 
# Stories of Love and Hate

by

R. Bremner

Copyright 2012 by R. Bremner

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 9781301018857

**Smashwords** **License Statement**

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

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Arthur J. (Clifford) Bremner, who was called upon to go to a distant shore to protect the world from a terrible evil, and on returning worked at hard labor his life long to pull his family up to a comfortable standard of living. I can never thank him enough for his selflessness and protection.

And to Ann Cantrella Bremner, who sacrificed any wishes for her own life so that her children could have everything they desired. Her hard work for them led to serious health problems and a too-soon passing. Her greatest joy in life was to be called mother and grandma.

## At the Kessler Center for Rehabilitation

Asha does not eat her breakfast. She sleeps strapped in her wheelchair, her right leg tapping while an attendant tries to feed her uncooperative mouth.

Tom has a provocative smile as they shovel the food into his face. He gulps at the food, but never, never speaks.

Dan sits quietly, a surly look upon his face—he doesn't eat, doesn't speak. He grips a dinner roll tightly in one hand but makes no pretence of eating it.

Me? I eat everything on my plate, ripping open with my teeth the cream cheese for my bagel, and the packet of corn flakes, drinking sloppily my honey-thick orange "juice", gulping my thickened coffee with thickened milk and sugar that never seems to mix but plummets right to the bottom. It's the way of things after a stroke.

All of the female attendants are from Jamaica. All of the male attendants, save one, are from Africa. That one is a tall, mischievous dude from the neighborhood, with a devilish grin and a love for fun. The Africans are extremely strict, but if you scold them properly, they become docile. But the Jamaican girls give no quarter – they are indeed the bosses!

Ah, Mr. Freeman is wheeled in. A twenty year bus driver long since retired, he is now 77. The Jamaican girls greet him as Charlie but to me he is always Mr. Freeman and I give him a hearty "Good morning, Mr. Freeman" to which he glances sidelong and responds "Good morning, sir!" He will drink his Glucerna and ignore everything else on his plate. He was struck by a speeding car. He thinks it is eight years ago.

Then there's that mysterious character with no name, who walks the halls with impunity. He rarely speaks but thinks it is twenty years ago in Denver. Perhaps that's the site of his troubles.

And then there's that extra-special patient, the 17 year old who got hit by a car while skateboarding on the city streets. He walks without a wheelchair and gets a Jamaican nurse's aide of his very own, 24 hours a day, to fuss over him. He talks to me daily about how much his daddy loves him, and his parents come at 7pm and talk loudly with him till after midnight. I know because he is my roommate.

There is Joanna, lovely Joanna, who walks swell with a cane, who's sweet and fun, but who will break down in tears for no good reason.

And there's me. And I'm terrified. Terrified that I will turn into one of these people.

As the twentysomething Occupational Therapists put us through our paces, Bertie, Jack, and I sit in our wheelchairs plotting a way out of the therapy. Bertie is a serene housewife who walks with a cane, and why she's in a wheelchair I can't imagine.

She'll be leaving in two days and I'll have one less friend there.

Jack is a fireman whose back was injured in a fall. His is a ruthless wit with his gravelly voice but I don't think anything can be done for him here. They take him out of his wheelchair and move him around but it's hardly therapy. I fear that he'll be on his way soon, and without Bertie, I'll be the only normal person left..

the only normal person. So how normal can I be...

## The Story of Miles and Joseph Constant

On the third day of our stay in the Green Mountains, some two miles above Stafford, Vermont, the three of us, David, Mary Alice, and myself took a walk down the lane which leads to the graveyard. We had been down that lane once before, on a nighttime jaunt to the clearing just beyond the graveyard which offers the best view in the area of the star-filled sky. This trip, however, was nothing more than a walk to pass the time while Linda cooked our dinner back at the cabin.

The graveyard, sitting but a few yards from the gravel-track road, contained no more than about forty headstones and no fencing nor delimiters of any kind. It was clearly not the town burial site, for although Stafford was a small hamlet, surely more than forty deaths had occurred in the town during its several hundred years of existence.

Having always been fascinated by the past, I suggested that we stop and peruse the headstones. David and Mary Alice agreed. With two exceptions, there were only three surnames to be found among the entire lot of headstones: Burbridge, Stowe, and Constant.

One could trace whole family histories merely by reading the inscriptions on the stones. Clearly this was once the private cemetery of the Constants, for almost half of the stones carried that name. Apparently the family had either died out or moved elsewhere sometime in the late 1800's, for the last Constant grave was that of Lucilla, interred in 1883.

The Burbridges were next in number, and began in time about halfway between the first and last Constant. Then came the Stowes, only four of them. One daughter had married a Burbridge and one a Constant, probably the only reason for the two ladies and their parents to be buried here. There had been two instances of marriage between the Burbridges and the Constants.

I had mentioned that there were two exceptions to the three-family rule. One of these was Elizabeth Staggett, betrothed to Samuel Burbridge but stricken with fever and taken in 1897 at the age of eighteen.

The other exception was an odd case. No name was borne on the headstone, which was tipped and lying on its broadside. The thin gray stone came to a sharp point at its top and seemed almost as if pointed deliberately to a specific spot, but there was nothing but a row of bushes where it pointed. This area of the yard was peopled exclusively by Constants, with the stone of Joseph Constant standing only three feet from the overturned stone.

Mary Alice felt that we should place it face-side-up, and I agreed as much out of curiosity as out of any sense of right or decorum. David lifted the stone and flipped it over. He began to laugh. The bottom side was black, with not one mark cut into it.

David found this discovery hilarious. "Not only does the poor slob have nothing to tell future generations who he was, but even the wind has no respect for him – swats his marker to the ground!"

Mary Alice guessed that beneath the stone was a drifter who had died while passing through the town, and because of the families' sense of decency, they had him buried in their own cemetery, though they didn't even know his name.

"That happens fairly often in these little rural towns," she stated. I accepted that explanation, but wondered why nothing at all was inscribed in the marker, not even the date of death.

"And what's that powdery white stuff on the front of the stone?" queried David.

"It raises quite a cloud of dust."

"Cocaine?" guessed Mary Alice? "Maybe this is a popular party spot for the teens."

"Doubtful," said David. There's no been cans, no trash, not even a footprint. It's creepy. We should leave."

As best we could tell, the stone should have correctly stood beside that of Joseph Constant, and so there we placed it, on its broadside still, as we had no means of firmly securing it to stand. We were sure that Linda's dinner was ready, so we made our way back to the cabin.

The next day it was necessary for me to go into town to buy groceries. I walked the two miles or so alone. The shopping district of Stafford is a collection of four or five stores huddled in one block by the railroad station. At the Stafford Market I picked up milk, eggs, and bread. I was the only customer.

I asked the proprietor if he knew anything about the mysterious headstone.

"So you've seen it, eh?" he asked.

"Yes. Our cabin is just down the road from the graveyard. I'm always interested in local histories, and I was reading the markers. But that odd one! We thought it might belong to a drifter, someone nobody knew who had died while passing through."

"No, that was no drifter. Did you notice how the stone was laying?"

I told him yes, but I didn't mention that we had moved the stone.

"It's put like that for a reason," he said, and he proceeded to tell me the story of Joseph and Miles Constant, as told him by his uncle.

Joseph and Miles were brothers, the only children of Ezekiel Constant and his much younger wife, Lucilla. Miles was the older son by two years. When the Civil War broke out, a fire was lit in Joseph's blood by the romance of battle and faraway travels. He wanted to sign up with the Union right away. But Ezekiel felt that Miles should go instead, being the older, and that Joseph should stay on the farm to help with the work. Joseph, seventeen years old, was still just a boy to his father. But Miles revolted. He wouldn't go to fight in any far-off war. Old Ezekiel, who loved the Union as much as he loved his family, perhaps more, went into a rage. He tried to force Miles to go. The boy stood his ground. Ezekiel made life miserable for the boy while he stayed on the farm. The boy ran off. Joseph went with him. Each of the brothers loved the other and neither held any grudge. They traveled a distance together, out of their father's reach, and then split up; Joseph to join the army, and Miles to go where he might. No one ever knew where Miles went.

Near the end of the war came the sad news that Joseph had died in combat. He was, the dispatch read, a true hero. His body was shipped up to be buried in the family plot. Ezekiel was heartbroken.

Shortly after the war ended, Miles turned up at his father's farm. He had not fared well. He was filthy and penniless. Ezekiel exploded again. He gave Miles the beating of his life, perhaps believing that his beloved Joseph had paid the price for the cowardice of his older brother.

Miles was now a grown man, strong and stern, but he took the beating without raising a hand to his father. Ezekiel let him live on the farm, but never spoke a word to him and made it clear that not one inch of the farm would Miles inherit when the old man passed on.

Lucilla still loved Miles so. Perhaps even moreso because all the love she had once given to two sons could now be given only to the one surviving. She spoke with and cared for Miles, but the old man would not let a word pass between them when he was in the house.

Miles, despite his seeming good health, died after only a few years of this treatment, some say of a broken heart. They claim he still loved his father, despite all that had passed.

Ezekiel would not allow Miles to be buried in the family plot. He didn't want Miles' blood "to stain the holy resting place of my son, ceasing the grass to grow, ceasing even the wayside brook to run in such foulness and evil."

There's a dirt flat not far north of the graveyard, bordering the brook. That's where Miles was buried. Ezekiel allowed for a preacher to come and read last rites, because he said he would not "condemn the boy's soul to the eternal fires. Only Almighty God shall judge him now." There was no stone on the grave, and he forbade Lucilla under threat of banishment farm and loss of her inheritance from ever visiting the site. But she used to sneak out at night while the old man was snoring away. With her lantern covered so she could barely see (she being frightened that the old man might spy her), she'd creep doen to Miles' grave and place one daisy each time she visited.

Ezekiel did not long outlive his elder son, and when he was lowered into his rightful place beside Joseph, with another space set off for Lucilla to his right, the woman was all alone. She was but forty when Ezekiel died, little more than half the old man's age, and she was such a quiet sort and had so seldom left the boundaries of the farm, that none of the neighbors knew a thing about her. She was from another place. No one seemed to know where. Nor how and why she married the old man, unless it was for his money, of which there was nothing more than that which went to keep the farm going.

One month after the death of Ezekiel, which she deemed to be a proper period of mourning, Lucilla arranged to have Miles' coffin dug up and buried beside his brother, in the place originally planned for him. The local folk all understood, but everyone was surprised when the headstone was installed above the grave; it was blank. The only thing to distinguish this from any other headstone was its shape: sharp angle into a point at top center. Nobody'd ever seen one like it around these parts.

And with good reason was there no name on that stone. Lucilla feared that should the old man, dead though he be, find out that his denounced son was residing in the Constant family plot, Ezekiel would burst even the shackles of death to vent his rage in some monstrous way.

Late that very night that the body had been transplanted, there came horrible, loud sounds from the Constant farmhouse. Neighbors from far down the road in all directions were wakened and came running to the house. And there they saw lights flashing – all colors, reds, yellows, browns –on and off, on and off . And there were frightening, horrible screams – the sick, twisted voice of some man coupled with screams that sounded like the voice of Lucilla. This went on for near an hour, and then, in a flash, all ceased. The lights went off and the sounds stopped. The house stood dark in complete silence.

Then and only then did the neighbors approach the door. When they knocked, there was no answer for the longest time. Just when one of the men suggested breaking down the door, Lucilla opened it. Her eyes were glassy and there was wetness on her cheeks. It was clear she'd been crying. Her hair was a mess, sticking this way and that. She was wearing an old, ugly robe.

"Why, whatever is the matter?' she asked. "Why have you awakened me?"

No matter what anyone said about the noise and the lights, Lucilla did not understand. What noise, she asked, what lights? I've been sleeping since sunset. Please go away and let me sleep.

One of the neighbors, young Henry Burbridge, wanted to force his way inside and search for the terrible man who'd been treating poor Lucilla so. He thought she was afraid that the man would beat her even worse if the neighbors butted in. But no, there was no one, Lucilla insisted, and no one could hear a sound from anywhere in the dark house. So they went home.

It was Henry who first noticed the hole. He spotted it while riding down the road that leads from his home to the center of town, passing the graveyard. Henry near fell off his horse when he saw it. There, right where Miles' body had been laid beside that of his brother, was a huge hole, just the size they had dug before laying in Miles and covering his casket over with earth the day before. But the hole was empty now. The casket was gone. And the nameless headstone lay flat on its face, pointing toward the original resting place of Miles out in the dirt flat.

At the sight of this strange arrangement, Henry Burbridge broke his horse into a gallop toward home. He grabbed his brother and two sisters and mother, and they pulled out George Winslow from down the road, and they all raced down to te graveyard, not a one believing Henry's story.

But all was as he had said. They looked everywhere for Miles' casket, but ti was nowhere to be found. They searched the dirt flat, but the old grave was undisturbed since Miles had been removed from it. They banged on Lucilla's door and demanded to have a look around the farm. She let them in with a silly smile upon her face. They searched that house and the farm furiously, but the casket was not there. Finally, there was so much clamor from folks all over the hillside that Henry and his brother dug up the original grave in the dirt flat.

But the body of Miles Constant was never found. To this day, no one can say what became of it. As for Lucilla, she was forever changed from that night on. She never had been one for visiting her neighbors, but from time to time she would stop by. Now she never visited anyone. The only time she'd show her face was when she walked into town for groceries or supplies. To this very store, in fact, which was operated by my uncle before me. She'd just tell Uncle Eb what she wanted and he'd get it, and no more conversation than that would pass between them.

Whenever anyone else in the store spoke to her, she'd just smile that silly smile at the speaker, but never say a word. It was as if she didn't hear them at all. And she always came wearing that old ugly robe she had worn when she answered the door on that crazy night. She was like that till she died in 1883.

Oh. There was one other thing. I almost forgot to mention it. Henry set that stone right side up when he came back with his kin and George, and they secured it there pretty well. But the next time Henry saw it, the stone was back laying flat and pointing in the queer way. And Henry found traces of what seemed to be dried-up milk all over the stone. Funny thing. Everyone knew that Miles was allergic to milk. He broke out in hives whenever he drank it. In fact, he'd get queasy just smelling a glass of good, fresh milk.

So that is the story of Joseph and Miles Constant. Ever since that day, no matter what anyone did to try and fix the position of Miles' headstone, it always ended up in the same spot sooner or later.

I bid the proprietor goodbye and thanked him for telling his fascinating fable. I wondered, as I walked back with the groceries, how the original tale was thought up and what embellishments had been added in each subsequent retelling.

As I approached the driveway which led some twenty yards up to the cabin, a thought struck me. I set down the bag of groceries by the side of the driveway and began running the three quarters of a mile or so to the graveyard.

When I got there I saw that it was so: there, at the north end of the graveyard, paced well away from the grave of Joseph Constant, and pointing northeast to the dirt flat, was the unmarked gravestone, covered in powdered milk.

## Josan

It was clearly a revelation. When the sky turned dark, the truth was revealed to Josan. The one room mud house in which he sat now slowly cooled with the absence of the sun. The hot, damp evening would soon welcome the first soft breezes and mosquitoes of this day.

Across the small room, Anthony lay on his side breathing heavily. Drunk from arrack*. Drunk earlier than usual this evening.

(*arrack: a coconut-based liquor frequently brewed as moonshine in the rural villages of Sri Lanka.)

Savia-Pulle was no longer there to share the room, having fled his nephew Anthony's beatings to find refuge in a faraway convent, so the villagers said, where he could do simple tasks for his rice and receive respectful treatment from the nuns.

Likewise, no longer did Ellis Amma, Anthony's mother, live there. She too had escaped the young man's fists, and gone to stay with some relative whom none of the villagers knew.

It was after those two left that Josan had come to live at Anthony's house. Where he was from, no one in the village knew, but he was assumed to be some kin to Anthony.

There were rumors that he had been a bus driver, and had been fired for erratic behavior. To be fired by the national bus authority, as everyone knew, one's behavior would have to far exceed erratic. Someone said that Josan used to stop the bus, with paying customers aboard, and go visit with friends who lived along the route, sharing a drink while the customers waited. Or deviate from the bus route to pick up and drop off friends and relatives like a limousine instead of a bus. But there was no substantiation for these rumors, and several others in the village said they had heard that Josan had served in the military, where he had received many blows to his head (by bullets or hand, no one could say) which knocked all sense out of him.

Now he stayed at Anthony's house (actually Anthony's mother's house, a gift from a relative for whom Ellis Amma had worked hard for many years), where neither of them worked and both lived off the kindness of neighbors, for whom they would run small errands.

And now had come this revelation: Josan must save the village.

He had been told of a mad dog in the area. Josan had not seen the dog himself, but he had no reason to disbelieve. This mad dog had been biting all the dogs of the village, Josan had been told. Now all the dogs must be mad.

Josan must save the village before the mad dogs killed everyone. But first, before deciding upon a plan, he should have more arrack.

But how to get it at this hour? He would visit the gentleman recently retired here from the city, who had electric lights and plumbing, and offer to do an errand. The gentleman would always give a few rupees just to get rid of Josan, and this would be enough to afford some arrack after waking up the local boutique owner, who would likely be drunk himself at this hour. Then the plans for saving the village could be made.

Josan arrived at the gentleman's house, just across the lane, and poked his head up against the barred, paneless window.

"Sir! Sir!" he shouted. "It is me!"

But instead of the gentleman, a little girl approached the window.

"Go away, dog!" she scolded. "Go or I'll beat you with a big stick!" The girl was the servant of the gentleman and his wife. No one knew for sure her age, but the best guess was 13. She was too young to work by the laws of the nation, which said she must be in school until age 16. But her mother had removed her from the tea plantation where she had lived, worked, and ostensibly went to "school", though the schooling was hardly meaningful and was not allowed to interfere with the harvest of the tea. Shanti's mother had reached a deal with the gentleman's wife's sister for her to work for him here. And here in this good house in this village she received all the food she could eat and protection from the dangers of the outside world. The laws of the nation did not always stretch so far into the villages. The gentleman's wife, a former schoolteacher, had even promised to teach her, though the lady soon gave up, declaring Shanti to be obstinate and unteachable. Yet the gentleman himself took up the task of educating Shanti and sat with her every afternoon to teach her reading, world geography, and even a modicum of math. Shanti would write feverishly in her notebooks and though she often forgot most of each day's lesson, some of the learning was sticking with her. And Shanti was fiercely protective of the house and her employers. And she hated "the dog Josan" with a deep passion.

"Shanti!" the gentleman's voice boomed from the rear of the house. "Who has come?"

"It is me, Sir! I have come." shouted Josan.

