."

I nearly choked as I finished my beer. Evelyn motions toward the punching bag. "Show me what you got."

"Nah."

"You can play the bass. But..." She indicated she didn't believe me.

"Oh, I got skills."

"But you could be lying about your mad karate skills."

"Seriously. My back is bad."

"I thought so."

I am not one to back down from a challenge. I pulled two swords down from the wall. Waved her back. She sat on the couch's arm. I loosened up. Then, exploded into a demonstration that awed Evelyn. The swords were an extension of my body. Just as I finished with a flourish -- POP! My eyes broadcast the pain. WHAM! I fell to my knees.

Evelyn jumped up. "Reed!"

I lowered myself to my stomach.

"Ice," was all I could get out due to the pain.

She returned quickly and held the ice pack under my shirt. "I'll call an ambulance."

"Don't judge me. K? In the big trash can, I need a white sack."

Evelyn went over to the can and peered inside. She lifted the white trash bag of pill bottles out and brought it over. I reached in and grabbed a bottle. I popped the top and slammed four pills down. She looked at the other bottles in the bag.

"What should I do with...?" She held the bag up. I nodded toward the trash. When she was done, she sat next to me. Her voice quivered. "The human body should never make that kind of noise."

"I'll be fine."

"I'll take you to the doctor."

"I'll be fine in a few minutes."

She gave in and rubbed my arm lovingly. I received it.

"I fell on tour. Blew out a disc."

"How'd you run the dojo?" Her voice had softened and I was even more taken by her.

"Those that can't, teach. The kids did the kicking. I just yelled." I gave her my hand and she helped me to my feet and we hobbled into kitchen, my arm slung over Evelyn's shoulder. I filled a glass with water from the faucet and drank it down in one fluid motion.

"You need to sit." She tried to help me onto a stool. But I refused.

"I'll get stiff."

Evelyn pulled out a stool and rested on it at the counter. I sighed as the meds started to kick in. A strange smile spread across my face. She cocked her head and looked at me.

"What?"

"You busy tonight?"

"Just me, my laptop and a bottle of cheap hotel wine."

"My buddy's band—you saw them at the bar. He's asked me for years to play with him. Said there was always an opening if I ever wanted to sit in."

Evelyn bated her eyelashes. "Are you asking me on a date?"

"No. This is business."

8.

I couldn't' take my eyes off of it. The black bass guitar case lay open on the bed and Little Bell lay next to it. I stroked the neck of the bass and lifted it up. I kissed the frets and put it gently into the black velvet lined shell.

I made Evelyn drive my van. I couldn't concentrate. I felt like a teenager on the way to my first big concert. My heart was in my stomach and my head spun.

We stepped into the club and the bright lights made the room a muddy-black color. My eyes finally adjusted and we walked through the empty room to the stage. The band was already setting up. Gerald was the band leader then. He played the trumpet. He was a middle sized man, with coat hanger shoulders and bulging, saggy cheeks from blowing the trumpet for so many years. He talked quietly with Hal, the drummer, a round, chubby man of sixty five years.

Hal saw me first and nodded to Gerald. Gerald spun and grabbed me in a tight embrace.

"Bro, I never thought I'd see the day. Man, welcome," Gerald said.

Hal just smiled and shook my hands. His calloused skin scraped across mine.

"Gerald, Hal, this is a friend of mine, Evelyn Haun." I introduced her.

Gerald took Evelyn's hand and kissed it. "Miss Haun."

She blushed. "Evelyn."

"Evelyn, if you don't mind me saying so, you are breath of fresh air in this place," Gerald gushed.

She took a seat near the table. "I never turn down compliments."

"You can hit on her later. This is business."

Gerald tipped his houndstooth patterned beret to her. "Business he says."

"The business of me teachin' ya'll how to play some goddamn jazz in this place. Where do you want me?"

Hal laughed deeply and took his seat behind the drum. I set my cell phone on the Evelyn's table. Gerald helped me set up equipment on the small stage. Evelyn unbeknownst to me lifted my phone and made her way outside.

We warmed up and I fumbled like a musical virgin. I missed a few chords and we had to start from the top twice. But I eventually caught on, and my confidence built as went along.

Outside the club, Evelyn was on her phone. The setting Phoenix sun beat down on her neck and back. "Todd, Evelyn. Yeah. I know. I missed it by an hour. Look. I tried to reach you last night—oh, fine. Have a life unlike some of us. Happy Anniversary. Yeah. I know. Hey, listen, I got him. I did. I swear! He agreed to the whole thing. Reed's on board. Yeah. Right now? I'm at his jazz club. He's playing tonight. I know. 18 years later—what?—It's been 18 years since he played. Period. Reed Francis makes his return to the stage. No coverage. Don't tell a soul."

Evelyn hung up and pocketed her phone. She held mine up and scrolled through my contact until she found Gwen's number.

At my soon-to-be-ex-mother-in-law's house, Gwen was sitting with her legs over Evan's lap, reading a magazine. Evan watched something on his laptop. The living was growing dark as the sun set over the mountains. Gwen's phone dinged. She showed it to Evan.

"What the hell?" Evan said as he read the message three times.

"I know, right?" Gwen said. She thought about how to reply and then texted back.

As the nightly crowd straggled in and the bar was hoping with patrons, I talked with Evelyn to get my mind off the nerves and the audience and the fact that eighteen years had passed since I played live. Or at all.

"I'm scared as hell." My hands were deep in my pant pockets to keep the sweat at bay.

She slipped her arm in mine. "You should be."

"I am a virgin again."

"Careful now. You're smiling."

"My back doesn't hurt."

"What you took would bring a horse to it's knees."

"Don't judge."

"We've all got our skeletons." I noticed when she said this, she looked away from me. And for the first time, a deep sadness settled in.

"Some destroy families," I replied.

Gerald and Hal took the stage and I followed. She took her seat. I strapped on Little Bell and the house lights went out and the stage lights blinded me. Thank God for stage lights.

Gerald stepped up to the microphone. "I want to thank you all for coming out tonight. It's a special one. It's my great pleasure to introduce a jazz great: Reed Francis, on bass."

Then, with no other words, we launched into "Flutter Step" by Gary Peacock & Ralph Towner. It took maybe thirty seconds for the nerves to go and the music to enter my blood stream and wash away all the years of rust.

I don't know when Gwen and Evan arrived, but at one point in the middle of the set, I looked up and there was my eldest daughter — my sunbeam—sitting with Evelyn and Evan. I kept my cool and took my solo on. I shut my eyes to keep from fumbling it and the rhythm calmed me down. I don't remember how long I went, but I do remember the applause being louder when I was done than when we took the stage.

During our break, Gwen took her time to approach me. She was wearing her "going to dance" clothes and had make-up on. I was startled at her beauty and at how much effort she had made to look nice for me.

"Hey."

"Miss Haun jacked your phone....Evan brought me."

"Your mother will shit." I grinned wide just imagining Mary's reaction. I held my arms out to the side and swung them back and forth. "100 yards. 100 yards. Stay back 100 yards."

She giggled and lunged for me. I put my arms around her and she talked into my chest. "She won't know."

We finished the show. I was walking on air as I carried Little Bell out of the club and found the three waiting for me. Evan hung by his shitty car and gave me a half wave.

"Hey, Evan."

"Hi, Mr. — Reed."

I winked at him. Gwen's eyes were damp and she simply hugged me.

"I love you." I kissed her head and breathed in her shampoo perfume.

"Me too."

I fought the urge to keep them there. But I remained by Evelyn and an idling cab while Gwen and Evan climbed into the I-Roc and rumbled off into the desert heat.

Evelyn opened the door to the cab. "You haven't lost a beat."

"I appreciate you..." and I nodded the direction they drove off.

"Jacking your phone?"

"For doing what I wouldn't."

Evelyn slid her arm around my waist. "I haven't told you how much this means, you joining this project."

"It saved your job." I laughed at her confused expression, then shock, then mock-anger. "I said I hadn't played for 18 years. I didn't say I hadn't read anything for 18 years."

"You're full of surprises."

"I can do research too."

"Well, thank you anyway. It's not just about money."

At that moment, I could tell I was in trouble. Her eyes said something that I wasn't ready for and couldn't return in kind. She leaned in close. "Your music inspired so many."

"How many shots of Henry's fine whiskey did you take tonight?"

"No, seriously."

I took a step back. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to seduce me."

She followed suit. "And you'd be right."

"Miss Haun..." I could smell that she had brushed her teeth.

"Evelyn. My name is Evelyn."

"This was business tonight."

I held her at arms length and she pouted. I nodded and walked away. She climbed into the cab and it pulled away.

9.

It was midday and the sun was pounding on my head. I never wear hats and this was a day I should have worn a hat. Any kind of hat. Even one of those damn floppy beach hats. The tan cinder block house with the barren front yard was across the street from me. My van was parked around the corner and out of sight. I did not want to give Mary any reason to flee.

After almost two hours of waiting, Mary emerged from the house. She was completely oblivious to my presence. She was rummaging in her purse for her keys. I walked quickly across the street to surprise her and to keep her from driving her car over my body.

She heard heavy footfall and picked up her pace to get to the SUV.

"100 yards, Reed." She shouted.

"Can we talk for a minute?" I pleaded.

"Go away. Please." She held a can of mace in her hand along with the keys.

I stopped at the edge of the driveway. "Mary."

For a moment, she paused. She must have forgotten her hatred for me for that split second. "What?"

"Let's talk about us."

"There is no us. I can't be late. Some of us work."

"I'm working again. I'm playing."

She rolled her eyes at me and pocketed the mace. She opened the car door. "Playing what?"

"The bass, in a band."

Mary glared at him. Flared with anger. "Yeah, I know about that little stunt. Gwen won't see the light of day until I'm dead and buried."

"How'd you...?" I was dumbfounded but not surprised.

"Evan can't lie to save his life."

I held the door open after she climbed into the car. I could see her reach for the mace. "Let go," she said with a threatening tone.

"Just a minute. OK? I promise. No yelling. No threats. Please. Just a minute."

"For God's sake, Reed, really?"

"How are you? How are the girls?"

"You saw Gwen, you tell me?"

"Don't be mad."

She hated it when I told her what to do—especially when it came to emotions. A powder keg exploded in her brain. She held the mace bottle two inches from my face. I didn't move. "My daughter snuck off to see you play in a nightclub. Despite a goddamn court order keeping you from her. Fuck you. I'm mad."

"It was a special night." My vision was blurred as I tried to focus on her and the mace bottle.

"Was it? So glad to hear?" Her finger was itching and ready to spray me.

"She'd never seen me play."

And then I heard a level of sorrow in her voice I'd not heard before. "Neither have I!"

"I didn't think..."

"Well, that's your problem."

"I would have invited you..."

She relaxed. I let go of the door. She shut it but held on to the mace. "You shoulda left our daughter out of this. Now, she's seen you bring down the house and it makes what I'm trying to do even harder."

"What are you trying to do?"

She cried as she spoke. "Start over. Give them a solid, decent, peaceful life."

"Our house was peaceful."

"Peaceful? We walked on eggs. We never knew when you'd explode next."

"When did I ever explode?"

"Christmas Eve. Georgina didn't like the color of her bike. She cried. Pitched a fit about it. Remember the front door? Two months ago, you nearly punched the check out clerk at the store cause he looked at me funny..."

"I fixed the door."

She covered her face. "Shit, Reed."

"Why didn't you say anything. We coulda worked it out."

Her voice was muffled. "I said plenty. But you're too high to hear me. And when you weren't high, you were punching a bag, or swinging a sword. It scared us. It scared me. And you don't care."

"You know why I take medication."

"Yeah, that's why you started. And I understood. But, now, why do you take it? And don't think I don't know about your little white list with the names and dates. How many are you seeing, Reed, how many doctors? 10, 12?"

Now I was getting angry. "It's. For. My back."

"Not anymore." She turned the key and the car started up.

"The girls need a father."

"Yeah, a father. Not a once renowned bass player who sits in his fucking garage, on his ass, staring at old records and a punching bag, feeling sorry for himself, pissing everything away."

"I'm doing the best I can." This was a complete lie but I couldn't just go silent.

"Bullshit." She put the car in reverse.

"Mary."

"Move. My daughters will not grow up in a drug addicts home. No way."

I backed up before she ran over my toes and she pulled away.

10.

Mary had wrapped herself in a towel and was drying her hair with another. She thundered down the hallway, past images of her as a little girl, with her mother and father, pictures of her and Gwen and Georgina; pictures of her and me. She was an only child.

As she entered her childhood bedroom, her temporary, master bedroom, Gwen was on her heels. She ignored the fact that her mother's teenage posters were still hanging on the walls. It didn't seem strange to her that her mother was only a few weeks removed from having a home of her own. Gwen was just focused on herself. "It's not fair."

"Look around you. Nothings fair. Get used to it."

"I just want to see him."

"You already did. Against my orders," She turned and thrust the next statement into her face. "Against the courts orders."

"This isn't a goddamn concentration camp."

Mary slapped her face. The sound rung in the room. "You swear like that again, around me, and I will kick you out of this house."

Gwen stood, stunned by the action.

Mary sat down at a small dresser with a mirror, on a little stool, and her adult butt barely fit on something built for a teenage butt. She brushed her hair and could see Gwen holding her cheek. She was ashamed but did not want to back down this time.

"I hate the way you're being." Large, crocodile tears formed in Gwen's eyes.

"This isn't how things were supposed to be, Gwen. This isn't how I planned my life." She kept combing her hair to stay calm.

"Our life, mother."

"This isn't my fault."

"He's sick; he needs us."

Mary could feel herself teetering. She was dizzy and put her brush down. She held the edge of the dresser. She and Gwen stared at each other in the mirror.

"He is sick and I can not allow you over there. End of story."

"Whatever."

Gwen spun and left the room. The walls shook as she slammed the door as hard as she could.

I met with Hank Jones, Evelyn's lawyer friend. We took up a booth near the back of a Denny's. The place was empty but I didn't feel like being seen.

"Here's my honest opinion," Hank began. We had discussed the whole circumstance and he was leaning back, measuring his words.

"Please be honest." I gulped my tea.

I'm not sure what Hank had intended to say, but he shelved it and was blunt: "You'll lose."

