 
Sifting the Sands

By Michael D. Harrison

Copyright 2012

Smashwords Edition

Published by Michael D. Harrison at Smashwords

Dedicated to the women of the Corona Senior Center and my family

All Rights Reserved Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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 recipient. If you are 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

Table of Contents

The Wedge

Next To Kin

A Full Meal

The Roofers

Stick

Father Meets Son

Water Rights

Playing Possum

The Fourth Course

Laureen's Beach

Saving The Little Ones

These Days

Arm Strength

Welcome The Silence

Training Warren

The Pact

When The Sidewalks Cross

Tinted Windows

Starting Fresh

Terms At The Cage

Helping Hands

Road Kill

Lines Which Move

The Return Policy

Dee's Viewpoint

Scruples

Taking Flight

Adjusting To The Fall

A Good Day

Toxic Love

Turn About

Good Wood

The Confessional

The Glue

The Baby Shower

The Innocents

The Conspiracy

Little Deer

Blood Keeps

Sifting The Sands

The Wedge

_Silence. I am surrounded by silence_.

Laureen heard neither her sister's frantic warning nor the waves which pounded the shore. Astride her short board, tip clear of the water since she sat over the skegs, Laureen saw the water surface turn to satin smoothness. The rogue wave's shape formed behind her and drew so much water into itself she felt first its shadow block the soft sunshine and then realized she idled in the trough before it. She held her breath to control her heart beat. The tickle of excitement rose from her stomach into her throat.

She accepted the current which pulled her toward the rising wall of the wave and paddled on her knees to take advantage of the momentum. Near the top of the wave's still growing face she spun to face the shore once more. Taking control, a golden strong-shouldered woman, she knew she could beat the Wedge.

Forced too quickly by the great height of the wall she chose an angle towards shore. Laureen pushed to a stance at the middle of the board. Her timing adjusted to the wave's deep staggering rhythms. Gathering speed she shifted to the rear of the board, angry at herself for the trembling she could not stop in her thighs.

_I can do this_.

The accelerating steepness of the wave slope made the twin skegs sing where they sliced through the waters' skin so she felt the vibrations in the soles of her feet. Laureen saw that no curl formed in either direction. The wave rose higher by drawing more water from before it. Her grey eyes thinned as she saw she was no closer to the bottom.

_There's no way out_.

Above her golden shoulders the wave reared, flashing white foam, but it did not fall forward because the thickness of the foundation increased faster than its height as it swelled into the near shore riptide trench. Beneath her the compounding water shrugged upward. The tickle inside her was gone. She felt how her feet barely touched her board's surface and in response she curled her body smaller to create gravity, to keep from grasping the edges, to regain control of the board.

The face of the wave leaned, tipping beyond vertical and still did not collapse. Fifteen feet of water which had become twenty became thirty, translucent enough in its grunting girth that Laureen saw the impression of Kathleen in the trough behind it. She turned her head shoreward again and saw how the previous wave withdrew, rushed seaward with veined transparency, racing to expose the coarse sand.

_I will not let Kathleen see me use my hands_.

Laureen's nostrils flared as she cheated her feet wider. The thirty foot wall of water bent forward, staggered again, over-reached until the wet sand glistened below them. The braided ponytail snapped, a quirt mark splashed across her cheek, and at last she pushed off the short board, knowing she was too late to escape the shore breaker's predictable body slam. She hung at the peak of her futile flight, illuminated against the sunlit backdrop of the caving wave, remembering then that she was still tethered to the board which would chase her into the sand.

Laureen broke as the wave intended. She struck first face and chest, pile-driven and penetrating a mere inch into the packed sand. Her lithe legs bent wrong, backwards until her heels touched the crown of her head. Afterwards she rolled without resistance in the withdrawing water which had already turned from exciting white foam into a bland retreating froth. Only Kathleen's wild dash through the next shore-breaker stopped Laureen from following a mangled Plover beneath the rip.

Sound returned.

The solid green waves burst upon the shore, the scattered onlookers called for help, the gulls settled once again upon the jetty, the responding siren of the constant paramedics arrived at the Wedge, and mostly, Kathleen's keening beside her sister's broken body filled the air.

But Laureen remained silent as she lay upon her back, warmed in the loose sand beyond the reach of the Wedge. She turned her head away from the noise up the beach to watch the peaceful violence of the ocean below. She could see the parallel troughs her heels had made when Kathleen dragged her uphill. She noticed how her heel furrows became closer together the further down slope they went until the smooth high water line made them disappear.

_What a way_ _to learn about perspective as an art technique for my murals_.

She did not remember the moment of the impact. Already her mind protected her where her body and her twin could not. Her arms rest at her sides and constantly, steadily her hands dipped into the warm sand to let the hourglass grains sift through her fingers.

Laureen observed it all within a state of detachment while Kathleen sat caressing her forehead. She marveled at the clarity of the sunlight beyond the wave-made mist and at the beautiful specks of golden sand on her kneecaps. She saw the watchers turning away, the paramedics looking into her eyes, the movement of their lips as they counted before they controlled her roll onto the stretcher.

_I do not want to forget_.

Because the paramedics had braced her head she saw only the impatient gulls circling in the marvelous blue sky as she was carried off the beach. During the tilt angle as her gurney was lifted into the ambulance she recognized at the curb her elderly neighbor Irene from the Laguna Sands.

And within the sudden hollow quiet of the sterile ambulance strong shouldered Laureen closed her eyes and cried for the first time, having seen that Kathleen held onto her foot to comfort her and she understood she could not feel her sisters touch.

Next to Kin

Watch her angry eyes, see her hungry eyes, see her hidden so well from human sight. She did not blink. She struggled to focus down her sharp snout as she panted against the heat. The heat worsened from the humidity of the heavily watered lawns. There was no saliva in her dry mouth, just noiseless panting at the same pace as her heart beat; one hundred rapid pumps per minute to cool the fever which raged within her. How she wished she could rip away that one infected teat.

Motionless within the hillside brush, she blended into the sun-speckled leaf brocade so well had Irene looked straight at the coyote she would have seen nothing. Her huntress eyes narrowed as the tension increased. The bothersome sparrows went silent and she feared the woman would hear the quiet; a silence of which neither Irene nor Poo were aware. She would wait until the right moment came, calculating the angle of the woman's hobbling approach, judging the length of the reeling leash which fed the dog out into the brush, anticipating the likely resistance of the straining creature.

The coyote had not eaten since the canyon fire three days before and her pups needed milk. Although two miles distant, if this hunt worked she knew tonight she would move them closer.

Irene babied her little Poo, the last remnant of her life before moving alone to the Laguna Sands. Sure the dog was a bother, but it snuggled at night. Since Rob had gone, she spoke to the mutt the way he had, blowing into each ear in affection and play and Poo tolerated it and sometimes even let her scratch the pink hairless spot in the nook behind her ears.

Poo tugged on the reeling leash to get further into the brush. She hated to do her business on wet grass, she hated the woman yanking back when she was positioned, and in fact she really didn't like the woman at all.

With her angry eyes blazing the bitch coyote grabbed the squatting Poo by the nape of the neck while passing her in full stride and ran like a hooked trout deeper into the underbrush. Irene lurched forward and hanging on to the leash she clattered to the ground in the way older people often break their hips. Poo, no longer seen, yelped once and was dragged into the never ending darkness of dog death. Irene let go of the self-reeling leash and it chased the coyote, gaining until it snapped against her lip, driving her faster up the hill until she was sure no human followed. Among the Sage and Baywood brush she ate and rested while the ache in her teat increased.

Irene recovered in several days, but she was not forgiving. There was a code about kin. And in less than two weeks three more small dogs were yanked from their leashes in plain daylight. Rob had left her a scoped .22 rifle, a lightweight Ruger with a ten shot rotary clip which hurt her finger tips as she pushed the small bullets into its cavity. Each day in the silence of her condo she practiced loading and unloading to get the proper feel. In the secrecy behind her drawn curtains Irene dry fired the rifle as she took aim through the scope's simple crosshairs at old lamps and light switches. There were not going to be any conspirators, so she kept silent about her preparations.

Irene mapped the site of the coyote attacks. She was good at logistics. In fact, it had always been her, when she and her spouse traveled, who had calculated the routes and searched for the best places to stay. So she had developed a good triangulation about where the killer would hide. It was simple math about which day it would attack again.

Irene hesitated when she got the crosshairs settled on the coyote's right eye, waited to let her own breath out to its natural limit just like Rob had taught her. At the point when she squeezed the trigger there would be no reflexive jerk. Irene fired from the dark shadow of her curtain, through the screen of the open window and the killer, which had taken the last living remnant of Irene's former life away, dropped like a stone.

Irene had prepared herself for this moment, for the repercussions of shooting a coyote within the meandering condo complex. But a pet is family too and kin must be avenged. She opened her door and stepped out with the rifle barrel safely down. She saw two other doors open. Two women, rifles tucked under their arms, met Irene at the walkway confluence. They nodded at each other. Together Irene and Maddie and Dee walked to where the coyote lay, no longer hungry and hurting.

A Full Meal

Juan O'Reilly burped after patting his sagging stomach, hitched his pants and groaned, dropping onto his chair. It creaked. Olivia heard the maddening scrape of wood on linoleum as he jammered the chair and himself under the table edge. Even without turning from the stovetop she knew there was no chance any scraps of food from his smacking lips would find their way past his taut undershirt to the floor. Olivia knew what was going on down there.

Probably, she thought, the dog would whimper next; impatient it would nose his crotch until, annoyed enough, Juan would slap that damn mutt on the head and he'd wipe a handful of bacon grease and stinking dog hair onto his thick thigh. It'd always happened in that order, as long as she could remember. Daily. Weekly. Throughout the years.

"You know," said Juan in mushed words through the food, "I love the bacon. You cook great bacon." His small eyes never looked up from the plate as he forked the limply-cooked bacon into his vacuous mouth.

Olivia's straight upper lip, darkened with the lint of returning hair, was damp with dew from working over the stove. She wanted to wipe the moisture away but wondered if there was any point because it was so humid in the kitchen this morning. Behind her Juan grunted. He was done with the pancakes and stood again. Being full versus being hungry were the two great battles raging daily in his mind. When he burped Olivia knew hunger had won again so she did not turn from the stove, preferring not to look. Her eyelids grimaced at the next question.

"How about some more of them pancakes, Sweetie?" She almost shuddered.

_Puerco_ , Olivia thought, and then she nodded. It would take two minutes for the batter to bubble and then the bubbles to pop before she flipped the pancakes. The sound of his hollow panting breath felt heavier than the kitchen heat, as if he were slathering upon her neck. She was glad for the sweet smell of half-cooked bacon in case his breath traveled across the room.

Olivia no longer welcomed his attention. She thought even if he were still the man he was twenty years ago, it would not matter. Being the object of his pig eyes was as distasteful as if he'd run his fingers down the crease in her back; all the way down. She regretted how the moist air near the stove made her worn cotton dress cling where the apron did not wrap around to protect her backside. But she would not turn to face him.

"How them pancakes comin'?" Juan was as impatient as his gaseous mutt. Olivia pinched her lips together into a thinner straight line so no pink shown. It had only been three minutes and she wanted to be sure this plate did the job. She added lots of cayenne. Lots.

" _Bueno. Un momento_." She spoke her native tongue just to aggravate him. Juan had never bothered to learn the language even though it was half of him too.

Juan snorted when answered. Sighing impatience he leaned back, spreading sticky flesh against the wooden arms, the pink dough of his love handles filling the gaps between the spokes under the armrests. And he waited, staring.

"What you addin', cinnamon?" Juan had no sense of smell.

" _Si_ '." Olivia smiled to herself. He was allergic to cayenne. Muy.

" _Si'_ , you will like it very much," she said as she set the loaded plate in front of him. The dog sniffed upward from its place under the table and slunk off to the den. Juan did not notice its absence. He swallowed the pancakes in bursts. Olivia had buttered thoroughly, profusely lathering syrup to disguise the cayenne, and then pre-cut his pancakes. He need wait no longer. Each eager fork jab was a mouthful and a gulp. Juan O'Reilly was in heaven.