"It's that dog Josan!" said Shanti. "I'm sending him away, Sir!"

"Why has he come?"

"The dog must want money to get drunk!"

"No, Sir! No! I have come to run any errands you need."

The gentleman was in the same room as the other two now. "That's fine, Josan," he said. "But I don't need any errands now. It's evening. Soon it will be suppertime."

"Ah, then I can fetch you some sugar from the kade* for your tea, Sir."

(*kade: a small market common in rural Sri Lankan villages selling a wide variety of items, from foodstuffs to pharmaceuticals.)

We have sugar, dog," said Shanti. "Go away."

At this time the lady of the house came from the kitchen. "Shanti, where have you been? Come help with supper."

Shanti retreated to the kitchen at the back of the house, casting threatening glances at the visitor as she went.

"Wait there, Josan," said the gentleman, as he went into the bedroom to draw some money from his drawer. Josan waited at the barred window. The gentleman returned and handed a five rupee note to Josan. "Get me some tooth powder," he said. And keep the change for doing me this favor." The gentleman did not need tooth powder but to just give money to Josan for doing nothing would have been a great insult.

Just as he was handing the note over, a small dog awakened from his nap and spotted the goings-on. Chundi flew growling through the air toward the window, and Josan only retained his hand by withdrawing it beyond the bars quickly.

Chundi barked ferociously and Josan mocked him loudly, which made the barking more intense.

"Go quickly, Josan!" said the gentleman. "I need my powder!" And so he left that place.

At the kade, some half mile away, Josan had to shout long and loudly to get the proprietor to come. A neighbor shouted back at him to quiet down, and the neighborhood dogs barked.

Sure enough, the kade proprietor was drunk. He exchanged pleasantries with Josan and fetched the tooth powder.

"And the master wants some arrack. Your special blend," said Josan. He handed over the five rupees.

"That only buys a little bottle."

"Whatever you can spare. You can give two bottles and put it on the master's bill."

The proprietor poured a careful measure of moonshine from a big jug into an empty Coca Cola bottle. "I'm sorry, I can't spare more," he said, knowing full well that the liquor was for Josan and not the gentleman. "I have very little left. There is no need to bill the master."

Josan sat on the ground, outside the kade storefront. The proprietor joined him. There was no need to hide that the arrack was for Josan. And fortunately, it was strong enough that one needed only a few sips to feel its power. The proprietor extended his hand, and Josan gave him the bottle for a sip. It went on this way, and before the bottle was empty, both proprietor and customer were asleep in the deepening evening. The tooth powder was forgotten.

Josan awoke early in the morning to the bright rays of the sun. It was too early for anyone to be about except those on their way to catch a bus to the city for work, and those folks were fewer and fewer these days. Josan pulled himself up and headed back to Anthony's house, as hens scurried about the fenced-in yards along the way.

At Anthony's house, he showered at the well, behind a round brick wall. His plan was becoming clear. But there was one major problem: Should he kill the gentleman's dog first or last? They loved their dog, but he could show them his value by protecting them from the creature. Chundi had bitten Josan numerous times, as had other dogs in the village, but there was something extraordinary about Chundi. While the other dogs of Henmulla all looked alike – short, long beasts with short brown hair and long snouts, Chundi was different. A city dog, an Alsatian mixed with a Pomeranian, a fierce ball of fur. In fact, he was probably a mad dog before the calamity of madness came to the village. Josan reckoned it would be best to kill the other dogs first, and display his prowess and reliability to the gentleman. Then the man would see how critical it was that Chundi also be killed.

Josan first approached the house of a family recently moved to Henmulla from the war zone to the north. Sure enough, as he approached the fence of sticks and chicken wire, a brown shorthair rushed toward him barking. Josan had picked a thick coconut branch and wielded it toward the dog. The dog stopped in his tracks, eying Josan with uncertainty. Then he moved cautiously forward, growling as he came.

"Who's there?" a female voice cried. "Who has come?"

"It is me, Josan!" I have come to save you from your mad dog!"

"What nonsense is this? What are you talking about?" The woman came out of the house carrying a toddler boy.

"A mad dog has bitten all the dogs of the village. They will soon go mad and attack their masters."

As the distance between Josan and the woman decreased, the dog's barking increased. He did not like this man being near his mistress.

"This dog is not mad."

Ah, but soon he will be. He will kill you and your child, and your child's father, if I do not stop him in time!"

"He is not mad. Leave him alone."

Josan had to demonstrate. He swung his club and the dog leapt, but not in time to avoid a hard blow to the left flank. The dog howled in pain and barked at the enemy.

"You see! He is showing madness now."

"Leave him be. You hurt him. *This child's father will be very angry. You better go now."(* "This child's father": in the rural Tamil villages, it was considered overly familiar for a wife to refer to her spouse as "my husband", or to speak his name. Hence the term "this child's father" was common.)

What was the matter with this woman? Didn't she understand anything? These village people are so backward. Josan, whose work with the bus authority used to bring him into the city every day, understood things as these backward villagers could not. He left her now and decided to have a think about this situation.

Josan needed some tea to think clearly. Though it was not yet teatime, his head needed further clearing. Since there was no money for arrack, he would go back to Anthony's house and boil some tea.

As he drank his tea, Josan was able to clarify the issues at hand. There were two possible paths he could take. He could walk the village, killing any dogs that were running loose. Then he could display his work to the people and show them that he had saved them. But going up to an individual house to kill a dog was not a reasonable course of action, as he had learned by experience. The villagers were too ignorant to allow him to do his duty for them.

The second option was to go to the gentleman's house and kill his dog. The man from the city would be intelligent enough to understand how Josan was saving him. He decided upon this action. The gentleman's house had neither fence nor wall, and so he could wait until the dog was outside.

Josan sat under a coconut tree just off the dirt lane that ran past the gentleman's house, with his branch close by his side. He had to jump aside once, when a bullock cart laden with freshly dried bricks from the brick factory came careening down the lane. The stupid bull did not even notice Josan and might have trampled his feet had Josan not moved quickly away.

Josan did not have to wait long for the gentleman's dog. Soon the dog came bursting out the door on its way to who knows where down the lane. Then suddenly Chundi noticed the seated man and screeched to a halt. Who was this invader so close to his master's house? Josan reached for his branch, but Chundi was too quick. The dog had recognized the invader by scent and movement, and charged at him before he could reach his stick. Barking as he charged, Chundi sailed through the air for the last meters and sank his teeth into Josan's knee. The man screamed and reached for his knee, forgetting the branch which could have become his defense instead of his offense. Chundi bit again, then withdrew to bark imperially at the commoner who had dared invade his kingdom. Folks came running to see, as Josan finally got his branch and advanced on the dog.

First on the scene was Poomani and her teenaged daughter, who lived next to the city gentleman. Then arrived Stephen from the next house, whose Air Force captain father had mysteriously disappeared on his way to a special assignment in the war zone to the north. Soon all the women and any unemployed men in the village were there, witnessing Josan wielding his club while a ferocious little creature got angrier and angrier, louder and louder.

"Stop it, stop it!" shouted a female voice. It was the lady from the city.

"I'll stop him, Amma!" said Shanti, her visage terrible with anger. But the lady held Shanti, fearing for the child's safety as a man with a club faced an unfearing canine opponent.

"What's going on here?" one of the women asked.

The dog must be attacking Josan," said another.

Stephen said, "Josan what is happening? Did Chundi bite you?" But Josan was too occupied with the need to fend off his animal foe to answer.

"The dog must be mad," said the first woman.

"No," said the lady. "Leave Chundi be."

You all know how he bites," said Josan. "He is a mad dog."

"You are the mad dog, dog!" shouted Shanti. "Go far away, dog!"

"It is true," said another woman. "Josan has gone mad. He tried to kill my dog not an hour ago. This child's father will punish him severely."

Chundi was growing bored with these festivities. He ran to the nearest tree, peed on its trunk, and ran away down the road for more suitable adventure. His lady smiled. Her crisis was over. Josan stood confused, his club still dangling in his hand.

The woman whose dog Josan had hit now advanced toward him. "See him, mad and dazed. He is not even drunk. We must put a stop to his terrors."

There was a murmur of agreement among the crowd.

"Let's get big sticks and punish the dog Josan," said Shanti. "He needs to be taught firmly."

People began moving toward him. A look of terror came into Josan's eyes. He started running to Anthony's house, with perhaps twelve villagers chasing after. Some grabbed thick tree branches. He ran into the house, but it had no door. The villagers gathered at the door talking over their next move. Some were shouting into the house ordering Josan to come out. Stephen stood before the doorway but he would not be able to hold back the angry crowd.

At this time, the city gentleman, who had been napping, came out to the road and observed the proceedings. His wife quickly described the recent events. He apprised the situation immediately and addressed the villagers.

"Friends, leave this place now. The danger is over. I will explain to Josan and he will not do such foolish things again."

Josan did not dare show his face. The villagers grumbled. "But he is a brute and an idiot, Sir," said the woman whose dog had been hit. "My child's father will beat him to the ground."

"No, when the child's father arrives home, send him to see me. I will explain to him. He is an intelligent man. He will understand Josan's mental weakness."

With that, the crowd began to disperse, going back to their homes and chatting about the badness of Josan. Shanti would have whipped them into a frenzy, but she dared not go against the wishes of her master. She was exceedingly disappointed that Josan had not been beaten, but she came back to the gentleman's house.

Josan did not come out of Anthony's house for the rest of the day, nor even in the night. The next morning he crept out in the darkness before the early risers were about, and bathed at the well. He had not eaten for a full day.

Josan remained in the house all that day also. Anthony snored away the morning and went out in the afternoon to ask neighbors for leftover bread and gravy from their lunches. Josan was very hungry, but Anthony shared no food with him.

In the early evening, with no candles lit in the house, there came a noise approaching the house. Josan sat up. A dark figure entered the doorway. She went to the table, felt for a candle, and lit it.

It was Ellis Amma, returned from who knew where. Anthony was out drinking. Josan spoke softly, not wanting to be heard outside the house.

"Have you come back? Where were you?"

"With the nuns. I shall go back tomorrow night. I want to give something to the lady."

"Do you have food?"

"No. I eat with the nuns now. I have eaten rice."

They fell into silence.

Much later, Anthony returned, fully drunk. When he saw his mother, an anger came over him. He spoke loudly to wake her.

"Make me some food," he muttered. "I am hungry."

"There is no food," Ellis Amma said.

"Why is there no food?" he asked. "I told you I want food!" He advanced on her, holding his fist above his head. Josan woke up. He saw Anthony about to strike Ells Amma.

"No!" shouted Josan. "No!"

Anthony, startled, stopped in mid-strike. He stared at his uncle in astonishment. Then he snorted and went back to his task.

Ellis Amma cowered, her hands raised above her face. Anthony prepared to punch, but Josan grabbed his arm and swung him aside. Despite their almost equal size, Josan was much stronger than the younger man. Josan had spent much of his life in hard labors, while Anthony had never done a day's work and had largely spent his life in begging and drinking.

Anthony attempted to punch Josan, but Josan knew how to fight men while the other didn't. Josan deftly stepped aside, and clouted Anthony on the ear. Anthony howled and retreated. Then Josan remembered his stick which was to be used to kill dogs, and picked it up. Seeing this, Anthony trembled in his drunkenness. As Josan took one step, Anthony hastened out the door and into the darkness.

Ellis Amma had viewed the scene with quiet amazement. Never had any of her male relatives defended her against her son. Her brother Savia Pulle was too weak in the brain, and Josan never cared enough.

Now she regarded Josan. She rose and touched his arm. "Sit," she commanded. He did so.

Ellis Amma went out of the house. If Anthony was out there, he gave no indication. She returned with a bucket of water from the well. She went to the cupboard and located a tin glass, then carefully poured it full of water and handed it to her brother. Then she went to the hearth in the back of the room and lit s fire. She poured water into a pot. She was preparing to cook rice and boil tea for her brother.

## My Best Friend

Bill is my best friend.

I have never really been able to say that about anyone else. sure, there was Michael Fazio in grammar school, and Frank Gargano in college, and Shari after college. And my three closest pals in high school, Rich, Eddie, and Augie, drifted away after high school. But there was nobody as loyal to me through the many years as my old high school buddy Bill.

In high school, we were friendly but not that close. Bill Devine, the studious student, was known as "Andy", a reference to the portly comic actor Andy Devine. Bill was thus the chairman of the Devine Opera Company, which sang "the Andy Devine Opera" a very lewd and crude version of The Toreador Song. I am sure that this silliness was very uncomfortable to Bill, but he never let it show. Years later, he could joke about it and enjoy the fun, but I felt sad to have been a part of it----but being a good sport was Bill's great good quality.

But it was after high school that our friendship was cemented. in my first year of college, I had gone away from home—far away. it was a brave new world in Texas for a New Jersey boy, and I felt lonely and disheartened. I wrote to various friends back home, but it was Bill who really came through for me. He wrote long letters filled with jokes, many of them self-deprecating, and with surprisingly wise insights. My three closest friends, meanwhile, wrote unimaginative simple letters. I was very disappointed with their lack of interest.

But after I transferred for my second and subsequent years of college to a school near my parents' home and was back to living with them, I was caught up with the rigors and requirements of school and part-time work, so I did not see much of Bill.

After college, my life entered its "knockabout" phase. not wanting to settle into a career type job, I worked various low level positions, including a "picker" in a book publisher's warehouse and a cab driver. It was during this time that Bill and I became close. it happened by default. my other friends had gone their own way. Rich had become a born again Christian. A visit to his house would invariably lead to listening to some music by Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd, then some Christian singer-songwriter, then sitting while being read some scripture. To which Rich would interject at appropriate times, "That's outrageous!" Fortunately, there was still baseball to share.

My friend Eddie had become a vagabond wanderer, a free spirit with no concern for money or power or success. I admired him for it, but knew I liked my creature comforts too much to live that way. and he was rarely around our part of the country.

And my third friend, Augie, had thrown himself into the corporate world. He was no longer interested in free souls like us.

Into this void stepped Bill.

After college, Bill had taken a job as a truck dispatcher at a local Marcal paper products warehouse. All that was available to him was the night shift from 3 to 11. And I worked a sixteen hour shift as a cab driver, working until we closed up the taxi station at midnight.

So that made it quite convenient for us to meet. Except that Bill didn't always get off work at the appointed hour of 11...he often worked till 12 or 1am. So, we became explorers of the late-night world, denizens of the darkness. And I was taken by surprise by a remarkable change on Bill. In high school I had known him as a studious, serious young man. But now, four years of college and the disillusionment of life after school had left him different. There was only one thing which mattered to him now, and it consumed him with a fiery passion: GIRLS.

Yes, Bill confided to me, the true meaning of life was girls.

"Women have sex," he posited. "And men want it. Our job is to get it from them."

And so we dove into the sea of late night, with the typical result being me, shy and unobtrusive, giving Bill the encouragement to hit on as many females as possible. In bars, in diners, in International Houses of Pancakes, there was no resting for Bill. At first his doggedness was a source of amusement to me, but eventually it became a bore. We would see some young lady, and I would say, "why not give her a try", and before you knew it Bill would be at her. He wasn't always successful, but he never got discouraged.

At least, he never let discouragement show in his forever twinkling eyes. Once on the subway in New York, on our way to see a film, we spied a well-dressed, well-coifed young lady seated totally alone at the center of the car.

"Why don't you try your chances with her?" I asked Bill. I was secretly hoping she would join us, and find my company preferable to Bill's. But he was back in a flash.

"No luck. She 'vants to be alone,' he said, mimicking Greta Garbo.

But then, surprise of surprises, she turned up at our movie. We were

The theatre was fairly full, but she managed to find three empty seats several rows in front of us and took the middle seat.

"This is fate!" announced Bill. "Fate is giving me a second chance! And now that we're watching the same movie, she can't turn me down!" So he struck out after his maiden fair, taking an empty seat beside her. And returned promptly. He had indeed struck out. "She said, 'I think I want to see this movie alone'," my dejected, rejected compadre reported.

Long about that time, I decided to take a trip out to San Francisco. It would be, I announced to anyone and everyone, "a writer's holiday." I was not having much luck with my writing, and I wanted to go to the place which I had heard was the city of writers. Ferlinghetti had opened the City Lights bookstore there, Ginsberg and Kerouac were frequent visitors, and I imagined a city full of writers sharing stories, knocking back brewskys, or just writing till the cows came home.

After some three months of writing, on the beach, in golden gate park, and in my hotel room, I decided to return home – about the same time as my money ran out and I was unable to find work in San Francisco. When I arrived back home, things started to change drastically. First, I got my own apartment. Next, I was filled with fear about joblessness. Though the taxi station had taken me back, what would happen if I had an accident and was injured so that I could not drive? No, I needed some work I could do that would survive injury. Something that was not a wet dream like my writing. I decided on programming school.

Those were the days when one could take a six-month course and come out to a waiting world of computer offers. I worked the night shift at the taxi and went to school in the day. They even got government money to pay my way.

But going to school all day and working all night left me no time for friends. I even worked weekends to afford the transportation costs to the school. When I got out after six months, I had three job offers immediately. I was a free man. I had a life again. I started working for Automatic Data Processing at a pay level I could have only imagined before.

I looked up Bill again. Imagine my surprise when I learned he had a regular girlfriend. More than that, a close regular girlfriend. I was invited out to see a movie with Bill and Carol.

Caroline O'Keefe was one serious young lady. Close-cropped red hair, intense green eyes, and a job with the Centers for Disease Control. That job was to interview HIV victims in their homes. In the Bronx. "My car's been vandalized three times," she informed me. Each time they broke the lock on her trunk. "But fortunately, I keep my notes and such with me at all times. So they never get the truly irreplaceable data".

Carol was a strange choice for Bill. She was not beautiful. At six foot two, Bill towered over this five-foot-three lady. And she was serious minded, if not exceptionally intelligent. "I want to retire at 45," she announced to me. "I'm studying for a real estate license. I can sell real estate in my spare time." She was a real go-getter. She had Bill studying for a real estate license too.

But Bill, it turns out¸ was fascinated by my new career. And he wanted in on it. Bill was not a "natural" at it. He spent many weekends at my sparse apartment (he worked nights and had school in the days) where I tutored him. Carol did not mind at all. In fact, she was quite enthusiastic about him learning programming. Besides, she had him on the weekend nights.

As it turned out, Bill had gotten a new best friend in all the time I had spent away from him in school and in San Francisco. Gene Kosninski was a nice fellow, albeit a bit boring. He was reasonably intelligent, having known Bill in college as a fellow English Lit major, and he was a truly nice guy. He lived with his widowed mother and helped support her. The passion of his life was steam. He loved steam engines and anything else to do with steam.