I leaned toward him. Even sitting down, I towered over him. But I didn't see an ounce of imitation in his eyes. "Do you have children? A wife?" I could feel the anger turning by dark black ears blood red.

"No."

"My daughters are the world to me. I will fight for them." I jabbed my finger at the table.

"Doctor shopping. Overwhelming evidence that you are heavily addicted to pain killers." He was holding his hands up and counting on his fingers the things I had stacked against me.

"I can't breath some days. I go past their rooms and there they sit: empty. No laughter. No pigtails. No fake perfume."

Two of five fingers were down. "She has the receipts of multiple on-line pharmacies." The third finger—his middle finger—went down.

"I'm not an addicted. I tossed it all out. I'm a changed man."

Hank threw up his hands as if in a church service. "Hallelujah. Well now. I'll write that down. That's sure to sway the judge."

My fists balled up. I nearly hit him that pretty little white face. "Evelyn never told me you were such a prick." I flexed my hands and imagined all the ways I could kill the man before he could even know what was happening. "I'm on the road to recovery."

Hank—to this day one of my best friends—didn't back down. "If you really wanted to keep your kids, keep your family, you shoulda got help before this point."

"Are you my lawyer or phycologist?"

"Your lawyer. I'll help you the best I can but the fact is, you won't win."

I sat back and stared off out the window behind him. The cars streamed by in the 100 degree heat. Suddenly it hit me. And I remembered...

"My youngest came into my room one night. She wasn't feeling well. She found me passed out on the bathroom floor. I had taken too much. She thought I was dead. Started shrieking. Mary took them a few days later. I'm going to lose my children, aren't I?"

As Hank and I left the Denny's, he spoke in a kind tone: "For what it's worth...I lost my wife years ago. I left her. She was an addict too. Things didn't work out. Sometimes things just don't work out."

Gwen, drenched from the sweat of practice, walked the locker room aisle. She was unbuttoning her jersey as she went. Lisa stood in front Gwen's locker, her arms folded, staring at her. She was holding a picture in her hand. Gwen knew right away what picture it was.

"Hey." She snatched the picture from Lisa's hand.

Lisa was covered in a righteous attitude. "That asshole is your dad?"

"Back off." Gwen put the picture in her locker.

"He's a dick."

"Excuse me?"

Lisa's arms dropped to her side. "I know him. He's a total asshole."

"Bite your fucking tongue."

"He straight up fought my mom."

Gwen was clueless I had faced off with Gail. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"My mom is your mom's lawyer, dumbass."

"Bullshit."

"Your dad was in her office. Fucking tried to hit my mom."

"You lying whore. Take that back."

"I saw it with my eyes."

Gwen shoved Lisa. Lisa shoved her back.

Lisa hissed at her. "Whatever he gets, he deserves. Loser, deadbeat."

There was a pause and then Gwen straight punched Lisa in the face. Blood rushed through her fingers as she covered her face. "You're just like your asshole dad."

Gwen wasn't done and jammed Lisa down between the locker and bench. She pummeled her over and over, yelling the entire time.

Gwen stared out the window as they moved with the flow of traffic. Her face was cut up, her eye swollen. She wiped a tear from her cheek. Mary gripped the wheel as tight as she could and grimaced. She wanted to yell, but knew that would do no good.

Gwen spoke very quietly. "She's a bitch, Mom."

"Relax." Mary was a great mother, she knew when to hold her tongue with the girls. "The suspension is punishment enough for you. I won't add to it."

"I hate this life."

"Don't we all, don't we all."

11.

The night air was hovering around 100. I was asleep on the couch in the garage and was surrounded by a circle of sweat. Beer cans were scattered everywhere. I had been dreaming of gummy bears and chocolate ice cream when she woke me.

"Reed?" Evelyn said. She shook my shoulder.

I opened my drunken eyes. "Hey."

"You look like shit," she said.

"Yeah."

"I've called. Alot."

"Yeah."

She kicked the couch with her $300 high heels. "The rehearsal was today. We're paying you, Reed. We are paying you to be there. To play."

"Yeah. Sure. Sure thing."

"Get up."

"I'm drunk. I'm tired. No."

She was tired and not in the mood to fight me. So she sat down and leaned against me. She knew things had not gone well Hank.

"Hank's an ass."

She sighed. "Yes. He is. He's also a damn good lawyer, Reed."

I rubbed my face.

She rubbed my shoulder and leaned over. She kissed my cheek. "It's worse than you thought. I'll make us some coffee."

We did our best to get comfortable on the wrought iron patio chairs I had purchased at a local grocery store. The small black iron bistro table barely had enough room for our two mugs of coffee.

"It's hot at night too. You gonna stay here?" She asked.

I shrugged. "For now."

"If things go right, and the tour is a success, there will be a recording. Maybe another tour. Hell, you'll be swimming in recording offers."

"Just as everything falls apart, my music career takes off again." The coffee was bitter. She is terrible at making coffee.

"Why'd you leave?"

"Music?"

"No, the ballet." She stuck her tongue out at me. "You've stumped the Jazz world. A lot of them think your dead. Or living on some remote island."

"Many reasons."

"Family?" She nodded toward the house.

"I have a family because I left. I met Mary after I walked away."

I stood and stretched. The alcohol was waining. I paced the length of the patio. "Things were good. I was playing with the hottest musicians. Money was good, shit, it was great. I bought what I wanted. I was working with guys that liked my style, my improvising. I didn't like the touring, but whatever. I was out with Earl Hawkins. Up in Sedona, in fact. We were playing the jazz festival. Gorgeous night. Gorgeous women. Perfect. During rehearsal, I meet our new trumpet player."

"Pete Walker." She sipped her disgusting coffee.

"Good on you. Yep. Pete Walker. He stepped up and started playing. And it blew my mind. He could blow. The trumpet wasn't an instrument, it was a part of his body. I was supposed to follow his lead, go where he was going and...I couldn't. I don't know, maybe I was scared. He was good, shit, he was great. He was doing things I'd never heard. I fumbled around. Got flustered. Embarrassed. He was a smart ass. Asked if I could keep up. He called me Pops. No, Old Pops. I walked off the stage."

The moon was out, the light shone down. "That was the whole reason?"

"Not really. But it was the tipping point. Anyway, I packed up my gear and drove to a hotel down the road from here. Mary was flying solo that night and checked me into the hotel."

"She happened to be there that night." Evelyn smiled and shook her head. She rose and stood by me.

"I know, divine encounter, right?"

"I don't know about that."

"Well, if God was up there, paying any attention to me, I didn't know it until that night. She was stunning. We married six months later. Had Gwen two years after that...and so on."

Evelyn too off her shoes and walked out into the grass.

"Your turn."

She walked over to our Palo verde tree. "What do you want to know?"

"Start with how you found me."

She twirled around in a circle. "It was work. I know every good jazz club in the country and I called them, asked if they knew you, seen you."

"Shoulda gone with Harry Houdini a long time ago."

Evelyn laughed and stared at me for a long time. She walked slowly toward with me with that look in her eye. I hadn't seen it in a long time. But I still knew the look.

"I work hard, Reed. What Hank didn't tell you is, he and I were married. Hank left me. He slept with his secretary and all the secretaries in his firm. I chose work over him. I've fought for position. Recognition. Respect. My fix—my high—is work. This is my life. Hank and I ended badly. It threw me. I considered quitting. Taking a long, long, long vacation. And then this project came up. And I found you."

"Hey now."

"This whole thing, you, have revived me. It's relit a fire that went out."

"Evelyn..."

"I'd like to show you how much I appreciate it."

"I can't."

"I know. I know. It's not a good time."

"If it were any time but now..."

"This is our time."

To tell the truth, I wanted to grab her and take her into my room. I wanted to give in to every urge a good, warm blooded man would have felt in that moment. But somehow, I didn't. For the first time in my life, I was doing the right thing.

"I—I don't do this. I just don't do this."

Evelyn stepped back. Playfully shoved me. "Where are you from? They don't make men like you anymore."

"I sure as hell hope there are two out there, for my daughters."

12.

The valley whisked past us as Evelyn drove us to the Pavillon. She was dressed in an expensive designer dress, I can't remember the brand. I was in my Sunday's best, trying to be calm in the passenger seat. From the outside, we must have resembled a couple going to church or a funeral.

Sweat beaded on my forehead.

"You feelin' okay?"

"Fine. Fine. I am fine."

She handed me a tissue and I dabbed my forehead. I glanced out the window and saw the huge outdoor pavilion looming large. I started to cough.

"There it is." She sounded like a kid going to the toy store.

I coughed some more. Cleared my throat. I pressed my fingers to my neck, checking my heart rate. My breathing sped up.

"You shoulda heard Earl when I told him you were coming."

Drenched in sweat, I could barely breath. I wheezed.

"Reed? Reed!"

I passed out for a moment. Evelyn pulled the car over. Stopped. Jumped out. Rushed to my side. Flung the door open. Squatted down in front of me. I came to and rolled my legs out of the car.

"Breath. Breath." She said over and over again.

I took deep breaths.

"Talk to me." She held my hands.

"I'm okay. I just, when I saw the place, I don't know..."

"Is your arm numb? Do you feel a large weight on your chest?" She thought I was dying.

"Huh?"

"Is your vision blurry?"

"Evelyn..."

"I'll call 911."

"Chill." She looked confused, so I clarified. "I'm petrified. I'm not having a heart attack."

"What?"

"I am scared shitless. Ok?"

She went from scared to pissed off in a second flat. "You're scared. I thought you were having a goddamn heart attack."

I rested my head on the back of the seat.

"You're not getting out of this one and you ain't walking off. Got it?" She wagged her finger in my face.

I loosened my tie.

"Reed?"

"Got it."

"Get your feet in the car."

I obeyed. She slammed the door and stormed around to her side.

In the middle of the immense stage, facing the empty seats, were three men I knew well. Earl Hawkins, gangly, aged, with a french beret on his head, held court. He scatted the song. The other two, Wendell and Bill, watched him and moved to the beats.

"Earl, Bill, Wendell," Evelyn said.

Earl spun and smiled brighter than the Phoenix sun. "Reed Francis! All be damned! Miss Haun, I got to admit, I thought you were lying to me about this old SOB being a live. Damn! Reed!"

Earl hugged me tightly.

"Earl."

"Get on over here. We're going over the songs we want to do." He lead me over to Wendell and Bill and we shook hands.

Before I knew it, I was holding Little Bell, pressing the frets, plucking the strings, practicing with three men I revered and loved. My eyes were shut tight for fear the dream would fade out. I could feel my mouth following the beats of the song, my body caught up in the music.

Bill flowed smoothly on the drums. Wendell rocked back and forth at the piano, filling in the music here and there. Earl, with his trumpet in hand, posed, ready, waited for his moment to join the sound, to add his voice to the building flood.

Then, at just the right moment, Earl burst in. The entire, empty pavilion filled with the sound of the horn. The drums, the bass, the piano supporting the sound, carried it out to the lone listeners: Evelyn and the sound tech.

Earl stepped back. I stepped up. The piano stopped. The drums rolled under my bass line. My fingers floated over the strings, playing with abandon. The pavilion shook and shuddered to the deep bass notes. Just when it seems the building couldn't take it anymore, I flowed back in with the piano and drums, and Earl's horn. Earl ended the song with a flourish.

Evelyn applauded.

Afterward, she and I reclined at a table. I dried my face off with a towel.

"The hearing is tomorrow." I choked back the tears.

Evelyn gave me a look of confidence. "Hank will do what he can."

I squeezed her hand and then, our fingers intertwined.

She stared at our hands. "Do you want me at the hearing?"

I nodded, "Yes".

It seemed like I blinked and I was in front of the court house, pacing, checking my watch, wondering where she was. She was never late—except for that day. When she finally appeared and I took her hand, she was out of breath from running. I nearly dragged her into the court room.

The whole thing was a blur. All I remember was the Judge, up in his chair, leafing through pages that sat in front of him, while the two sides waited anxiously. Then she motioned to me and Hank. We stood and Hank buttoned his coat. The Judge was angry, emphatic, and motioned wildly while she spoke. Evelyn gasped behind me. Mary closed her eyes and said a prayer of thanks. I swayed and Hank kept me standing. The Judge banged her gavel and it was over.

I'd lost the girls.

Evelyn drove me home. We sat in the driveway, in the car, the air running, but feeling like I was in hell. She was worried about me.

"Do you want me to stay?"

"I'll be fine."

We sat in silence for five or ten minutes. Then, she said, "Remember, tomorrow, 4 o'clock."

I climbed out of the car and went into the house.

13.

The local Starbucks was flooded with college students. Gwen and Evan had arrived early and been able to seize a few seats at the back of the narrow store. Gwen slouched in a chair, staring at her iPhone, scrolling endlessly through her Instagram and Twitter feeds. Evan set two cups of coffee down on the table and gently slid his chair out.

"Quit acting like that," Gwen said. She never looked up.

"Like what?" Evan sipped his coffee.

"Like I'm made of fucking china." She scrolled faster and faster.

"I'm trying to respect you, what happened today, give you space—"

"Quit it. Stop being so fucking nice." She slammed her phone down on the table.

"Gwen, I—"

"Why are you such a pussy?" She snatched her cup and sipped it. She turned away from him and stared out the window.

Evan blinked, wide-eyed, surprised, speechless. Gwen downed her coffee.

"Drive me over there."

Evan shook her head. "You're mother will kill me."

"He's my father."

"You can't see him."

"I'm 18."

"Not for two weeks."

She spun in her seat and faced him squarely. Unfortunately for him, he was going to receive all of her anger and pain. "Don't tell her I went, Evan."

"She'll find out," he protested.

"You are an asshole." Gwen got up and tossed her drink in the trash.

"You didn't finish that," Evan said. He was getting pissed, which I would have loved to see. Most of the time, he showed as much emotional as a lead pipe.

She held her hand out. "Give me your keys."

Evan sat back. "Why?"

"I left something in your car."

"What?"

"Something. Give them to me."

Evan shoved his hands in his pocket. "No."

"Don't fuck with me."

"You can not have my keys."

Gwen waited. Then she dove for him. Her movements shocked him and she was able to yank his hands out of his pockets. She drove her hands into his pockets and grabbed his keys.