Olivia dried her hands with the apron as she leaned back against the sink. Then she self consciously patted the apron on her upper lip as she watched Juan suck in the pancakes. For Olivia, patience was her virtue.

The Roofers

It was a long way from the soft silence of the Iroquois birch forests to here, in hot California. But Tommy Tut-Tut knew he still had it in his blood, the ability to walk the steel beams sixty stories up. He could remember when the gusts of wind in Chicago would whip his loose hair around his face while his hair lariats braided at the temples kept his eyes untouched. With his eyes closed this morning and his head tilted back, he stood bare chest in front of the sunrise window, and felt his raven hair tickle the middle of his back. Tommy imagined how it must have been before the bridges and the skyscrapers, before the pathfinders and the free trappers, before the white men who had set his people off their land. Back then having hair meant something about who you were and what you had done.

Pre-dawn was a quiet space for Tommy. Daily he began the ritual before the sun breathed yellow onto the horizon. Slowly he counted out two hundred and fifty strokes using the bone comb handed down by his ancestors. He pulled the comb through his hair with one hand and curried the loose strands with the other hand; one two, one two. By the time the sun hovered over the horizon his hair relaxed from the oils released by his head and hands, acquiring the softness of clear water sliding over granite rocks. This ritual prepared him for the day ahead and he hoped it would give him the strength to speak his mind without the interference of his stutter.

At the job site the top foreman nodded good morning as he took a head count. The roofing company was on a big job installing the roofs of the new condo complex called the Irvine Woodlands, so the men had been broken into groups of four, and further down then as teams of two, each group assigned to different structures as those became ready for the laying on of the concrete shingles. Roofing wasn't like the old days, when there was so much hammering and asphalt smell. Yet the men had not changed very much. Men hardly ever did when it came to groups.

They gathered around the catering truck slurping dirty coffee. A few wasted their money on the stale pastry. Tommy was glad he did not indulge in those bad habits. He believed it would hop up his nerves and suck away his balance when he got up on the high rafters. It was how he'd lost a few relatives back east on the skyscrapers, some of the pure bloods whose bodies did not handle well the white sugar and dough and alcohol.

Besides Tommy in the crew, there was a redneck they called Beef. He was surprisingly nimble for a tall man who could not see his own feet. And there was Crow, who was called that as much for his tendency to yap around in the background of bully behavior as he was because of his burnt diesel color of skin. Finally there was Pinky, the team leader by default. No one else would do it. Pinky had shaved his head ever since he'd gone bald on top and had been left with friar hair. The skull skin failed to tan like his arms as it glowed a permanent pink from over exposure to the sun.

Each morning, exactly at the curfew of 7 a.m., they took their assignments from Pinky. He paired them at his whim and today, being in an evil mood, Pinky assigned Tommy and Beef as a team. Tommy looked at Beef and Beef turned his head to the side to spit chaw onto the dirt at Tommy's feet.

"What's up, Tut?" The rumbling baritone of his voice vibrated in the mild morning air. Beef wasn't wasting time. "Get a couple hundred strokes on your fine hair this morning?" Beef glanced sideways at Pinky to see if he was going to object right away or let this go on throughout the day. No reaction there.

Tommy didn't say a word either. He acted like Beef was not even present and started up the ladder to the second story. Tommy didn't let on he felt the knot curl up in his tongue so anything he had to say would have been like trying to pull cotton out of a pill bottle.

The roof job was pretty simple when the light concrete shingles were already stacked at the necessary intervals after the thirty pound felt paper was spread across the rafters. A good team could lay out a roof face in an hour and lay down three entire roofs in a day. All went smoothly if the blue chalk plumb lines had been snapped onto the felt paper straight away so all the shingle rows were right the first time and the last rows meeting at the apex varied less than two inches. Then roof cap could be set down without any rearranging.

Tommy tolerated it when Beef intentionally snapped the plumb line against his wrists. He could hear Crow and Pinky snickering his nickname, Tommy Tut-Tut, from the other side of the roof and decided to not worry about what damage they were doing. And he said nothing when Beef's foot snagged his own as he stepped around Beef. It'd take a lot more than Beef to make Tommy lose his balance.

The sun blazed at eleven a.m. when they broke for lunch. Beef and Crow and Pinky went down to the street to rummage food from the catering truck. Tommy stayed aloft. He swung inward off the roof edge and dropped from the roof rafters to the unfinished master bedroom on the second floor where he'd left his lunch pail.

Each lunch hour Tommy's routine was to shake loose his hair from under the hardhat and perform a cleansing comb-out as he faced the wind which always pushed through the second-story's unfinished walls. It quieted his nerves. He reached into his lunch pail to retrieve the ancestors bone comb which had hand carved round teeth shaped like toothpicks. It was an artifact.

And he saw it had been destroyed.

The teeth had been snapped off, each last one, and they had been shoved through his sandwich like pins into a cushion.

Tommy felt like his tongue was too large to ever speak again. He wanted to yell and he couldn't do it, even being alone in the unfinished room. So he closed his eyes and sat waiting as the breeze blew through the unfinished walls. He felt his hair flutter and he waited as the wind action dried his sweat. Facing into the breeze he stroked through his hair with his fingers until all the tangles were gone. Then he carefully picked the comb prongs like sacred bones from the sandwich. There was time to spare, so he decided to use it well.

Beef looked proud of himself when he mounted the roof. Coming up behind him Crow snickered. Beef didn't make eye contact when he spoke to Tommy.

"How's it hanging, Tut?" Tommy smiled back without showing any teeth. Most of his hair hung loose. A braid on each temple kept the hair out of his unblinking eyes.

"Goo-goo-goo-goo-good?" teased Crow from behind Tommy as he was passing to his own side of the roof. Crow loved to make fun of Tommy's stutter. He'd barely finished the imitation when he got a look on his face like he'd been struck by an arrow.

Roofers knew when they were going to fall and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Crow saw his own feet jump forward like he was jerked off of a rolling log in water. He came down hard on his back. For some reason the shingles started to slide downhill beneath him. His palms slammed down as is natural in a fall, but Crow was no longer able to grab surface with his hands. He howled as he instinctively looked at the palms of his hands while he began sliding down the roof. Stuck into his palms were the broken spines of the comb he'd shoved into Tommy's sandwich.

The roof angle was steeper than normal because this was a custom job, so Crow probably could not have stopped his slide even if he'd had the use of his hands. Beef turned towards Crow as he heard the shifting tiles and the yell from Crow. He had no chance to brace for the collision when Crow took out his legs. They were going to fall off the roof together and they knew it and they cursed at Tommy as they were rafted downward by gravity atop the wave of loose concrete tiles.

As Tommy watched he flashed a smile which displayed his white teeth and he let out a war whoop which gave no hint of a stuttering problem. Beef grabbed for a handhold at the edge of the roof where anchor nails had hemmed the shingles to the roof edge. But the nails were gone. The tangle of their bodies mixed with the clatter of concrete shingles as Beef and Crow disappeared over the ledge and dropped into the debris pile two stories below.

Pinky watched from the lunch wagon. He looked up to the second story when he saw two men drop off the roof's edge. But Tommy was far better balanced than Beef or Crow. He was not coming down.

Tommy Tut-Tut straddled the ridgeline of the roof. He took off his hardhat and shook his hair out as he faced into the breeze. He knew Beef and Crow got what they deserved - maybe some broken bones. After several minutes of quiet, he patiently searched the roof's felt cover for the comb's teeth. He found all but those which Crow had impaled in his hands. And he'd have no trouble getting those back from Crow. The ancestors' bones had done their job.

Stick

I don't know when the memory loss began. I can't remember. No kidding. There are times when I know I faded away and there are days when I remember to come out of the unlimited gray where there is no pain. Everything returns so quickly with all the spark plugs firing and the pixels in my camera are so high no amount of magnification could blur my recollections again. Some days.

The best time is when I remember, when he reads the notebook to me that I think I've written to myself. Turn to page 1 and as clear as cold water it instructs:

1. Write why you played football

2. Tell them how it felt to have power

3. Tell them about the steroids

4. Tell them about college football

5. Again

Sometimes I find the notebook, you know, where I must have left it so I'll pick it up to read and then, I hope this is why, I remember what was happening to me so I can warn the others. Not to not play football, but to be careful about how they do it. I'd never give it up.

Tackling the halfbacks when I was young and healthy was like being a gazelle changing into a lion in mid-air, like being rich with masculine strength, drinking testosterone power from just breathing, with that juice going directly into my veins, diving through them head first so they crumbled like shot dove, all that done with my beautiful body. It was good. It was holy good to be wanted for what I did and to be rewarded for the endless hours of preparation they did not know about.

They called me "Stick." Not because I was skinny, but because of what I did, hitting those boys so hard their mothers were angry. I should have seen it coming. It was still a shock though when I figured out they weren't going to let a girl play college football. The adults only let me play because their high school was so short of real boys. That was why they allowed me, a real girl, to play football.

I gave up dating boys when I started to play football. Not my choice, not that I didn't like them. I just liked what I found in myself on the field more. And it was the boys who couldn't get past a lot of things. You know what I mean, more than just who was on top. They never could keep it separate, being on the field or being off the field.

I snuck my way into college ball after high school, beefing up with the steroids. Human Growth Hormone, HGH, they called it. Needles into my thighs where it wouldn't show until my quads were blue from the punctures. The thing about college ball was like the difference between a car and a freight train, the way they hit each other. You had to do it, juice up that is, to compete at that level, even as a free safety. I loved the game too much to quit. Everyone did it, I think, using the 'roids.

A girl always had to be twice as good, if they knew you were one. Those were my tricks, beefing up with the HGH and never being seen unclothed in the locker room. I was always relieved when we made the run down the tunnel and broke free like wild horses onto the field at the start of each game. It was like getting high with being born again, each time was a fresh start, no holds barred, no female versus male, just who was the best at what they did. And Lord, they said I was the best. Until they found out I was just a girl kicking their son's butts.

They tell me now, cause I can't remember stuff, which is real often they tell me, when the shakes, like in Parkinson's, slow down from the dopamine treatments they give me, they tell me it is worse for girls. Taking the head shots was such a manly thing to do it seemed the right way to play. You get your clock cleaned too many times and it adds up like stacking bigger blocks onto smaller blocks. The brain doesn't forgive. They think it's because our woman's two brain lobes are wired together better, not separate like the guys. The shock jumps back and forth into each side and the damage is done twice as bad inside the brain.

So when I find the notebook, like right now, and he reads it to me over and over and over, as he says, I can recall how it felt - the rush of joy when we collided head on like Rams and I wrapped my arms in a mantis grip around those boys and drove them into the ground. It was like a rollercoaster ride when even the dips made you want more. I was a junkie for pleasure no man could ever understand. I just wish I could remember more.

Damn, why can't I remember more? Read it to me again, will you?
Father Meets Son

"Don't waste the bullet."

Patrick always remembered the instruction from his father. He was not sure it made a lot of sense since his pocket was heavy with .22 longs which might be too old to fire. He'd had them since he and his Dad no longer hunted together. But since the rule had been put in his head he couldn't make himself disobey it. So here was the problem. He'd shot the rabbit and it was wounded. The kid had seen it hide in the brush and was so excited, this being his first hunt, he wanted to shoot it again. But it would be a waste of a bullet when they could probably get close enough to club it to death.

"Come on Dad, let's get 'im."

Patrick could see Sean was excited alright. He thought Sean needed to tone it down some. He decided to make Sean work for the kill just to help him really 'get it' about cause and affect. "Okay. Give me your rifle. I'll stand over there while you push through the brush. Make lot's of noise."

By the look on Sean's face Patrick knew he saw the downside to that plan. Today was sweating hot just standing much less grunting along the ground at insect level. Every time Sean stopped moving Patrick saw flies bit his clammy pale skin.

"Okay, Dad. Are you going in from the other side?"

"No. I just said I'd stand back and watch for when the rabbit runs for it." Aggravation at being challenged by his son rose pretty quickly in Patrick's house.

"Why can't I just chuck some rocks in there?" said Sean half-heartedly standing his ground. "It might scare him out."

Patrick looked at Sean. He thought, Well, the fire's gone out of this warrior. I just did it when my Dad told me to go in after the rabbit.