So the time passed, I put in many hours tutoring Bill, and lo, he passed out of school and got his first job in programming. For much more than he had been earning at Marcal.

Carol was pleased. He was doing something positive with his life and she approved. Meantime, I got to eat breakfast with Bill at various diners on Saturday mornings. And sometimes gene joined us. But not Carol, who worked Saturdays. And I learned one thing: despite having Carol, Bill's interest in the opposite sex had not waned.

On one such Saturday, Bill and I sat in the Lyndhurst diner. After gazing at the menu for what seemed like eons, Bill decided on what he always decided on: chicken in the basket. "Have I ordered chicken in the basket here?" he asked solemnly. "You've ordered chicken in the basket in every diner in this state," I told him. He seemed to find that amusing, and burst out laughing. And, just for good measure, he chatted up and hit on the waitress. He got her phone number. Later that day, playing tennis at the North Arlington courts, he did it again with a fetching young lady waiting for a court. So despite his alliance with Carol, he was still a tomcat on the prowl.

One Sunday I got a mysterious call from Carol. Would I go to Bill's apartment immediately? I had planned on a nice quiet Sunday cycling to a secret little creek in Clifton. Few knew of its existence, and I had been warned of a witches' coven which sacrificed chickens there. I didn't believe a word of it – it was far more likely to involve Santeria. But if there was an emergency at Bill's, then I must go there.

The emergency at Bill's turned out to be a birthday party. Carol had arranged a surprise party for her boyfriend. At his apartment were his mother and father, his sister and brother-in-law and their son, Carol, and now me. I was touched by the sweetness of it all. Although when she said she had arranged for gene to take Bill on a wild goose chase while she set up the party, I almost said "GENE is driving him? What am I, chopped liver?" But I held my tongue and appreciated the effort she went through for her man.

We were to hide and leap out shouting Happy Birthday when Bill came through the door. He did and we did, and he exchanged a huge kiss with his girl. I was thinking how lucky it was that he did not pick up some babe on the way. Gene certainly could not have stopped him.

So the party progressed. Gene had brought with him an old wind-up record player, and was entrancing Bill's nephew, brother-in-law, and father with it. Bill's sister was helping Carol in the kitchen. Which left me, Bill, and his mother to chat.

Vilma Devine was a singular woman. She stayed one week every year in an ashram in Maine. She slept on a foam strip over a wooden board. Her frequent guests were Hindu gurus as well as Catholic priests and brothers from the parish where Bill and I attended high school.

Our conversation that day settled on one Brother Robert, who I gathered was very sick.

"Poor Brother Robert," said Mrs. Devine. "He looked like death warmed over today."

"What are you talking about," said Bill. "Gene and I just left the hospital. He looked fine. Yesterday he looked like death warmed over."

"No, Bill," his mother insisted. "Today he looked like death warmed over. Yesterday he looked fine."

"No, no, no," said Bill, who was getting very agitated. "Today he looked fine! Yesterday he looked like death warmed over!"

"I'm telling you he looked fine yesterday, but today he looks like death warmed over!"

"Are you crazy? Yesterday he looked like death warmed over and today he looks fine!"

Fortunately, at that moment Carol brought out some lunch, or they would still have been arguing over when Brother Robert looked like death warmed over.

So life went on. I got a contract to work in Washington, dc. I was only back for weekend. I saw my parents on the Saturday nights once a fortnight when I came back, and occasionally Bill and Carol on Sunday mornings. I sublet my apartment and usually slept over Saturdays at my parents' home. But on one three day weekend, I slept at Bill's.

During the day Sunday, we had a grand time on the tennis court. Carol did not play (she never played tennis) but read a real estate course book under a tree.

When we had finished, we went to his car.

"What animal does Carol remind you of?" asked Bill.

I thought the question a queer one, and I said so.

"No, really," he insisted. "Look at her closely. Doesn't she look remarkably like one particular animal?"

Carol grinned sweetly up at us. I played along. "I don't know...a rabbit? Yes, a rabbit."

"No," said Bill. "Doesn't she look exactly like...a fox? Take a close look. She's a fox!"

I couldn't let this chance pass. "Oh, no, you're not pulling that old fox routine again!"

Carol ate it up. "Oh, so you're pulling the old fox routine, eh," and she punched him (lightly) in the belly.

It was a truly fun time.

That night, Carol made up the couch for me, and, wearing a bathrobe, went with Bill into the bedroom and closed the door. How cute and domestic, I thought as I drifted off to sleep. When Monday morning came around, Carol had to work, but Bill and I were able to take advantage of the day. We headed off for breakfast at the Arlington Diner and there, over my pancakes and Bill's ham and eggs with bacon, he made a startling confession. "There's no sex. And I don't know what to do about that."

"You mean she won't?" I asked.

"I mean I won't. I can't bring myself to do it."

"I don't get it."

"It's just that she's so..so much shorter than me."

"That's it? She's short?"

"I know it's crazy. She's perfect for me. She's seen me at my best and she's seen me at my worst."

"She's not that short. Geez, she's average height. You're just tall."

"I like tall women. With long, shapely legs." He let out a long breath. "She wants to know why we haven't been intimate. I don't know what to say. I don't want to lose her, Ron." He launched into a story about how she'd gone through his drawers and discovered his collection of many, many girls' phone numbers. She had laid them all out end to end on his bed. When he walked through the door, she silently walked him to the bed, then left, slamming his door.

"But still, she stayed with me. See what I mean? She stayed with me. She's a gem."

I explained why she was wrong to open his drawer and look through it. Bill didn't get it. But besides that, I thought he was crazy to avoid sex with Carol and crazy to do what I thought he was inevitably headed for...giving her up. But, the heart wants what it wants. We drank up our coffee, and later that day I was on the train to Washington.

And shortly my contract in Washington was up, and my next contract was in Los Angeles. Bill and Carol drove me to the airport. "Wow. You're going to see all those Hollywood beauties. I envy you."

"I'll save one or two for you," I said, and then I was off. Leaving the cold February of the Northeast for the sunny climes of Southern California. Or so I thought. At any rate, it would be a long year before I saw my friend again,

But in a few months¸ I had need of him. My apartment sublet had long since run out, but a lady friend in California was going east for her vacation, and I offered my apartment to her and her husband for their week in New York/New Jersey. So, after calling my parents to get clean linens and towels ready, I called Bill.

"You're not going to believe this," he cheerfully announced, "but I work in tat building that's right behind your apartment!"

And so, as usual, Bill came through for me. He picked up the items and the key from my parents and dropped them off at the apartment. And totally charmed my parents in the process.

"He said, 'Guess where I'm working? Only thirty steps from Ron's apartment!'" related my mother. "It was so good to see Bill again."

Yes, he had that effect on people, particularly old folks, and my mom whipped up a big dinner with lots of extras for him. They were truly sorry to see him leave, and waved him goodnight from the porch.

Almost before I knew it, my one-year contract was over, and I was back East again. Bill met me at the airport, and had a surprise for me. There was no Carol with him, but a new girl named Margot. And there was a big difference in Margot. She was tall, taller than me, as tall as Bill himself.

But I had a surprise for them. Coming back with me on the plane was the young lady I was planning to marry, a Filipino lady named Marissa.

We let the ladies chat on the way back from the airport while we reminisced.

Bill was very fond of Margot, and I noticed that whenever Gene accompanied us, which was often, Margot and Gene sat together and talked together, while Bill joined in conversation with Marissa and me. She apparently was a programmer in the same firm as Bill; in fact they were consultants working on the same project.

"And we're going to have a big company party soon when the project wraps up," said Bill, a naughty grin on his face. "And guess what we're going to do?"

I truly could not imagine. "You're going to spike the punch with LSD?"

"No...." He paused for dramatic effect. "We're going to...REVEAL OURSELVES!"

"Ugh!" I said, "How disgusting! You mean you're going to drop your drawers right in front of everyone?"

Bill gave a hearty laugh. "No. We've been secretly dating for months. The company strongly discourages that. We're taking a big chance by letting everyone know that we're involved. We could get fired. But since we've proven ourselves on the project and shown how important we are to the company, we're gambling they'll let us be. And won't they be surprised when we REVEAL OURSELVES!"

"I don't see that it's such a big deal. The two of you are dating. So what?" I was immediately sorry because I saw the wind go out of Bill's sails. He had thought they were being so clever and naughty. I looked over at Gene. He had a cheerful, non-obtrusive smile on his face.

So we went on that way. Marissa, a bright young(er) advertising account executive, was my gal, and Margot was Bill's gal, and there was Gene to tag along. It was frankly my belief that Gene was more in tune with Margot, but that never came up. One summer's day Bill pulled me aside.

"Boy, she looks so good lying by the pool! With those long, shapely legs."

But he was troubled. "She thinks I spend too much money, Ron. She says I shouldn't go out so much, that I shouldn't spend so much on drinks."

I could see where this was going.

"But I like my drinks. I love the taste of beer. I love to have my Dewar's, my Seagram's, my Johnnie Walker Black. How can I get her to understand that these are the important things in life?"

I asked him, "Do you plan on having children?"

"Sure. Get married to Margot, get the progeny out of the way. We're young, there's time for all that. But that's the point, Ron. She says I'm wasting the money that could go in to raising our children. How can I get her to see it from my perspective?"

"Gee, I don't know, buddy. Sounds like the two of you are talking at cross purposes." And that was that.

Marissa had gone home to spend the next eight months in Philippines, when I got a phone call at work. My father had died. He was only 71 years old, but had suffered from Parkinson's Disease for fifteen years. My mother, just out of the hospital and suffering from her heart disease, was in no condition to attend the wake or make the arrangements. So the four of his children did. At the wake, I was useless, as I hadn't slept in days. But there was Bill, arriving early in the evening and staying till they closed up each night. He sat beside me and talked me through it, and if not for him I don't know how I would have made it. With him standing beside me, I was able to make small talk with visitors and even heard a wonderful story about my father from his younger brother, Uncle Harold.

It was only four months later that my mother passed away. I suppose it was because she no longer had my father to take care of. I had seen her in hospital and told her of my plans to marry. She was ecstatic that the only unmarried child of her brood was going to tie the knot.

But her own life seemed empty to her without her husband of so long in it. When she died, Bill was at my side. "I can't believe this," he said. "You've just gotten a double punch in the guts in a few short months." And there he was, at the wake and funeral to see me through yet again.

The next time I saw Bill, in a few weeks, Margot was history. I had visited Philippines and come back with Marissa, and she was intrigued. "Bill," she said. "Do you think maybe Margot and Gene would be right for each other?" Bill as always saw everything in relation to himself and had trouble dealing with the concept that those close to him could have a life without him.

"Huh? That's my girl and my friend. There's nothing between them."

Marissa was persistent. "But now that you've broken up with her, don't you think she'd be good for Gene?"

"But they wouldn't go out. Margot wouldn't go out with Gene, she was my girl. And Gene wouldn't go out with her."

"But why not, now that you've officially broken up with her?"

"But they were my girl and my friend. Of course they wouldn't."

Shortly after that, Marissa and I got married. There was no thought of anyone but Bill being the best man. As the commotion clattered about us in my

Aunt Sue's kitchen, I confessed my feelings to Bill. "Of course, I'm getting a wonderful girl. But still, it's a bit scary. It's overwhelming, in fact."

Bill put his hand on my shoulder. "I've got the car. It's right outside. Just say the word, and we're off for San Francisco, for Los Angeles, for Las Vegas, you name it."

But of course, I swallowed my fears, got married, and have never regretted it once. But I had a strange feeling about Bill—he had been close to a lot more women than I had, especially to Carol and Margot, but had not come close to tying the knot. Would he ever get married?

Marissa's father visited with us for awhile. He would be getting an eye operation. He enjoyed Bill's company, but as he came to know Bill's story, he gave us a dire warning: "If Bill can't choose one of these nice ladies to marry, then one day he'll be stuck with some lady who's not so nice. Someone will get her claws into him and not give him up."

Bill decided to move out to Morristown. We still saw him, but not so frequently. Gene, however, was not to be seen. Apparently, he was no longer a part of Bill's life. One day we got a call. Bill had a new girlfriend he wanted us to meet. It was the week of his birthday. We were not invited for the birthday party itself, mind you (apparently his Morristown friends were) but we were invited out for Saturday brunch.

So we drove out to a diner in Morristown. We met Bill's new girlfriend, Sharona. She was a sandy-haired, tall gal from Canada, and a very unpleasant moment occurred at once while we waited for a table. We wanted no smoking, while Sharona insisted on the smoking section. Marissa would have given in, but I held firm, and so we got the nonsmoking section. Our waitress carried in our plates of food, and Sharona said to her, "I know how hard it is honey, I've done it. I've had plates balanced on my arms and elbows while trying to avoid customers and balancing on one foot." She smiled a knowing smile at the girl. Our waitress did not seem impressed as she handed out the meals. "Everybody okay? Good. Let me get some catsup for those fries and some syrup for your pancakes."

Our brunch proceeded apace. Sharona hailed from Toronto. She said she was an assistant manager at an important furniture store.

"I run the place," she assured us. "See this?" She held out a beeper. "I'm on call seven days a week, twenty four hours a day. They can't lift a finger without me...I make sure of that! What do you do, honey?" she asked Marissa.

"I'm still in school," said Marissa. It was true. She'd given up her advertising job. "I'm a PHD student at Columbia."

"God, I know how tough that is, honey," said Sharona. "Like when I got my Master's degree at UCLA."

"Bill, how is Gene doing these days? We never see him."

"Oh, I don't know. He's got some issues. I think his mom is sick or something."

"Who's that?"

"My friend Gene. You know. The guy with long blonde hair and glasses?'

There was still no recognition in her eyes.

"He went out with you and me and Jack and Diane?"

"Oh, that loser. Jack and Diane couldn't believe you hung out with such a loser."

"Who are Jack and Diane?" I asked.

"Friends of mine from Toronto. They live down here now. Really, really good people."

I thought of Gene. He was a bit boring, but he had a good heart, and I know Marissa liked him too. We thought he was really, really good people.

Sharona went on at length about her 13 year old daughter, how she had such a poise to her. "She's learned how to manipulate people so well. She can twist them around her little finger."

We proceeded to speak about our soon to be one year old son, how he was so bright he was something of a prodigy.

After brunch, we went back to Bill's apartment. Once there, his girl showed us her present. It was a snazzy briefcase. We complimented it appropriately. But there was a small scratch on it – the kind of scratch that comes with use.

"Can I see you for a minute," she asked him. And they marched into the bedroom, with Sharona closing the door behind them.

Soon there was a raised female voice accompanied by a contrite male voice.

"What's going on?" I whispered to Marissa.

"She's scolding him for the scratch on his briefcase."

In a moment, they returned. Bill had a wan smile upon his face.

"I'm sorry. The briefcase was perfect when I got it. No nicks or scratches anywhere. But I was a little careless and scratched it."

I didn't know what to say. Was my friend apologizing to me for a scratch on his briefcase? So I just said, "oh, that's okay. No big deal"

Bill and Sharona proceeded to show us pictures of them: the two of them as Star Trek commanders at a Halloween, then with Sharona's friends at a barbecue, then with another of Sharona's friends at a bar. It seems a good time was had by all. I was getting a little bored, and clearly Sharona had had enough of us for the day – they were going out for the evening with more of her friends – so I bid my friend a fond goodbye, with a promise that they would visit my son, Ray, on his birthday in February.

February rolled around faster than we knew. We had my family over during the day, and my wife's father was staying with us, so there were plenty of people around for Ray. But there was no Bill.

Then, while we cleaning up about 6:15, after my sister had just left, the doorbell rang. And there were Bill and Sharona.

Bill brought a Little Red Ride On, and immediately bemoaned the fact that someone else had given Ray a little scooter. I immediately went to work on repairing Bill's psyche.

"Bill, this Red Ride On is perfect. It's totally different than the scooter. Look, the back opens and you can store things there. Ray loves opening things and finding things inside."

Bill liked that. His worried mind was at rest. But after one quick drink they had to leave. You see, it was also the birthday of Sharona's friend, and she did not, repeat not, appreciate having to share in the birthday of some little kid on this day.

They swept away, and frankly I was glad. It had been a long day, and now we could relax. My father-in-law, though, was not happy. To him, his grandson came first. As they drove away, he commented, "Bill has passed up all the good women and now he's stuck with someone who will control his life. And she's not going to let go of him, either."

I saw Bill one more time. He called me up and told me of the death of his father. I had no warning of the wake, but that very day would be his funeral mass. .I had meetings scheduled all day, but I said of course I'll come.

Mr. Devine was a mellow man, a nice fellow who slept on a foam strip and board because his wife Vilma wanted him to. The only thing that got his ire up was anyone making remarks critical of the USA. I liked him a lot.

I couldn't call Marissa to let her know, because she was in class at Columbia. So I just went to the church. Bill gave a nice speech about his father, trying to skirt the line between intellect and emotion. After the burial, I spoke with him.

"Bill, I'm so sorry. I would have come to the wake, had I known."

"I know, I know. He was deep into Alzheimer's, he didn't even recognize me when I visited at the hospital."

"I didn't see your mother. Or Sharona."

"My mother couldn't handle the funeral. She's pretty broken up."

"Sharona too?"

"She couldn't get away. They're taking inventory at her store."

Bill looked sadly at me. "What did you think about my 'speech' about my father?"

I could see that he was seeking approval, like a puppy. I did not let him down. "It was just right."

"Really? I was trying to strike the right chord. Not too maudlin, but not joyful, either. Respectful."

"Well, you certainly hit it just right. Your father would have been pleased."

"Good. It's my last duty to him."

We parted company, and though I did not realize it then, that would be the last time I saw Bill Devine.

It's now been years since I last saw Bill. I suppose I was not an acceptable companion according to Sharona, as she went about replacing all the friends in his life with her own. We did correspond (infrequently) by email, but had several blow-ups over political matters and eventually became angry with each other's opinions and cut all communications.

So there you have it, the story of my best friend. I doubt if we could make amends for what went before. Or even want to. I'm glad he is out of my life, though I am exceedingly grateful to have been privileged to know him. But I have tried to paint a true and honest portrait of my best friend, Bill Devine.

## The Gold and the Charm

The monsoons had ended a week ago and the days were getting gradually hotter. On Clement Mawatha in Borella, foot traffic was brisk past the gate of the old Fernando mansion. The mansion, a huge, walled house once occupied by a greatly revered High Court justice of Sri Lanka, was now home to a large family of siblings and their spouses, all members of the expanding upper middle class in Colombo.