"Hey!"

She darted out of the store, across the parking lot, climbed into Evan's IROC, started it up and drove off.

My van moved slowly down the street, which was littered with broken down cars, cardboard box homes and the homeless. This was south Phoenix. Our ghetto. I felt like showering just from the sight and I never left the van. I was white knuckling the steering wheel. I pulled into an alley and parked.

A rail thin man, dressed in loose jeans, tank top, strode up to the van, his hands in his pockets. I rolled down the window and I shoved four $100 bills out the window. The man cocked his head, squinted at me and took the cash. The man handed me six orange bottles. I took them and rolled up the window.

The drive home was a blur. My Jekyl and Hyde fought it out. I found myself finally pulling into my driveway and shutting off the engine and not moving. I was parked and the wind was blowing hard against the window. Dark, black, angry could built in the north. An early monsoon was coming in.

I held a bottle in my hand. I could see my face in the rearview mirror. I gave in. I opened the bottle and dumped six pills into my hand. As I closed my eyes and took the pills, Gwen jumped out of the I-Roc. She was heading towards the front door when she saw me in the van. She stomped over and pounded on the window.

"Dad! Dad!"

I slumped down in the seat and tried to ignore her.

"This isn't what I wanted!" She yelled.

She went around the side of the van and yanked the passenger door open. She stopped when she saw the bottle of Jack Daniels in my lap and a pill bottle in my hand. She reached out for the bottle. I stared at her and then yielded. She chucked it across the street, over the neighbors house. The pills flew into the street, the yard, scattered in the wind. The rain broke free from the clouds and poured down on us. Soaking Gwen. She didn't care.

Defiantly, I reached into the pockets of my shorts and pulled another bottle out. Popped the top. Downed a few pills.

Gwen spotted my bass in the back of the van. She climbed over and took up Little Bell. She hugged it and I shut my eyes. I cried in the moment. After an eternity that took place in a second, she slid open the side door. Stood outside the van and put Bell into the passenger seat. She shut the door and walked away.

I could hear the I-roc start up and heard it rumble away amidst the thunder and the slamming rain, with Little Bell in my vision the whole time.

14.

Evelyn eventually found me laying on the floor of the kitchen, with twelve empty beer bottles, an empty whiskey bottle and two pill bottles all around me. She slammed on the front door but I couldn't move.

"Reed!" She yelled.

She banged some more and then all went silent. I couldn't see the clock but I could tell that the sun was high in the sky and trying to break through the blinds on the kitchen window. Then, I heard her yanking on the arcadia door.

"Reed!" She screamed.

The door gave way and she stumbled into the living room. I could hear her breathing hard as she ran through the room and down the hall and into my room.

"Reed."

She reentered the living room and made her way toward the garage door. She stopped when she saw me. I was shirtless, pant-less and, well, naked.

"Hey," I said weakly.

"You're not ready!" she shrieked.

I held up my hand and extended my finger. "One minute."

She grabbed my hand and yanked on me.

"Get up. Dammit." She pulled me up harder. "You're a mess."

"I'm a musician."

I sat up slowly and she bent down and slapped my face. She slapped me four times. Hot anger shot through my blood stream. I was on my feet in an instant.

"For God sakes, put some underwear on!"

She left the arcadia door open and threw open the front door. I could hear her shoes crunching on the gravel as she went towards her car.

She broke every speed record I could imagine on the way to the Pavillon. I was dressed in my finest and was drinking an extra large coffee. She looked at me every now and then, but never said a word. She was beyond angry. Backstage, we approached the curtain and I found the band waiting for me. The tension in their shoulders didn't even leave when I took my place near them.

Evelyn stood next to me. "Full house."

I smiled at her.

She could see that I was nervous. "Don't suck." Then, she turned left.

The Emcee announced us and Earl turned to me. "You ready, my man?"

I nodded and we went through the curtains. But not before I popped the top of the bottle in my pocket, slid six oxy pills into my hand and quickly slammed them into my mouth. I swallowed them and stepped out into the bright lights.

It was the middle of the day, so it was very easy for me to see the audience. People were on their feet, clapping, cheering. We waved and took up our spots. My hands shook as I lifted up Little Bell. I thought it was nerves. But the tremor grew worse. My legs were spaghetti and my feet were numb. I looked out and things were distorted. Weird. Wobbly. Slowed down. I wiped my forehead and it seemed as if I had been running a marathon.

It took me forever to strap Bell on.

"Good evening!" Earl thundered through the sound system. "Thanks for coming out today! Enjoy the show."

He turned around and counted out the beats to Bill. Wendell plunked out a few notes. Then Earl looked to me. But I was frozen. The pavilion tilted and spun. The last thing I remember was leaning against the amplifier and Earl asking, "Reed, you okay, man?"

I could see him, but couldn't hear him. All sounds were gone. I slumped to the stage and Earl said I fell flat on my face. All was black.

Much took place after I face planted in front of 10,000 fans. I was rushed to the nearest hospital and my life was saved by the paramedics and skilled surgeons who operated on my brain. Going into their procedure won't advance this story, so I will stop here.

For days, I was between life and death. Gwen stayed at my side. So did Evelyn. They grew close during this time. They realized they had an affinity for sushi and I improved, they visited a sushi restaurant down the street from the hospital.

Finally, they wheeled me from ICU to the recovery wing of the hospital. Late one evening, Doctor Jones filled them: "He's stable but the suffered a major stroke. He is recovering, but it's too soon to say what will happen. He is breathing on his own and does show signs of brain activity."

Gwen and Evelyn sat outside my room, in then hallway.

"I remember the first time I saw him kick that stupid bag in the garage," Gwen said, tears streaming down her face. "He was flying. Superman."

Evelyn slipped her arm around Gwen's shoulders. "Every superman has a kryptonite."

The room was quiet. Amidst the beep of the monitors, Gwen stood bedside, holding my hand. Evelyn stood near the door. I opened my eyes for the first time in months. I could see Gwen.

"Daddy? Hey. You've had a stroke. Mom moved to Illinois last week. Georgina's with her. She's doing fine. I've got to fly there tonight. Evelyn is taking me to the airport. I love you. I love you so much. I'll be back at Christmas. Mom will bring us back to see you. Wheaton's already in session. I have to get there."

Gwen pressed the my hand to her face. She leaned down and hugged me.

The hospital elevator hummed as it descended. Gwen and Evelyn rode along quietly. Shock had settled in and the two most important women in my life had no idea what to do.

"The nurses and physical therapist at the center will be with him."

Gwen looked at Evelyn. "How long can you pay for that?"

"As long as I need to."

"Mom's job is going well. She'll be able to do something soon." Gwen shuffled her feet.

"Your father means a lot to me. I wish I could stay longer."

"He needs to be in his own home."

Evelyn was in a daze. "The tour is going. I've got a record to plan."

"He should be at home."

"There's nothing we can do, Gwen. You need to get settled. Get back into the swing of things. We need to get back to normal."

The doors opened with a ding. "It will ever be normal again.

15.

The Los Angeles Airport was crammed with people. Three sports teams had landed in the same wing as Evelyn and she made her way slowly to the escalators and down to baggage claim. She was in a daze. Her phone chimed every few minutes notifying her of an important email or text message. But she ignored them. Her mind was in the hospital room, with me.

That morning, she stood at the foot of my bed with Doctor Jones—the man that save my life—holding my chart. He went over it one more time and looked up at her. I was sleeping.

"How long?" she asked.

"It could take years. It depends." He sighed as he set my chart down. He sat in a chair near my bedside and yawned.

Evelyn sat next to him. "On what?"

"The specialist. His determination. The conditions around him."

"I'm paying for the best care. He's as stubborn as a bull..."

"But he will be alone."

She could see what he was saying. She locked and unlocked her fingers in her lap. "I'm just a friend."

"I realize that. Miss Haun. With no family, no loved ones around, cheering him on, keeping him up...what will keep him going?"

"I can't stay."

"I understand."

"I've got a life. In L.A."

He heard the frustration and anger in her voice. "You asked what would affect his rehab. I'm telling you." He stood and patted her shoulder. The hospital door clicked when it opened and clicked when it shut.

She told me she cried the whole way out of the LAX parking lot, all the way down the I-10, all the way into her garage. She could not shake how old and feeble and helpless I looked as she had left my hospital room.

When she had settled into her home again, she sat on her couch in her fleece pajamas and opened up the LA Times to the Entertainment section. On the back page was a photo of Earl Hawkins, Bill, Wendell and a stand-in bassist. The image and caption—"JAZZ GREATS PLAY HARD ROCK CAFE IN ANAHEIM"—filled the lower half of the page. She folded the paper and set it on the ground. She lay her head down and slept until the early morning hours.

She dressed and went into the Ivy offices by 8am. She was busily clicking through email when Todd stepped in. He appeared to be lighter and happier and he flopped down in the chair on the other side of Evelyn's desk.

"Six weeks of sold outs. Seven with this week's shows." He clapped his hands in delight.

She was on the verge of tears and did not feel like talking. "Great," was all she said.

"Turn that frown upside down."

"I'm not ten."

"Don't you wish you were sometimes? No cares, no worries."

"The recording times are set-up. They'll go into the studio in a month, cut the record and hit the road for the second leg. The record will release late summer."

He put his hands behind his head. Proud of her, he said, "Capitalize on the success of the first leg. Good move."

She allowed a small smile. "Thank you."

Todd took a handful of M&M's out of Evelyn's candy dish. Crunched on them. "Hey. My daughter's in town."

Evelyn grimaced to herself. "I'm laying low right now."

"I promised her a dinner date with you."

Evelyn busied herself with the papers in front of her.

"Hey, I'm sorry about Reed. I am. But that bassist you found to take his spot -- shit, he's the real deal as well."

"There's only one Reed Francis."

Todd sat back, folded his arms. Evelyn stared out the window, wiped a tear from her eye.

He cocked his head when he asked, "What went on over there?"

"Nothing."

"Right."

"Ok. A lot. And nothing."

"Evelyn?"

The back of her chair faced Todd. She did not want him seeing her cry. "I got to know him."

He leaned forward. "And something more."

A very long silence followed. Unexpectedly, rain began to fall and splatter the window of her office. Most of the sky was clear but for a rain cloud above the office building. Strange. "No. Nothing more than that."

A medical van parked at the entrance of my rehabilitation home. An orderly lowered me and my wheel chair down to the ground with the elevated lift. I looked like a frozen body, freshly carved from a block of ice. The only thing I could move at that point were my eyes and his head.

I heaved a big sigh. The orderly pushed the chair off the lift and while whistling a tune, he rolled me toward the entrance. I groaned at the sight of another sterile, white, cold, boring, depressing, death-filled medical facility.

"I heard that, Mr. Francis," the orderly chuckled. "I did. Don't you worry, Mr. Francis, don't you worry. This is a good place. They'll take good care of you. Feed you right. Get you up and walking and such."

As we proceeded down the hallway, we passed an older man that had been abandoned in his chair in the middle of the hallway. His orderly was heard off to the side somewhere, laughing with someone else. There was no concern for this elderly man—he just slobbered in his wheel chair.

A very elderly woman inched her way down the hall with a walker. We rushed past here. A nurse pushed an oxygen tank behind the old lady. The nurse smiled at me and I could not return the sentiment.

We finally reached my room after I viewed another dozen or so nearly dead souls roaming, being pushed, being prodding down the hallway. The orderly wheeled me into the room with walls white as sheets, nondescript, plain furniture, and a medical bed. A muted TV played the news. A male nurse entered the room. He and the orderly angled the wheel chair and lifted me from the chair and gingerly laid me into bed. The nurse left almost immediately and the orderly made sure I was comfortable.

"You okay, Mr. Francis?"

I shut my eyes and opened them once to single "yes". If I'd blinked twice, it would have meant "no".

"You need anything, the nurses will be by each hour to check on you. Don't give them a hard time, now."

And with that, the orderly pushed the wheel chair out of the room, never to be seen again.

I was left alone with the muted TV.

Days passed. I lay on a workout table, my therapist working my left leg. I grunted with each push and twist he did. Then he went to work on my right leg and a louder groan eked out of my throat. By the end of the session, I was exhausted and another orderly deposited me in my room and left without a nod.

I felt like a pile of discarded bones. I'm sure he was busy that day, but even a small smile would have been nice. Instead, he listened to his music in his black headphones and I was just another mark on his to do list.

I stared blankly at the muted TV when the door to my room opened and shut. I didn't look over, figuring it was a nurse coming to change my bed pan. But the nurse never came over to my bedside. I looked over and saw Evelyn, standing just inside the room. Immediately my chest heaved and a groan followed. Evelyn climbed into bed with me and kissed my face over and over. She had decided to come back to me after having a glass of wine with Todd's daughter.

They had met in a small, dark, LA club, listening to dance music and barley being able to hear each other. Evelyn had explained how we met and what had happened and my stroke.

Terri was shocked. "At least he has family around him."

Evelyn shook her head no.

"He's alone?" Terri leaned over the glass of wine, the small light above the table spotlighted her face.

Evelyn shook her head yes. She couldn't speak.

"And you love him?"

Another yes. And Terri kicked her leg under the table. "Why are you sitting in a club with me when he's there, needing you?"

"I've got a job to do."

"Jobs come and go. Love doesn't."

"Says the college student to the old divorcee."

"Yeah, I have zero experience in love, but I know medicine. Nothing is more important than love in the healing process. Nothing."

16.

Evelyn sat across from Doctor Jones. In front of her, on the table, was a large folder. Her hand rested on top of it.

"This is everything you need to know, Miss Haun." Doctor Jones sat back and rested his hands in his lap.

"Thank you." She slid the folder across the table and held it to her chest.

Doctor Jones smiled at her. "With constant attention and care, it does improves the odds."

Though she felt a pit in her stomach, she made the decision to be with me. "I'm here to stay."

He leaned forward and folded his hands. His brow furrowed for a moment. "But there are no promises."

She rose and walked to the door. As she left the room, she said, "There never are."