"Dad, you shot him. Maybe you should go in."

_Now isn't that something_ , Patrick thought, _the kid's telling me to get the rabbit_. _Well that ain't gonna happen._ _I get him away from the TV to learn how to hunt and he wants to be the boss._ "Sean, give me your rifle and get your bottom in there!" Patrick figured if he used his father voice the kid would jump to it.

Instead Sean tried a different angle without. "I'm afraid. What if there's a snake in there?" He shifted his feet as he looked at the ground and Patrick couldn't see his face. "What if it bites me?"

"No more stalling. This is pretty unsporting, letting a wounded animal suffer. If it bites you then I'll shoot both of you and put you both out of your misery. How's that, huh?" Patrick knew how to lay it on.

Patrick saw the hurt in Sean's face, the way his chin quivered. Sean unbolted his Stevens single shot .22 rifle, took the bullet out of the breech and put it in his mouth and swallowed. All the time he stared defiantly at Patrick.

"I'm not killing the rabbit. You shot it."

"Well Sean, I got a pocket full of them. How long do you think it'll take you to pass one? 'Cause it's all you're getting!"

"Good, I didn't want to come anyhow."

Patrick knew then he'd lost something he'd hoped to achieve today. But damn, he couldn't let the rabbit suffer until it died from bullet infection.

"Sean, let's go in together. You're smaller, you go first. I'll be right smack behind you."

"Promise?"

"Yep, I'll be so close you'll feel me breathing. We'll get in and out before the rabbit knows what's coming."

At last Patrick saw Sean grin. A little devilish, the playful look Patrick had not seen in a very long time. He smiled to himself as Sean grunted as he pushed standing up through the first wall of brush. It was grown together like lineman's shoulders so Sean dropped to his knees to crawl further into the brush pile. Patrick got down on his hands and knees behind him, panting from the effort. He bumped right up behind Sean before Sean spoke. Smack dab.

"Dad, do you think we can have more of those beans tonight?" The air was real ripe. Patrick gagged as he tried not to inhale. But guys can't help laughing so hard they cry in those situations. It's just what fathers and sons do.

"Yeah, we'll have more tonight. But tomorrow I go first." Man, thought Patrick, they sure grow up fast these days.

Water Rights

Jack skid the pool chairs into a perfect screeching square. He knew from experience where the cool shadows would fall for the rest of the day. Most carefully, stretching his towels as far as they would spread out he made sure the faded ends touched each of the lounge chairs. Perfect. Nobody could mistake that he didn't own the use of these chairs for the day. Jack surveyed his handy work in perspective to the entire pool area. Perfect. Now, he thought, we'll see how they get around this one. He felt it was common knowledge the laying out of towels might as well be a police barrier when it came to poolside territory.

Jack had been simmering all night about how the kids 'from who knows what kennel' had snagged his chairs yesterday. When he'd come back to the pool after his customary nap, his towels were balled up and set on the glass table at the condo's pool entrance. They might as well have left a note saying "Move out of the way old man." Well it wasn't going to happen, Jack decided. Hadn't he been using those same three chairs for years? No siree. If they wanted a battle they'd get one.

Bandy legs and walking shorts curled at the soiled hems, Jack took a last look through the iron fence at his campsite at the pool, as his wife derisively called it, and closed his condo door behind him. He heard the shower water running upstairs. She'd be in there using up all the hot water. Jack groused out loud. He listened for another minute to be sure it was the shower and not the toilet. Satisfied he'd heard it correctly, he stepped over to the sink. With a quick twist of his wrist he turned the hot water on full force. That'll do it. He had no need for the hot water just then but figured if he never used the water while she showered she'd think he'd given up his water rights.

Letting the water run down the sink, Jack prepared fried eggs and toast and then re-warmed the coffee in the microwave. When the table was set, he turned the water faucet off so the sound wouldn't disturb the quiet while he ate. Sitting at the table Jack could see some of the pool patio through the kitchen curtains. There were movements, flitting shadows, but nothing which concerned him.

Margie stayed upstairs long after her shower, as normal. Jack washed his dishes by hand and towel dried them. It aggravated him to think of the germs he was smearing back onto the dishes, but he hated more to have them out just so they could air dry. Finally he scribbled a note to Margie, letting her know he was going to be using his chairs at the pool.

Once inside the pool gate, Jack could see he would have trouble getting to his chairs. They were the only empty places left, it being a Saturday with yet another brat birthday party in the common area. It was almost like they'd conspired against him. The other lounge chairs were so close together he'd either have to walk across them or use the kiddy infected pool to get his special spot.

Jack slid into the water avoiding the steps because a family was sitting there. He judged them to be pretty rude. Ducking under the water Jack kicked off from the side smiling at how he was outwitting them. He held his glasses in his teeth, reasoning he could dry them when got to his towels.

Long proud of how he retained the ability to hold his breath under water, Jack stayed submerged as he frog kicked beneath the legs of the interlopers treading water above him. Rising to the surface at the other side, next to his staked out chairs, he felt the thing wrap around his face like an octopus. Clearing the water he yanked it off and tossed the heavy soggy mess near his chairs. Jack blew air and gasped and lost his eye glasses out of his mouth into the water. But with luck he felt them glance off his knee. So with a couple of blind bobbing explorations, stretching downward with his feet he was able to retrieve them with his toes. He put them on even though being wet they would be smeared until wiped dry. Pulling himself from the water he was aware once again of the blaring music and of course, the yelling kids.

At last, he breathed a sigh of relief as he lay back on one of his chairs. Thoughtfully he dried his glasses as he tuned into the conversations around him. He heard a young Dad yell to his wife their baby had lost its diaper again. With one foot still touching the ground he felt the wet mush of it up to his ankle. Jack realized he was trapped. Even the pool water was soiled. The pool was the only way for him to get back to the condo to get washed up.

And then he heard, "Hey Mister, can we use those chairs?"

Playing Possum

Baring preposterous sharp teeth, the possum waddled along the path in front of Merriam. She wondered if the possum knew it was in her way by its momentary pause before it returned to its ungainly waddle, staying resolutely bound to the course of the sidewalk.

Merriam enjoyed her walks alone because of these special sightings. It was in Merriam's spinster nature to wonder the all important question as she watched the progress of the waddling animal, "Where was her mate?" Merriam was always on the alert, prepared to combine the odd edges of people's personalities whenever the opportunity or responsibility presented itself.

"Come on, Honey" Merriam said, "I bet it's time you got a boyfriend. You look so lonely. I can tell by the way you are walking you're depressed."

The possum turned again to look at Merriam. Perhaps it was just the sound of Merriam's dragging footsteps. Merriam had been tired of late and taken to sleeping longer than usual just to use up the hours.

The animal stared at Merriam without baring its teeth. After a moment the possum turned and began waddling up the path to where the sidewalk split in two directions. Normally the possum would have gone to the pathway on the right and continued on to where she knew of lidless trash cans which offered a sweet delicacy of spoiled fruit and cantaloupe skins. But today she turned left toward another destination and Merriam decided to follow her.

Merriam was intrigued by the intentness of the possum. In spite of the surprise to both of them from a young man racing past on his bicycle the possum held her position in the middle of the sidewalk.

Merriam fell behind until she resolved to pick up her pace. Before long the dew of perspiration moistened her cheeks as a healthy blush appeared. She was feeling an invigoration which had not occurred for many years. The trotting possum was too fast and disappeared around a turn of the sidewalk. When Merriam made the corner the possum was nowhere in sight. There was a bench in the shade and it was the perfect opportunity to stop to catch her breath beneath the wide cool shade of the Sycamore tree.

After five minutes Merriam had recovered, although her chest still rose and fell with the healthy swell of her stimulated breathing. Beyond her sight up the path she heard the sound of footsteps hurrying towards her. From around the bend the possum returned, still moving at a trot. Clearly she planned to stay on her path even with Merriam sitting so nearby upon the bench. Enthralled, Merriam watched until the possum disappeared around the corner down the same sidewalk from where both of them had come.

Merriam noticed again the footsteps she had heard which must have been following the possum. Merriam admired Warren as he slowed and came to a stop in front of her bench. He continued to look past her up the sidewalk, and petulantly tapped his cane on the ground when he realized the possum had gone out of sight. He looked at Merriam, still blushed on her cheeks and sitting with her back so straight that her breathing was obvious from her buxom front.

"Lovely little creature, wasn't she?" said Warren. "I've never seen one quite as bold."

Merriam smiled. She imagined she was not the only matchmaker.

The Fourth Course

Elizabeth sat with perfect posture on the very flat wooden chair. So perfect her knees knocked and her ankles touched each other. The posture helped her find the frame of mind necessary to do her work. Elizabeth knew she had every reason to be proud of her work as an architect. It was the discipline, the attention to detail which assured the habitation's safety when her drawings were converted to brick and mortar.

The sound of Jerome's cursing on the other side of the patio door jerked her out of her revelry. The slider yanked open and Jerome stood in front of her, stinking of the metallic sweat smell which comes from working in the sun.

"Where's the band-aids?"

"What did you do now?"

"Dropped a block on my finger. Where's the band-aids?"

Elizabeth hadn't really wanted him to start the decorative planter until she had a chance to complete the drawing. "If you'd just waited until I had the design done..." She didn't finish because she saw the flap of his knuckle tilt up as he played with it. "I'll get one." And she didn't want him tromping into the bathroom. When he did he always got blood on the towels. "Just go back out to the patio. Squeeze your finger so it will stop bleeding."

It might have seemed Elizabeth was not sympathetic. But she saw this happen on all of his projects. _Lord knows_ , she thought, _I love him. But he never draws up a plan_. Somehow the attitude seemed to go hand in hand with his project injuries. Jerome seemed to take pleasure in free handing the block and mortar. This time the planter, the last time the patio wall. Going way back was a history of injuries to mark each project.

"Jerome, where are you?" Elizabeth had taken ten minutes to find the perfect band-aids to match the shape of his knuckle. As she pushed through the floor length curtains to the patio, Elizabeth saw too late the stray block below the first step down. Before she could catch herself she propelled across the small patio into the wet mortar and block on the fourth course of the decorative planter.

It was her turn to curse. Which she did like a sailor. It felt good. The scrape on her thigh wasn't bad and there were no marks on her stomach. However the turn of events was keeping her from the project she'd set out to do for herself. Looking at the damaged wall she saw where her knee had dislodged most of the blocks on the fourth course. She knew if she let it set the fourth course would be crooked and it would drive her crazy every time she saw it. Even when flowers drooped over the edge she would know the imperfection was there and that was just wrong.

Apparently Jerome had gone over to the neighbor buddy for a band-aid and beer break. Her decision was made. In just a couple of minutes she pulled down the fourth course, tapping off the wet mortar from those blocks and then scraped the residual from the top of the third course so she could rebuild the last row of the wall. Elizabeth thought if he could do it without an architectural design degree, she sure could with one. She was pleased to see he had covered the mortar box so the mud wasn't hardened. Elizabeth absolutely intended to re-position the slump stone blocks on the wall so well it would even make his freehand work on the other courses look less.

The problem soon became evident. Every time she slapped mortar onto an upturned block, as she'd seen it done so often by Jerome, the mortar slid off when she turned the block over or wasn't the proper thickness at both ends of the set area after it was placed. So she'd have to scrape away the drying mortar and re-stir the mud and reapply it one more time. Finally she developed her own method, which was to just pour it out on top of the third course, position the block, and then simply tap wet mortar into the gap between the ends of the freshly laid blocks.

There were only seven stupid blocks of 8 X 16 inch dimension. To Elizabeth they resisted alignment the way magnets swerve when the wrong ends are matched. Frustrated and hot after an hour of struggling, she stood back to audit her work. It was pretty sad. She decided since Jerome hadn't come back it would serve him right. Elizabeth dropped the trowel into the water pail and left the mess on the patio to go take a shower.

After her shower had calmed the muscles in her upper back and shoulders, she put on clean clothes. She felt ready to get back into her zone for drawing. Elizabeth sat in her hard wooden chair at her desk and sharpened her pencils, slowly blowing away the wood dust on the tips as each one was refined to their proper sharpness. Laying the pencils side by side on her desk, she felt relaxed enough to get into her work. Then she saw his note written on a good piece of drawing paper. Damn!