It was early evening when the five dogs of the house began barking in great annoyance and anger. Dexter, the middle brother, raced from window to window in the house to try to catch a glimpse of the source of the dogs' furor. But he could see nothing and chose not to venture outside alone.

"Anan!" he shouted. "Let's go see what's about!" But the oldest brother, Sebastian, was slow in rising from his chair in the kitchen anteroom. He had been enjoying a snack and drink, and the disturbance of his relaxation was a bother.

It was only a few minutes later when a loud knock brought Augustine, the youngest and only unmarried brother, to the front door. The 5 dogs in the house barked fiercely to ward off the unknown visitor.

Two men stood on the veranda as Augustine swung open the door. One was tall and one was short.

"Father Fernandez has arrived," the short one announced loudly, in reference to his companion. Father Fernandez was clothed in all black, but with no Roman collar.

Augustine invited him in, and the rest of the family gathered round in the cavernous sitting room. In addition to Sebastian, Dexter, and Augustine, there were sister Queenie and her husband Milano, Dexter's wife Maria, Thumbyrassa ("little brother king"), the hulking amateur wrestling champ Archie and his wife Mallow, and the unmarried sister Jinji. Sebastian's and Thumbyrassa's wives were at their respective homes in the countryside.

"Why is Father Fernandez here?" asked Queenie.

"Hush, woman," said Dexter. "Don't you know that this is an honor for our family? Come in, Father, and avail yourself of our hospitality. To what do we owe the honor of your presence?"

The short man answered. "We have come on a mission of grave importance. We shall take some tea and then discuss the matter."

This being the evening, the servant Pushpa had left for the day. "Queenie," barked Dexter as loud as any of the dogs, "some tea."

To which Queenie replied, "I'm not your servant, brother!" She spoke a few words in Tamil to Jinji, who hurried into the kitchen. As the unmarried daughter, such tasks fell to her, and her sister made sure she knew it.

In short order, the tea was prepared and served. And father Fernandez spoke at last.

"I have come to this house to warn you of a great danger. There is a curse upon this house, a powerful curse. I can rid you of the curse, but it won't be easy."

"What will it take to rid us of the curse," asked Anan Sebastian.

"We shall see," said Father Fernandez. "We shall see. It all depends. But anyways, what price is too great when your very lives are in jeopardy?"

"Give us a moment to talk it out," said Sebastian, still suffering a headache from all he had to drink earlier.

The brothers and Queenie retired to Queenie's room.

"Well," said Sebastian. "What do we think?'

"It's stupid," said Dexter. "We gave them their tea, now let them be off."

"But you were such a proper host to them. What has changed your mind?" Augustine asked. Augustine, the youngest, was often referred to as Baby.

"Baby, being a proper host is a duty. That doesn't mean we have to fall for their lies."

"I don't believe they are lies. We may indeed be cursed. Remember Milano's sprained ankle. And Thumbyrassa's problems"

Archie spoke up. "We'd better take the curse off. Who knows what might happen to us."

Queenie put her two cents in. "It's a curse. We must put a stop to it, no? Milano has suffered so much already."

Milano, the circumspect member of the family, rarely spoke without considerable thought. "My ankle sprain is hardly the work if a curse. I happened to step on a broken bottle."

"Ah, but what about Thumbyrassa? He didn't step on any bottle," said Archie.

"Thumbyrassa didn't need to step on broken bottles. He's the one who drank them. He's nothing but a drunk!" said Dexter

Thumbyrassa (literally "little brother king") merely smiled sheepishly. He always had the same foolish grin and said little when he was drunk. Which was his usual state.

"We must give them an answer," said Sebastian. "They have been waiting long enough Since we are all in agreement except Dexter, our answer will be yes."

So the siblings headed out to see their guests.

"We seek your help in this business," said Sebastian to Fernandez. "Please help us, Father."

Father Fernandez nodded. "A wise decision," his little friend said.

And the two quickly went outside. The brothers and Queenie followed. The three other women stayed inside – they had no interest in such silliness. Thumbyrassa also stayed inside, where the whiskey was.

Father Fernandez began a slow circle around the house, looking very somber as he felt the ground in spots. Just as it appeared he had come up empty, he stopped in one spot and whirled around. He closed his eyes and began chanting. Finally he sang out, "Oh Lord, won't You help this poor family. They believe in Your holiness, Lord."

A glaze came over his eyes for a moment. Then he whirled around, throwing himself to the ground. "Aha!" he declaimed. In his hand was a tiny bit of gold.

Fernandez's little friend spoke. "Father has found it. This is the charm which has caused your curse."

"What can be done, Father" asked Sebastian

Father Fernandez lifted his head solemnly. "I can take off the curse. It won't be a simple thing. I can take off the curse for ...1,000 rupees."

Augustine was dumbstruck. "1,000 rupees! So much!"

"Yes, it is a lot. But it is a powerful curse. And I can tell you something else. I know where there is much gold buried under this house. You will be very rich."

Even Dexter was impressed. "Gold under this house? Is that part of the curse?"

"No, no, no!" said Fernandez. "I will take care of the charm that caused the curse. The gold under the house is clean gold."

"Let us pay to remove the curse now," said Sebastian to the others. They all agreed, even Dexter.

"Let us repair to the interior now," said Fernandez.

Inside, the brothers gathered together the money. There were no contributions from Jinji, who thought the whole thing silly, nor from Thumbyrassa, who had no money to give.

Pocketing the money, Father Fernandez now led a procession from room to room. Finally, he stopped in Jinji's room.

"Here," he announced. "Dig here, in this room. You will find much gold here and you will soon be rich."

"But how deep under the room?'

"Just under the surface. You shall find it straightaway."

As father Fernandez left the house, the others all thanked him profusely.

"You know," said Dexter, "that evil charm looked suspiciously like Mallow's earring."

"What are you saying, you fool?!" said Archie, rising to the defense of his wife.

"I thought so too," said Augustine.

"Now you're the fool, Baby."

"We all know that she's a witch. Strange things have been happening to us ever since you married her," said Dexter.

"Mallow is a good woman!"

"Mallow is a witch. Everyone knows that."

With that, Archie swung into action. He grabbed the half-empty Johnnie Walker bottle from Thumbyrassa's hands and took aim at Dexter's head. Dexter ducked and the bottle glanced off his upper arm. The two struggled. Archie was huge and strong but was getting old. Dexter was younger, stocky, and more agile.

"Brothers, brothers!" shouted Sebastian. "Stop all this nonsense! We have work to do to find the gold!"

But the two continued their fight. The bottle fell from Archie's hand and crashed to the floor, breaking into many pieces. And soon Archie and Dexter joined it there, rolling in each other's arms as they struggled. Milano attempted to separate them, but only succeeded in gaining minor cuts in his arm. Augustine and Sebastian did not join in, but stood back shouting at the warring parties. Thumbyrassa stayed out of it, sad for the loss of his Johnnie Walker Black, and wondering if he could slip away for another bottle.

Then it was over. Archie got to his feet and grabbed the arm of Mallow, who had come with the other women at the sounds of the ruckus. Amazingly, Dexter and Archie did not get cut despite rolling over the broken bottle. Only Milano, who had tried to intercede, had any bleeding.

"We're going," barked Archie. "We shall not show our faces in this house again."

"But where will you go, Archie? And what of your share in the gold we find?" asked Sebastian.

"Keep it! Keep it for yourselves! I'll not stay here and have my wife insulted! Come, mallow. We'll go to your parents' home where we're wanted."

Sebastian and Augustine spent some time staring after him. Milano was helping Dexter get himself together while being treated for his small cuts by his wife. And Thumbyrassa was hoping for more to drink.

Finally, Sebastian broke the silence

"Well. I suppose we had better get to our digging."

There was a problem. They had only one shovel and no pick. Dexter and Milano were dispatched to the neighboring houses to borrow such implements.

And by now Jinji realized that they would be digging up her floor. Far from being excited and flattered as Sebastian expected, she was aghast at the idea.

"Why don't you dig in your own room, if you must dig? Why can't you leave my room in peace?"

"But Father Fernandez said the gold was here, in your room," said Sebastian.

"Yes," agreed Augustine. "He said the gold was right here."

Jinji was fuming. "And what if he said the gold was in your head? I suppose you would dig there?"

It was now Jinji against the world. Maria would be on her side, but Maria was hesitant to speak out... especially when her husband Dexter was on the other side. Dexter, who originally wanted no part of Father Fernandez, changed his tune when visions of gold danced in his head. Jinji was outvoted. "We'll give you a dozen rooms and line them with floors of gold," said Sebastian.

"I'd rather have one real room with a good floor than a dozen make-believe rooms!"

Milano and Dexter returned with two shovels and a pick. Sebastian was too old to dig, and Thumbyrassa too drunk. And Augustine was a bit too delicate, but he would help as he could. Most of the work would be done by Milano and Dexter.

They worked through the night and into the early morning. The pick flew and the shovels clanked, and while Sebastian and Thumbyrassa dozed off, Milano, Dexter, and Augustine sweated like pigs. But alas, after a long night of digging, there was no gold.

"Well," said Dexter, "we were fooled, and we were fools."

Augustine said, "perhaps we couldn't find the gold because we did not believe strongly enough."

"We didn't find the gold because there was none there to find. That priest played us like a violin. He took our money and there's not a thing we can do about it."

"Well," said Sebastian, "at least there's no harm done."

But Jinji, who had not slept a wink all night or morning said, "No harm done? No harm done! Look at my beautiful room! Where am I to sleep now?"

"But we moved your bed out of the room, Jinji," said Sebastian.

Jinji only simmered and glowered.

So there you have the story of the gold and the charm. Jinji's room was remade by workmen at considerable cost. And Archie never set foot in that house again. But even now the others suspect mallow of planting the witch's charm, and even now Augustine thinks that if only they had a stronger faith, they would have found the gold.

## All That Whining and Complaining

The beat-up old black typewriter sits there staring at me.

"Come on, you schmuck!" it says. "Write something!"

"Leave me alone, willya?" I say. "I don't feel like writing now."

"Oh, so you don't feel like writing now. How about yesterday? I suppose you didn't feel like writing then, either. And the day before that."

"I was busy. I had stuff to do. You know how it is."

"No, I don't. I just sit here waiting for you to punch these keys. Will you look at this dust on my Q? It hasn't been touched for days. Do you think it's easy having to sit still, never knowing when or even if there's ever going to be any action around here?"

"Ah, shut up! I've had it with your whining and complaining. You call yourself a Royal? The only thing that royal about you is that you're a royal pain! I've got a good mind to trade you in on a brand new Smith-Corona! Then see how you'd like it!"

"At least I'd get some attention. I'd get all spruced up with Varsol and all, and I'd be put on display in a window for everyone to admire."

"The hell you would! The only place you'd go is to the machine that crushes scrap metal! Nobody wants a creaking old hunk of junk like you! Without me, you'd end up as an exhaust pipe on a garbage truck, choking all day long!"

I am getting tired of this conversation. It takes place nine out of every ten days, and that damn typewriter is getting on my nerves. If only it would stop looking at me like that, with that blank sheet of paper in its cylinder. You know, once in awhile I really do use it. I type a few lines now and then. Sometimes I even go on a tear, spitting out one page after another, doing whole stories at a time.

But is that typewriter happy then? Does it shut its fat mouth for at least a minute? Is it grateful?

Not that hunk of tin! It keeps barking for more, more, more. Believe me, I know that thing. It's never satisfied.

"Just use me," it pleads. "That's all I ask. Do I ever ask for more than that?" Then comes one of its favorite lines: "I'm only asking for your sake, not mine."

"Look," I answer, "if you're so interested in my sake, why can't you leave me alone? I'm lazy and I know it, but I enjoy being lazy. That's just the way I am, and you can't change that."

"But look. All that stuff that's inside you, that'll just die unless you use me. It'll all choke, suffocate, and it'll never grow or develop into whatever it has the potential to be. It'll never do you or anybody else any good if you just let it lie in there where nobody can see it and appreciate it, maybe even learn from it."

So eventually I break down and start typing. Not because what that typewriter says is right or anything, though. After all, that's just a dumb piece of metal, what the hell can it possibly know? It's falling apart, anyways. I just give in 'cause I can't stand all that whining and complaining.

## Jude's Vow

The gravelly ground was still wet from the pre-dawn rains. But now that the sun was up and the air was warm, the sandy soil would soon dry. Jude stood on the porch of his mother's house, his long black hair glistening from the morning shower at the well, peering out at the dirt road that ran past the house. As it was every morning, on his face was a smile so bright that all the girls of the village thought him extraordinarily smart and handsome. But they all knew of his fabled oddness, so none would be found alone with him.

At sixteen years of age, the world was open before Jude. And he had no idea what to do with it. He knew that he did not want to be a laborer, as his father had been. His mother had borne high hopes for Jude, for his intelligence was obvious. When much younger he was dubbed "the bright spark of the village" by the lady whose parents had moved to the village from the city when her father had retired from accountancy.

But with his smarts came a precociousness that put people off, and there was some oddness in him which frightened people. When he was expelled from the local Catholic school down the road, his mother's dreams for him had slowly withered and died.

For now, Jude worked occasionally at the local brick factory, helping pay the bills of the house with his mother, who took in sewing work. And trying to put aside a little money for the dowry of his younger sister, though there never seemed to be any money to do it.

From the south road came a young man not much older than Jude

"Epidee, Jude", he greeted loudly.

"Epidee," Jude replied and called him over: "Venga."

The young man was a bass, a skilled workman.

"What's new?" asked Jude?

"I have a job."

"What job?"

"I am making a new porch on the master's house. I will enclose the old porch to make a front room, and make a new outside porch. It is a big job. I will be working very hard."

He was very proud to have landed this assignment. The "master" was a gentleman who had retired from the city, and he was referred to as the master because like a schoolmaster he taught children in the village. He helped them in math, geography, and most especially, learning English. Usually the gentleman had brought in more experienced workmen to fix his house, but had gotten frustrated by their laziness and

unreliability. The last bass, recommended by the gentleman's brother in law, had

done a shoddy job on putting up a gated wall at the house, and had taken much more money than the job he did had been worth. Later there were stories of the brother in law and the bass spending the excess payments together on arrack* and gambling. The gentleman was furious but what could he do when the offender was his wife's brother? (*arrack: an alcoholic beverage distilled from coconuts, often moonshined in rural areas of Sri Lanka )

So now, to spite them, he gave his next job to the younger, less experienced bass.

"Ha!" said Jude. "How can you do it? You don't know to do such things!"

"I do know. I can do beautiful work. It's just that it's a very big job and will take a long time and a lot of work."

"Well, I will watch you work and tell you when you're doing something wrong."

"Ayo! You tell me! How silly! I came to offer you a chance to help me and here you are acting as if you know things you don't! That is always your problem, Jude."I know about such things. I can advise you."

"Ha! I don't need your advice. But if you want to help me, you can help me and I will be generous with you."

Jude needed the work and knew that his young friend would not cheat him. Unlike most of the other basses in the area, this one, Stephen, did not drink nor gamble. He was hardworking and devoutly religious, but a bit too serious-minded for Jude's playful nature. The only problem was that Jude would have to provide his own tools.

They agreed to meet the next morning at the gentleman's house to begin the job. In the meantime, Jude searched his own house. He had a few tools, and knew that his father had once had a good set of tools which must still be around somewhere. Poomani, Jude's mother, was pleased that Jude would be learning a skill rather than earning the pittance that the brick factory paid. She and her daughter searched the storeroom with Jude and with the three of them looking through the dusty, wrapped reminders of the father's life, they eventually uncovered a fine set of implements, including trowels of several sizes, knives, a level, a tape measure, and many other items. Jude was all set for his assignment.

Stephen was already at the gentleman's house, taking measurements, when Jude arrived carrying on his shoulder a pack filled with his tools. The servant of the house, a short, thirteen year old girl named Shanti, was observing the proceedings carefully. She had taken it upon herself with no orders from her employer to make sure that the workmen did their work properly, did not work too slow, or take too many breaks. Shanti was a tough taskmistress indeed. She had been recently contracted to work at this house by her mother, who had removed Shanti from the tea plantation where she had previously boarded, worked, and been educated. Here the work was much less, her mother received more money, and Shanti always had enough to eat and a safe house to live in.

But when she spied Jude approaching, her demeanor hardened.

"What do you want here, pig?" Shanti asked Jude. She always called him pig after being told by the neighborhood girls of the reason for Jude's expulsion from the school.

Jude laughed and did not bother to answer her.

"Better go away soon, pig," she warned. "I have a big stick and I will use it if you cause trouble."

"Ho, ho, ho!" said Jude. "You scare me so much! Go in the house little turtle!"

"I'm warning you, pig. Mind me if you don't want to feel the sting of my stick!"

"Ho, ho! I am here to do work! Leave us men to our work and keep out of our way!"

"He is helping me, little turtle," said Stephen. He did not realize that Jude's term for her was meant to mock her. We are making a beautiful new porch for the master."

Shanti relaxed just a smidgen. "Then do your work but do it well. I'll be watching."

At that moment the workers were relieved of their human burden when the lady of the house called Shanti inside to help with chores. Stephen completed his measurements with Jude's help, as a small crowd of pre-school age children began to gather. Also among the watchers, standing with arms folded, was Josan. Josan was a man in his late thirties, formerly a bus driver who had been dismissed from his job some time ago. It was believed by the villagers that Josan had been wounded in the head and was now lacking in sense and intelligence. Others doubted that he had ever had any of either.

"What now?" asked Jude.

"Here come our bricks," Stephen replied as a bullock cart from the brick factory down the road approached slowly.

"I can help," announced Josan. "I know much about making houses."

"You?" Jude said with an amused air. "You know how to break houses, I'm sure, but you don't know to make houses."

Josan got angry. "I know more than you, you fool! You will ruin this house."

"Go away before you make me mad. You're distracting us workmen from doing our job."

"Ha! You will break the house down! I will warn the master of your lack of skill!"

Stephen saw the two as warring fools disrupting his job. "Josan," he said. "If you want to help, then please help unload the bricks."

It was a wise move. Josan immediately took up the task and the three unloaded the bricks. Of course, Josan moved slowly and unloaded a fraction of what the others did, as actual work bored him, but at least it kept him from getting in their way. After the bricks had been unloaded, Stephen reached into his pocket and pulled out a few rupees.

"Here, Josan. Thank you for helping us."

Josan took the coins and took his leave. "I will be back to help some more when you need me," he called behind him.