My wonder van was retrofitted with a wheel chair lift. Evelyn wheeled me out of it and down the driveway toward the open garage. My heart thumped in my chest as I surveyed the updates she had made. On one wall was all the records and memorabilia of my playing career. On the other wall were my weapons and my dojo sign, certificates of training, pictures of me and former students and old advertising flyers. Evelyn pushed me up to the couch and I shut my eyes and sighed a deep, good sigh.

She knew I was moved, though I could say nothing at the time. She leaned over and kissed the top of my head. "You're home."

I squeezed her hand.

She worked to get me onto the couch and a rental car rolled up the street and pulled into my driveway, stopping next to the van. My heart about exploded when I saw Gwen and Georgina empty out of the car and race toward the garage. Mary was driving and, surprisingly, she simply turned the car off and opened the door.

Gwen and Georgina shouted, "Daddy!"

And hugged me tight.

I was home.

### Anne in the Red Dress

His mother woke him early. It was a Thursday morning, the first day of first grade. She dressed him in a new IZOD collared shirt. It was green with a white alligator on it. She had bought it at Wal-Mart. He hated Wal-Mart. He hated getting lost in the immensity of the store, the chaotic order of things, and the shoe department. At six, he was too aware of clothing trends. And Wal-Mart most certainly was not amongst the leaders of clothing trends. Especially their shoes. No. Fake leather, shiny plastic, knock off logos. She had purchased, much to his chagrin, a brand new pair of blue and white -- oh, he didn't care, they weren't Nikes.

She doused his straight black hair -- cut unevenly by some unskilled hair stylist at the local hair cutters -- with water, and combed it into place for the time being. Then, with a smile, she stepped back and did a once over to make sure everything was nice and neat and tucked in and tied and so on.

With a huff, Kale folded his arms and looked off to the side. She was very pleased with herself. She nodded her approval and he headed off to the kitchen to eat breakfast. He was particular, and breakfast was the same each morning, consisting of toast, Cheerios and o.j. He felt it was a solid breakfast. She was not allowed to stay at the table while he ate. He preferred solitude, which he could see he would embrace even more now that they had a new dressing ritual.

"Ready?" she asked after she had brushed his teeth at the kitchen sink.

He nodded and she handed him his backpack. He lied. He wasn't. Is anyone ready for something new and large and different? he thought to himself as he took the backpack from her and followed her out to the car.

On the way, she prepared him for "real school".

"Kindergarten and pre-school were a warm-up for the big leagues," she said.

Though Kale loved baseball, the useful analogy didn't quell his nerves. She went on to explain in preschool and kindergarten, the children were confined to a small playground with those similar in age, and could only watch the bigger kids as they played and ran and fought and did other big kid things. But now in first grade, he would be going to lunch with first through eighth graders. He would be on the same playground, swinging and playing and sliding next to the "big kids".

The thought slapped him across the face. He looked at her with knots in his stomach and worries flooding his mind. She smiled, helped him into the car and held the door open.

She asked, "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"You okay?"

"I don't feel good."

He meant it. Big kids, big playground, and big cafeteria—he was freaking out.

She patted his head. "You'll feel better once the day gets going. Who knows, you might make a best friend today."

Then she closed the door and went to her side. She slid into the seat and started the car. Neil Diamond, singing "Oh Sherry", blared out of the speakers and she turned the music down. As they backed out, she was all smiles and hummed along with good-ole Neil.

His parents had decided to send him to a private school. It was housed on the grounds of an old church that consisted of three domed buildings which held the church sanctuary, the elementary classrooms and the gym. In front of the domes, a huge half-moon driveway served as the unloading dock for the first through fifth grades. The lawn in front of the domes was filled with palm trees, bent and twisted in all manner of shapes. Patches of grass grew where they could around the trunks of the trees.

Kale took it all in as they edged their way into line and waited for his time to get out. He watched out the window as child after child got out of their cars and walked toward the big domes. As they neared the teacher helping the children out of the car, his mother reached behind his seat and patted his kneed. He placed his backpack in his lap. The time had arrived.

"I want you to have a special day. I love you." She blew him a kiss.

The teacher opened his door. "Hello, there," she said.

No turning back. In that moment, as she held the car door open for him, as he dropped to the sidewalk, backpack over his shoulder, Kale crossed the mystical portal into first grade.

"I love you," his mother called and then the door slammed shut.

Kale froze as she drove away. He kept thinking that this was a nightmare, that she would turn around and get him. But the red Honda Civic just kept moving down the road until it turned the last corner and disappeared.

"Come on." He could feel the teacher's hand pull him toward the domes. He turned and followed, his eyes on the sidewalk. "What grade are you in?" she asked.

"First," he muttered.

"Ah, Mrs. Evans class. She's a wonderful teacher."

She led him to the dome that held the classrooms – the middle dome. It was musty, the lights were dimmed, the walls were white and bare with the exception of occasional water stains that snaked their way down from the ceiling. The carpet was old and worn and water stained as well. And the farther we ventured the more it smelled like a wet shoe.

They walked to the center of the building and stopped at room 103. There were no widows, just a door. Muffled noises came from the room. The teacher opened the door slowly and poked her head in. She spoke but Kale couldn't hear what she said. He peered around her and caught a glimpse of a girl in a red dress passing by the door.

"Go on in," the teacher said and lets him pass.

Kale stepped into Mrs. Evans room and stopped; the door almost hit him when she let it go. Kids were everywhere - at their desks, at the pencil sharpener, at the trashcan, at the bookshelves. Noise, chatter, and banging filled the air. Mrs. Evans stood and approached him.

"Kale Williams? Is that your name?"

He nodded, "Yes," to her, afraid to speak. His eyes widened as she approached him. She was enormous. Wider than she was tall, she seemed to roll toward him as she spoke. For a moment, he thought he was going to be crushed.

"Why, Kale, are you feeling well?"

He nodded another yes.

She bent low; a waft of stale rose perfume filled the air around her. Her glasses slid off her face.

"You're as white as a ghost. Come and sit down."

She slowly turned and waddled toward an empty desk in the back of the room. He picked up her glasses and followed her.

She pointed: "This is your desk."

He could see that it was: his name was written in bubble letters on a sheet of colored paper, laminated and taped to the top of a brown desk. Kale handed her the glasses.

"Why, Kale, thank you so much. I was wondering why everything was so blurry."

She took the glass, perched them back on her nose and inched by his desk, knocking over a chair. He watched as she managed to squeeze behind her desk and fill her chair.

Kale couldn't move. He felt like he was in a trance, and all he could do was watch the kids talk, bang, read, and slam their desks open and shut.

"Kale, have a seat and please put your supplies away," Mrs. Evans said.

He pulled his chair out and sat down. The desktop lifted up to reveal a storage space for his pencils, erasers, rulers, paper, and so on. Kale unloaded his backpack's contents into his desk. Once he was done, he spied the other backpacks in the corner and joined his to the pile.

And that was the routine - that was how each day began. He would get out of the car in the driveway, make his way down the musty hall, come through the door, and sit at his desk until everyone had put their backpacks down. Then he would get up, put his backpack with the others and sneak back to his seat. Kale did this, without notice, for the first few weeks.

And he was happy with this because Kale was fat – his mother said he was just chubby – but he knew, at 6 years of age, that he was fat, and he didn't want to be noticed.

He remembered one morning, sitting quietly at his desk, listening to the teacher, when the boy next to him looked his way. Kale caught his stare out of the corner of his eye and smiled at him. Mrs. Evans had just moved the boy next to Kale that morning; he was the first kid to sit next to Kale.

"What's your name?" the boy asked.

"Kale," he whispered.

"My name is Carl," he said as he pulled a G.I. Joe figure out of his desk and put it on his lap. "This is G.I. Joe. Cool, huh?"

Kale gazed at the toy in sheer wonderment. He was no dummy. This was a momentous occasion. This was a real G.I. Joe action figure. He had never seen one up close, just on the Saturday morning cartoons.

"Wow," Kale exclaimed.

He didn't realize how loud he had said, "Wow", until he noticed the classroom was quiet. The hush seized Kale by the back of his neck. He looked up to see Mrs. Evans staring at him. The entire class was staring at him and his new friend. Kale glanced at Carl and he was beat red.

"Mr. Kale," Mrs. Evans scolded. "I was in the middle of a lesson. Would you like to teach it?" She paused for a long time. Then, "Would you?"

Kale was stunned. She hadn't spoken to him like that before. In fact, she hadn't really spoken to him since the first day. He didn't know what to say.

"Mr. Kale. Mr. Kale! Answer me."

He stammered, "Nnnnnooo."

"Then please refrain from speaking out of turn." She stepped toward Carl. "Mr. Carl, I will gladly take that toy you have in your lap."

Carl weakly handed it to her. She snatched it and took G.I. Joe to her desk.

"I will give it back to you at the end of the week. Hopefully, Mr. Carl, you will learn your lesson and not bring toys to school."

She returned to the front of the class and resumed teaching. The class turned back to listen, except for Carl. He glared at Kale. He caught the evil look and quickly fixed his eyes on Mrs. Evans, hoping Carl would go away, hoping against hope that he would forget G.I. Joe's captivity.

But Carl didn't.

At lunch recess, Carl made sure that Kale knew he was angry.

"Thanks a lot, Kale," he bellowed, as if his right arm had been torn from his body.

Kale tried to ignore him. He moved away from the slide, and stood off to the side of the recess yard, wishing he was home with his mother.

"Now I can't play with my new toy!" Carl screeched across the yard. "I just got it yesterday!"

Kale felt horrible; there had been no intent to harm. But the damage was done. And he found myself wishing to never talk to anyone again.

Carl wasn't finished. He ended his verbal assault with a loud, ungodly, deep-throated, "I hate you!"

That finished Kale off. He couldn't believe it: no one had ever said they hated him. In fact, no one had ever said anything mean to Kale – ever! He was at a loss. He felt the sting of rejection for the first time and his only response was, of course, the worst possible thing he could have done: he cried. In hindsight, Kale should've run over and slugged Carl in the face. Or kicked him in the shin. But instead he wept like a little baby.

Carl saw him blubbering. And in that moment, he became a shark that had smelled blood in the water, and went in for the kill.

"Ah, pooor Kale, he's gonna cry! Wahhhh! Wahhh! Baby Kale! Baby Kale!"

He chanted this over and over and over, the words pounding Kale into the ground. Carl saw the effect he was having and decided to make it worse by dancing in a circle around Kale.

"Baby Kale! Baby Kale!"

Kale had nowhere to flee, trapped, until, fortunately, the recess whistle blew and everyone made their way to the duty aide and formed a line. He waited in a corner of the yard until the last possible minute. Then shuffled his way to the back of line.

Carl spotted him and stepped out and shouted, "Baby Kale!" until the teacher smacked him on the head and made him get back in place.

The line moved forward and Kale with it, his head down. He didn't notice the little girl in front of him. A little taller than Kale, her hair was in pigtails, and she was skinny and wore a red dress. She was the girl he had seen the first day of school.

As they walked she said, "My name is Anne. I'm in your class."

Kale looked up and saw that she was smiling at him.

"Why are you crying?" she asked.

He lowered his gaze, embarrassed at the truth.

"Will you play with me at the next recess?" she asked.

He was tongue tied. He didn't know what to say. She asked him again.

Finally Kale said, "Okay."

She smiled again and turned around. Weeks had passed and no one had asked him to do anything. Carl was the first person to really talk to him and Kale had screwed that up. Now, this little girl, in a red dress, was asking him to be her friend. A moment of hesitation caused by the fact that she was a girl, which was kind of icky, quickly passed. He decided he wasn't going to be picky.

Anne and Kale played together at the next recess. Kale decided that for a girl, she had a startling imagination. That and the fact that she didn't like Barbie's and other girly stuff, but instead loved superheroes, like Kale, won him over.

A collection of puddles that had formed in the concrete islands in the parking lot during a rainstorm the previous night was the ideal spot to launch their friendship. She was Wonder Woman and he, Aquaman. Their mission, destroy the Legion of Doom, led by Lex Luther, who had recently invaded Aquaman's underwater kingdom and threatened the lives of his people. As Wonder Woman, Anne answered the cry for help and fought with him when no one else had.

"I have come to help you, Aquaman," she said in her deepest, grown-up woman voice.

"Thank you, Wonder Woman," he responded, playing as though a long battle had bested him. "I was beginning to think I was alone in this war."

"You are never alone, Aquaman. Not when Wonder Woman is near." She jumped up on the curb, put her fists on her hips and looked off into the distance.

Recess had never been so fun and had never passed so quickly. A subtle sadness descended on Kale when the times ended each day.

Besides being a great Wonder Woman, she played soccer and was as fast anyone in the class, even Carl. Frequently, during P.E., she was a team captain and would always pick Kale first for her team. He was slow, but because of his width, he played goalie. And she always said every good soccer team needs a good goalie. Not much could get past him.

Later on in the year, after P.E. one day, Anne and Kale stood at the back of the line, waiting to return to class. They had beaten Carl's team again. She was excited, having scored the winning goal, a first for her. She was laughing and giggling and talking all at the same time. Neither noticed Carl's looming presence until he pushed his way in front of Anne and got in Kale' face.

Shocked and scared, Kale stepped back and tripped over the curb.

"Oh poor, Kale, look at him," he said.

As he spoke, standing over Kale, a smile crept over his face as his eyes travel down the length of Kale' body and stop around his waist area. It was too late to do anything about it: Kale' shirt had hiked up and his gut was hanging out.

He pointed at Kale and said, "You're fat!"

Those two words, like two large cymbals being slapped on either side of his head, reverberated through his mind, his soul, his spirit. Kale gazed upward and Carl's grinning face blocked out the sun. He chanted "You're fat!" over and over. The words "You're fat" filled his mind. Everyone knew he was fat, but they had the common courtesy to never say anything. Kale was crushed. His little heart snapped, a dry twig broken by the weight of Carl's insult.

Amidst the taunting, Kale couldn't see or hear Ann. Carl just laughed and turned to get back in line. But he never made it. Anne was waiting for him and delivered a right cross that shook his world. She caught him square on the jaw and Carl dropped to the ground with a thud. A tooth flew out of his mouth and landed nearby. A loud wail erupted from Carl's gut as he groped for the tooth.