"He ruined a good piece of drawing paper," she said out loud.

The note said _Gone to the Home Depot to pick up some mulch and flowers for the planter. Call me if you need something picked up_.

Elizabeth pulled back the curtains. He'd redone the fourth course. From her vantage at the door the top of the block lined up as straight as her table top. She went closer, so close she could see the imperfections in the slump stone shape. He always used irregulars and seconds. She could see how the bottoms were sunk at different levels on opposite ends. But the top was very level, even from arms length. Then she saw the note held down by the trowel he'd left on the last block.

_P.S. Mortar makes straight lines, if you let it. Concentrate on the top, not the bottom. That's where the mortar does its own work. You did great. We make a good team. Love, Jerome_.

Elizabeth went back inside. This time she took a chair cushion and placed it on her wooden chair so she could get settled just right. She sat so her posture was perfect, knee barely touching knee, ankle brushing against ankle. And she hoped Jerome would be out long enough to let her finish her design for the baby's room.

Then she'd tell him.

Laureen's Beach

"I think it's quite lovely."

Laureen was pleased to hear that, but something about the tone felt rather condescending.

"Don't be so damn formal, Kathleen. It's just my painting. You could have done as well." There. Now she'd done it. Blurted her feelings out loud again. And she really didn't mean to do it.

Laureen was silent for a moment. Her great grey eyes glistened around the white edges. Her hands stopped fidgeting and because they were twins, so did Kathleen's. So much did not have to be said out loud to be heard. Today it was a curse, tomorrow perhaps a blessing.

Laureen looked down at the sand to see her feet were submerged up to the ankles. She wished she could wiggle her toes beneath the sand to get the wonderful cool dry feel of sinking her feet into the beach. Looking sideways at Kathleen she could tell she had begun doing that with her feet. It was an unconscious kneading habit girls acquired who grew up on the sand.

"Sorry." Laureen meant it.

"I know. Me too."

"Well, tell me. What do you like best and what do you hate the most about it?" This was a game they played and it helped them drive each other to evenness in all things the way siblings feel they must. Today it was the painting. Other times it was how one of them told a story. But for them it was a safe haven which no other could ever enter. They knew it was not always the way with twins. But it had been with them.

Kathleen always started with what she loved. "Besides how beautiful she is, I love how she is reaching out towards us. You see her one arm wrapped around the buoy pole to keep from falling forward. I see how you painted her hand turned upward in your reaching to us motion. What I hate is I don't know who or what she is reaching for."

"Yes you do."

"I do not."

"Yes," Laureen emphasized, "you do. We have to talk about it."

Laureen paused as Kathleen turned her back to the wall where Laureen had done the painting. Until then it had not occurred to her that Kathleen would be hurt by its story. It was done so exquisitely there was no mistaking the anguish and longing in the detail of the young girl's body as she clung to the buoy, leaning shoreward and seen through the specks of splashed waves.

Laureen remembered how Kathleen had made ready the wall, spreading the plaster on the block wall in giant swirls at first and then sand softened the surface so it was as pleasing to touch as china skin. Kathleen had made it to the specifications Laureen requested. She had also filled the patio with beach sand from the Wedge in Newport Beach. She knew Kathleen would have done anything she asked, to ease her own pain.

"Don't do that to me. Don't turn away. You know I can't keep up." Laureen's voice was firm.

"That's why I hate it. It should have been me." Kathleen turned around to face Laureen, looking from Laureen to the new mural several times. "Why did you paint it? She looks just like us. It hurts me, you reaching out for help. I tried to stop you. I couldn't get to you."

"I'm not reaching out for help." Laureen's voice soothed. She edged her wheelchair closer to Kathleen. "We both knew the danger of the Wedge. We had to try. I just got there first. I'm just drawing a window to see the world I can't get to right now."

"Anymore. Say it, anymore. It's what you mean."

"Don't be cruel. Leave me my windows," Laureen said.

Laureen knew Kathleen needed to be forgiven. Her moist eyes simply begged for mercy, for a message of how she could give back what was lost from her injury. In the silence there was no place for either to hide so Laureen took her sister's hand. They both smiled as Kathleen reflexively began to scrunch her toes in the sand.

"Can you feel the sand between your toes when I wiggle mine?" Kathleen asked.

"Yes, even when you are out on the beach. Only yours."

They had their secrets.

Saving The Little Ones

"That Poison Ivy is nasty stuff." Grant was on his soapbox once more, this time ruminating about the most severe itch 'ever known to man'. The backs of his hands were crusted a mottled red similar to mange covered with oatmeal paste. But heedless and without glancing down, he picked at each hand in turn as he spoke. Little Robert Lee was barricaded in by the other children sitting behind him when the flecks of scab land on him.

"I remember the time I got it because we didn't have an outhouse. No need to tell you what happened then." Grant winked at his captive young audience sitting on the floor between him and the door, trying to make them feel like conspirators in life's experiences. As Grant paused expecting the little students to laugh, Grant's daughter, the true Sunday school teacher, returned from the Pastor's office. He hoped the children's body language wouldn't telegraph that they were ready to bolt for safer places.

"Alright, Dad, I'm back. Has everybody been behaving?"

His face glowed guilty, but he was not caught and that was what mattered. "Sure have. Great little troopers, all of them."

"Okay, thanks for the help. I'll see you in an hour, out front."

As Grant stood, the path to the doorway magically appeared as the little bodies eagerly nudged sideways. All, except one. She sat cross-legged, not dressed so well as the other children, her overalls giving her square little shoulders worldly form.

"Mr. Grant, how come you pick at your hands all the time?"

"Jessica!" Grant's daughter was at once embarrassed for him. "You can't ask questions like that!"

Jessica held her position, seated in his exit path. Her level gaze meeting Grant's showed the other children she was used to talking to adults. From her tone it sounded like her question was mere interest, not from any intent to embarrass the crude old man.

"That's okay," Grant said to his daughter. "I didn't know I was doing it again," he directed at both his daughter and Jessica.

"My Mommy says hot oil helps. Every time I pick my finger nails she says she'll dip my hands in boiling cooking oil and that'd make me stop for good."

Grant's daughter gasped. The children stared in open mouth wonder at Jessica's candor. Grant sat on the floor in front of Jessica, crossed his legs and draped his wrists over his knees so the exposed backs of his hands dangled facing Jessica. She tensed, her first sign of uncertainty.

"My Daddy," said Grant, "didn't want me to pick my finger nails neither." Grant altered his diction so his twang matched hers and his grammar was at the child's level. "One day he caught me doin' it so he rubbed Poison Oak all over the back of my hands. Then he told me to chew away all I wanted. He didn't tell me what Poison Oak would do neither." The children in the room now had their turn to gasp.

"What happened, Mister Grant?" Jessica watched him very carefully. Grant lifted his hands and made a motion to swipe the back of his hands on Jessica. But she was already in flight, sprinting out the door and screaming down the echoing hallway until silence settled. Grant waited a minute before he jumped to his feet. He turned left, and then he turned right, glowering threats with his hands held out toward the children. He walked slowly out the door after Jessica, calling "Let me show you what happens when you chew your fingernails, sweetheart."

His overalls sagged so the armpits drooped to his waist. One foot slapped oddly against the linoleum with each dragging step that took him further away from the children.

Once around the corner, Grant adjusted his walk pace to a busy normal gait until he reached the church office. Inside the Pastor sat behind his desk talking to Jessica who sat across from him on the chair with the cushion so she could sit higher. Grant smiled as he lowered himself down onto the mismatched old wooden chair next to Jessica.

"Jessica says it went right on plan," said Pastor John.

"Yeah, you were great again, kid." His grand-daughter really knew how to ham it up, he thought, even though she was small for her age. Jessica smiled in appreciation.

"Do you think this is going to help them? It's pretty scary you know," Jessica said.

Pastor John and Grant looked at each other. They had also wondered. But for the last two years no first-day first grader had their hand whacked by Sister Mary George. She'd been there since they were schoolboys who'd felt her red-faced rage from her wooden ruler, for chewing their finger nails. They did not want anymore children to remember their first day of school that way.

"Believe me, Jessica," said Pastor John, "You're a real Joan of Arc at this Sunday School."
These Days

Sean wore a belt these days. Patrick could not have been more proud the way he was turning out. Sean had grown so much during the summer and he was mature enough to take on the responsibility of raising the coyote-mix puppies they'd saved after the old ladies had killed their mother. The getting up to feed them was nothing compared to finding the right food since they had stopped nursing from the bottles.

The mixed breed pups did not seem to mind the daytime heat in the garage. They lounged around like teenagers and panted to ventilate themselves and slept until Sean got home from football practice. Then they'd break into a wild chorus of yipping while he greeted each one of them. Luckily the garage had been soundproofed during the phase when Sean practiced electric guitar which had brought the neighbors into a revolt. Patrick cautioned Sean to never let anybody see the coyote-mix pups or there might be another uprising in the condo community.

It had started innocently enough when the neighbor's cat had crawled mortally wounded into the bushes at their front door. The heavy tire marks were still fresh, only beginning to decompress while the pathetic mews filtered from the cat's chest. Sean recognized Tiger as old lady Merriam's cat, but he'd gotten a little callous about the pain of animals since he'd begun to hunt with his Dad. Patrick had said the pups were ready for real food, stuff with meat and bones. There the cat cringed, almost undone from life, so Sean accommodated, finishing the job in the garage after covering its face with a pillow case.

Patrick always went directly to the garage when he got home from work.

"What've you got there Sean?"

"Some meat for the pups." Patrick liked how he was nonchalant without any effort around him since they'd become hunting buddies.

"Where'd you get it?"

"Road kill, Dad. It seemed like a shame to waste."

"It looks like old lady Merriam's cat."

He heard Sean swallow. "Could be. The collar is over on the table." Sean nodded towards the wall without looking at Patrick.

"Yup, sure is," said Patrick. He felt a mix of pride at how far Sean had come since their first rabbit hunt. Patrick heard the Coyote pup's wrestling as they bounced off the chain link walls of the pen in the middle of the garage floor. He saw now that they were playing tug-o-war with the headless pelt that used to be Tiger, stretching it out between them like a flying squirrel.

"Is this how you plan to feed them from now on?" Patrick said.

"Yeah, the best I can. I figure I can run with them on the trails in the hills. There may be some more local casualties, Dad." It seemed as much a request for permission as it was a response.

"They'll need to be leashed when you have them out, for awhile, only after dark." Patrick found himself conspiring a lot with Sean. He watched while the only sound in the garage was the mawing of the puppies as Sean playfully tugged on the cat's tail, generating renewed wrestling around him in the pen.

"Dad, I need some new running shoes."

"Big-Five. They have some ankle high paramilitary boots that'll work better on the trails," Patrick said.

Sean hitched his pants as he stood up, but not in the aggravating crotch-hangers way of the past year. His body had dropped baby fat from the football practice. It seemed like he was going through a growing spurt that made him look lanky and almost adult. Patrick loved to watch his son becoming a man.

"We'll get you some pants and a new belt too. No point in you tripping over your clothes."

Patrick closed the door behind him and suddenly there was no more noise coming from the garage. Walking through the long hallway he heard a soft knock at the front door.

"Hello Merriam, how are you doing?" Lines of gray fatigue in her face accentuated the hurt in her quavering voice.

"I can't find my Tiger. Have you seen him?"

"Your cat?" Patrick hesitated long enough for Merriam to nod up at him from the lower step of the porch like a child who'd cried herself out. He saw then that Tiger must be everything to her.

"No, I haven't seen him. When was the last time you saw him?" Patrick felt a tinge of sympathy which he let show on his face to make his lie convincing.

"I fed him his favorite lunch today. It was tuna fish."

"I'll let you know if I do. Sean and I are going out later to get him some shoes. He's growing so fast." It appeared Merriam did not hear the pride in his voice as she turned away.

Patrick could hear her sniffles from the window over the sink when she pleaded out loud, "Tiger, Tiger sweetie, come home." It was pitiful, he thought, as he shook his head at the price we all pay as our children grow up. Even with animals you got to learn to let them go. Especially coyote puppies. All in good time though, he thought. The old women should not have shot their mother. There's always a price to pay for killing. But what were you going to do? He shook his head again as he trimmed the loose skin from the chicken breast.