"Why pay him?" asked Jude. "He'll just buy arrack and drink himself into a stupor."

"That's the plan," Stephen replied. "He won't bother us again today. But I can't afford to pay for his drink every day."

"I'll speak to the master," said Jude. "He listens to my advice. He will keep Josan out of our way."

The two worked hard through the morning. At lunchtime they left the job. Each went to his own house to eat and nap through the heat, as was the afternoon custom there, and would return later in the cool of the evening to continue working.

The village was quiet as most everyone took their lunches. The school adjourned at 1pm, and the students returned home by 1:30, the girls in their starched white dresses and the boys in their white tee shirts and blue shorts.

It was past 4pm when Stephen and Jude arrived back at the master's house to resume their work. Stephen retrieved his tools, but Jude was perplexed. He could not find his tools.

"I kept them on the old porch," said Jude. "They must be here." But they were not.

"Maybe the master brought them inside to protect them."

And just then the master approached from the inside of the house.

"Epidee, Jude," he said. Epidee, Stephen." How is the new porch coming?"

"Good, Sir," said Stephen. "We will finish breaking the old porch wall today. Tomorrow we shall lay bricks."

"Master," asked Jude, "have you seen my tools anywhere?"

"Í haven't seen anything, Jude. I cannot see. You know that."

"I am sorry, Master. I left my tools here and now they are gone."

"Shanti," called the gentleman. "Shanti, call Amma and you both come here."

Shanti came respectfully behind the lady of the house leading the way.

"Ah, the pig Jude is back. Has he done bad work as I expected, Sir?" said Shanti.

"Jude's tools are missing. Did we bring them into the house for safekeeping?"

"No, Sir. I would not touch anything touched by the pig Jude. Ha! He has lost his tools after half a day's work!"

"I bet you took them, little turtle!"

"Hush pig, or I'll beat you with a big stick!"

"Quiet, quiet both of you," said the lady. "Jude, we do not know where your tools are. Perhaps you took them home."

"Yes," said the gentlemen. "Best to go home and you'll find them there, isn't it?"

"No, Sir." Said Jude. "I know who took them."

"You'd better not say it was me, pig!"

"No, turtle, it was not you. I know who took them."

"No one here would take your tools, Jude," said the lady.

"Jude, look in your house," said the gentleman. "The tools must be there, isn't it?"

"No, master." I know who has taken my tools. We won't see him today. He'll be drunk for the rest of the day. I am going now to handle this."

Stephen said, "Jude, you can still help me. We have to finish breaking the old porch wall. You can carry away the debris as I break it."

"No. I have an important thing to do. I will be back tomorrow and I will fix the problem of my missing tools."

As the others watched, Jude walked off in the direction of the Kochikade Road, the main (and only) road into town. They all wondered what important thing Jude would do, but no one had a good idea.

"He must be going to the police," said the gentleman.

"Police won't help him," said the lady. "They'll push him off, they have more important things to do then investigate misplaced tools."

"Ha!" said Shanti. "They know the pig Jude well. If he comes to them they'll arrest him!"

"For what, Shanti?" asked the lady. "For what can they arrest him?"

"For all the trouble he causes everyone, Amma. He is a pig and causes trouble for everyone."

Stephen chose not to speak. He was intently listening to this discussion of his friend.

Instead, the gentleman spoke. He was bemused by Shanti's venom towards Jude, but confused as to its source.

"Shanti, why do you dislike Jude so much?"

"Because he is a pig, Sir."

"But why is he a pig?"

"Because of the things he does."

"What things?"

"I am shy to speak of it, Sir."

"Then tell me, Shanti," said the lady. "Whisper it to me."

The lady leaned her head down toward tiny Shanti, who cupped her hand and stood on tiptoe to reach the lady's ear.

The lady laughed loudly after hearing Shanti's statements.

"What is it," the gentleman asked of his wife.

"It's too funny."

"Will nobody tell me anything? I have a right to know about people working on my house."

"Tell him, Shanti."

"I'm shy, Amma"

"Then I shall tell him. It is the reason that Jude was expelled."

" I have heard stories of that. Tell me."

"One day during recess, all the girls and boys were in the schoolyard. Jude was making a nuisance of himself as usual. Several of the girls then started mocking him."

"So?"

"Jude became angry and pulled down his shorts. He peed in front of the girls."

Shanti was looking away. She did not want to be in the presence of men hearing this story.

"The girls all saw his whatever," said the lady. They screeched and screamed."

"I am sure that schoolgirls would not be so terrified of a boy's whatever," said her husband.

"Of course not. They were feigning terror, though I am sure they were quite shocked and surprised. Anyway, the nuns heard the screaming and came a-running."

"Did they see Jude peeing?"

"No, Sir" piped in Shanti. "The girls told them all about the pig's disgusting deeds. That is why they expelled him. They should have beaten him with big sticks."

"Hm, hm," chuckled the gentleman. "Shanti, you like for everyone to be beaten with big sticks! Ha, ha, ha!"

"No, Sir, only pigs like that pig Jude. There is only one way to teach a pig."

At that, Shanti and the lady returned to the interior of the house to start preparing the dinner. There was much work to be done: grinding of spices, rolling of flour, pounding of meat, boiling of rice and vegetables. When she had regular servants in the city, the lady would just supervise their cooking. But in the village, where the only servants she could hire were either very old or very young, the lady had to do most of the work herself.

Stephen continued late into the evening breaking the wall. He piled up the debris, hoping that Jude would return tomorrow to help with the heaviest work, the carrying away of the debris.

When night fell, Stephen was gone, but several other villagers had come to the gentleman's home for the nightly ritual of watching television. Since there were not enough chairs for all, most sat on the floor, including Shanti, who sat at the lady's feet.

Even with the blare of the television, they could hear the crooning of Josan, coming from his sister's house across the road. It was plainly the crooning of drunkenness.

"It's that dog Josan," Shanti announced, though everyone knew. "He'd better not come here in his drunken condition, or I'll beat him with a big stick." People laughed. Though tiny Shanti often spoke of her big stick, no one had ever seen her with one.

The next morning, Stephen arrived at the work site to find a strange sight. There was Jude, sitting on the ground in front of the old porch, with all his head bald and huge round bowl between his legs, filled with king coconuts.

"Jude, what are you up to?" asked Stephen.

"You will soon see," said Jude. "Let's get to work. Have you anything to put this rubble in?"

"Luckshman Uncle will return my wheel barrow. It should be here any time now."

Jude started piling up the rock as the cart arrived.

"Nandri (thank you), Lucky Uncle. I shall return the cart when the job is done."

"I wish I could stay and help you, son, but I have some trips today." Luckshman owned a van and took on jobs transporting people. He said his goodbye.

Jude and Stephen began loading up the wheel barrow. They soon spotted Josan a big grin on his face, ambling down the road toward them.

"Excuse me, brother", said Jude to Stephen. "I have a big thing to do". Jude returned to his huge bowl of king coconuts and straddled his legs about the bowl.

"I have returned to help you," announced Josan to Stephen.

"But I have no money to pay you today, Josan."

"That is okay. You can pay me tomorrow." Stephen wished that Josan would just go away and leave them be.

Jude began chanting wordless sounds in a monotone voice.

"What is that fool doing?" asked Josan.

"I do not know," said Stephen.

Jude's chanting continued, but he was now chanting words in the same monotone.

"Oh Mother Kali. I am your humble servant Jude. I have cut my hair in honor of you. I have brought you an offering of the finest king coconuts." Josan watched in rapt attention as Jude continued.

"Mother Kali, oh great goddess and helper of your servants. A terrible thing has been done unto me. My tools have been stolen and I cannot work. I want to offer up my work to you, but I have no tools too work." Josan fidgeted.

"Mother Kali, I make this vow to you. I shall bring you offerings each day and pray to you. Tomorrow I shall bring you an offering of rice. I shall not eat but offer it up to you, oh protecter of your devoted servants. Please Mother Kali, please, I beg one thing of you. Strike down the evil one who stole my tools and prevented me from working in your honor. Afflict the thief with a horrible disease. Oh Mother Kali, I swear to honor you always with my work. But I cannot work without tools. Kill the thief who stole them and return them to me, oh great goddess."

Josan was trembling. He turned and ran down the Henmulla Road, not to his house but straight away, to where no one could know.

Jude giggled and returned to helping Stephen cart away the debris.

They worked until late evening. Jude brought the king coconuts to the master before leaving for the night.

"But Jude, I have my own coconut tree. Thank you, but I don't need these."

"I know, Master. These are from your own tree. I return them to you. I am not a thief."

"Thank you, Jude. Take half of them home to your mother and sister. Give the other half to Stephen. Leave just two, one for the lady and one for myself."

"And for the little turtle?"

"Shanti is gone, Jude. She has left this place."

"But why, Master. Of course she is ugly and stupid, but she is devoted to you and works hard. Why have you sent her away?"

"I have not sent her away. Her mother came to take her. Her mother has gotten her a servant's job in another house far away from here. That job will pay much more than we can afford."

"I am sorry to see her go, even though she is ugly and stupid."

"Yes, Jude. She will work much harder in her new job. The pay will go to her mother because Shanti is underage. She is only thirteen. It will be a much harder life for her there."

"I am sad, Master". And with that, Jude bade his goodnight.

The next morning, Stephen arrived at the house to find a smiling and smirking Jude. Jude indeed had brought a bowl of rice. But there, in front of the door to the house, was a box containing all of Jude's tools.

Stephen was amazed. "But how did this happen?" he asked.

Jude was laughing loudly. "That is a secret between me and Kali!"

Stephen knelt and prayed. "Oh great Mother Kali, though I am a Catholic, I give you thanks for your wonderful blessings!"

Then to Jude, "Jude, you are right. Kali has great and wonderful powers."

Jude smiled broadly. "And Jude has great and wonderful powers. In his brain. It is Jude's brain that brought back the tools. And by the way, I am a Catholic, too."

But just to be on the safe side, Jude knelt and prayed to both Jesus and Mother Kali and thanked them both profusely.

## Anecdote of the Two Coyotes

  1. The world received him on a hot stormy night while the dying spring gave convulsed birth to summer.

  2. His sun clung stubbornly to Gemini while his moon flirted weakly with distracted Aquarius.

  3. His birth was met with the usual fanfare. Relatives tapped the hospital glass. To please his audience, he cooed and clucked and was gratified with their beaming smiles.

  4. His mother, aunts and uncles, and teachers oohed and ahhed at his brilliant day-to-day performances.

  5. His father and brothers noticed his forced distance from his peers.

  6. His mother declared, "This, my brightest son, will become a prominent attorney."

  7. Professions and occupations could not stretch far enough to reach him. He sought only to drift on lazy seas and bed the available girls, who were rewarded for their gifts of sighing sentiment by slight glimpses into his wit. He chose a word for himself so that he could not be considered an aimless drifter. The word was "artiste". He walked through this new role with the easy gusto with which he had played his entire life.

  8. His writings were summarily dismissed by the important and the unimportant people. This occurred for a number of years.

  9. He grew increasingly angry and cynical and shrank mockingly from all vestiges of the literary and intellectual worlds. His works reflected a sharp-honed edge of detachment from every subject or character they touched upon.

  10. He was called an "aimless drifter".

  11. She was a tall, wispy woman with comfortable eyes that changed color and a loping walk.

  12. She was bored with common sense logic, with talkative matter-of-fact people, with self-indulgent dreaming seekers, with being taught what she refused to believe, and with bothe arguments and the end of them.

  13. She sought desperately to write, compose, or create "art", and secretly, flagrantly abused her frustrated ego for her failures while forcibly maintaining a calm, easy exterior.

  14. She embraced feminism for release and relief.

  15. She made love rarely and laboriously.

  16. They met while working in a fast food restaurant.

  17. She decided to make him her friend and confidante.

  18. He fell immediately, totally, and exultantly in love with her.

  19. They made love often, fervently, and unusually.

  20. She laughed with him and cried with him.

  21. He spoke so often and so certainly of her personal value that she came for the first time to realize it.

  22. She fell softly and matter-of-factly in love with him.

  23. His writings began to exhibit the wit, style, and grace he had so long and so mistakenly believed were characteristic of everything he did.

  24. She consciously let him see that part of her psyche which she believed to be her whole self.

  25. He consciously let her see the well-constructed play which he believed to be his whole self.

  26. They were casually ecstatic in being together.

  27. He became gradually aware of those parts of her into which she had never delved and had therefore never shown him.

  28. She became aware that the role he was playing was divorced from though related to its playwright.

  29. They became confused, then suspicious, then resentful. He felt betrayed. She felt deceived.

  30. Love became difficult. Talk became strained. Empathy became impossible.

  31. They parted amicably and tenderly, with few tears and many wishes.

  32. She moved in and out of various urban centers, living with various old or new-found friends.

  33. She wrote several moderately successful sociological books and sundry articles on contemporary life and its problems.

  34. She made love often, passionately, and fiercely.

  35. She learned to write excellent poetry which she secreted away from the world as her revenge against it.

  36. She fought vicious mental battles with everyone who drew close enough to merit such attention.

  37. Her Piscean subconscious became badly and continuously bruised, but she kept the bruises well-hidden under a carefully constructed peaceful exterior, except for those rare occasions when someone tried to draw close to her.

  38. She was, over the years, respected as an earnest though misguided critic of society with a volatile but well-meaning temperament. She died in middle age, in relative poverty, of a brain tumor. Her marvelous poems, never discovered, died with her.

  39. She had for some time been complaining of irritating voices inside her head, but friends accepted this as one of her lovable eccentricities.

  40. He became a computer expert, renting out small portions of his intellect for extravagant sums. Money flooded him, and he stashed away a high percentage, living a bare and barren life.

  41. After some years, he packed up his cash and moved into a deep dry cave in an empty, far-removed hill.

  42. He survived by eating local vegetation and occasionally feasted on small animals when he could catch them.

  43. He took to baying at the moon at odd hours of the morning from a wooded mound.

  44. His eyes grew sharp but often seemed to be chuckling. His Aquarius moon was satisfied. His Gemini sun chuckled in acceptance.

## Dogs

R . From the day we agreed to provide him a foster home, he's been nothing but trouble. Sela, our other Cocker Spaniel, has never ever been a problem. So now she and I have this big goof of a cocker making our lives miserable.

How did I, who was never a dog person, get stuck with not one but two hounds? My wife (should I call her ex-wife yet?) had grown up with dogs around. Her big family home in India never had fewer than a half dozen of the creatures barking their way through the corridors.

So through the first seven years of our marriage, Aparna had mooned pathetically over the lack of pups in our life. When our son was born, she made her declaration: "I will not allow my son to grow up in a house without dogs."

I was able to fend off the offensive for a few more years. After all, I had a fulltime job and Aparna was a fulltime PHD student. But when Rami reached three, I was tired of arguing and Aparna had enlisted Rami as her steadfast ally in the dog wars.

So first came Sela, from the shelter, a totally blind and shivering four year old. She was quiet, demure, and undemanding. A bowl of food was a treat for her, a pat on the head a satisfaction, and a worn piece of clothing on which to lie a treasure. She learned to navigate the house magnificently, never complained when a misplaced piece of furniture or a toy banged her head, and settled in. She trotted to the door barking angrily whenever a visitor showed up. I was able to tolerate this dog, something I never thought I'd do.

Then came the big goof. The shelter had begged Aparna to foster him until they could find a permanent home. Of course she agreed, and I got stuck transporting him home, attempting to navigate the highway while he navigated the inside of the car, managing to hop on my lap each time the traffic got tricky. He even managed to shift a few times, never an advisable action while the owner is driving..

He bonded to Aparna immediately and our son Rami loved him. He bonded so much that he kept jumping into the bed. I protested each time. Aparna and Rami went off to sleep in our study/guest room where the dog kept jumping on that bed and Aparna kept pushing him off over Rami's objections. The dog was too strong, though, and Rami too insistent, and from that point on he took over the house. That night, Sela slept daintily on the bedroom floor while I slept alone in the bed for the first time since Rami's birth.

Barkley got progressively worse. Whenever Sela moved toward any of us, he'd leap in front of the sightless dog and shepherd her away. At night, he would push her into the closet to sleep, then jump atop our bed and refuse to be moved. Rami loved the dog sleeping on us. I hated it and worked myself free until usually I was sleeping half in midair.

Then came the day Aparna announced she was going to India for seven months of dissertation research, and taking Rami with her. After a long discussion into the morning hours, it became clear that part of the reason for the trip was to start a life without me.

I was not taken unawares by the loss in affection, but damn it, I loved my boy. And I didn't know how to be single again after so many years.

"You've got to leave him," I insisted. "His whole life is here."

"He can't stay with you here all alone," she said. " if anything happens to you, what will happen to him? He has no one else here."

I knew she was right. Her big family in India would be there for him. Though I argued for days, she knew my heart was not in it.

The first few days after they left blurred into chaos. Clothes, toys, books, cosmetics, papers and some indescribable things bitten and chewed by Barkley lurked in every corner of the house, bearing testimony to the wild rush of the departure.

I deferred lifting any of the debris, retiring to bed early and awaking late. Perhaps it would leave on its own power if I ignored it.

But nothing changed, and with months stretching ahead of me and the old house begging for salvation from 12 years of neglect, it was time for action.

The first thing to do was to get the dogs a life again. I was tired of their constant mourning over the loss of their loved ones. Their moping was depressing me as well. I had little time to give them, and couldn't imagine what to do with them when I did have time.

I picked up the phone and dialed Hannah. "I'll be right over," she said.

And she was. Unlike Aparna, for whom "I'll be right over," could mean any period of time from the current moment to next year, this woman meant "Now."

Both dogs answered the doorbell with angry warning barks. I held them back by their leashes as I eased the door open a smidgen.

"There's no need for that, " said Hannah. "Hello, beautiful!" She sang to Barkley. He leapt up to lick her face. "How is my big beautiful boy? And you, my pretty, pretty baby!" Sela emitted strange gruntlike noises never heard from her before while she huffed and puffed and circled Hannah and the visitor petted her.

And after all that, Hannah looked at me. I had always found the stare of her hazel eyes unsettling. From the moment she had first stepped into our house at Aparna's invitation to train Sela, I didn't like her. I had things to say. She never paid them notice. As she and Aparna got closer, had lunch together, went shopping, I disliked her more and more.

"So what's the big problem?" she asked. "These dogs are adorable." Adorable. How I hated that word.

"These animals are out of control. When I come home from work, they've gone to the bathroom in the house. Then they want constant attention."

"Of course they do. They've been all alone all day."

"They've had each other. They're not alone."