Her smiling face filled Kale' vision for a moment. She extended her slender hand and helped Kale to his feet. She dusted off his back and then was sent immediately to the principal's office. She told Kale at recess that she received three swats for her wicked punch, and was suspended for a day.

She smiled and said it was worth it.

The first day back after her suspension, they sat side by side all recess long. He was heart broken and ashamed. She had a white rock in her hand and scratched something on the sidewalk. When she was done, she pulled him to his feet and they looked down at what she had written.

"Kale + Anne" and underneath that "Friends Forever". 

### Fran Answers for God

"You don't answer for God!" he had shouted.

"I never said I did," Fran had replied calmly.

"You don't answer for God! You don't' answer for God! He don't need you! You don't answer for God!"

His voice had risen and risen and this must have gotten to Fran.

"Well, neither do you!" Fran had exclaimed.

That's what did it. That pushed the loon over the edge. Poor Fran. That's her, over there, behind the folding table, under the huge green umbrella, up against the concrete wall, right smack dab in the middle of the boardwalk. That's her, with the cast on her left arm.

You'll think I'm stupid, but she's fun to watch as she gets out her Jesus pamphlets and her "Go to church with me" flyers. She arranges them just so, puts her notepad in front of her and settles into her folding chair. I can always hear the rubber feet of the chair scraping the sand on the sidewalk whenever she first pulls herself up to the table.

Today, she's wearing her pink vest and white ankle-length skirt. Her $5 dollar sunglasses sit perched on the end of her nose where they really do no good at all. And, as is usual for Fran, her hair is done up in a nice Evangelical bun. Somehow I find myself attracted to her.

Every morning, I walk the block from my apartment, stop here at Kona's Grill, grab the worst decaf coffee in town and stand under this awning and watch her set up. When she's done, I stroll over and sit on the concrete wall next to her. And we talk.

It all began as a joke. I couldn't believe my eyes the first time I saw her going through her ritual. This odd looking woman, out of place, obviously from the mid-west (Illinois to be exact) sitting on the Pacific Beach boardwalk, telling sun worshippers they need Jesus. Or at least that's what I thought she was doing. So I went up to her table to mock her and ended up making a friend. No one I know would understand my attraction or our friendship. All I can tell them is that Fran is unique.

She'd been coming out here—to San Diego—for twenty years with her husband during the summers. But two years ago, they had felt a need to move here. So, one year ago, her husband got a job doing something with the city and they moved to San Diego. She discovered her "calling" while her husband went to work and she began walking the boardwalk. She saw so many people that she calls "lost" (I've since convinced her not to call them that – bad marketing) and she felt "compassion" for them. She got the idea to set up a table and talk with people about God from some missionary book she'd read. She set the table up and waited.

No one came.

Then she decided to bring an umbrella, give people shade from the sun, a place to rest for a moment from their jog or biking. A few stopped, but no one wanted to talk about God. Then I came along four months ago. And that's when things changed.

I am a marketing guru so to speak and she and I discussed—for an entire month—that she needed more than a green umbrella to bring in the crowds. She needed branding. She needed to tell people who she was and what she was doing. Her response three months ago was to create a sign on hot pink poster board that read "Bible Questions Answered Here". I, of course, made fun of her. She couldn't possibly attract attention by hand scrawling "Bible Questions Answered Here" on a hot pink board.

I was wrong. It worked.

Before the sign, a few people every couple of days would stop, mostly to take a flyer and write a phone number on the blank backside. Not many would talk with Fran. Which always confused me. She's not like the wackadoo that stands on the corner by Joe's Market, with his stupid sandwich board sign hanging around his naked body, shouting how we are all going to hell and the world is coming to an end tomorrow.

Fran is no wacko. She is intelligent and funny and persistent as hell. I told her that once and she laughed.

"Hell is persistent," she said, smiling.

I'm new to the whole religion thing and it took me a while to get what she was saying. But she's right. Hell is persistent. It is unrelenting in what it belches out. Now, don't mistake me. I'm no Jesus freak. But the more I listen to Fran, the more she makes sense. She's full of common sense. When I talk with her, things are clear, her thoughts are clear. I like that.

But not everyone does.

The psycho with the sign didn't like Fran's common sense. I'm talking about the guy shouting she didn't answer for God. He had a sign. It was made out of plywood, nailed to a two by four and he had painted on it, "Religion kills!"

We had seen him the day before, riding his bike in a circle in front of us. He read her sign, smirked and biked away. He returned the next day – and I, of course wasn't there. He returned with his sign and started shouting. After Fran shouted back, "Well, you don't either!" the man blew a circuit.

Kona (the owner of this shop) told me the freak threw down his bike and rushed Fran. Before she could call for help or anyone could stop him, he swung his sign high over his head and brought it down on her, hitting her over and over again with the edge of it.

I can't imagine the scene – well, I can, but I don't want to. Like some demoniac from the Bible, it took four guys to pull him away and wrestle him to the ground, disarming him of his plywood weapon. The guy was still shouting as they held him down and the lifeguards called the police.

Kona said he thought Fran was dead. He knelt at her side, her head bleeding, her left arm shattered from trying to keep the sign from splitting her head open.

But she was conscious, in pain, but conscious. Fortunately, Fran had stationed herself in front of the lifeguard tower. She told me yesterday a real stud lifeguard had helped her, staunching the wound in her forehead, staying with her until the ambulance came.

And here she is, cast and all. Sitting there, ready to answer questions. Ready to lovingly tell someone why there is so much evil in this world. Ready to assure those who wonder that God loves them. Invariably, whoever leaves the table leaves with a smile. I always do.

I'm finding it harder and harder to leave her. The longer I spend with her the more I want to be with her. She's twenty years older than me. She dresses like a school marm. She loves God and I don't know if there is a God. She's a widow and I've never been married. She has grandkids and I don't even talk to my grandparents.

I want to be with her all the time. Which is why I'm still standing here, hiding so to speak. I want to sit next to her so bad. But I can't. I can't because I didn't visit her in the hospital.

It's killing me.

Fran is totally alone in this life. She moved out here, thousands of miles away from her family and she has no one now. Her husband died suddenly a month ago, leaving her without an income, without security, without companionship. I'm the only friend she has, I think, and I didn't go to the hospital. I knew where she was, but I didn't go. Kona told me the room she was in and I stayed in my apartment and watched American Idol.

It hurt Fran. Yesterday, when we talked, she was distant. She perked up when she mentioned the lifeguard, but she was different with me. There was a distance. A coldness. My stomach is in knots. But I don't know what to do.

Last night, I tried to tell myself I was crazy. Oil and water don't mix. But my gut tells me to apologize, to make amends. She was almost beaten to death by a psycho-God-hater and I wasn't here to help. She lay in the hospital recovering from a severe concussion and a shattered forearm and I didn't even call to see if she needed anything.

My mind says I don't owe her anything. But my gut says I do.

I do because she's never asked anything of me.

I do because she's never tried to change me – she's accepted me as I am.

I do because she's Fran and she answers my questions for God.

### Gerald's CB Radio

He wasn't sure why or how, but he'd always been able to balance knives on their point in the middle of the palm of his hand. His right palm, specifically. It never worked in his left palm. This was a point of pride for Gerald and a constant wonder to anyone he displayed the trick. Tonight he balanced his black KA-BAR Korean War Commemorative Knife in his right palm. The black blade glistened in the fluorescent light.

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and soaked the back of army green wife beater as he sat in his favorite plastic chair. His army fatigue pants clung to his bony legs, wet from the heat of his garage. Gerald didn't mind, this was his temple, his retreat, his bunker. He had turned his garage into an ammo depot/command center and crammed it with everything he loved: army rifles, hand grenades, Special Forces knives, tools, armed forces magazines, a vintage army jeep, a CB radio, and an old refrigerator, which he stocked with beer and emptied once a week by himself.

He kept his CB radio on a card table, positioned to his left. It was turned on, spitting out the normal chatter from truckers and others like Gerald: dirty jokes and curses aimed at the damn liberals that ran their government.

Directly in front of Gerald, ten paces from the front of his chair, on the dart board tacked to his wall, was a collage of pictures –pictures of the present liberal leadership cut out from newspapers and magazines. A trucker on the CB radio cussed them a blue streak. Every time one of the liberals was mentioned by name, Gerald extended his left middle finger, and flipped the collage the bird.

He reached over, opened the fridge, grabbed a beer, popped the can open and chugged it down. He belched and imaged himself, Gerald the Terrible, walking into the Capital, two M14's under his arms, with all those damn congressmen plotting against his country, his guns shining in the light. He'd line the liberal jerk-offs (and some of those so-called conservatives) up in a row and then mow them down with his M14's.

As he imagined the carnage, he laughed and downed another beer.

He balanced the knife again, in his right palm. He watched the blade. Of course he'd never do such a thing, that would be treason. That would be inhumane. That would go against everything he'd fought for in Korea and 'Nam – namely the rights of every man, woman and child in America. And that included those liberals.

In one swift movement, he tossed the knife up, grabbed the blade, and flung it at the collage on the dartboard. THUNK! It passed through the collage, the board and sunk into the wall. He stood, walked ten paces and grabbed the hilt of the knife.

No, he would never do such a thing. It was just his imagination, running wild.

### On Time

His eyes were fixed on his car a hundred yards away, Marcus held the beer close to his chest, condensation from the bottle wetting his blue and white gingham shirt. That morning he had ironed the shirt and badgered Carol as to whether she really wanted to attend this outing.

"Why does your family hold these things in the summer?" he had asked.

"Because my family is a bunch of dumb asses," she had retorted.

He chuckled to himself as he watched for his wife to emerge from the car.

But she didn't.

She remained in the passenger seat of their car, right where he had left her, while he stood a by the lake, in the company of his in-laws. He wiped his forehead and flicked the sweat off to the side, toward the lake, the motion causing his wrists to throb again.

Carol wiggled in her seat, pulling her blouse away from her damp back. The car was muggy. It was June in Arizona, and sweat ran down her back, causing her white floral print tank top to stick to her skin. She had sat at the vanity in their bathroom that morning, half dressed, hair combed, face clean and ready for make-up, but frozen: she couldn't bring herself to complete the job. Her black eyes narrowed as she glared at her reflection and noticed every wrinkle and bump and blemish that appeared on her face and neck and arms and chest.

"We don't have to go," he had said from the other room.

But they had to go. And now she was frozen again, this time in the car, sweat dripping into her underwear.

Susan wandered the party, pretending. Susan pretended that she didn't see Carol in the car, crying. She pretended that Marcus wasn't a few feet away from her even though she could smell the cologne she had bought for him. She kept herself distracted by strolling her new born son around the folding tables, tables covered in white lace table clothes, plastic plates and utensils, pitchers of ice tea and lemonade.

She walked and nodded to her relatives. Skinny relatives and fat relatives. Women and men. Most of them she hadn't seen in years and would never see again. And when they would stop and say how cute her little Jack was, she would smile and say, "Thank you".

All the while, Susan asked herself why she had curled her hair, donned her new summer dress – the chocolate and blue swirl patterned one, the one Marcus said he loved – and put on her favorite pair of high heels. She kept asking why she had done if for him.

Marcus didn't look directly at Susan. He could see out of his peripheral vision that she was meandering between the tables. But he didn't want to think about her anymore. He was through with her.

So he locked his gaze on Carol.

They had to attend, Carol decided. He made up her mind when he came to the bathroom and stood in the door. He slid his shirt on slowly (he hadn't wrapped his wrists yet, so he was careful—he didn't want to snag the stitches—and they still hurt like hell) and said absentmindedly, "Susan will be there."

A jolt of anger had shot through Carol. She sat upright. She adjusted her camisole and, with purpose and clarity, assembled her face. She'd go to the event. She'd make sure her sister didn't get the upper hand.

The loud rush of water startled Marcus. He turned and watched the fountain in the middle of the lake shoot water straight up into the air, a hundred feet or so. Oddly enough, it reminded him of Carol and the anger he had seen in her eyes that morning, the morning he had told her the truth. And thinking about her anger and pain caused the lacerations on his wrist to pound under the gauze and tape. For a fleeting moment, he wished she hadn't found him.

But Carol had found him, on his back, behind the large rock water slide that fed their enormous swimming pool in their landscaped suburban backyard.

She had found him on his back, a jagged piece of metal in his hand, blood pooling around him, filling the gravel with red, his wrists shredded.

She found him only because she had a sick feeling come over her, like the time her father had died and no one had heard from him for a month and she just knew, knew, that he was dead. She found Marcus and after making sure he was still breathing, calmly went back to the house, called 9-1-1, grabbed some towels and then returned to his side, wrapping his wrists with the blue and chocolate colored towels.

She didn't realize it until later, but seeing him bleed, a feeling of relief had come over her. She had pulled a butcher's knife on him early that day after he had told her about he and Susan. She had grabbed the large knife and threatened him amidst her cursing and screaming.

The news had almost devastated her. She had raised her sister, Susan, on her own when their mother had been institutionalized. And now Susan had stabbed Carol in the back. Stolen her husband for a time. And her husband of ten years, her best friend, had broken his commitment to her. And Carol wanted them to pay. So when he tried to take his life, Carol felt assuaged.

The fountain turned off and the water fell into the middle of the lake. Marcus looked at his watch: 12:15. Right on time. The fountain came on every fifteen minutes.

Carol saw the radio clock: 12:15. She'd sat in the car for twenty minutes. The air coming out of the vents was hot now. She leaned over and turned the car key all the way, shutting the car off. She pulled the keys out and flipped down the visor to fix her make-up.

Marcus made his way to the car and tapped on his wife's window. She was fixing her mascara and flipped him the bird. He smiled and went to the front of the car, taking a seat on the hood. He sipped his beer and observed the gathering.

Carol's family members moved in and out of the tables smoothly, eating, drinking. Someone lay down under the willow tree that provided shade. None of them knew about the affair, the butcher knife, and Marcus's attempt at ending it all. And none of them would ever know – not today, and not ever. They were the kind of family that didn't like confrontation or scandals or problems.

Carol's father had been a drunk for years, but no one spoke of it, not even after he drowned in his own swimming pool.

They never spoke of the mother's institutionalization.

No one stepped in when it was obvious that Susan's husband, Jack, was beating her. They never asked for help, because they were never any problems.