Arm Strength

"Where'd you meet him, on the beach?" Laureen really meant, "Is he another hurt puppy?"

"No, on a surfboard," Kathleen said.

"Nothing new about that," said Laureen. Her arched eyebrow looked like a sneer.

"He's a novice," Kathleen said.

"Oh my god, he is another hurt puppy."

"And he is not another hurt puppy," Kathleen continued.

Laureen hacked a laugh. There was not much she could do as long as Kathleen didn't bring him home.

Kathleen smirked back. "You wouldn't be such a busy body if you had someone of your own. Even better, if you'd get back on your surfboard. Besides, I told him about you."

"You what?" Laureen would have jumped out of the chair at her if she could have. Instead she lifted herself clear of the seat with her swimmer's arms. It was the first time she'd let Kathleen see that. Kathleen's face flashed surprise.

"So that's how you're reaching the top of the wall to paint. What else are you hiding?"

"Don't look at me like that. You're trying to change the subject. We agreed you wouldn't say anything. I won't be an object of pity," Laureen said.

"I don't agree anymore. I need my own space to grow. It's not the first time I've met Tommy. And you don't need to know everything either."

Laureen stopped talking. She was suddenly aware of the arms of the wheelchair, like whenever Kathleen was not home. She spun the right wheel so she came about to face the garden wall, to leave Kathleen watching the back of her head. In a second she was onto the sand which stretched from wall to wall, the wheels of the chair cutting several inches deep.

Over the months Laureen had turned the uneven plaster surface of the rear wall into many murals of ocean scenes. In today's scene she and her sister faced shoreward, side by side, lounging astride their boards in the blue soft swells which rolled in to become a frothed white wave at the sand. The result was a mural of watercolors of undulating succulent pastels which pleased the eye - from the top of the wall as the long view where the Pacific sky merged into ocean, to the sun sparkle on the ruffling blue water at the middle of the painting, to the near shore where it transitioned to real sand at the bottom of the wall. It was yet another masterpiece of her mind's window which she changed each week as she endured the solitude of her days.

Kathleen shrugged her tanned shoulders. From behind Laureen she held onto the steering arms of the chair.

"There's enough room on that water color for two more people." Laureen's response was to blow her hair out of her eye with a sharp puff from the side of her mouth. "Give us a chance. I won't leave you alone," Kathleen said.

The last word resonated in Laureen's mind after Kathleen had gone to shower. She knew there was too much empty time around her. Alone in the condo each day she felt the silence buzz as if she were tethered beneath a power pole. She did need her sister yet she did not want to drain the youth out of Kathleen's life by being needy. To quell the thoughts she painted at the wall, expertly adding a surfer on the outside of each of them as they bobbed in the water. Board tips projecting upward and the rear ends sunk into the face of a swell the four, no longer two, faced almost shoreward. Laureen decided to be brave for her sister's sake.

The doorbell, altered to the bong of a buoy bell as a joke, alerted her Kathleen's date had arrived. Laureen decided this time she would get the door in person instead of using the remote opener Kathleen had rigged. It felt good to gain a little speed as she cut the corner around the sofa and skid to a stop at the door. She blew her hair back with another puff from her mouth as she yanked the door open.

Two, not one? Laureen knew at once. They were both dark from their suntans. Before either one could say anything Laureen held up a hand to stop them. She was drawn to Tommy. His brown eyes were softer and his skin was meant to be dark. How he stood, supple to the earth like he was barefoot wherever he walked. He smiled, soft lips. Laureen had a painter's vision and she absorbed the details about Tommy while his friend, Chris, shifted his weight to ease his discomfort in the moment.

Kathleen came to the door and stopped behind Laureen. She put her hands astraddle Laureen's neck and squeezed like a sister. "Laureen," spoken out loud to confirm for him, "I want you to meet your date, Tommy."

His hair hung free so it draped handsomely down his shoulders and reached to the middle of his back. Laureen saw how like black silk it clung against him and she thought it must be wonderful to touch.

"You-you-you can ca-call me Tut-tut." Laureen smiled at the sunshine in his eyes and ignored the stutter.

"Let me show you my painting, Thomas," she said as she leaned forward to take his hand. "Then you can take me to the beach for your surfing lesson."

Welcome the Silence

Jack had always dreamt about the silence. He'd wanted it so badly for so long. Now, when it owned him, it wasn't so grand. It seemed like quicksand filling his mouth and ears. The condo had been meant for two. For years Jack managed to twist her words into something that made her angry. He knew she was ready to leave, to be on her own. Then there was the last straw.

He heard Margie on the landing at the top of the stairs. At one in the afternoon the sunlight normally brightened the downstairs rooms. Jack felt a little giddy trying something different. He'd drawn the curtains so the specks of illuminated dust floated through the few shafts of light that leaked around the curtain edges.

"Jack, are you down there?"

"Yes, in the kitchen."

"Why are the curtains closed? It's too dark."

"I wanted to get more privacy. The neighbors don't need to see in."

"Jack, I want some light. It's suffocates me when the curtains are drawn."

Jack came in from the kitchen as his sandals slapped his heels. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He saw her peering down at him as he was exposed by one of the stray shafts of light.

"Why aren't you wearing any clothes, Jack?"

"That's why I closed the curtains." There was some pride in his voice. "I decided it would be more comfortable."

"That's not normal Jack." The pitch of her voice expressed the new concern she felt.

"Don't worry, Margie. I thought I'd just try it out. I won't sit in any of your precious chairs if that's what's getting you into a tizzy." Margie closed her eyes and gripped the railing until her knuckles became white. "I'm going to the pool in a couple," he said and before she could respond there was the clip clap of the sandals as he returned to the kitchen.

Margie left a note on his bed. _I don't want to see anymore, or picture anymore, or hear anymore. The thought of your crotch hairs caught forever in the sofa cushions is too much_. In thirty minutes she had packed her two suitcases with her clothes and the stark few mementos she valued.

When Jack returned at four o'clock in the afternoon the energy from Margie's presence had already dissipated. He knew she would not be back. At first Jack celebrated Margie's absence, leaving the lights on around the condo, turning all the televisions on upstairs and downstairs, wandering naked and sitting wherever he pleased without concern for where his exposed body parts touched. He tried sleeping on the sofa with the muted television lighting the room, just for the experience. But eventually he tired of the novelty and got up and put on some night clothes and went to bed.

The capacity of the human body to absorb the stillness out of a shared room is why many people live together. Jack soon learned that a single person who is not at terms with being alone is in conflict with their environment. For such a person the silence builds into a low tuning fork vibration in their head. He was learning that the presence of other people was necessary to absorb the ringing, to detoxify his personal space.

Jack got out of bed late in the morning. He thought he heard Margie downstairs, but it was merely the television that he'd left on the night before. Glum, he worked his way through the rooms, turning off lights and picking up clothes he'd dropped vicariously the previous night. After eating in the kitchen, he washed the dishes and left them to air dry in the rack. He decided it did feel better to have the curtains open for the glow the sunlight gave the white walled rooms.

Against the wall the Bristlecone log that had caused so much anger between them still remained unfinished. Jack had stolen it from the Inyo Forest depriving, as Margie had argued, the rest of humanity of its pleasure in order to fulfill his own. To him the silken feel of the hard wood beneath his callisthenic fingers was how he imagined his body.

Jack left his front door open when he went to the pool, which made him feel like Margie's warmth and life might be let back into the condo. He hadn't much energy so he was happy to sit in only one lounge chair and he made no effort to create the regular three chair corral, which was his custom. At last Jack fell asleep with his mouth agape and his hairless legs stretched in front of him, supported by a rolled towel under his knees. He slept for three hours. When he awoke his mouth was dry deep into his throat. He swallowed until he recovered the softening moisture in his mouth.

"This is no use. They ruined it. It's all ruined." Jack spoke the words out loud to himself before his eyelids flickered open. There was nobody to hear. After all, the thought dawned on him, who had the time to sit around a pool during the weekdays except him? At last the depression that had been building like a top-heavy wave for many years collapsed upon him. He realized he needed help and he wanted friends. Retirement was too hard alone.

Rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hands, he leaned forward and swung his legs off the lounge chair. For the first time in a very long time Jack was honest with himself about why he was sitting alone at the sad little pool on a late Wednesday afternoon. He massaged under his eyes, pushing up the thick black frames of his glasses meant to make him look fashionable fifteen years ago. He realized there was no point in trying to hide his tears because there was nobody around to see how pathetic he was.

The mild afternoon wind gusted, ruffling his towel hung over the back of the chair. Dried Sycamore leaves swirled and gathered against his feet. Jack resolved he would change going forward. He knew he could not make the past any different. He thought, today will be a fresh start. I don't understand what I'm doing wrong but I need to fix it. Nobody around here likes to be around me.

Jack sat another hour considering his options for the future. The sun went down and the cool air settled on his shaved small chest and freckled shoulders. As he left the pool he realized that he'd never noticed until then the cruel metallic sound the wrought iron gate made as it slammed shut at his heels. He wondered _how could I have been so comfortable in a place like that?_

Training Warren

Merriam had been distraught after Tiger disappeared. She'd become suspicious of everybody. The way Maddie and Dee and Irene avoided her, the way the pregnant young black neighbor, Elizabeth, smiled at her, the manner in which Jack closed his drapes in the middle of the day just before and after Margie had left him. The only people she trusted were Patrick and his son, Sean. She thought they were so nice since they always made a point of asking if she'd ever found her Tiger.

Merriam increased the frequency of her lonely walks along the meandering Laguna Sands sidewalks during the late afternoons, calling out for the cat in case it should miraculously return. After awhile she ceased calling out, realizing how pathetic her quavering voice sounded when she caught some of the neighbor kids laughing at her. Still she kept up the walks, hoping to run into the distinguished older gentleman she'd met several months prior as they'd both chased after the female opossum. Merriam knew now it was an opportunity missed, failing to get him to ask for her phone number.

The walks did have a healing effect, causing her to lose several dress sizes as well as sharpening her mind. Soon she decided to get better walking shoes to help to ease the pain in her ankles from walking on concrete. And that was where she met Warren again, the gentleman who'd run into her as she'd watched the possum. It turned out he was the shoes salesman at the Sears Store. Dashingly tall, refined, almost British in his manner of speaking.

It was quite nice the way he sized her feet and massaged her insteps before he slipped the shoes onto her extended foot. Later he admitted it wasn't necessary to rub the feet to reduce swelling, like he'd told her. To be sure that time, and being the changed woman that she was, Merriam took one of his business cards for herself and wrote here phone number on another for him.

In little time they were a couple, spending almost all their free hours together. Yet Merriam mused as she lay back, I wish the sex were, well, longer. That was something she planned for them to work on together.

"Okay now spread your legs apart."

Merriam sighed in anticipation as she lay on her back on the rug, her knees splaying wide as she tried to force the small of her back flush to the ground. Her tense spinal muscles resisted, leaving a space between her sacral vertebrate and the rug. She adjusted by crunching upward with her chest like a pill bug and uncurling again so that her lower back came in contact with the ground first, then her middle back and finally, the upper back. It took a moment for her neck to loosen enough to rest on the floor without any tension.

Then she focused on her exposed front of her body. She flapped her thighs up and down like loosening wings until she left them lowered into the outward position which meant the stretch in the muscles of her groin was nearly complete. She loved it when his warm hands massaged the nook between her vaginal lips and the inner thigh, gentling her slightly pudgy legs even more. If she cracked her eyes open to look down her sides she could see how the edge of her buttocks bunched where her hips met the ground, crinkling the skin in a handhold way.

Merriam was not the type of person who expressed sensual pleasure out loud. But the room was warm, at the temperature where she didn't feel her skin unless somebody touched it, almost like being in a bathtub when the water had cooled enough that she seemed to float in space. "Oh my, this feels so good." Merriam had no plan other than to follow the Yogi's instructions today.

"Okay, now grab your ankles and pull them up into the sky. Slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly," he lowered his voice as she felt the stretch spread from under her knees to almost inside of her.