"Dogs are people animals. They need to be with people. A dog without a person is miserable."

"I think they go to the bathroom deliberately to punish me for leaving them."

"Dogs don't own vengeance. They just haven't been properly taught."

So she worked on a plan with me. I was sure it wouldn't work. "I'll get you started," she said. I'll come this weekend and show you."

So she did. Saturday morning she was at the house before I sent out the dogs. "Okay darlings," she said. "Let's go!" The dogs acted like they'd just won the lottery. Barkley leapt all over her and Sela ran in circles, grunting. She held both leashes and I walked alongside. Each time Barkley yanked at the leash, Hannah shouted a crisp loud "No!" Amazingly he started catching on. And when the animals relieved themselves, Hannah petted the performer profusely, saying a loud and sweet "Good pee, Barkley, good pee!" or "Good poop, Sela! What a good , good girl! Good poop!"

Back at the house, I marveled at the progress. "Train them like that and they'll wait till you come home to go out. You have to make going out a special treat for them."

I asked her to have coffee. She demurred. "Lots to do." She moved toward the door. "So you're all set."

"I don't know. I'm not that confident. Can you come one more time?"

She was back the next day. All went well. I paid her the fee. "Have some coffee," I tried again. "I make New Orleans style, with chicory." Unusually for her, she was silent for a moment. "Come on," I wheedled, trying not to sound like pleading. " I hate to have coffee alone on Sunday mornings."

So she sat looking rather bored, fingering the handle of her cup. I asked her about herself.

"Yes, I do this for a living. It's what I love." She had two years of undergraduate college but had no interest in it. This was her own business, operated out of her house.

"Do you live there with your family?" I asked, realizing I was started to sound snooping. She stared hard at me, the bored look was gone. "No, just me. My father died years ago. Just me. And I have a tenant upstairs."

"Well, you must meet a lot of people through the dog business. You probably have a very busy social life." She laughed. Her laugh was softer than I expected. "No, not really. Just my training business and friends in the animal support network."

Her coffee was finished but she showed no sign of considering leaving. I offered more coffee. She said no but stayed seated at the table.

"When is Aparna coming back?" she asked.

"In six months. I think. If she doesn't decide to stay longer."

We said nothing for a short time. I thought that she might think of leaving. As much as I had disliked her, even now, I wanted her to stay.

"I miss my son," I said. "It's lonely without him. Hey, do you go to movies? Would you like to go to one?" That came out of the blue, why I said it I don't know. I was sure she'd be offended.

Instead, Hannah laughed. "Maybe. But it's early in the morning."

"You're very, very pretty," I said, She laughed again and got up to go. "Call me about a movie," she said. "I'd like that."

"Please don't go now," I said. She didn't move away. I took her hand and kissed it. "You're a very special lady, you know." I couldn't believe I was saying such corny things. She kissed me.

Hannah stayed the whole day. In mid-afternoon we drove to her place to see her dog. He smothered her in licks. "Mommy's here, darling," she said. Instead of a movie, we just had dinner out. She wanted to talk. I could see it was very important to her.

But the strange thing was, she didn't talk much about the things I would have expected. Not about art, music, movies, politics. With Aparna most of the conversation would have centered about those things. Hannah talked about small things. What she did yesterday. Where she went. What's wrong with her house. What's right with it. And strangely, we didn't talk about me at all.

On the way back from dinner, we stopped off to tend to my dogs. They had been good, and Hannah rewarded them. Then back to her house to see her dog. At about 2 am, Hannah awakened me and sent me home to my dogs. "They need you," she instructed me.

The next few weeks, my schedule was totally governed by dogs. See mine after work, go to Hannah's, then back home in the wee hours. I was thrilled to have found Hannah, but the whole thing was too demanding. The amazing thing, the thing that kept me in it, was that for someone who was so brusque and stern, and who seemed so full of herself, she was so very tender in intimacy. I refused to let myself give up that tenderness.

Then the expected occurred. "Why don't you just move over here?. The dogs too." I knew the question would come eventually, and had tried to figure out an answer. I always ended up without one.

"We should think about it," I said.

"Okay," she said, and didn't bring it up for the rest of that evening. Lying in her bed (we never did again at my place after the first time), I realized that I knew nothing about her family. And she never brought up that subject. I looked at her lean body. It was clear that she was not lean by nature. She was thin from front to back, but wider from side to side. She looked the type that had to work to keep the weight off. Me, I'd never been anything but lean, despite my lack of work at it. I suddenly wanted to know her history.

"What did your father do?" I asked. Something about Hannah made one feel that such interest would be prying, but I felt that by now I had the right to ask.

"He was a housepainter," she answered flatly. "He fit right in with this town. My grandfather would have wanted him to follow in his footsteps, but my father wanted to just mix in. My grandfather was a rabbi. Fairly well known. He lost everything in the Holocaust, including his brothers and sister."

"How sad. Did he tell you all about them?"

"He told me everything. My father never wanted to hear, but I listened to everything."

And then followed a litany of great uncles and aunts, second and third cousins, relations from every which where. She knew the fates of them all. Those who had been exterminated in Poland, those who escaped. But strangely, now she was all alone, or as she put it, "They're all free of me now."

Her father had apparently broken with his family, and with his wife's. Hannah said almost nothing about him.

I felt almost sad to explain that my own grandparents had fled Europe before the trouble began. They could see it coming. I had no history of family suffering to recall, at least none that I knew of.

I stroked her hair. "Time to get back to your dogs," she said. I kissed her goodnight and for the first time held her hard and long.

When next I called, Hannah was busy. It became harder to see her. Our daily routine had changed. We rarely made love. After two weeks of this, I called her on it over dinner at the Orchard Street Café.

"I'm busy, that's all," she said. "I have other friends too, you know."

I didn't buy this for a minute. She had never spoken of friends. "Is there another guy?"

"I'm not signed up to you. I can have other friends."

"I see. Is it over between us?"

Our half eaten dinner was clearly over. I had a rush in my stomach each time I spoke. I was amazed at how calmly she spoke.

"You're the one who didn't want to commit. I invited you to move in."

"Just because I didn't move in you're seeing other men?" I had to carefully keep my voice from rising.

"You don't want any more out of this relationship. I'm just a fling. When Aparna comes back, she and I will be good friends and I'll never hear from you."

"I don't know if she's coming back," I said. I don't think she's coming back."

"So what am I, some kind of fallback plan?"

It was time to leave. "Let's not talk about this here. It seems other worldly, you know? To talk like this over a nice dinner."

Two nights later, Hannah phoned me. She almost never did that. "Bring over a movie," she said. "I'll make dinner for you." She also never made dinner for me.

I decided to bring a harmless movie. The Marx Brothers. Nothing with a lot of philosophizing or anything to do with love affairs.

Hannah had Eggplant Parmegiana warming in the oven when I arrived. She wrapped her arms around me and kissed me long and tenderly. This was not her typical greeting.

She took me by the hand and sat me down. Then produced the food.

"It's delicious," I said truthfully.

"Oh I forgot." She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of wine. "Would you open this please? I'm really sorry about forgetting."

"It looks like a great wine."

Our dinner was quiet. Hannah ate almost nothing., and said almost nothing. The dog sat by her feet.

After we finished, she led the way into the living room. "I'll do the dishes," I said.

"No, just leave them."

But I went back to the kitchen and started putting them in the sink. She grabbed my hand and pulled.

"No, please leave them. I don't want you to do them."

So we sat on the couch, ready to put on the movie.

"David", she said, and as she looked at me I felt she was not looking at me at all.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Let's just watch the movie."

So we sat on her couch watching the movie. She leaned deeply into me and I held her tight. We said almost nothing.

The endless film finally ended. We sat there hugging for a long time. Something was bothering me. I wanted to stay with her but I wanted to go right away also. I waited for a reasonable, time and then told Hannah I had to leave.

"The dogs need me," I said. The dogs' presence was always with us, and they provided cover when needed.

"Yes, they do. Everyone does, you know. You should go to them. Poor creatures."

No, Hannah was neither laughing nor smirking. She truly loved all canines.

There was a message from Aparna on the answering machine. The voice asked me to call as soon as possible. I immediately thought of Rami. Was he all right?

It was midmorning in Aparna's city in India. I spoke with aunts, uncles, and cousins before Aparna was able to push her way to the phone. She chased the family out of the room.

"My dearest darling," she said. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, but what about you and Rami? Is everything all right?"

"No, angel pie, we are missing you terribly. We want to come home and be with you."

"Of course I want you to come home. I miss you too. But I thought you might not come home."

"Oh honey. I know I haven't been a good wife to you. But I promise to do better. You will see. I wish I could show you. I see things so much more clearly from here."

"Well, I haven't been a good husband to you." I was dying to talk to Rami.

"Yes, you have."

"No. Anyway, is Rami there?"

"He's pleading to talk to you."

"Dada!" came a loud but tiny voice,

"Rami! How are you, son?"

"Dada, I'm missing you all the days of my life. Can't you come here?"

"No son, Dada has to work. I wish I could. Dada loves you a lot."

"Then I want to come to you. How is Sela and Barkley"

"The dogs howl all night because they miss you."

Then it was Aparna back on the phone. She'd be coming next weekend.

I needed to sleep. But I stayed up all night. In the morning I called in sick to work and finally fell into a heavy sleep.

I woke up in early afternoon. There really was no need to think about choices. The only thing to think about was how to act it out. I could, of course, just not call Hannah again. I didn't think she'd be calling me. I phoned her.

Hannah was off balance. "You want to meet me for coffee? In the middle of the day?"

"I didn't go to work today. I'd like to see you."

"Give me a half hour."

She must have known what was coming. Me taking the day off, meeting her in a café instead of the house. I got to the café expecting to have to wait. She was there already with green tea before her. I detest green tea, but concede that it probably has health-enhancing properties. I ordered a double espresso.

"I hope I didn't interrupt your work," I said.

"No. I had nothing."

I thought it best to get right to the subject. "Aparna called. She's coming back in a week."

"Uh huh." I expected more but nothing came.

I broke a short silence. "I haven't seen my son in seven months."

"So what happens now?"

"I haven't given it a lot of thought. I'm still married and I have a son."

"So you do. I guess I should go now."

"I don't know what to say. You're a good woman."

"Not good enough though, huh?" She got up.

"It's different when one has a child. It's hard to explain, but it changes everything."

"I guess I'll never know," she said. "Goodbye, David. Kiss Barkley and Sela for me."

I wanted to hug her, and to tell her how much she meant to me, and how I wished things could be different for both of us. But it seemed like the wrong thing to do.

Hannah walked out without looking back. I had a great desire to watch her walk away but it didn't feel right, so I stared at my empty cup of espresso. Then she was out of sight.

I could go into detail about my reunion with Aparna, and how things went from then on, and my joy at having Rami with me again, but this isn't their story, it's a story about the dogs.

And how about the dogs? Barkley and Sela went wild when their masters returned ,leaping and yipping and careening in small circles. After seven months of being taken care of by me, they more or less forgot that I existed. In a day or so, Barkley was back to his old naughty tricks, peeing and poohing in the house as if he'd never been trained.

And Sela pasted herself to whatever room Aparna was in.

Yep, it's so easy for dogs. They never have to make decisions or choices, they just do what comes naturally. Or whatever their masters decide.

## Raccoons

On those frigid nights, we'd pop up from the subway wind tunnel into the blustery city street, padding past the lamplit haze, chuckling, our blood humming, eager for the ales and the warmth of the table talk.

We'd leave behind a trail of smoky breath, sailing upward and vanishing, vanishing like the breadcrumbs dropped by Hansel and Gretel, vanishing like those theories, those arguments and conjectures, those powerful words and mystical ideas that would soon leap out onto the table before us. So clear, so near, we never thought to try and catch them, to hold and save them. They were there. They would always be there, wouldn't they?

Inside, the black furnace hummed. Our backs snuggled up against its heat, shivers surging the lengths of our spines. Puff-faced and bleary-eyed, we'd speak loudly, forage each other's minds for the food of the soul, that naïve socialist optimism, the comaraderie of intellect and spirit so compatible with good bitter ale.

And as the old man swept the sawdust-covered floor, and the plump cat dozed under the table, we'd pack up our reassured faiths, gather our torn coats and years of rich promise, and set ourselves for the long dark cold path to the subway.

How little we understood then of the greyish smoke of our ale-worn words, so easily seized and muted by the cold darkness of the night around us.

## The Photographer's Technique

(The Dirt Club, mid 1980's)

Bob likes to go to the local night spots to watch the dancing. He never dances himself, but sits and drinks and watches, chooses a girl, takes her home, and has sex with her.

Tonight he is at the Dirt Club. A very loud band is bashing away at their instruments. Bob sits at a corner table, watching the dancers. There are a few Spartan athlete types from Bloomfield High, and they dance close with their dates even on the fast numbers.

Several cute girls bounce around. Bob spots one with short white-blonde hair in tiger leotards and pretty pink shoes.

The band is called Brain Dead. They dedicate their next song to a Korean airplane recently shot down by the Soviet Union in error. The song is called "Death from Above".

The blonde is tired. Bob waves her over. She comes. They almost always do.

"You dance beautifully," Bob says in his strongest, deepest voice. He looks and sounds somewhat like an anachronism from a less complicated time, a habit which is strangely compelling in the current day.

"Thank you," she says, and sits down, sweating.

"I've ordered you a drink. I chose a Pink Lady because it seems to befit your style."

She laughs. "You're strange."

"I know. It's good to be strange."

"It's better to be strange than boring," the girl agrees.

Her name, Bob learns, is Sharon.

"Sharon, you have some exceptional visual qualities which I'd like to get on film. Will you allow me to photograph you?"

Sharon laughs again, skeptical but flattered. "I don't know. Maybe. Who are you? What do you do?"

"My name is Bob. I do just about anything I want to do. I don't do anything I don't want to do. I don't dance, for example. I hate to dance"

"Well, I love dancing. I feel like dancing now." She stands up. "Dance with me."

"No, stay and talk for awhile longer. Please. Tell me about you."

Sharon looks in her purse for a cigarette. She finds one and is surprised when she has to light it herself.

"What kind of work do you do?" Bob asks.

"I'm in data processing. I do analysis and programming. I subcontract myself out to various firms."

"It sounds very rewarding."

"Sometimes. Yes. It's interesting work and it pays a lot."

"Do you feel a great deal of power in being able to manipulate information?"

"Sure, why not? Of course there's a great deal of power. And responsibility. That's why the best of us are either crazy, dead, or on the way there. I can destroy a company. I can break a person's life. Never was so much power available to such an irresponsible bunch of people. Forget I said this. I don't want to people to understand this."

Bob thinks he may have chosen badly tonight. Perhaps he will let her dance away from him and will try someone else. But then maybe it's just the liquor and the late hour and the dope these kids today all take. Bob will give her another chance.

"I don't believe you're irresponsible at all," he says. "You wouldn't think the way you do if you were."

Bob surprises Sharon with the intensity of his interest and the detail of his questions, which go on for some minutes. She feels as if she is being examined, as if in a doctor's office, but receiving so much attention feels pleasant and flattering."

"What do you do with your free time, Sharon?"

"The regular things, I guess. I like to come here, hear good music, dance, things like that. Though I've been lax with it lately, I still try to keep up with my violin."

"You play the violin?"

"Yes. I've been classically trained. I also used to play with some jazz and country bands, but the night work got to be too much."

Amazing. You were classically trained, you play jazz and country, and here you are at the Dirt, of all places."

A second girl approaches the table. "Well, kid," she says. "Are you down for the count?"

"Just relaxing," says Sharon. "Bob, this is Rita. Rita, Bob. Rita's my buddy and psychic mentor. She will unerringly predict your future for a fee."

"Is that so?"

"Palm readings, numerological analyses, tea leaves, whatever. Natal charts are my specialty. I do them with tender loving care. I'm expensive, but I'm the best."

"And worth every penny, I'm sure," says Bob. "But I'm basically a nihilist, and I believe that too much knowledge, especially about oneself, can cause irreparable damage."

"You may be right, but damaging people can be fun, too. Shars, we're going to Gary's. He's producing the Suburban Vermin and he wants some voluptuous female voices to intone sexually explicit metaphors on the tape. Coming?"

"Sorry Reets, but tomorrow's a working day for us real people."

"What a drag you are since you started working days!"

"I started working days six years ago."

"My god, you mean you've been a drag for six years?"

"I'm trying to convince her that she should let me photograph her," interrupts Bob.

"Don't you see the amazing ways she reacts to the changing light, even this weak light here?"

Rita busts out laughing. "Sharon, my old school chum from Fordham? Little Miss Chalice in Wonderland? I never thought of her as a star model. Are you a professional photographer?"

"No, purely amateur, but photography is my one true love, and I am the very best at capturing the true essence of a person. This may sound like bullshit, but truly I can do things with a camera you have never imagined."

"I've imagined those things," says Sharon. "Sometimes they hurt, especially if the camera's too big."

Bob laughs, Rita doesn't. She says, "Would you photograph me sometime?"

"Maybe, if the time and feeling are right. But right now my mind is working on all kinds of images for Sharon."

"Shars, get your picture taken. I've got to run, kids. Nice meeting you, Bob. Hope you can shoot me someday."

"I'm sure I will."

Sharon is in Bob's studio apartment, not sure that she wants to be there. He's a likeable enough guy, but she still doesn't know a thing about him, except that he wants to shoot her. She's been to bed with men she liked less, but with no one of whom she knew less.

The word filthy would make Bob's apartment sound cleaner than it is. There are dishes crusted with dried gravy or chocolate icing, fingerprint-coated glasses, and wrinkled clothes scattered everywhere in one half of the room.

The other half, however, is clean and bare except for a small covered platform where a model can sit, stand, or lie. Bob adjusts his camera, which stands in a tripod at the head of his bed. He is ready to work in a minute.

"What do you want me to do?" Sharon asks.

"Whatever you want."

Bob gives her no instructions at all. He takes a number of shots from the tripod. She stands limply, moving little. She is not familiar with the feel of being looked at. Bob doesn't speak, will not answer questions. Sharon sits and tries to do what she thinks she is supposed to. Poses are not easy to find.

Bob then takes his camera in hand and begins moving around her. He is still silent, but his movement gives Sharon some life. His eyes are heavy on her. She feels confidence. Wanted. Bob is excited. The camera desires Sharon, and both know it. She strikes poses, pouts, winks, dances.

"Can we have music?" she asks.

"No!" says Bob. "We are the music."

What a cornball, she thinks. But she is enjoying it.

Both are exhausted when finished. Sharon rushes to the bed and flops on her back, sweating. Bob sits on the edge. He sets his camera on the tripod in its original position.