The car door opened and shut. Carol walked, in a controlled, deliberate pace, to the front of the car. Her sandals crunched the gravel. Marcus slid off the hood and they walked hand in hand to the party.

Carol smiled, nodded, said hello. She hugged her mother, dressed in her typical white and yellow moo-moo, her big glasses teetering on the end of her nose, her hair a bird's nest.

Once the formalities were over, Marcus and Carol grabbed a plate of fried chicken, potato salad, tossed salad and glasses of iced tea. They chose a table near the lake and ate in silence, facing the party and enduring the heat.

Susan gave up. Her little one was hot and tired and crying and his diaper smelled like a sewage plant. Sweat dripped from the side of her head as she struggled to get the stroller to the van through the gravel.

Carol watched her baby sister load her mini-van up and drive away. Carol wondered if Jack knew about the affair. She wondered if Jack cared.

Probably not.

Her mother had told Carol that Jack was gone. Carol finished off the potato salad and thought that it was best for Susan.

Marcus tossed back the rest of a glass of lemonade. His wrist ached. Unexpectedly the fountain erupted behind them, the wind kicked up and water rained down on their table. Marcus grabbed his plate and stood with a yelp, backing away.

But Carol sat still. Sure the water had startled her, but as it fell, on her head and arms and neck and new blouse, she didn't want to move. The wind blew, the water fell, filling her plate and glass.

"Carol?" Marcus glanced around to see if anyone was watching them.

"Shh," she responded.

She turned her face up and the drops splashed on her cheeks and mouth, her make-up washing away. She cried and smiled and laughed. She closed her eyes, her tears and the lake water mixing, streaming down her neck, soaking her outfit.

Marcus stood to the side, plastic cup in one hand, Styrofoam plate in the other, and watched. He didn't notice that the throbbing in his wrists had stopped.

### The Best Thing

1.

Curtis held tight to the car door as they shifted lanes. He gripped it tighter as they changed again, weaving through two cars. He hated it when his mother drove like a bat out of hell. He tried to distract himself by looking out the window, to see the houses. But he couldn't make any of them out, everything was a blur. The manicured lawns and perfect shrubs were unrecognizable.

His mother checked the mirrors and cut over again. She glanced back and saw Curtis pressed against the seat, hands wrapped around the door handle.

"You okay?" she asked.

Curtis nodded, yes. Another swerve. Helen flipped the visor down and checked her dark, curly hair in the mirror. She checked her eyes, blood-shot, tired looking. She didn't notice until the last minute that she, in her red Jeep Liberty had run a red light.

"Sorry," she said.

The clock showed the time to proudly be 8:15. She muttered something about being late and Curtis heard it.

"Get out of the way!" she yelled as a blue SUV pulled out in front of her and slowed down.

She braked and swerved over. She passed the SUV and swerved back in her previous lane. She braked hard to turn right. Curtis poked his head up over the back seat and could see the man in the SUV motioning with his hand and yelling something.

"One more block to the school," she said.

Curtis peered around the passenger seat and saw that the time was now 8:18 He sighed and sat back.

"Don't worry, Curtis, we're almost there," she reassured him.

The kindergarten drop off spot, at the end of cul-de-sac, was empty so she pulled up and parked, grabbed Curtis from the back seat and rushed to the gate. The Kindergarten duty aide saw her coming and held the gate for her.

"Thanks, Max," Helen said.

"No problem. Hi Curtis!" Max beamed. He was an elderly man, retired. His bald-head gleamed in the sunlight, his white shirt was dirty from wrestling with some of the boys before school.

Curtis looked down and pinched his lip.

"It's not you, Max," Helen said, brushing her hair back.

The huge play yard, covered by enormous canopies to protect the children from the Arizona heat, was empty and lifeless. Balls sat idle. Swings were slowly coming to a stop, recently emptied of their occupants. Up ahead, Helen could see Curtis's classroom door closing.

"Miss Jones, please wait!" Helen called.

She scooped Curtis up and ran as fast as her business skirt would let her legs move. Miss Jones, Curtis' frumpy, young teacher held the door. Though she was just out of college, didn't have children and wasn't married, she gave Helen the "you're-late-again" look.

Helen ignored the patronizing stare.

"Thank you," Helen said.

She set Curtis down as they entered the classroom and put his backpack in his cubby which was one of many cubbies in the wall of storage. It was just inside the door and took up the entire wall of the room. The opposite side of the room was the whiteboard and other various displays Miss Jones used to teach "her" kindergarteners.

Curtis was motionless at Helen's feet. The class was alive with activity. Two boys were playing with cars on a mat in the center of the room. A group of girls were at the baking center near the back of the room. Two other boys were building a tower and knocking it down in the story center, under the window that looked out to the play yard.

Miss Jones squatted in front of Curtis, holding her skirt closed and adjusting her glasses. "You ready for today?" she asked.

Curtis looked at her and pinched his bottom lip. His other hand was resting under his chin. Helen bent over and brushed Curtis' bangs from her forehead.

"Answer her, please, Curtis," his mother said.

He shook his head, "No". Helen squatted in front of Curtis and straightened his Izod shirt. She frowned at him.

"It'll be okay," Miss Jones said.

Miss Jones took him by the hand and led him away from the door. Helen watched him for a moment, then left the room.

2.

From behind her desk, Miss Jones could view the whole room. The kids were at their tables, four to a table, writing their names over and over. Curtis was at a table with one other boy and two girls. He leaned low over his paper, pencil in hand, working, concentrating on each letter, wanting each one perfect.

Miss Jones looked at the clock and said, "Okay. Put your pencils and papers away. It's choosing time."

The kids gladly responded and soon the class was in a state of mild chaos as the kids scattered around the room to different "choosing" areas. Scattered around the rooms, Miss Jones had set up different activities for the kids to do: two boxes full of sand and shells sitting on a table, three computers with math computer games loaded, a blocks area big enough for three kids, a cooking station with plastic foods and plastic cooking ware, and a reading area with books and stuffed animals. The kids dispersed two to each area, except for Curtis. Curtis didn't budge. He stayed at his table, looking at his hands.

Miss Jones gave him a moment to get up and choose a spot. But it became apparent he wasn't going to move.

"Curtis? Come here," she said.

Curtis slowly got up and made his way to her desk.

"Now listen. You have to choose a station," she said firmly. "You've played with the computers before, go over to that station."

Curtis turned three shades of red and tears began to well up in his eyes.

Miss Jones had had enough. "You need to choose something, Curtis. You can cry, but you have to choose something."

Curtis cried softly and returned to his table.

3.

Will opened the door to the kitchen just as Curtis began to yell at the top of his lungs. Tim, his older brother, having punched Curtis in the gut, was running for his room. Helen was stooped over Curtis.

"You okay?" she asked.

Curtis was mad, crying and not answering questions.

"I'm home," Will said.

Helen looked at Will over her shoulder, "I need you to take care of Tim."

"Right," Will said. "Tim! My room! Now!" he yelled down the hall as he went to his room to change out of his work clothes.

A few minutes later, Tim ran from the room crying. Will reappeared in a T-shirt and shorts. Curtis had stopped crying and was back in his room. Helen was washing the dishes and Will attempted to kiss her on the check on his way to the fridge. She pulled away.

"Ah, had a good day?" he said.

He grabbed a soda from the fridge, cracked it open, took a long swallow, spun, belched and went to the small circular table that took up most of the space in their tiny kitchen. He scooted it away from the wall, the legs of the table squeaking on the tile, and sat down.

"Meeting went good," he said.

"Good," she replied.

Curtis stood in the hallway, looking on. His dad saw him and smiled, prompting Curtis to bolt for his room.

Will twirled the soda can on the table. "So, you thought about getting Curtis a dog?"

"Not ready for that," she said. She huffed as she pulled the plug to drain the sink of the dishwater.

"He had a dream last night," Will said. "He dreamt we got him a puppy – a surprise."

"I know, I saw the drawing," she said. "You going to pick up the poop if we get one? The boys certainly won't. I just think they're too young still."

He belched again. "Hey, open the cabinet," he said.

She pushed the door open with her foot. He tossed the can in the trash.

"Nice."

"Thanks."

"It's been a crappy day," she said. "Curtis refused to speak to Miss Jones again."

"For the whole day?" Will asked.

"Yep."

"Wow."

"There's nothing wrong with him," she said.

"I didn't say there was."

"But your tone –"

"Come on, it's weird." He ran his hands through his hair.

She sat down across from him. "Anyway, Miss Jones was upset, and said we need to meet again. Then Tim picked on Curtis the whole ride home, then he punched Curtis for no good reason," she leaned her head forward and held it with her hands. The paint was chipping off her nails, white cuticle was showing through.

"What do we do?"

"About what?" she asked.

"The dog," he said.

"Well," she paused to reconsider what she was about to say. "A girl in his class has a rabbit. It had babies and they are giving them away. They're easy to keep. It's not a dog."

"Does he want a rabbit?"

She sighed. "He seemed to like the idea when I mentioned it on the way home from school..."

"How could you tell? Did he grunt or something?"

She smacked his arm in reply.

4.

Curtis straddled the miniature backhoe. He scooped out a large pile of sand, pivoted the bucket to the right and dumped the sand on a pile he was amassing. Two boys ran past him, in pursuit of a red ball. He ignored them and pivoted for another scoop.

Miss Jones observed him. Shy is not the word, she thought. Something else...

The red ball bounced toward Curtis and landed on his sand pile. Kevin, a boy from Mrs. Carlson's class, walked over and waited for Curtis to bounce it to him. Curtis didn't budge so Kevin had to get the ball himself.

"Do you want to play?" Kevin asked.

Curtis' attention remained fix on his sand pile. Kevin looked at Curtis then the pile and then Curtis. He finally shrugged and left. Curtis resumed his scooping and dumping routine.

Miss Jones made a mental note to add that to his file. She checked her watch. 11:15. She blew her whistle and yelled, "Line-up."

Her class assembled quickly, except Curtis: he stayed on the backhoe until the line formed. When he did join them, he stood at the back, pinching his lip, eyes down. The line inched forward and Miss Jones stood at the door.

When Curtis reached her, she asked, "How was the digging today?"

He showed no interest in her -- it was as if she had never spoken to him. He held his chin, pinched his lip and shuffled his feet.

"Join the class," she said, gently pushing him into the room.

5.

Miss Jones sat in a little kid chair on one side of a table. She closed the folder in front of her. Will and Helen sat in two other little kid chairs on the other side of the table. Helen was upset but quiet, for the moment.

"So...he's not stupid..." Will said with an edge in his voice.

"No. His spelling and math and other skills are up to speed." Miss Jones replied.

"Then the problem is..." he asked.

"He is verbally challenged - to put it in lay man's terms. He won't talk to anyone, which makes it really hard to deal with h-"

Helen didn't want to hear any more. "We get the point. What are you saying?"

"I don't believe this is the place for him. He needs...special attention."

Will grew defensive. "He's shy."

"He's a distraction," Miss Jones said.

"He's a little quieter than others," Helen retorted.

"A little? He goes whole weeks without speaking to me! He won't talk with the other children at all." Miss Jones fired back.

"And you are recommending pulling him from here and placing him in the special ed?" Will said, and he found himself rising from the chair, face flush with anger.

Miss Jones sat stone faced and glared at them.

6.

Curtis knelt next to a bin of kids' books in his doctor's waiting room. The room was medium sized, the walls covered in murals depicting pirates and their treasure, animals and forests, a scuba diver and dolphins. It was a quiet room, the only sound coming from the secretary typing at the front desk. He couldn't find a book that he liked so he sat back in one of the chairs, alone in the empty room. He'd been sent out so Helen could talk openly with Dr. Pollard.

They were in the exam room, Dr. Pollard on his stool while Helen on the exam table.

"There really isn't much more I can do. It really isn't a physical disorder...not something I can write a prescription for," the old doctor said closing up his white lab coat. His bushy eyebrows raised and he adjusted his stethoscope.

"His teacher wants to put him in the special ed," Helen said.

"For this?" Dr. Pollard said, surprised at the recommendation. "Hmmm. Well, what I can do -- what I will do -- is recommend you to a pediatric psychologist. They are trained to work with selective silence." Dr. Pollard stood and closed Curtis' file. "When I was his age...I hid behind the couch when anyone -- family, friends, strangers -- came over to the house. I talked when I had to." He turned to his little medicine counter, his orthopedic shoes squeaked on the floor. He wrote on a little sheet of paper. "Give Dr. Willis a call. She's good with kids. Really."

Helen took the paper. "Thanks."

As she climbed down from the table, he said, "Don't worry. He'll grow out this. Helen, is there anything he really wants? A toy? A football? Something you can use to draw him out - something that can connect him to other kids?"

7.

"What's the house number?" Will asked as he turned their SUV into an unfamiliar neighborhood. He bent forward, over the steering wheel, straining to make out the numbers. Helen rummaged through her purse. Tim and Curtis sat in the back seat: Tim read a spy book; Curtis held a shoebox in his lap.

Curtis watched out his window as they passed by houses 10001, 10005, and 10009.

"10012," Helen said. She held up a little square of paper in her hand, the number written on it.

"10012," Will said. "I think that is the house."

He pointed at a large lady standing in the front yard of a house half way down the block. Her large rainbow colored moo-moo swung side to side as she waved to them.

They parked and Will got out and walked around to greet her.

"Howdy," she said, a large grin spread from ear to ear.

"Hi," Will said.

He reached out and took her hand. They shook, her hand swallowed his, the fat on her arm jiggled.

"Well, this must the rest of the family," she said.

Helen got out and opened Curtis' door. Curtis slowly slid down and Helen took the shoebox from him. Tim followed and jumped down from the seat.

The lady led them to her backyard through the side gate; Curtis walked closely behind his father. It wasn't a large yard; what was there was mostly full of weeds and tall grass. A pool, half-full, the water green from neglect, sat dead center in the yard.

The lady pointed to the patio, which was hanging onto the house for dear life.

"The bunny parents, well, they live on the patio. The mama is black and the daddy is yella. The young ones, yep, they's all different mixes. They's in the side yard."