"Focus on the special spot you have chosen."

Merriam giggled.

"Rock sideways on your hips to adjust the weight you are carrying."

Merriam felt as if a weight re-centered on top of her from her pelvis to her chest and she felt like she could carry any amount of that type of weight if she could just hug it with her legs and arms.

"Okay, exhale until you feel the air flow all the way out of your stomach. Hold, hold, hold, hold, slowly take a breath in."

Merriam did not want to let go of the weight she bore, it had not penetrated her to the depth she needed. She was happy to hear the Yogi say, "again."

Warren moved in pieces. He was always stiff. Merriam had started to notice the little stutter steps when he went to the kitchen. In the brief time she'd known him, Warren was getting older too fast. And he wouldn't try the Yoga classes with her. Merriam knew getting broken was a part of aging, but she also believed that she had a responsibility to help their crystallizing joints learn to work together again, as he should.

"Warren, are you hurting?"

"That damn chair. It's too soft."

"Well, why don't you go to Yoga class with me?"

"I know," he said turning stiffly to look at her from the kitchen doorway, "you said it will help. I don't see why I shouldn't just buy a new chair."

Merriam chuckled. "Because chairs are only chairs. They can't be any better than they are."

"What's that supposed to mean?" If Warren had said it with rancor he would not have been the man Merriam was allowing to be with her.

"You'll feel better, move easier, if you go with me. It wouldn't help to buy a chair." She smiled seductively so that he could see.

"Oh." Warren looked at Merriam for a moment, digesting what she'd said. "I'll think about it." He turned again to the kitchen.

Merriam admired the way his mature lanky frame filled the doorway. She thought, he's still quite handsome. "Class is tomorrow." She was pleased with herself. She saw how Warren liked that sound in her voice.

"Vodka or wine tonight?" Warren's muffled voice came from the pantry.

"You'll need pot tonight," Merriam said. "The muffins are in the keeper in the refrigerator."

She could imagine Warren's grin as he nearly skipped to the refrigerator.

The Pact

"One more coffee." Jack pushed the cup across the table and the porcelain scraping against the Formica table top aggravated Patrick.

"I take it black, Jack."

"It makes your breath stink, Patrick." Jack enunciated his name for affect.

Patrick pushed the cup back to Jack and then rubbed his temples with the heel of his hands. He cooed the way pigeons do to comfort themselves.

"Come on, drink it," Jack said, setting the cup down with authority in front of Patrick. The tamp on the table made Patrick grimace once more, but this time he obediently reached for the hot cup.

Patrick drew a drawn-out phlegm-full snort but Jack would not go away. Instead Jack slapped him on the upper back and gripped around the Trapezius muscle like it was a thick rope, massaging deep in with his muscular fingers.

"God, that feels good," Patrick said.

"You've got a lot of tension. Just relax and get your head clear. Drink the coffee," Jack said as he let go of Patrick's neck and walked over to the counter to turn off the coffee pot. Patrick shied at the sound each movement created. They were all in contrast to what he really wanted.

"Why are you helping me?"

"I've been there. Different war, same nightmares. Things we would not have done at home still follow us home. I know."

Patrick lifted his head to look at Jack's back as he rinsed a cup. He wondered if this sinewy old rooster had seen what he'd seen, had failed to act the way he had failed to act?

"How'd you deal with it?"

"Not much different than you have. Lost my wife, too, like you. Pretended to be a tough guy until everybody was gone. You still have a chance. You've still got your boy."

Patrick suddenly panicked that Sean had seen him last night. "Has he seen me this way?"

"Too late to worry about that," Jack said dismissing Patrick's concern about last night, "to him you're always drunk, the way you bully him."

"What an ass." Patrick's sullen eyes stayed focused on the coffee cup.

"Look Patrick, the kid loves you. At his age he could go either way. At the pool he's always talking about you going hunting together and he's as proud as a peacock about his Daddy being a cop."

The sentiment nearly brought Patrick to tears, which he restrained with a quick gulp of breath.

"But you need help, man. You can't just hang out with your cop friends - too much military in your group. You've got to start new. Why don't you join me with some of my friends for cards? We play once a week. Just guys. Bring Sean. He'd like it."

Jack had sat for a moment in front of Patrick in a kitchen chair spun backwards. His tattooed forearms rested on the backrest as he faced Patrick.

"How come you're in such good shape?" Patrick said.

"Push-ups. Started with 50 a day after I retired and now I'm up to a 1000," Jack said as he clenched and unclenched his hands so Patrick could see how his forearms flexed the tattoos. "Get Sean to start doing them. It'll improve his reaction time on the field and give him the inner strength to never give up." Jack paused. "It'd help if you tried some too, just as an example, you know."

"Well, I don't want to look like some fuckin' old rooster like you, sir." Patrick laughed at his own joke and then grabbed his head at the pain.

Jack stood up, intentionally scraping the chair legs on the floor, grinning as he did it. "I can see that you're going to be alright. The card games are on Tuesdays, seven sharp, this week at my place. Be there." He lifted the chair a few inches and dropped it for emphasis. "I'll lock the door behind me. You get some sleep."

Patrick waited until he was sure Jack was gone. Then he looked at the clock, calculating with some difficulty he had two hours before work. He knew from his experience as a detective he had some leeway in hiding his physical condition with more coffee and eye drops.

"Hey, look who's here, Jim Beam." Jack was the perfect host.

"Yeah, and look who's not sitting out at the pool with his shaved chest." Patrick's reference to Jack's darker days was free game the moment he brought up Patrick's drinking.

"Okay guys," said Jack," I want you to welcome Patrick. He's a cop."

"No wonder he drinks; so did Custer. Hey, I'm Tommy." He stood and leaned forward as he extended a hand across the table. As Patrick gripped his hand Tommy's shining raven hair fell forward brushing Patrick's hairy forearm before Tommy could snap it away with a flick of his head. Patrick hesitated before he shook the hand he already gripped because Tommy would not let go until there was some motion. Patrick felt the rough callous strength.

"Nice grip. What do you do?"

"Roofer and surfer. My hair bother you, cop?" Tommy said with a grin on his brown-red face so Patrick noticed the offset of his beautiful white teeth. There was no way Patrick could take offense with the face behind the words. "The women love it when it touches their skin. You ought to let yours grow and maybe you'd get some action."

"Can't. Too easy to have it grabbed in a fight with some hair pulling surfer, you know." They both laughed.

Jerome came down the stairs from using Jack's upstairs bathroom. "Hey Jack, you are out of toilet paper, again, so I used a towel."

"Figures, you can take 'em out of the jungle..." Jack said loud enough so Jerome could hear.

"I'll have you know," said Jerome in his distinctly proper English with its Ethiopian accent, "that we all have the same mother, originating in the deepest roots of Africa. Scientific fact. You hear me, the same mother, but she loves me more because I'm black and you are the aberration."

The time for them was insulation from the pain of their pasts in the outside world. There was in the room a companionable glow as the cards were dealt and the cold tea poured and the soda spilled and the coffee served. There was no alcohol served those nights because it did not mesh with Jerome's religion or help with the former soldiers' behavior or mix with Tommy's indigenous blood. Friends from such diverse backgrounds stayed better friends that way.

When the Sidewalks Cross

"Okay ladies, we have a problem." Normally Irene did not pay attention to the overused phrase. But the strain she heard in Maddie's voice pulled her back from the heavy thoughts she was sorting through in her mind.

"I knew this would happen," Dee said. She had been apprehensive since the first time the three of them had gone on a hunt for more Coyotes. Whenever Irene heard Dee's voice she felt the trepidation as if Dee were a high strung poodle which had learned to talk.

"Just wait, Dee, you don't know what she's going to say." Irene was abrupt. It was always the shrillness in Dee's voice which pissed her off.

"Remember when we met?" Maddie continued. "That day we formed a pact to do what we could to rid this town of Coyotes?"

"Oh no, oh no." Dee stood up, turned in a circle, smoothed her chair seat, and sat back down. It was all Irene could do to keep from slapping her on the back of her curly-haired head.

"Will you relax, Dee?" Irene said.

"Let me continue, please ladies," Maddie said. "I've confirmed the rumors. Those men are hiding the coyote pups."

"How? I thought they would die." Irene remembered the female, the long-legged mother Coyote, stretched dead on the grass, both eyes shot and a third bullet hole in her forehead. She also remembered her ghastly swollen teat so they knew she had pups hidden somewhere in the Sage among the steep run-off canyons of the Santa Ana's western slopes.

"The bastards. Kill them." Dee scratched the chair arms with her fingernails.

"Irene, we can't kill them all," Irene said. "We've been at this all summer and it seems like with each coyote we eliminate, another takes its place. And they're getting smarter. The last fourteen victims didn't even leave a trace."

"Don't you get it?" Irene saw Maddie's shoulders hunched forward as she lifted her rheumatic hands toward them. "Its no longer coyotes killing the cats and dogs, it's those men. I'm so disgusted."

"Why?" Dee's voice trembled. "Why would those men kill poor helpless house pets?"

Irene lost her patience with Dee's inability to understand what Maddie meant. "Damn it, Dee, get a grip. They're feeding the coyote pups."

The three stared at each other while the sound of their agitated breathing was almost as loud as the buzzing of the lone fly. The insect swung back and forth between them until Dee took a swipe at it. Then Irene, then Maddie. In a moment they were swinging simultaneously, grunting with each effort until the fly escaped through the doorway.

"You should have closed the door, we would have got it," Dee complained.

"It's just a stupid fly, Dee," Irene said. "Turn on the light and let's talk about solving our real problem." Dee flashed her meanest look at Irene.

"What do you think we should do?" Irene said, not wanting to make the decision alone.

"Kill them." Dee sounded like Truman Capote to Irene.

"The Coyotes or the guys?" Maddie quipped. The three laughed.

Several nights later they began closing the plan. They'd studied young Sean's patterns - how he'd leave for a jog wearing heavy boots and concealing a rope in a rolled burlap bag. How he'd come back two hours later, sometimes Patrick driving him. And for the larger victims, probably the old Golden Retriever which had gone missing, they saw how Sean and Patrick carried the burlap sack between them, conversing like they'd completed another normal day's work. When the door closed, the total silence from the men's condominium reminded the women the garage was sound-proofed.

"Almost the perfect crime," Maddie said.

"Yeah, you've got to admire it," said Irene, holding the binoculars below her chin as she spoke. "Come on Dee, you've got to admit it," Irene prodded. Dee remained silent.

"How do we do this?" Irene still needed it to be a conspiracy.

"I'm in the mood for breaking and entering. I've got a drill for the front door lock. Nobody is around in the afternoon," Dee said, finally getting into the mood.

"What if they come home?" Irene was trying to cover all the bases, keeping the tempo up, planning each step like a trip with her deceased husband.

"We can use our walking Mace spray. And we wear hoods." Maddie produced three Halloween masks that looked like the Ghostbusters.

"Seems appropriate," said Irene. "What do we do with the coyotes? How do we kill them?" Irene knew they shouldn't break and enter and be caught holding rifles. There could be an entirely different outcome if the police found three hooded people holding guns.

"Let's drug them and drown them in their bathtub. That'll send a message." Irene and Maddie looked at each other and shrugged.

Maddie was forever the pragmatist. "How about if we just open the garage door and scare them out? Then we can do what we do best, you know, hunt them down."

"The Coyotes or the guys?" Dee had really liked the sound of Irene's joke earlier but now Irene and Maddie ignored her comment. After further discussion they agreed upon letting the Coyotes loose. They could track them down later if necessary.

So the next Wednesday afternoon was to be the day. Sean would be at football practice, Patrick would still be at work, and the constant gardeners would be a half mile away at the other end of the giant Laguna Sands condominium complex.

Every step went as planned from the moment Dee drilled the front door lock, to how they hustled inside wearing the ridiculous hoods, to the opening of the inner door into the garage.

Maddie gasped when she saw the garage. Pet pelts were stretched to dry like taut throw rugs on wooden frames which hung on all four walls. On the work bench two cats were frozen in taxidermy crouches, ready to make an escape they never could. Blue marbles were glistening in their eye sockets in an amateurish re-enactment of sight. Apparently Patrick and Sean were learning a new hobby.