"Aren't you going to develop them now?" she asks.

No. I always wait until the next day."

"But I'm dying to see them! I felt so wonderful. I want to see how we made out."

"You have to wait. The act of developing must be tender and soothing. It's the antithesis of the shooting. It's the soft half which makes the other whole."

"Don't you want to see all those visual qualities you were saying I have?"

"Of course. But it has to wait. You'll see I'm right. You'll understand."

Sharon touches Bob's back. He turns to see that her blouse is off. He leans and she pulls him, fighting off his clothes.

Bob's lovemaking is unhurried and unimpulsive. Sharon must do all the work. This is unusual to her but she adapts to it well and begins to enjoy being in control. But then Bob comes alive and his sudden passion shocks and excites her. She feels good to have stirred him to it.

Sharon tries to lie still afterwards, but knows she cannot stay.

"I have to go, Bob. I have to get up tomorrow."

"I know."

Sharon dresses while Bob curls up, his back to her.

"You've been so mysterious," she says. "What kind of work do you do?"

"I work for the Post Office. I lift boxes and handle sacks of mail for sorting."

"Oh. Isn't that that rough on your hands? For your photography, I mean."

"I'm a photographer, not a sculptor. My hands are good enough."

"Yes. They are."

Bob gets up and dresses himself, though he is in his own home. He is dressed as quickly as Sharon. She stands at the door.

"Would you call me tomorrow when you develop the pictures? Or should I just come over."

"No. Wait till I see the photos."

"How about if I call you right after work?"

"Let me see how the photos turn out first."

"Will you call me, then?"

"Sure, why not."

Something is not going quite right, but Sharon is too tired to deal with the confusion. She hugs Bob and donates a kiss to his cheek.

"I had fun," she says. "I like you. I hope the pictures come out well." She is in the corridor.

"You were an excellent model," says Bob. "One of the finest I've worked with. I'm sure the photos will show that."

"You're a good photographer, Bob." She holds herself back from confiding how special the session made her feel. "I hope we can do it again."

"I don't usually shoot the same girl twice."

Feeling that she must say something more, but not sure what, Sharon says, "Do you think you'll be able to shoot Rita?"

"Maybe. If the feeling's right."

"I hope we can be friends", says Sharon, and then she is gone.

After she leaves, Bob brews coffee. The later he gets to sleep, the easier it will be to get up for work tomorrow, and the less he has to dream. For the first time in a long time, Bob almost wishes that there had been film in his camera. He resolves to buy some soon. He is sure that he will someday want to try it for real. After he is certain that he has mastered the technique.

## Sex and Loathing at the Kiev

## (1983)

I had come into the city to see a Jean Cocteau triple featureat one of the cinema houses in the East Village. Walking down Astor Place, toward the giant turnable black cube, I paused before one ofthe street vendors. Laid out on the sidewalk he had at least thirty Life magazines, the old ones, pre-resurrected Life going back to thelate nineteen fifties. The week before, I had purchased two Marilyn Monroe cover Lifes, but those were recent issues, from the eighties.

I perused this collection. There were two Sophia Loren covers, a Brigitte Bardot, and, wonder of wonders, one Nancy Kwan as Suzie Wong (as in "The World of").

"How much for the Lifes?" I asked a young man squatting against Astor Wines and Liquors.

"Ask him," he said, pointing to an old man in a Yankees cap a few paces east.

I brought my question to the old man.

"Two dollars," he said.

"Two dollars?" I asked with surprise clear in my voice. I was about to ask him for a special deal when he anticipated me.

"Special if you buy a bunch. What was that deal we gave that guy before?" he asked his young compatriot. The young man replied,

"I think it was ten for ten dollars."

"Yeah, take ten for ten," the old man said.

I looked over the collection again. I wanted those four. The Nancy at almost any price, but the others, too.

"How about four for four bucks?" I asked.

"No, no," said the older man. "Two bucks apiece for that, four for eight bucks."

I stood there. I would pay it, after a minute of making them wonder.

"Six dollars for four," said the younger man, nodding to his helper.

"Okay," I said. "I plucked up my four gingerly. I'll take this Brigitte and the two Sophias." I left the other for last. "And this Nancy." I slipped a five and a single out of my pocket. They didn't know I would have paid ten times that for the Nancy Kwan alone.

There was time before my movies, so I stopped at the Kiev Restaurant for lunch. I love the cramped bustle of the place, the terrific Ukrainian food, the view out the huge plate glass window to the derelict haven of Second Avenue, and most of all, the incredibly low prices. The Kiev is a throwback to the days when I couldn't afford much else. One of my few virtues is loyalty to habit.

I ordered a bowl of mushroom barley soup with thick buttered Challah bread for a dollar fifty. I inspected my treasures. The Brigitte issue was a washout, just one tepid bikini picture of her, and so was one of the Sophias. The other Sophia, however featured a splendid array of seductively photographed images.

And then there was the Nancy. Inside was a melange of wonderful photos, some from the set of Suzie Wong, some at work, some at play.

But that cover. I have never seen a more sensual photograph of a woman, yet she was not a wit aggressive nor even anxious. There was Nancy Kwan standing erect in a yellow silk gown slit to the upper thigh, with one perfect leg bent and that incredible black hair flowing down her back. Her head was half-turned to the camera, the lips slightly opened. Those lips were musing, well aware of being adored. The eyes stared remarkably, almost yet not quite haughty, almost yet not quite inviting, the look of a woman whose mystery a man ached to become part of but dared never solve.

I placed the magazines on the other chair of my table, Nancy's on top, facing up.

The tables at the Kiev are small and close. Next to me, by the window, a young girl sat reading to her eating boyfriend the text of an article about religious cults. From the intense scrutiny they gave this article, I guessed that they had a close friend or relative involved in such a cult. Or maybe they were cult members themselves, enthralled in the irony such an article would have held for them.

Across from me, a young man's eyes scouted the room each time before his hand lifted a spoonful of soup to his lips. I made an effort to look completely unaware of his ritual, and let him sip his secret soup in tranquility. Further down sat a couple about my age. They seemed to be enjoying each other's company.

As I drank my coffee, they asked for their check. The lady rose to pay it while her man stayed with his drink. She had to push past my table to get to the register, and as she did she spotted the cover of Nancy. She gazed down for several seconds before moving on.

I can only guess what was in her mind. She was dressed in those awful striped baggy pants which had become chic among some women, especially in the Village. She undoubtedly considered herself a true lady of the eighties, all hip, independent, and secure in her selfness. Now here was this photo of one of the world's most beautiful women, taken twenty four years ago, in a simple dress and pose which made the current fashion look stupid and useless. The lady in the Kiev was not at all unattractive. She was simply outclassed, and I felt sorry I had left my magazine so prominently displayed. She stood at the register after paying, not returning the way she had come. Her companion made his way past my table and stopped at the same spot his date had. His own meeting with Nancy was longer, more doleful. I knew full well what was going on in his. mind. He seemed sad to have to avert his eyes and join his friend at the door. He passed me one glance. I think he was trying to confide a secret he was afraid he would forget too soon and forever. His girlfriend looked wistful. She knew what his eyes had had the privilege of seeing.

The coffee was good, and I enjoyed listening to the Ukrainian chatter of the staff. I always enjoy hearing conversations in languages I don't understand. I don't know why. I found a word for the boyfriend's look when he saw the Nancy cover. Awestruck. I like that word.

I don't feel good about them pining over the cover, but I can't be responsible for everyone's lives. I drank up the rest of my coffee and went off to see my movies.

## I tried to talk him out of it, but

It was on an oppressively hot fifth of July that I first made the acquaintance of Daniel Spillane, on the mall of Commonwealth Avenue. I had been up in Boston for the holiday festivities, and I stayed on to do some writing.

Commonwealth Avenue was surprisingly thin of people for that time of year, and I sat on a shaded bench, notebook open on my knee. Several benches down, an unshaven man in a disheveled suit was speaking to an inattentive listener. The unkempt man was migrating slowly, a bench at a time, up the mall.

Two short notebook sentences later, he had reached me. "Hey there, young fellow," he said, sitting down next to me. "would you happen to have a cigarette to spare?"

"No, I don't smoke," I said, and my eyes returned to the notebook.

"Holy Moses!" my companion exclaimed. "Izzat guy got any clothes on? Lookit him!" He pointed to a man and woman on a blanket some twenty yards away.

"Sure he does," I said. "He's wearing white shorts."

This form of conversation went on for some time, the fellow drawing my attention to some sight he deemed strange, and myself pointing out the obvious normalcy of the sight. I would not have minded, as I enjoy conversation, but this was inanity, not conversation. To worsen matters, whenever he opened his mouth a disgusting stench emanated, rivaling in offensiveness his general odor of decrepit humanity.

Eventually the man got around to telling tales from his wildest drunken binges, and I must admit that some of these were interesting. But my main concern was having enough peace to finish the story I was attempting to write.

Finally my companion said, "I see you're writing something. May I ask what?"

"Just a story. I've been trying to finish it but I can't seem to concentrate." I hoped he would take this unsubtle hint.

"A story, a story!" he chortled. "Ah yes, I used to write stories myself. A great grand spinner of tales was I! Perhaps you've seen some of my work. My name is Daniel Spillane."

"Can't say that I have. Have you published much?"

"Much, yes, much. But not recently. Nothing recently. No, nothing." His eyes closed and I thought he'd fallen asleep. But then he said, "I suppose you're wondering how I happened to deteriorate into this sorry condition."

Before I could answer, he told me.

"A woman. No, not a woman. A monster, a ghost, an unhuman thing. She was not possessed of the least shred of humanity. A demon, a gorgon affecting the disguise of a woman, the charms, the grace, the beauty of a woman. And I, fool, was taken in. Even when, at last, I saw her (or should I say it?) for what it really was, I wanted her. And she, that demon, she took everything I had and asked for more, till finally all that remained of me was my dreams."

He began to weep softly. "And then she stole into my dreams, into my fortress of night, and spoiled even them, turning them into wicked, horrid tortures. Even now I dare not go to sleep. Not ever again."

With that, he closed his eyes softly. But an instant later, they opened again.

I looked at this wretched man who claimed to have once been a successful author, and I saw nothing but bitterness and misery, reduced to such by the oldest plot of all. I could not bear to be with the poor man any longer, so I bid him goodbye.

He asked for money. I gave him five dollars. He asked me my address so he could bring me some of his books to read. I hesitated at first, then decided to give him my telephone number instead. I explained that I did not live in Boston, and invited him to call me if he got to New York, adding that I'd be pleased to read his work. Wishing I could do something to help him, but feeling powerless, I left.

I certainly never expected to again lay eyes upon Daniel Spillane. Living as he did, in such dreadful physical condition, I doubted that he could long survive, let alone travel to New York. So he became just an unfinished story, the sad but common case of a man reaching a height and falling from it.

More than a year from that day, Daniel Spillane did not cross my mind for more than a random moment here and there. My life was at this time filled as never before, with stories seeming to drip from my pen to paper. And as soon as they were penned, with merely a few revisions, they'd be sold. Editors literally waited on my words.

And, occupying more of my thoughts than anything else, was Maria. Since the cool March morning I met her as she worked in the Strand Bookstore, Maria was the primary concern of my life. When I was not with her, I thought constantly of her long blonde hair, fine-toned skin, and softly curving smile.

When I dreamed, I dreamed dreams of Maria: as a knight rescuing her from a dragon, or a sailor snatching her from the grubby hands of pirates, or a commoner for whom she, the princess, renounced her throne.

And when I wrote, it was also of her. She was the lead character in each of my stories. After a time, I must admit, it was difficult to develop new plots featuring Maria, but however flimsy the story line, my descriptions of her were so vivid, so touched with affection, that Maria's presence made the stories work.

One day she was sitting in my Minetta Lane flat drinking tea and gazing out the window as I worked, when she turned her warm brown eyes toward me. I felt the warmth without seeing, and I looked up to meet the eyes that I loved.

"What are you writing about me now?" she asked impishly.

"You're a waitress in the Caffe Borgia. You meet famous authors and poets every day, but your own superb poetry never gets published. You toil for years in frustration. I haven't decided whether or not you ever succeed."

"What a marvelous story! Make me accidentally fall off a rooftop in a drunken stupor, and have everyone think it's a suicide. I can't wait to read it!"

"I'm almost done. But I'm not pleased. It's so trite. I can't believe anyone will want to publish it."

"Of course they will," Maria stated matter-of-factly. "You're a superb craftsman. You can make any old story fascinating."

I felt at that moment, as I had many times before, that it was Maria's belief in me, more than anything else, which had brought about my success. Whatever talent I possessed, without the confidence which only she could give me, had amounted to nothing but rejection slips before I met her. Almost instantly after she entered my life, I was transformed from a writer to an author.

"Come over here," she beckoned, "and I joined her at the window. She pointed out a sickly kitten on the street below, rummaging through scraps of garbage in boxes left out by the Sirtaki Restaurant. The kitten was chased from its meal by a thickset, dull gray adult cat.

Maria rushed down to the street, but the kitten was nowhere in sight. Maria was almost weeping. Back in the apartment, she made me promise to write a story about the pitiful creature.

"Sure," I said. "It'll make a fine children's story. There once was a skinny, sick little kitten named Maria. Then she lived happily ever after."

I ducked as a throw-pillow whisked past my ear, after which Maria whispered, "I love you."

The knock on my door came early on a Saturday morning, at a time I'm accustomed to being asleep. I ignored the noise. It sounded again. I heaved myself out of bed.

In the hallway stood a well-dressed man I didn't recognize. "Bet you never expected to see me again!" he said.

"I'm sorry, but I don't recognize you," I said.

"Take a look at this," he said, and, opening his briefcase, selected one of several hard-covered books from inside. The cover read: The Silver Cross, by Daniel Spillane. I looked hard at the man before me: clean-shaven, suit crisply pressed, and yes, unquestionably Daniel Spillane. My mouth leapt into a grin.

"This is wonderful!" I said. "How... I mean when... tell me what happened!" I invited the rejuvenated author inside.

Sitting on my couch, he told his story. "As you probably recall, I had a great dread of sleep, knowing that the horrors of my dreams would torment me into insanity. I went without sleep for as long as humanly possible, but after a time I would doze off and the tortures would resume.

"Then one day several months ago, I fell into a deep sleep. A warm cozy sleep on a park bench. And there were no dreams, at least none that I could recall. When I awoke many hours later, I felt refreshed. My head no longer ached. And for the first time in many many days, I was able to think clearly. What a wonderful thing is a good, relaxing sleep!"

I offered him some coffee. Spillane declined.

"I looked up some of my old literary contacts in Boston, and soon I was working. Proofreading, mind you, no real literary work, but it was a start. I feel ready to attempt writing again."

"That's marvelous. I want very much to read this book," I said, gripping The Silver Cross.

"This is not a social visit," Spillane said, as his tone changed from proud to grave. "I read one of your stories in "The Sterling Quarterly." Through my connections in the business, I located and read some of your other stories. What I read convinced me that you are in deep trouble. Through those same connections, I learned your address and came here to warn you."

"Warn me? What's this nonsense?" I asked, alternating between curiosity and annoyance, but I cut off Spillane's reply as I remembered an impending appointment.

"I'm sorry, Spillane. I'd almost forgotten. My girlfriend is due here any moment. We're going out to lunch. I have to shower and dress immediately. You're welcome to join us, if you like."

"No, no, I must be off," he said hurriedly, getting up from the couch. I'll contact you again soon."

"At least stay for a few minutes. Have coffee. You can let her in if I'm in the shower when she arrives."

"No, I've got to go." He was at the door. "But read the book I gave to you. Read it carefully. I'll be talking to you soon." He clasped my hand. I could think of nothing to say. Then he was gone. The Silver Cross sat upon my coffee table.

Maria shared my curiosity about Spillane's visit. She pumped me with questions, but of course I had no answers. Our lunch of hummus and falafel downstairs at the Sirtaki was unusually quiet, both minds apparently occupied with the events of the day.

I heard nothing from Spillane the next day, and I had some free time. I read quickly through the first chapters of The Silver Cross.

There was a business/social dinner with an editor who was hoping to bring out a collection of my stories. Her firm was small and could not match the offers I was receiving from other sources. Still, she had been a friend and a source of encouragement during my difficult times and I wanted to give her every chance. Because of the reputation from my magazine stories, the collection would almost certainly be a big seller. Teresa's struggling house needed every winner it could dig up.

I took The Silver Cross along to read on the subway and possibly at the restaurant if she were late.

She was. I had finished some seventy pages by the time Teresa arrived, in a flush of haste and apologies.

"Never mind," I said. You look so marvelous I've forgotten how late you are."

"Yeah sure. I was with some folks on my staff. I think we've got a good deal for you."

"Terry, if only it wasn't my first, I'd love to give it to you. But you know you can't afford to promote it properly, and an author's first book needs so much push."

"Let's eat first, then I'll surprise you," Terry insisted. We were at Brew'n'Burger. I ordered a Brewburger and a brew. Terry took a salad'n'brew.

She did look marvelous, her black hair all in a fluster, her dark eyes shining through the worry and weariness that coated them. Terry loved her job and overworked herself terribly to save it. In that way, the workaholic way, she was my opposite, and I suppose that is one of the things that had attracted me to her.

"Ever hear of Dan Spillane?" I asked her.

She surprised me. "Yep. Strange case. One day he was selling as fast as he could type, next day zippo. I supposed he had retired."

"He didn't. He had some bad times, went alcoholic, etc. Now he's straightened out."

"I'm glad to hear it. You know, we almost published a collection of his stories. Strange you should mention him just now."

"Why didn't you?"

"I vetoed it. He had the name, true, but I didn't think his work was ... substantial. Some excellent descriptive passages, but no meat for a reader to chew on."

"I've been reading a book of his. The Silver Cross. I'm frankly amazed that it was ever published. Like you say, no meat. It's a lame tale about a missionary in early California who falls in love with an Indian girl. A blonde Indian girl, of all things. His descriptions of the girl and the priest's love for her are wonderful, but the plot is terribly trite and weakly developed."

Our brewburger and salad arrived. I coaxed Terry into taking a second sip of her brew and a bite of her salad, at which she was merely staring.

"You know," Terry said softly that I almost didn't hear, "I could say the same thing about every story you've published so far."

I was knocked off balance. My response was quick and defensive. "Then why are you fighting to publish me?"

"We need the money. And the identification with a winner." She took a gulp of beer. "And you should realize that I want very much to be the publisher of your first book for obvious reasons. Personal reasons."