Curtis couldn't see the parents, but believed they were there. The family followed the moo-moo lady to the other side of the yard where a little pen had been set up. It was a dirt run, fenced in with chicken wire and rotten two-by-fours. Three one month-old rabbits hopped around inside and ducked in and out of the holes they had dug.

From behind his father's leg, Curtis could hear the lady point out, "That black and white one, well, he's the only one left that hasn't been spoken for."

Curtis peeked between his dad's legs. He was happy: it was the one he would've picked out anyway.

"We'll take him," Will said.

The lady bent and snatched it by the back of the neck. Helen held the box out with one hand and the lid in the other. The moo-moo lady put the rabbit in and Helen closed the lid.

"So, who's it for?" the lady asked.

"Curtis," Will said.

The lady bent and pinched Curtis' cheek. "He's your bunny? Huh?"

Curtis shuffled his feet, focused on his dad's shoe.

"Curtis!" Will said and patted him on the shoulder.

"What's wrong, rabbit got your tongue?" The moo-moo lady laughed hard at her joke.

Curtis stepped further away.

Helen leaned down, "Say thank you."

Will cleared his throat. "Sorry. He's shy. Thank you."

"Oh, that's all right. 'Sides, rabbits don't like loud noises."

The five of them walked back to the gate and to the front yard. The moo-moo lady stayed near the house and watched them get into the car.

As they settled in, his mother handed Curtis the box. He lifted the lid enough he could see the little bunny balled up in the corner. It shivered a little. Curtis petted him to calm him down.

Later that night, Will called Helen to the living room where the had set-up the cage. Curtis lay next to it, asleep, and next to him was a piece of paper. Helen bent over and picked it up; it was drawing of the rabbit with words scrawled under it. She read it and hugged Will

"He named it Chocolate," she said.

8.

Helen had taken Curtis to see Dr. Wallis and after a thorough interview, she deemed that he needed to stay put. Her written note to Miss Jones stated that the best thing for Curtis was a safe, stable environment and active communication between teacher and parents. Miss Jones eased up on her push to have Curtis moved out, due to the note, and Helen made an attempt to communicate with her on an ongoing basis.

Which led to the Miss Jones reading the class Peter the Rabbit. Helen had told her about the rabbit and Miss Jones thought maybe this would get his attention, draw him out. At the mention of the word rabbit, Curtis momentary looked up. A spark of interest was there. Miss Jones read the story with great enthusiasm and kept an eye on him to see what kind of reaction she would get.

As she wound up the story, she found Curtis was fully engaged and she took the opportunity to ask him some questions.

"Curtis? Do you know anything about bunnies?" she asked. "Your mom said you have one? Do you have a rabbit?"

The class waited for his response. He could see them looking at him and Miss Jones could see him retreat inward.

"Curtis, do you have a rabbit?" she asked, trying to draw him back out..

"What's he look like?" a little girl in the front asked.

"What's his name?" a boy next to Curtis asked.

Unexpectedly, his eyes welled up and his lip quivered, he buried his head and started to cry quietly.

"What's wrong with him?" one girl asked.

A boy sitting near Miss Jones asked her, "Why doesn't he never talk."

Miss Jones, filled a brand new compassion for Curtis, quickly diverted their attention away from the boy.

"Class, who wants to hear another story?" she said. The class turned back to her and left Curtis to himself.

9.

Helen stopped outside the playroom, where they had moved Chocolate's cage. Will was in front of the cage with Curtis on his lap, telling him a story about Chocolate on an adventure in space. Chocolate was chomping on his food and seemed to listen to the story as well. Helen didn't want to interrupt so she stayed in the hallway. She could see Curtis smiling and giggling and holding his chin. She left them to themselves.

When the story ended, father and son sat in silence and looked on as Chocolate drank water from his water bottle.

Will put Curtis to bed shortly after and joined his wife in the living room. Helen was folding towels on the couch and Will laid down next to her

"Did Chocolate get home safely? From space?" she asked.

"Yep."

"Did he say anything?" she asked.

"Yeah, he wants more carrots."

"You are sooo funny. I meant Curtis, dummy."

"Not yet," Will closed his eyes.

Helen sighed and kept folding.

10.

Curtis sat crossed legged in front of the cage, drawing on his pad of paper with his lucky, special yellow bird pencil. Tim walked by the room and spotted Curtis.

"What you doing?" Tim asked him.

Curtis ignored him and kept drawing. Tim was used to this by now and sat down next to him. He watched Curtis draw, and Curtis let him.

"That's real good, Curtis."

Curtis kept drawing as Tim looked back and forth from Chocolate to the drawing pad.

Tim soon grew bored, not one for spending much time in one place, and got up to leave.

Before he did, he said, "He's a good rabbit."

Curtis stopped drawing and watched Chocolate eat as Tim left the room.

11.

"Curtis, did you feed Chocolate?" his mother called. "We've got to go. Don't want to be late to school."

Curtis jumped off the top of his bunk bed and hurried to scoop out pellets from the bag under the sink in his bathroom. He unlocked the gate of Chocolates cage and carefully dumped them in Chocolate's bowl.

"There you go, Chocolate," he whispered. They were his first words in a month and Chocolate was the only audience. "I love you."

"Keep the gate locked," his mother said. "He can come out when we get home. Are your shoes and socks on?"

He bounced into the kitchen, a big grin on his face. It caught Helen off guard. When he met her at the garage door, she asked, "How's fuzzy face doing?"

"Good," he said. "But he wants carrots next time."

Helen froze. She didn't want to make it a big deal, him finally talking to her, so she just smiled, pretended nothing special had happened.

"We'll get him some tonight." She took his hand and squeezed it.

12.

Curtis was on the toy backhoe again. Miss Jones had watched him shuffle to it everyday and dig the same hole. Boys and girls would run around him and he wouldn't acknowledge their existence.

She watched the red ball bounce his way again. It landed in his hole and Kevin from Mrs. Carlson's class went over and waited for the ball. Curtis pinched his lip and blankly stared at the ground.

"I have a rabbit," Kevin said to Curtis. "His name is Penny. I call him that cause he's brown. Do you have a rabbit?"

Miss Jones observed Curtis slide off the backhoe, pick up the ball and bounce it to Kevin. She was pleasantly surprised when Curtis didn't return to the backhoe and the digging. Instead he stood and watched the two boys play.

### It's My Skin, Coach

I may never sleep again.

Every time I shut my eyes all I can see that boy pulling at his skin. It haunts me.

I can still hear him crying, too. And I can remember hoping that he wouldn't smother himself with his pillow.

"Shef, it's okay. I don't mind. You can cry. Let it out," I whispered to him in the dark of our hotel room.

"No, coach, it ain't okay," came his muffled reply.

We had this exchange a few times during the night. Each time, he would grow quiet for a spell. Then, when he thought I'd fallen asleep, he'd start up again, crying into his pillow. I could feel the floor of the room shake as he lay sobbing in his little bed -- if you could call it a bed. The bastard downstairs couldn't even give the giant kid a decent sized cot, let alone a roll-a-way bed. No, the jackass found the smallest, thinnest, oldest piece of shit they had and Shef wept on it, the aluminum supports creaking, the thin canvas threatening to snap, his legs dangling off of it at his knees.

But I blame myself for the bed.

It was 1912. Shef was my only catcher. A huge young man, muscular, large head, he was my best hitter, my best player. We wouldn't have been much of a team without him. He could hit the ball a country mile and run like the wind. When he rounded second, headed for third base, he looked like he was on skates. He had enormous hands: his teammates said the ball looked like a pebble when he held it. His arm was a cannon, somehow attached to his body by muscle and sinew: he once threw out, from his knees, a runner who was standing three steps off second base -- the runner never saw it coming. His character was rock solid: he never swore, said please and thank you, never said a mean word to anybody, never acted out in anger. And he was the funniest kid I ever knew. Made everyone laugh, even if they didn't like colored folk.

But laughter was nowhere to be found in that hotel room that night.

This wasn't the first time he had faced bigotry. Being the only black player on our team, he'd heard plenty of racial garbage from the stands, other players, his own team. He'd endured his share of abuse and never reacted to it outwardly. I thought he brushed it off. I guess I thought they all did, folks of his color.

I was wrong. I was wrong because I'm white and never, not once, have I been refused the use of a public restroom.

We had never stayed at that hotel before. I wasn't familiar with the management. It was our first time playing that college in their hometown. I knew the managers or owners of the nearby hotels of many of the college towns we played in and they'd give Shef a proper room, to himself, as long as he came and went through the backdoor. Seemed fair to me. I never asked Shef if he minded. I assumed it was enough for him that he had a room.

That night the team entered the hotel as usual: loud and rowdy – they were college guys. We'd won the night before and the euphoria was still in the air. Most of the guys went to the check-in desk and picked up the keys to their rooms. I hung back ensuring that they got their gear and luggage and didn't ruin the lobby. One by one, the team bounded up the stairs – except for Shef. He sat alone, on a bench against a wall.

"Shef, what's going on?" I asked.

"Don't know. Man said to sit over here and wait."

The man he was referring to stood behind the counter, oblivious to Shef and I. By now, the room was totally silent and I distinctly remember the shadows in the room as I approached the counter. They stretched like long fingers across the floor. Only a clock ticking on the wall above Shef made any noise. The man was the clerk: a skinny fellow. White as a sheet, a droopy left eye, thin patch of hair on a triangular shaped head, and a green visor perched on the edge of his forehead. I'll never forget him: the tobacco drool hanging from the patch of blonde hair on his chin, the missing lower teeth, the stench of his breath. His once white shirt stained from dinner and the blackest finger nails I'd ever seen. My stomach turned standing before him.

I stood at the counter for, what, a good minute or two, waiting for him to acknowledge me. His chin rested on his chest. His eyes were closed. Finally I said, "Excuse me?"

The clerk's eyes opened one at a time. He looked up at me. He chewed a huge wad of leaf and didn't say a word. He stared blankly at me and, without hesitation, spat over my shoulder, hitting the floor a few inches from Shef's feet.

Startled, unsure what to say, angry, tired, wanting to go to bed, I asked, "Where's this young man's room?"

The clerk kept on chewing his wad. No sound, just the clock ticking and Shef breathing heavily behind me.

"I asked you where the key is to this young man's room?"

Nothing.

"Son, you deaf or something? Where's the key to this young man's room?"

The clerk stuck his tongue out and he licked his lips. He proceeded to smack his gums and blink at me. His eyes narrowed and I noticed then that his head was moving ever so slightly from side to side: No, he nodded.

"You telling me he doesn't have a room? I booked twelve rooms, one being just for him, and one for myself. Now, he can come and go by the back door, I'll keep tabs on him at all times and you can rest assured I've never had any trouble with him," I said.

Hearing myself now, it was like I was talking about one of my dogs.

"No niggers here," the clerk snapped in response.

Now, I had grown up hearing that word. My father and grandfather, men of faith and preachers to boot, rationalized the use of the word and threw it around often. My friends, other coaches, strangers, and my team – everyone said it. But to me, it's a nasty, vile word and it never sounded more disgusting than at that moment. When it came out, it was a two by four hitting me square in the stomach. I just lost my breath for a spell.

"What?" I asked after gathering myself.

"No niggers here," he repeated. His eyes narrowed. Tobacco stench filled the air as he exhaled through his gapping mouth.

"He's with me," I replied.

My face flushed red. I could feel Shef's eyes on the back of my head. I glanced over my shoulder. Shef shook his head slowly: he didn't want me to press the issue. He was biting his lip. I could see his fists clenched. He was fighting back tears and choking down the cry in his throat. But I ignored him. This son of a bitch behind the counter was going to give me a room for Shef no matter what.

"No niggers here." He spat past me again, hitting Shef's shoe this time.

I grabbed the counter to keep from hitting the man square in the jaw. I shoved my rage down into the pit of my stomach. "What if he rooms with another boy?"

The clerk, blinking all the while, nodded no.

"What if he stays in my room? Sleeps on a bed I take up there for him. We keep his name off the register. You keep your rules, I keep my team together."

The clerk's eyes shut slowly and his deformed head fell forward. His chin coming to rest on his chest again. Tobacco juice dribbled on his shirt. His breath was shallow, as if asleep.

I snapped. I couldn't see straight no more. I reached across the counter and took the clerk by his collar. I pulled him up half way over the counter and his head nearly jerked off his body as I shook him.

Through clenched teeth, I said, "Give me a key to my room and find me a bed for the boy. Now!"

The man's eyes were as wide as saucers. I shook him and shook him. His head bobbed. He yelped and only Shef stopped me from beating his head against the wall.

"Coach!" That was all Shef said.

Shef's voice cleared my head and I realized what I was doing. I stopped shaking the clerk, but for good measure I shoved him back across the counter. He fell and quickly got up, grabbed a set of keys and handed them to me: his hand and the keys were as cold as ice.

"Keep the nigger hid," the clerk said over his shoulder and quickly disappeared into a dark room behind the counter. To this day, I have no earthly idea why he didn't call the cops on me. Should've. At the least, he shoulda kicked us all out of the hotel. But he didn't.

I stood in front of Shef, holding the keys out to him. He shook like a leaf, full of rage and grief.

"Shef, take the keys, go on up. I have to lock the bus."

He didn't budge.

"Go on, son, it's okay."

He eventually took the keys and I left to check on the bus in the parking lot.

I don't know why that little clerk got to me and, especially, to Shef. I never did ask Shef why it was different for him this time, begin called that name. Must have been the last straw.

When I reached our room, the full weight of what I had done to the clerk hit me. I was a grown man, in charge of a group of college guys. I coulda gone to jail.

My knees felt wobbly. I found the cot outside the door. Disgusted, I looked it over: I could see through the canvas. But I was too tired, too angry, but, mostly too afraid to go back downstairs and demand something else.

I put the cot under my arm, knocked and entered the room. Darkness and a moaning sound greeted me as I went in. The room was pitch black, but I could hear Shef inside.

I flipped on the switch and saw Shef, squeezed into the far corner of the room, huddled on the floor, facing the door. He cried and moaned and rocked and pulled violently at his skin, trying to tear it from the bone. He didn't take his eyes off me and he didn't blink.

"Shef? That man do something to you?" I threw the cot down.

He began mumbling something. I couldn't hear him. I knelt in front of him and set my hand on his arm.