At the center of the garage floor the Coyotes lounged like teen-agers, comfortable within the safety of a chain link pen. They heard the door open and jumped to their feet. The women saw there was something less than wild about them. In fact, like dogs, they stepped upon each other as they eagerly pressed their snouts into the chain link. Their pink tongues flicked out to greet the women's hands. Nobody offered their hands even though the women were normally comfortable with dogs and it was obvious the Coyotes-dogs were not the threat their mother had been. The women clustered together for a parley.

"What do we do now?" After the rambunctious greeting from the Coyotes, Irene felt like Maddie was starting to waiver.

"Kill them." Dee was not dissuaded so easily. "They murdered my German Shepherd."

"Don't be such a hard ass, Dee. I've had enough of your tough talk." Irene stood between her and the milling Coyotes. "We've all lost pets. Get over it." Dee stepped back against the wall and said nothing.

"Let's let them out of the garage and take it from there," Maddie interjected. "I don't want this to tear our friendship apart."

Irene agreed. Dee pouted with her arms embracing herself. Maddie and Irene agreed once more that they could hunt the coyotes later if necessary. "The men are obviously the real problem," Irene said.

Once the garage door was rolled up and the cage opened the three juvenile Coyotes turned around to look at the women. They expected to be leashed for their run, the way Sean and Patrick always did. Standing behind Irene, her back against the wall, Dee pulled out a pistol and pointed it at the largest Coyote and pulled the trigger five times. None of them had expected that, including the other women. The Coyotes stampeded out of the garage and broke in different directions along the sidewalks.

It took a moment for Irene and Maddie to comprehend that Dee only had a starter pistol. The Coyotes were out of sight before Irene recovered her senses and turned toward Dee. Dee's arm remained outstretched in the shooting gesture. Her hand trembled with the fierceness of her grip. Irene could see the wisp curls of gun powder around her extended wrist almost obscuring the swollen blue veins on the back of her hand.

"Jeez, Dee, you'll get us caught. Come on Maddie, we've got to get her out of here."

Irene used her right hand to cover the back of Dee's hand, lacing her fingers through her knuckles to prevent any more trigger pulls as she gently pulled the small pistol downward from Dee's grip with her other hand. "Come on Dee, we're done here."

"Leave the door open," Dee said, "I want everybody to see what they've done."

Irene put an arm around her shoulder and led Dee towards the roll-up door while Maddie made one sweep around the garage to make sure they hadn't left any clues behind.

"Hurry up, they'll catch us too," said Maddie, leading them down the sidewalk. "If there's any justice these guys will get thrown out of these condos."

After the tired women had gone from sight nobody came to check on the sound of the gun shots. The garage door creaked as it was remotely triggered to roll down until at last there was no light and no sound to expose the carnage of pet pelts hung on the walls of the garage. Patrick had been alerted about the garage door being open by his automatic security system through his Smartphone. The motion sensor cameras had recorded the intruders for him.
Tinted Windows

Le-maize? What's that, some type of corn?" Jerome had his back to Elizabeth when he answered.

"No, it's a class we go to so we learn how to work together when I have the baby." He stiffened defensively from her snarky response. Unabated she continued. "I can't tell when you're joking anymore, ever since you started playing cards with those idiots Jack and Patrick. It's like you have two personalities."

"You don't have to take everything so literal, Elizabeth. You're not the only one who's bilingual around here." He had turned to playfully reach out to touch her distended belly, but she turned slightly to make it impossible without taking a step forward.

"You don't want to participate, do you?" she said.

"Come on, Liz, I was just joking."

"Don't call me that. My name is Elizabeth."

Jerome had been through this conversational spiral often enough in the last couple of months and he knew when to get off.

"Yes I want to take the class with you." He dropped his tone several octaves so it was the soothing male baritone she'd love. In spite of his obvious attempt to reconcile he felt Elizabeth push back.

"Classes," she corrected.

"Whatever," he said as his jaw tightened. He knew at this point she could not stop herself.

"Do you think you can work it into your busy schedule, you know between all the overtime and playing cards with the boys?"

"Well, when you hit the lotto with one of your Picasso building designs, I can stop working overtime. As for cards with the guys, I get away to do that all of twice a month." He glared back at Elizabeth.

Both had taken another step backwards so physical contact was no longer possible without conceding some visible effort. He saw Elizabeth glance at the watch on his wrist.

"Don't you have to go to work or something?"

"You know, I do. Overtime to pay for the baby's room you designed all by yourself."

"Our baby's room," she corrected again.

Jerome opened his mouth to speak, but instead took a deep breath, turned away, stopped at the front door to grab his Paramedic jacket and closed the front door behind him with great exaggeration. He heard the thump of her foot as he walked away.

Jerome exhaled to enjoy the quiet outside their condo. Since it was too early to go to work, he decided to take the loop walk along the full circuit of the Laguna Sands sidewalks before going to the communal carport which he now used so Elizabeth could park in the small garage. He wanted to clear the negative thoughts out of his head because there would be enough horror occurring in his line of work. The best way, he reasoned, was to focus on the little things - the birds in the branches of the Sycamore trees, the rustle of leaves in the bushes caused by escaping lizards and the old ladies arm in arm walking the sidewalks toward the pool. He saw, as they got closer the way the mean little one named Dee was hemmed in by the two other women.

Thinking about them after they had avoided passing him by turning onto another sidewalk, he pictured the little Dee as a yappy terrier with curly hair and leaking eye grease and Irene as a German Shepherd, intelligent but always a hint of danger, and Maddie as a Golden Retriever in her thickening-body years who stared at everybody with her blue-haired smile. Jerome enjoyed the thoughts because it had been a tagging game he and Elizabeth used to play while sipping red wine on their balcony overlooking the inner expanse of the Laguna Sands.

Jerome smelled the cut grass as he circled through the far reach of the Laguna Sands sidewalks. He saw grass clippings piled on burlap sheets which the gardeners would wrap like diapers when they were done to take away in their small trailers at the end of the day. At last he stood next to his car and he found the walk had cleared his head and he was ready for work.

The shots he heard were five sharp pops coming from the direction of Patrick's garage. Another person might have thought they were real gunshots but Jerome had won too many medals on the European track circuit to be fooled. It was the sound from a starter pistol, which does not have the satisfying exhale of a bullet as it leaves the barrel the way a real revolver reports.

It occurred to him immediately how he was in a very white city on a very quiet afternoon with nobody around but him. He put on his Paramedic jacket as if it would shield him, would justify his presence in a world in which many people still reacted with fear in their eyes even as his hands wrapped their wounds. Sometimes he wondered if he hadn't left a better place behind where his future children would at least be equal in the hearts if not in the minds of their countrymen. He realized he stood alone in the carport, a black man in the dimming daylight several hundred yards from gunshots which were only meant to start races. Unreal gunshots were just as dangerous to him in his new world.

Driving out of the parking lot he held to the posted limit of five mph. Speed bumps and the tinted windows in his car gave him a chance to look down along the sides of the buildings as he passed the openings. He doubted anybody would believe he saw the old ladies nearly dragging Dee between them to get away from Patrick's garage. And he could never admit to seeing the three Coyote juveniles scattering in terror along the other sidewalks.

Jerome had to smile, knowing they were no longer caged in Patrick's garage. It lifted the burden of secrecy, being free of the pact the men shared as they played cards and fed the Coyote juveniles. The old women had solved his problem. Jerome did not like having secrets from Elizabeth. This one could be buried in the past.

Starting Fresh

"No more shaving you body hair. It no right, you understan?" Olivia had her way of saying what was on her mind. Her accent, Jack figured from some Central American country, made anything she said sound exotic. Jack was not going to argue. Besides he was on the cusp of making a great deal. He knew he'd screwed up his marriage with Margie and now, he thought, was probably a good time to not argue.

"Sure, Olivia. You got it."

"An done intrup me. You men alway got say somethin. Jus nod you head." Her eyes bore into his while she stood so close he inhaled her humid breath. Jack nodded his head as instructed, trying not to focus on her upper lip. It was a shade darker today. Uncontrollably he was drawn to looking at her pursed full lips that sensuously articulated words in the English language with the poetic movement of her Latino accent. He knew he could overlook the fuzz on her upper lip by the way he felt the flutter of excitement in his stomach and groin. It was a small price.

"Okay, so we understan each one," Olivia wrapped it up in her hoarse voice, "You come here when I wan, we try thees. I cook three day week for you, you do what I wan when I need. No walk roun with no clothes in my place near Juan room. Leeve you hair grow on you chess and arm and leg way God mean be. We see how thees go."

Jack nodded as eager as a child at Christmas. Olivia moved closer. She was his height so when her fingers came together behind his neck and began to massage right under the hairline he closed his eyes as he drew in a deep, then deeper breath. Olivia's natural breasts cushioned against his chest while her puffy belly pushed against him as she sifted her hips side to side getting comfortable.

This was new to Jack, this acquiescing. Yet he had to ask the question.

"What about Juan?"

"What bout him?" Olivia drew back only at the shoulder and face level to look Jack in the eye. Her hips continued to grind against him. "He still my husband. He okay wit thees."

"How? Why?" Jack could not fathom that part. But he was trying.

"I cook. He eat. We each good at what we do."

"So how many nights do you sleep with him, his room?"

"For now, none. He snore like hog. He know thees."

"How long does that go on?"

"When he decide he like woman more than food. He make choice I can see."

Olivia touched Jack on the forehead to brush a strand of hair off his brow. Jack closed his eyes in reflex and Olivia leaned in to suck on his lips before he opened his eyes. Her tongue worked into his mouth, licking and then pulling his tongue into her mouth so expertly there was no way he was going to disagree with anything she wanted. When Olivia lifted one knee up to the side of his hip Jack bore most of her weight against him by leaning back against the sink counter.

"Let's go to the bedroom," Jack said.

"No," Olivia sighed. "Here. Right here." Jack noticed she no longer had an accent.

Later, when Olivia's breathing settled into the steady pattern of deep sleep, Jack got up from the bed to go for a walk. He was happy to feel the freshness of the night breeze that culled in from the coast. Along the walkways of the Laguna Sands condo complex the porch lights made travel easy. Jack walked towards the ocean until he was beyond the last building and had left the artificial lights behind. The low clouds kept the air warm enough so he wore only a windbreaker. In the darkness he started to see outlines as his eyes adjusted to the refracted lights of the city against the overcast. He found his regular bench and sat down with a sigh.

"Want a beer, sir?" Patrick always followed the protocol accorded retired officers until asked to stop.

"Hey, Sergeant Patrick, how you doing? I'm a civilian."

"Good enough. Couldn't sleep. Damn dreams, you know." Patrick explained even though there was no need. Jack understood. Vietnam had left its mark on him as Iraq had done to Patrick. Sometimes they ran into each other this way, catching a midnight break from the past.

"So you're setting up house with the cook?"

"Yeah, Olivia." Jack wanted Patrick to stop talking about her like she was just the help.

"Yeah, Olivia," Patrick acknowledged. There was silence for a minute or so. In the distance the sound of a train whistling north from San Diego echoed between the clouds and the ground.

"Catch any more coyotes?" Jack had been in Patrick's garage several times since the old ladies had let them go and he admired the pelt work hanging on the walls.

"Naw, Sean's in the middle of football and getting pretty interested in girls." Jack took a sip of beer as Patrick steered the conversation away from the events of the past months. "How's Juan?"

"Seems to be fine with the arrangement." Funny, thought Jack, how much Patrick and I know about each other.

"No, I mean, has he lost any weight? Last time I saw him he was a pretty big boy." Jack arched an eyebrow as he looked sideways at Patrick.

"Well, some," Jack said, "but she's a pretty good cook. It'd be hard for any man to push back from her table."

Patrick nodded.

Maybe he knew, Jack thought.

Terms At The Cage

Jessica marched down the sidewalk, her little feet stomping a heavy cadence. "They treat me like a little kid," she complained out loud, "and then they use me like an adult to put on that show for the first graders. All I want is something of my own. A dog, that's all, a simple dog. It doesn't even have to be purebred." She swerved onto the grass to kick the umbrella off a mushroom and laughed when it splintered into many Styrofoam parts.