"Our friendship?"

"Yes."

"Eat, damn it," I said. She had barely touched her salad. "You're wasting away to a skeleton." It was true.

"You know I can't eat when I'm nervous. You must remember that."

"You're always nervous. You never eat."

"Damn you, you used to write such great stuff. What happened to you?"

I had already wolfed down my brewburger. Terry's salad was all but untouched. She gulped more brew.

"If I was so good, how come nothing from those days was published?"

"You know how hard it is for unknowns. And you wouldn't accept any help from me. No, you had to do it all on your own, with no favors. But David, your stories had so much to say! There were rough spots, of course, but you were growing fast, and learning. I could feel you ready to burst out. There was so much excitement whenever I read you. I suppose that's one of the reasons I loved you so much."

I felt a twinge of something – sorrow, guilt, compassion – I'm not sure which. I quickly changed the subject.

"Anyway, none of that early work that you liked so much made it into print."

"I was thinking, David, after the first collection gets us off to a rousing start, we could collect some of those earlier stories. I've got a few special favorites in mind."

"Those manuscripts have been destroyed," I lied.

Terry flagged down a waitress and ordered another brew. "You forget I've got copies of some. Hell, David, I thought it was so great with you and me."

"It was. But then it came time to end it."

"Because of her, you mean. Is it much better with her?"

"It was time to end it, Terry."

Maria knocked on my door as I was finishing my third vodka and tonic.

"Hey, I bought you that expensive brand for when we entertain," she said, feigning outrage. "Guzzling it all yourself, you selfish boozehound?"

I kissed her. Her kisses yielded just a touch, then came back firm. I loved her kisses.

"Should I pour you some?" I asked her.

"No," she said. Maria plopped into the couch, looking bushed, her legs flopping left and right. "I've been running around town all day. My feet are screaming. I know what! Let's pull out that old champagne we discovered last month. Let's celebrate!"

"Celebrate what?"

"Anything. Celebrate that it's Thursday. Who cares? I know! We'll celebrate the publication of your book."

"But it hasn't been published yet."

"A mere technicality, my dear Watson. As soon as we choose the publisher, we're in."

"You're right. I should have gotten an agent. I hate the business dealing."

"The Putnam deal sounds good. Why not just give it to them and get it over with?"

"I'm leaning toward giving the book to Terry."

"Why? You know she can't make a competitive offer."

I wrapped a towel around the champagne bottle before opening it.

"Actually, her offer was better than I expected. At dinner tonight I gave her the impression that she'd get the book." I knew at once that I'd stepped into a steaming pile.

"You had dinner with her tonight?"

"To discuss the book."

"You know how I feel about you seeing her."

"Hell, honey, she's a very good friend trying to work out a business deal with me. Am I supposed to dump all of my friends because I've got you now?"

"She's not a friend. She sat where I'm sitting now, feeling about you what I feel. Can't you see why it bothers me when you're with her... especially without telling me first?"

I offered her a glass of champagne. She pushed my hand away. "You don't need to ply me with champagne. You've 'got me now', remember?"

"Maria. Look. I don't think of anyone else the way I think of you. And I wouldn't do anything in the world to hurt you."

She took my hand. "I know that. It's just that I love you and worry about losing you. I know how you care about Terry. I'm just a little jealous. Can't I be?"

"You don't have to be jealous of anyone."

She picked up the glass I'd put on the coffee table and drained its contents quickly. Then she took my hand again and came to me softly.

I thought once again how lucky I was to have met Maria, and how much she meant to me. Yet for the first time since I met her, she was not alone in my thoughts as I held her. The nervous, forlorn, fatigued image of Terry kept pushing its way in front of her.

The next morning I woke early, my nerves trembling, my memory wracked with pieces of a terrible nightmare. Terry's presence dominated the vague memory as it dwindled. I was on the floor, in terrible pain, as she laughed hysterically. Then I was drowning in a lake as she sat is a rowboat, slapping at me with an oar. Other dream fragments featured other cruelties and betrayal from her. But finally, toward the very end of what I recall, for just the flash of an instant, our positions were reversed. She was in the water, calling to me. I reached out for her, but she'd slipped under the surface. I seemed to see her face in the clouds. Her expression was pure agony. Her lips were moving but I couldn't hear her words.

I called Terry's office, ostensibly to give her the go-ahead on my book, but the main reason was to relate the dreams to her. She wasn't in. No one at the office knew her whereabouts. They were quite concerned. Several important appointments were in jeopardy.

I took a cab to Terry's apartment in the mid-seventies. I pounded on the door for several minutes and had started walking away when I heard a weak voice from inside. The door opened.

Terry was half undressed and fully disheveled. She yanked me in and wrapped her arms around me. I couldn't resist hugging her.

"My God, Terry," I asked. "Are you all right?"

She shuddered. "It's awful. I can't get to sleep. There are these horrible nightmares." Her eyes were dark and wet. I walked her to the couch.

"Tell me about the nightmares," I said.

"I don't want to think about them," she said, but she told me anyway. They were frightening tales, told in near hysteria, and made my own dream of the previous night seem mild by comparison. Terry, sitting on the floor in a lightless room, hearing breathing noises all around, as if the room were packed full of people, but she could see no one. Terry, standing in a field and suddenly lifted up into the sky, drifting further and further from the ground, unable to stop her ascent, hearing cackling laughter but seeing no one. Terry, lying in a sealed coffin as maggots squirmed and slithered greasily over her flesh.

On the couch, I held her tightly as she sobbed, and felt my own heart rise and fall with hers. At that moment, there was no one in the world I loved but Terry.

"And worst of all there was the dream that kept repeating. There was water all around me. It must have been a lake. I flapped my arms, splashing, but I could hardly stay afloat. Then I spotted a boat. A person sat in the boat, facing away from me. I screamed and splashed, but the person didn't see me. Somehow I knew that person. I knew it was someone who would help me. The moment the waters covered me, the person turned around. It was you, David. Your face was blank. You saw me drowning, David, and you didn't care!" She was almost screaming now. "Your face was absolutely blank. I felt chills all over, seeing you, and when I woke up I felt chills for real." I felt the beginnings of a chill creeping over myself.

I got up to fix her a cup of tea.

"All in all, I must have gotten just a few minutes of sleep. I'd wake up from each nightmare and sit up trying to calm down. When I felt calm enough, I'd drift off to sleep and then the next nightmare would start and I'd bolt awake in a moment.. I'm so, so tired."

"You've got to sleep." I set down her cup of tea. She took a small sip. "You need to rest."

She rested her head against me. "Maybe I'll try," she said. "If you stay here with me."

I turned to assure her that I'd stay as long as she needed me, but her eyes were closed and her breathing was soft and regular.

Terry's lips were curled placidly. I'd never seen a more beautiful woman. It must have been ten or twenty minutes later that the phone rang.

The caller was Maria. How could she have known that I'd be at Terry's? Her tone was serious.

"David, I need you right away," she stated.

"Why, what's the matter?"

"I can't tell you over the phone. You've got to come."

"Can't you tell me anything?"

"No. Please, please hurry. I need to see you."

She gave me the location, a spot in Central Park. I promised to rush there. I started to the door, then halted as I caught sight of Terry, still snoozing. I hated having to leave her at that moment, but Maria's need seemed more immediate, and Terry looked quite secure and comfortable. I vowed to return as soon as possible, as soon as I could dispense with Maria. As I closed the door behind me, I realized that though I still cared for Maria, my heart and soul belonged to Terry. All the old feelings, the love, the comfort, the excitement, which had gone fuzzy when my infatuation with Maria began, were now sharp and clear once more. But as I left, something was bothering me greatly, though I did not know what. How could I have known then that leaving was the biggest mistake of my life?

Maria sat quietly on a park bench. Her blue eyes stared ahead. "I hope you don't mind my calling you at her place," she said. She looked placid but I could tell there was a storm seething in her.

"Never mind that. What's wrong? Are you all right?"

"Yes. I just received a telegram. My brother is dead."

"I thought you had no brothers or sisters. You always said that after your parents died, you had no surviving relatives."

"My brother left home in his early teens and never bothered to keep in touch with us. He led a wild life and now it's over. He never owned a thing except a pile of debts, and I haven't seen him since the day he left."

"When we were young, we were always together. He was a year younger than me, so we grew up together. It hurt so much when he left. I guess I stopped thinking of him as a brother. He was all I had left."

There was something odd about this event. "Who contacted you? How did they know where to reach you?"

"I don't know They just did." She began to weep and I held her.

My choice was difficult. I worried about Terry and wanted to be with her, but Maria's situation was also bad. I had never seen her cry. How could I just leave her like that?

I had made the obvious, logical decision. The decision I have agonized over ever since that day.

The next morning, Maria felt well enough to go to her job at the Strand. In fact, she almost seemed to be beaming with sunlight.

I called Terry's office. Not there. I phoned her apartment. No answer. Prickling with unease, I rushed down to the street and hailed a cab.

My knocks on her door went unanswered. Pressing my ear to the wood, I heard nothing from within. The superintendent barked long and loud as I pushed him up the stairs, trying to impress him with the urgency involved. He slipped his key into the lock.

She was sprawled on the bed, empty bottles of pills and rum close by. I hugged her, bawling like a baby. At least I'd been spared the horror of her dying in my arms. The end had come hours ago.

On the off-white wall, in lipstick, she had scrawled

The dreams

The dreams

Couldn't take them

Any longer

The super pulled me away.

After an interview at the police station, I stopped on the way home to buy a bottle of Sherry. I'd need at least that one for the night ahead. Terry's next of kin would undoubtedly have the body shipped home to Nebraska for the funeral. I would not see it again. My mourning would be quiet and lonely.

Another surprise greeted me as I entered my apartment. I lifted the ringing telephone to hear the voice of Daniel Spillane. He begged me to see him at his hotel immediately. I told him I was in no mood for such a meeting. It was urgent, he insisted. I must come or forever regret it. I cursed and agreed to it.

His door was opened by a filthy, unshaven man I recognized as the street bum I had met in Boston. I immediately began berating Spillane for wasting my time during such a loss in my life, and for letting himself slip back into his woeful condition after having lifted himself out of it. He seemed to hear none of what I said.

"Does SHE know you've come? Does she?" he panted. He had asked me, rather warned me, not to mention this visit to Maria. I assured him I had not.

"She's done it to me again," he said. I thought I was safe, but she found me.

"Who's done what? What are you babbling about?" I demanded angrily, ready to leave.

"Your woman. The one you've been writing all of your stories about."

"What? Can't you make any sense at all?"

"Don't you understand yet what she is? Haven't you even begun to guess?"

"Explain yourself, damn you!"

Spillane let out long breath and sat down on the hotel bed. He began his story.

"I told you long ago how I'd been a prominent author before my fall. Truthfully I had been nothing until a lovely young lady with cool blue eyes and blonde hair entered my life. I fell in love with her instantly. Couldn't stop myself if I wanted to. None of us can. From that point on, she began appearing in my writing. Small character parts at first, then gradually expanding till she dominated every story, every book. At the same time, my career took an amazing upward turn. Soon I was the new literary star, with more offers than I had time to listen to. Just as it is with you now. I loved my woman and I loved my success, and my life was perfect."

I was amazed at the precision and clarity with which Spillane spoke, despite his inebriated condition. He continued.

"Or was it? A voice in the back of my head seemed to be whispering something that I couldn't quite hear. I was bothered. Then I realized what my conscience was trying to tell me: my work wasn't any good. Success be damned! I was writing garbage."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that. But is this what you needed so desperately to tell me?"

"I knew I was a failure. I resolved to change that. I set to work on a new project, a war novel. Perhaps, I also thought, my love for my woman was hurting me. Maybe I couldn't hope to reproduce her accurately in print, because my deep love prevented a truthful, realistic rendering. So she did not appear in my war novel.

"Working feverishly, I completed the first rough draft in a matter of weeks. I showed it to my lady in that form. I expected her to be a bit disappointed at not being a model for any of the characters, but of course she would understand, right?

"Her reaction was shocking. She ranted, threw things, went near mad with rage. I let her be, figuring she'd cool down while I worked on the rewrites. But she got worse.

I had to leave her, or I couldn't work. I took a hotel room. That's when the dreams started. She came to me in many guises...a jackal, a worm, a spider... but always I knew it was her. I'd wake up screaming. Police were called and I was asked to leave the hotel. I stayed with friends, the nightmares got worse. I sought out doctors. They could not help. Finally, no one could tolerate me. By night I was a screaming lunatic, by day a sobbing mouse. I was then the Daniel Spillane you met on Commonwealth Avenue."

At that point, an addition was made to this vast sum of confusion: I answered a knock on the door, despite Spillane's protestations, to find Maria standing there.

"My God, what are you doing here?" I asked her.

"I needed to see you right away," was her reply. She looked grim.

"But how on earth did you know where to find me?"

Spillane interrupted. "Don't you yet see what she is? Do you still disbelieve?"

Maria entered and stood before him as he said, "She is not real. She does not exist."

"You're the most ridiculous fool I've ever met," I told him, then turned to Maria. "But I'd still like to know how you knew I'd be here."

"Your telephone answering tape. It had the message with his address."

"There was no tape. I answered his call myself."

"Then you must have written it on a scrap of paper that you left behind."

"There was no paper. I wrote nothing down."

She fell darkly silent.

"You see," said Spillane, "I gradually came to realize what she truly was. All the while I wrote such marvelous descriptions of this woman, my writing flourished despite the weakness of its content. When I stopped writing about her, she grew bitter and angry and ugly, till she ceased to exist as a woman any more. That's when the dreams started; those unspeakable agonies in which she found her only life. They continued to destroy me until the day she met you."

Spillane paused for a moment, a writer's pause for effect. Neither of us interrupted, but when I looked over at Maria, her hands were fidgeting and her lower lip had been bitten.

"And the nightmares then subsided," he said. "Her 'life' or should I say, her existence, was being supported by someone other than me."

At that moment, Spillane's eyes closed in intense pain. They reopened.

"Even at this moment she sends me images, horrifying thoughts, hoping to distract and prevent me from finishing this tale. But she won't break my concentration. Not this time."

"David, why are you letting this man say these things about me?" Maria pleaded. Let's leave now, please."

But I was fascinated, though not believing a word of it. I let him speak.

"You see, she only lives in our imaginations. When we spread the word of her through our stories, she enters the minds of readers all over the country. She becomes incredibly strong, for thought is her home and her only food. But when she's not being written about, when she slips out of all those minds, she is weak and helpless. She cannot survive log like that. That is why, when I stopped writing of her, she had to exist in my dreams – dominate them, feed on them."

"But why," I asked, "why wouldn't she simply give you nice, pleasant thoughts of her, or else perhaps choose someone else's imagination?"

"David! You're not believing this!"

"Of course not. But let me listen, please."

"She has to be in one's mind originally, before she can control thought. And she can't control the waking thoughts, when the mind might be alert and wary. She must do her work when the mind's systems are at rest. And as for the unpleasantness of the images she sends... she is a vicious, vindictive creature who hates me and is punishing me for neglecting her."

Maria was sitting on the bed, pouting. I said, "Well, it's an interesting piece of fiction, but..."

Spillane interrupted me. "Think. Did any of your writing succeed before she entered it? Once she was written upon paper again, she had the power to enter men's minds, to influence them. To make you a success, to make herself strong and secure."

"But how would she have entered my mind originally? I had never read any of your fiction. I met her in very real circumstances, in a very real bookstore, on a very real day."

"I myself put her into your mind on a summer afternoon in Boston, on a park bench on Commonwealth Avenue. Do you remember my speaking of this creature then? Your mind took care of the physical arrangements of the meeting."

"I warn you," he continued sternly, "there is only one way to stop it. If it can be purged from our imaginations completely, it is dead."

"But what of all that we've written so far? What of all the readers of our words?"

"No matter. The writing must be regular, renewed, like the eating of food."

Maria sat silently on the edge of the bed, giving no acknowledgement of our presence.

Spillane opened the drawer of a nearby bureau and drew from it a handgun.

"Stop!" I shouted. "You don't mean to kill her! No!"

He held the gun firmly. I could not move with it pointed at Maria.

"No," he said gently. "When this thing learned that I had contacted you, probably when it saw the book I gave you, it began sending me nightmares again, hoping to warn me from speaking to you. I cannot tolerate them anymore, and I can't keep her out. You must be stronger than I am. You must. You are the only one who can stop her now. You must exorcise her from your mind. And if you fail, you must do what I do now."

With those words, he brought the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Maria looked into my eyes. "A madman," she said. "That's what he was. Truly mad."

"How did you know to find me here?" I asked.

"David! You're not starting to believe any of that nonsense, are you?"

I repeated the question. She had no answer.

"So nothing I've written is any good? It's all been your influence?"

"Of course it's good, darling. You're a marvelous writer. You just needed a little help, that's all. Like so many struggling artists who just need one little break. Sometimes that break never comes. But for you, I came."

I stood motionless, frozen by shock and the awful realization.

"Think of how great you can become... the goals you can achieve, with me by your side."

I knelt beside Spillane, staring at the gun in his hand.

"Don't do it, David. Don't end a brilliant career."

A brilliant failure was more accurate. I was a nothing, worse than before I'd met her. Maria wrapped her arms around me. My fingers brushed the tip of the gun butt...and withdrew. I hugged Maria. The damned know their fate.

And then I thought of Terry. I took a pen from my coat pocket and a business card from my wallet and began to write:

"Suddenly, with no explanation, Maria vanished from the earth completely, and was never seen or heard from again."

I heard a low, nonhuman moan, but when I looked up from the card, I was alone in the room with a man's corpse. There would be no problem with the police, who were at that moment charging up the stairs to investigate the gunshot. Just another drunken failure of a writer ending his misery. I tried to talk him out of it but...

The End

## Acknowledgements

The author gratefully thanks Francis J. Dharmakan and Clara Peiris-Pulle Dharmakan for their kindness as they opened their home and hearts to me while I visited Sri Lanka. Without the guidance and sustenance they provided me, this book would not have been possible.

I also thank young Mr. Raymond Sathyan Dharmakan Bremner, whose inspirational insights guided my efforts, and who acted as my primary editor. His faith and belief in his Dada kept me writing when I thought I was hopelessly dry.

## Author's Note

## All of the characters and events in this book are fictional, and none is allegorical.

Any similarity to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

By the same author, available at the same venue:

A Returned Catholic Looks at his Church (nonfiction)

Murder in Glen Ridge

Dog Stories

Glob, The Monster Within Us

Quotations from Chairman Rush: The Words of Rush Limbaugh

You are once again the stranger (poetry)