"It's my skin, Coach, it's my skin," he groaned. "It's my skin, Coach, it's my skin."

I sat next to him, my arm around him. He wouldn't stop pulling at himself. The skin on his forearms was red and raw. His fingers dug into the dark brown flesh and tore away at it. I could see where he'd pulled the hair off areas of his legs, which bled in a few spots, and a bloody bald spot on his scalp showed where he had torn a chunk of hair out.

"Shef, stop it, son."

"It's my skin, coach. If I could just pull it off, I'd be like everyone else. I'd be okay, " he chanted. 

### Officer Howland is Dead

The house sits empty. It's been empty since he died. The wife moved out the following day. When questioned why she was leaving so quickly and where she was going, the wife answered there were too many ghosts in the house and she was moving someplace he wouldn't haunt her.

The family moved in across the street from Peter when he was twelve. He met Officer Howland and his wife, Mrs. Howland, as the Officer struggled to carry a large cardboard packing box full of dinner plates into their house, transporting them from their minivan through their garage. Peter was not a shy kid and introduced himself and followed him to the door leading into the house. Peter asked him what he did for a living.

"Police Officer," he grunted and disappeared into the house.

Confused, Peter looked him over and watched him as he moved his wife into the house. He was a slender man: skinny, pale legs, thin arms. Peter could see his collarbones through the front of his white t-shirt, his chest caved inward. He was not impressive of build. He didn't fit his idea of a police officer, which at that moment, was that of a superman: tall, thick neck, wide shoulders, powerful arms, huge hands, handsome, got the ladies. But Officer Howland appeared as if he couldn't have taken Peter's sister. He walked with a bowlegged gait and tripped over his own feet a few times.

But outward appearances carry little weight. And Officer Howland turned out to be quite an impressive man. And Peter's long admiration of him started a few weeks later. A house burglar had been plaguing the surrounding neighborhoods for a few months. The investigators assigned to the case had no leads even with the man growing more and more arrogant with each successful job: he progressively grew bolder in regards to the time of day he broke in and how much of the household items he stole. The neighbors were seeing red and the police appeared completely incompetent.

One evening, the neighbors held a block meeting, inviting the police chief to hear their complaints and for two solid hours they harangued the poor man, hurling insult after insult at him for the complete and utter failure his office had shown in relation to guarding the citizens of this fine city.

Peter watched as Mr. Pitts, a grossly overweight man, large, bulbous head, even bigger round nose, red as the sun, shouting at the police chief as if the man was a hundred yards away when the chief was only a few feet from him. The police chief was rumored to have headed straight to the sports bar around the corner from the police station and drank himself silly that night. One count says he nailed twelve shots of tequila to wash the memory of the event clear from his mind.

The meeting had no impact whatsoever. Many thought the thief was in their midst and was at the meeting, listening, possibly hurling insults, planning who he was going to hit next. A lot of this was nonsense, but to a twelve year old, looking for adventure and excitement during the summer months in Phoenix, this all seemed plausible.

A week went by and two more break-ins occurred. And just as the good people living around Peter were about ready to call fire and brimstone down upon the officers of their city, the thief decided to break into Officer Howland's house in broad daylight.

Peter was home, sitting in his garage, screwing around with the wheels and ball bearings on his skateboard. He didn't hear the break in, but the thief stole in through the back door and made his way to the front living room which faced the street and into which Peter had a perfect view through the huge, plate glass window. The thief obviously didn't do his homework. Mrs. Howland had left a few minutes before in their only car and Officer Howland hadn't gone to work that day. He was in his bedroom as the idiot stalked into the living room.

The guy's movement in the front room caught Peter's attention and he could see him unplugging the stereo. Peter started to panic thinking he should call the police when Officer Howland came up behind the guy and made a move Peter hadn't seen outside the WWF ring and only done by Rowdy Rodney Piper. In two seconds flat Officer Howland had jumped that punk, thrown him to the ground, pinned him and held both arms twisting up in the air behind him. The man bellowed for mama.

Before Peter had a conscious though in his head, he stood in Officer Howland's front yard, in front of the window, watching Officer Howland scream at the joker and yank on the guys arms. Pissed off, Office Howland was ready to break the man's shoulders. Then he saw Peter and motioned for him to come into the house.

Without a thought, he rushed to the front door and went in.

"Get my cuffs off the kitchen counter, near the fridge," Office Howland barked at Peter.

Peter leapt into the kitchen and grabbed the handcuffs: shinny, smooth, hard and cold. Peter handed them over and watched as Officer Howland cuffed the guy, stood him up and pushed him onto his brown leather couch, just under the window. It was surreal. Peter found myself in the presence of a great man and an evil man all at the same time.

"Thanks," Officer Howland said and slapped Peter on the back. "Watch him."

Peter did as he was told. And standing there, Peter realized how impressive Officer Howland was: the guy sitting on the couch was twice Officer Howland size and three times his weight.

Over the next few months, Officer Howland became the center of his life. Peter was up his butt, as he liked to say, but he never told Peter to leave. They'd sit in his living room, much to his mother's chagrin, and he would tell Peter his tall tales. Drug busts, firefights, foot chases, high-speed highway car chases and on and on. He filled his head with "drivel", that is what Mrs. Howland called it, but Peter didn't care. Peter was in the presence of greatness.

The Howland's quickly became the center of the neighborhoods life as well. He was a hero, and the gorgeous Mrs. Howland—small, petite, short haired brunette (and the secret love of Peter's life) —became the envy of all the women. She was the wife of a hero.

Dinner after dinner, night after night, Officer Howland was praised for saving the citizenry from such a villain. Worshipped and adored, Officer Howland could do no wrong.

Six months passed and the Howland's held a grand party to celebrate Mrs. Howland's pregnancy. Peter attended, again in opposition to his mother's wishes—she didn't think an impressionable twelve year old should be spending time with a hardened police officer, listening to the mysterious tales of crime.

Peter just laughed her off.

The house was filled with the Howland's new friends. Peter stood by the arcadia door in the kitchen, watching, observing. The women strolled the room, munching on rolled deli meat and cheese, holding martini's and cocktails with their thumbs and pointer fingers, talking and snorting and laughing at jokes that, to Peter, were clearly not funny.

The men stood in clusters, shouting, singing, joking and drinking.

And did they drink.

Beer flowed like water. Clear plastic cups became goblets and the beer, the drink of joy and merriment. It was intoxicating. Peter was in a movie. And Peter had to have some.

Peter snuck over to the kitchen counter and snagged a cup that was half filled. Peter downed it, not realizing what that would do to him and nearly vomited it back up on the floor. Somehow Peter held it down and his head instantly felt fuzzy. Peter returned to his post in the corner and leaned against the wall to keep from falling over.

As the night wore on, through the haze brought on by the beer, Peter noticed that Officer Howland and a man Peter didn't recognize were arguing more and more frequently. As they drank, their argument got louder and louder. Suddenly, they were standing a few feet from him, in front of the fridge. Peter watched as Officer Howland calmly set his cup on the kitchen island and then, like lighting striking, he slugged the man in the face. The man's head snapped back, struck the corner of the fridge door and the man dropped to the linoleum floor, spilling his beer on his shirt and pants.

In an instant, Officer Howland was on top of the man, pounding away. It was savage. With both fists he struck the man in the face over and over, the man's nose snapped, blood spurted all over the man's cheek, covering Officer Howland's knuckles.

Peter couldn't watch but he couldn't take his eyes off the scene either. It took four men to pull Officer Howland off the man and to drag him into the garage.

Peter was quickly airborne; his mother lifted up by the back of his shirt and pulled him out of the house. She declared, on their way across the street, that Peter was never to talk to that barbarian again: hero or no.

Peter heard by extension that the fight was brought on by an accusation: the man accused Office Howland of being a dirty cop, accused him of rigged drug busts, accused him of keeping some of the drugs and selling them to the kids of the surrounding neighborhoods. Officer Howland was temporarily suspended for assaulting the man, who pressed charges and ignited an investigation into Officer Howland's background.

He refused to believe any of it. The man had become a second father to him. Those six months leading up to the party, he had taught Peter things his own father had never taught him. Through his stories, through the laughter, he taught Peter about bravery and determination and living for the moment. He taught him that he didn't have to be a victim, that Peter could do something significant in life.

And Peter took it all in, his heart swelling with each word.

But the investigation went on despite the thoughts and feelings of a twelve year old.

Two weeks passed, his mother was gone out of the house, and Peter snuck across the street to the open Howland garage. Officer Howland was tinkering with his new motorcycle: a jet black Honda Ninja. It was gorgeous. Peter loved it at first sight and he could see that Peter was enthralled by it. Officer Howland smiled, stated he had missed him and asked if Peter wanted to help him with some repairs he was doing. Peter nodded and stepped up and thus began his education in regards to motorcycles. Thus also began the course of his career: Peter became a Honda employee, responsible for designing and engineering the next generation of motorcycle engines. But that's another story.

Peter watched as he fluidly drained the oil and changed the spark plugs. Peter watched as he tinkered with the gears and so on. It was a wonder. Peter had seen his father do the same for his red Ford Taurus, but it hadn't captured his attention, not like this. Soon he was polishing the leather seat and shining up the chrome wheels.

Peter finally worked up the nerve to ask him if the rumors were true: was he a dirty cop? Was he a drug smuggler and had to move to Phoenix to keep from being caught in New York?

He smiled and tossed his oily rag to the side. He pulled out the keys to the bike and asked if Peter would like to ride with him, just around the block. A quick ride, he knew his mother didn't like him anymore and wouldn't want him to get into trouble with her.

My mother – who's she? was his response and Peter jumped on the back of the bike. He turned it over and they pulled out of the garage.

It was like Peter was flying. The wind rushed through their hair. There were no windows and doors, no seat belts and seats, just total freedom. He took them around the block, probably never topping fifteen miles an hour but that didn't matter. It was the freedom, the rush, that took hold of Peter.

They reached his garage and Peter didn't want the ride to end. But it had to. Peter slid off the back and he promised Peter that when the investigation ended he would teach Peter how to ride. Naively, Peter believed him and that single thought consumed Peter over the months that followed.

But Peter would never speak with him again.

A week later, he and Mrs. Howland were in their backyard. A call came. He answered and listened quietly. He paced the yard for a good ten minutes, each passing minute adding to Mrs. Howland's anxiety.

He hung up and was noticeably upset. Mrs. Howland asked what was wrong and he stated he had to go down to the station. The chief wanted to have a few words with him. Mrs. Howland pressed him and asked what the meeting was about. He didn't want to tell her. But she pressed him more.

He finally relented, he told her that the investigation had finished and they were prepared for a hearing. The chief just wanted to give him a heads up.

Mrs. Howland asked what the results were and Office Howland wouldn't tell her. She pestered him and stood in front of him and vowed to leave him if he didn't tell her the truth.

She was three months pregnant. She deserved answers. She had been polite. She never questioned why they had to leave New York so quickly. She never questioned the rushed move. She never questioned anything he did. She never questioned the wads of cash he used to carry around in New York. She never questioned the strange men he met in their driveway. She never questioned because she didn't want to know. Now she wanted to know. Now she wanted them answered.

And he refused.

They danced back and forth, he trying to get past her, she trying to prevent him from leaving. Every time she stepped in front of him, he grew more and more angry. Every time she demanded that he say something, he grew more and more angry.

And finally he snapped.

He smacked her across the face. He smacked her again and again and she stood her ground and took it. When she wouldn't move from that, he overpowered her and shoved her. She fell back, tripping over a lounge chair and collapsed onto her back.

And Officer Howland fled the scene.

From where she lay on the patio, she heard his bike start-up, she heard him peel out of the garage, she heard him race down the street and out of earshot. She lay in the spot she fell for a long time. She held her stomach, trying to breathe normally. She had slammed to the ground. Fear choked her: fear of losing the child.

Slowly she gathered herself. She felt fine. She sat up and stayed there for a long time, expecting something tragic to happen with the child inside of her. But all seemed well.

She never expected him to be gone so long. The chief called and she spoke with him. Her husband was gone. He hadn't shown up at the station. None of his friends knew where he was--he had vanished. The chief put out a warrant for his arrest, simply to bring him in, he told her. But she knew her husband was going to jail.

She entered her bedroom that night and began packing. She filled two suitcases – one red and one blue -- with her clothes, leaving his hanging in the closet. Then she lay on the bed where they had made the baby she carried inside, and fell asleep.

Early the next morning, the phone rang. Her eyes snapped open and she scanned the room – she thought she had heard someone whisper her name. She squinted and swears to this day that she caught a glimpse of his silhouette, slumped in the chair across from the bed. It was not uncommon for him to sit sleeping in the green high back after a long shift. He would sleep there so as to not wake her. She always told him to come to bed no matter time it was, but he never did as he was told.

But he was not there, in the shadow. It was only a figment of her imagination. The sun was just rising and she was still alone.

She called for him but received no answer. They didn't have an answering machine so the phone rang and rang and then stopped.

The fear was back. She touched her stomach. The baby kicked. What sounded to her like footsteps in the hall faded as quickly as they came. Where was he?

She sat up when the phone started ringing again. The greatest fear for any wife of a police officer is the late night call, the one where the partner or chief says they are sorry for calling, but the husband is dead. Killed by a burglar or a gang member or by friendly fire. It really didn't matter the wives how they died. It was the fact they were dead.

But her fear passed. It wasn't night. It was morning. Morning calls weren't something to be dreaded. The phone rang and rang. Maybe it was him, she thought. Calling to say he was sorry, that he had crashed at a friend's house and wanted to come home. She scampered out of bed and reached the phone in time.

She said hello and the voice on the other end was not his. It was the police chief's. She bursts into tears immediately. He didn't have to say another word. Like a limp rag, she crumpled to the floor, the phone hanging over the side of the counter, dangling by the cord, the chief giving his normal spiel about how sorry he was to call, how sorry he was the news was bad.

The phone twisted and turned and the voice on the other finally said what she feared the most, "Officer Howland is dead."
  1. Great, Once
  2. Anne in the Red Dress
  3. Fran Answers for God
  4. Gerald's CB Radio
  5. On Time
  6. The Best Thing
  7. It's My Skin, Coach
  8. Officer Howland is Dead