"Hey kid what're you doing?" The voice was familiar, but Jessica didn't see him when she turned in a circle. "Over here kid." She located the voice coming from the unused trash-bin enclosure. Familiar voice or not, Juan knew Jessica had been taught to never get caught in situations where she might be trapped alone.

"Who's' there?" she said projecting her voice from deep in her belly as if it would make her sound larger.

"Its okay Jessica, it's me, Juan. So you want a dog, huh?" He poked his head over the top of the metal double gates through the only spot that did not have chain link covering the top. She heard him slip from the step-up he'd used and then his curse.

Jessica laughed like when she'd kicked the mushroom. "Juan, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, come here, you've got to see this." She heard the whimpering and it was a sound no kid in the world could resist.

"Oh my god. Oh my god." Jessica enunciated the phrase like a Valley girl in her excitement because of the influence of having watched the same movie so many times.

"What do you think?" Juan said with joyous smiling jowls as if he'd created the animals. With his hands on his wide hips he surveyed the German Shepherd-Coyote mix juveniles through the chain link.

"What's their names?" she asked.

Juan laughed. He was as excited as her. "They don't have names yet. I just found them yesterday, trapped inside. The gate must have closed behind them after they hid in here."

"Who built this?" said Jessica as she studied the way the enclosure was sealed over the top. "It's built to keep things out, not in, isn't it?"

Juan liked the intelligence of the small girl. "I did," Juan said, "to keep the possums out of the trash bins. We haven't used it since old lady Merriam complained about how isolated it was at the HOA meeting last spring."

Juan talked to her like she was an equal. He didn't use small words. She tugged at his elbow.

"Can I name one?" she said, looking upward with her sweetest face to pitch her request.

Juan could not resist. Juan thought for a moment as they watched the dogs step on each other as they poked their noses through the chain link.

"Tomorrow. I already fed them today. That'll give us a chance to think about names tonight. Let's meet here at nine in the morning. You name the larger one." He smiled down at Jessica who had never teased him like the other kids had in the complex. Juan knew it was just a lonely little girl's impulse when she gave Juan's thick arm a hug. And she skipped off to tell her Grandpa about the dogs.

After Jessica had skipped away from the cage, Juan stood and watched the half dogs. He'd wondered if the stories Olivia had told him about Dee were true. Nobody ever said if Maddie or Irene told the same stories. But then Olivia did not cook for them nor did they go to St. James Church unless it was to drop Dee off or pick her up.

Juan realized this was an opportunity. He knew if he were going to lose his fat he needed a way to get rid of the excess food Olivia left in his room four times a day. He thought, this way would not leave a trace and flushing food down the toilet doesn't seem right. _If only_ _I can keep control of myself and not eat it before I get it to the dogs_.

Juan closed the metal gates with a clang. He'd thrown an old rug into the cage and could hear the happy dogs chewing on the bones he'd brought for them. The damp marine air of the early evening was sinking into the denim of his huge blue work shirt, which hung like a friar's robe below his thighs. One day, he thought considering the girth of his shirt, I'll be different. He knew it was too early in the process for him to plan beyond that.

Helping Hands

"It's tough being black." Jack dealt the first hand to the four places at the table. "Even in California. Maybe worse."

"How would you know, you're white and sixty and you've got a pension in Laguna Beach," said Patrick.

"Dad, you're showing your cards again." Sean was already better at poker than Patrick.

"Quit looking. Now, before I was interrupted, how would you know?" Patrick said again.

"I bet its tougher being an off the reservation stuttering Indian though, than a black man, around here," Jack said to course correct himself. "Speaking of which, where is he tonight. He's always on time and tonight of all nights he's not." Jack looked at the door for effect.

"What's so special about tonight?" Patrick continued to sort his cards in his hand.

"Oh, he told Sean he'd tote off those skins you've got mounted in the garage. Something about a proper burial." Jack looked at Sean to see if he was looking at his Dad's hand again.

"You sure that's such a good idea. I thought you liked him," Patrick said. "Somebody catches an Indian with a bag full of cat and dog furs and they're likely to accuse him of a lot of things. That little old lady Merriam, who lost her cat, Tiger, is always making comments about him to Sean."

Jack paused and squinted back at Patrick because he'd never thought of it that way. "I do. Tommy offered and I didn't think about it."

"I'll take two," Patrick said as he slid two cards face down towards Jack. Jack rolled his eyes at Sean since they both knew Patrick's hand was no good. It showed on his face.

"Hey Sean, are you doing your push-ups every day?" Jack asked.

"Yes sir, every day. Tell him how many I can do now, dad."

Patrick sat a little higher behind his cards. "The kid's up to five hundred. Getting full of himself, aren't you, punk?" Patrick turned the question back to Sean.

"Can't go wrong there," Jack said, pleased at Sean's progress.

"Who's going to play Tommy's cards?" Sean said.

"Get the front door, I hear him now," Jack said. Sean got up, snagging one of his oversized feet onto the rug and stumbled laughing in the direction of the front door. "Be sure it's him or Jerome," Patrick yelled after Sean.

The two men at the card table listened for the conversation to start in the hallway. Something did not seem right with the silence that lasted longer than it ought to have. They were protective of Sean and cautious from their experiences in each of their wars. Next they heard the additional footsteps coming back from the door. Instinctively Jack moved back into the darkened bedroom hallway. Patrick stayed in his chair, placing his left hand on the table and his right hand palmed his snub-nose .38 special that had been holstered as backup at his ankle. He waited in silence, forcing a smile to try to look natural.

"Dad, there's the lady here from the condo around the corner. She needs some help."

Patrick saw at once that Ruby was no danger and leaned forward to slip the revolver back into its holster. He recognized her ruddy complexion as she shuffled into the room. Looking at her shoeless feet he saw her bloodied toes from bumping on concrete and brick.

Jack came out of the hallway, making Ruby jerk back in surprise, the way a person does when they have lost their normal field of vision from too many punches. Sean put an arm around her shoulder to help guide her to the table. Ruby did not speak a word, shuffling single mindedly to the table, focused on the cards laid out. She sat in Tommy's chair.

"Play cards," Ruby said. Her hands shook constantly when she picked the cards up and held them in front of her face. Jack saw the shaking and knew there was nothing he could do to comfort the shaking away. Her tremors were not fear, it was a result.

"Ruby, have you taken your med's?" Jack said. Patrick and Sean blinked in surprise that Jack knew her.

"I tried. But it hurt."

"Where's Bill? Can't he help you?" Jack said.

"Bill fell. He can't help anymore." Jack pushed his chair back. He hadn't expected that.

"When did that happen?"

"Today. At home."

"Does anybody know?" Patrick had grasped what was going on by then, so he asked the question.

"One card," Ruby said. "No." Ruby was caught somewhere in between their card game and the enlarging gray fields of her dementia. She loved to gamble even though she played poorly. Her head jerked reflexively as she tried to fight the overwhelming vibrations from her broken mental motor mounts.

"Dad, should we go check?"

"Ruby," Jack asked, "is Bill still at home?"

"Yes. Your turn," she said to Sean.

Patrick looked at Jack. Jack nodded as he got up to step back again into the hallway to make a call on his cell phone. Tommy answered on the second ring. Without giving Tommy a chance to explain where he was, Jack told him the situation at the card game.

When Tommy got to the front door of Ruby's condo he saw it was cracked open. Something in his bones told him not to go in. But he knew he had to, there might be somebody that needed help. He pushed, the door swung open, rebounding a couple inches off the wall. Tommy reached inside and flicked on the lights that lit the porch and the interior hallway all the way to the stairs. Calling out several times to get anybody's attention, he stepped inside.

At the foot of the stairway to the second floor lay Bill, stark and stiff in sallow-skinned death, his neck tweaked in a way that was obvious it was broken. His glazed blue eyes, cataracts of life, remained open, as did his mouth which exposed crooked wine-stained teeth. This is dangerous, Tommy thought, for me to be here in a dead white man's house.

"Freeze! Security!" Tommy froze in position bent over touching Bill's face to close his eyes.

"There he is officer," Dee yelled from behind the Security guard, pushing him to go into the open doorway. "Be careful, he kills dogs and eats them." Her shrill voice raised the tension higher.

The rental guard at the front door held his pistol with dangerous uncertainty. One leg trembled so violently his leather-soled shoe tapped on the tiled step at the front door.

"Hold your hands up! Freeze! Back up towards me!"

Tommy stayed frozen in his stance, knowing that if he spoke he would stutter and if he moved he would get shot.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Jack had come up behind Dee.

"He's a killer!" yelled Dee, "he kills cats and dogs," she continued as she pushed on the guard's elbow trying to force him to go into the doorway before Jack could stop them. Dee turned her angry face up at Jack and snarled as she pushed forward, finally rushing into the hallway herself. Oblivious to dead Bill, she jerked on Tommy's surfer shorts from behind. "You're a dog killer, I know what you are!"

"Put away the gun," Jack said to the rattled guard. The guard's hands shook as he held his pistol TV cop style in the direction of dead Bill. The guard hyper-breathed, panting louder, so Tommy could hear the depth of his predicament.

"Everybody freeze!" he yelled again.

Dee looked back at Jack, snarling, showing her rat teeth as she continued to pull on the back of Tommy's surfer shorts. Tommy stayed in his frozen position not knowing what else to do to get out of the mess and with Dee pulling on him all he could do to hold his position was hook his strong roofer fingers into Bill's mouth to get traction. Bill's body lifted every time Dee yanked on Tommy's waistband and it looked like Bill was coming back to life. Jack reached for the guard's gun to try to push it towards the ground and the guard slipped on the floor where he'd wet, his reflexes discharging the 9mm semi-auto because he'd forgotten to set the safety.

Dee stopped yelling, falling over in shock. Tommy looked down at her calf where a fresh hole appeared on the outside and then inside and as quickly he saw the gush of blood soak outward into the yellow polyester of her pants and he saw in dead Bill's chest a hole that had not been there before but which did not reddened from body fluids in response to the bullet's entry. Tommy closed his eyes, waiting for the next shot.

It never came. Jack pulled the pistol from the guard's fumbling grip. Tommy looked back to the doorway, sensing he no longer needed to freeze. Cheap Russian gunpowder drifted in the air from the single shot, the smell which Jack explained to him later he remembered so well from Vietnam. Then Tommy pulled Bill's belt off and tightened it around Dee's left leg just below the knee to slow the bleeding.

Dee bared her little teeth at Tommy one more time, and slumped into unconsciousness. Funny, he told Laureen, how only then he noticed the huge amount of crusted rime where her eyelids tapered against her nose bridge.

Road Kill

"What are you doing here?" Dee sat braced up by the pillows because the hospital bed was too large for her shrinking frame. Her leg was heavily wrapped so she could only move at the hip.

"I'm in between calls and I thought you might like some company." Jerome said. "We are neighbors after all and I did save your life."

"Aren't you that friend of the dog killers?" Dee said, the familiar shriek working into the word 'killers'. "Did your friends make you come here?"

"My friends helped you. Besides they are not dog killers, so much. They saved those coyote pups from sure death after you killed their mother." Jerome had not expected himself to be so recalcitrant. Sweat darkened the underarm of his paramedic uniform.

"Grrrr," was all that Dee said. Jerome knew it was a risk letting on he knew she killed the coyote. Her eyes narrowed into the same shape as her chapped lips.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Elizabeth said you would get this way."

"What about all the animal skins in his garage?"

"They said all of them were road kill or very nearly dead. The coyotes needed to eat and they didn't have the money to buy fresh meat." Jerome stared back at Dee, his dark brown eyes sparking against her deep blue.

"I don't believe you. What about that Indian? I bet killing dogs and eating cats was okay with him."

"No, he was on his way to give their skins a proper burial when he found Bill dead. He said since the animals meant so much to their owners they should be buried properly." Jerome felt his phone vibrate. He was glad to look down to his belt and break the unflinching tug-o-war connecting their eyes. "Got a call. I won't be back if you don't want."

Dee considered for a moment. "Tell that boy, Patrick's son, I want to see him. And tell the nurse I need some medicine soon." Jerome shrugged in response to Dee's glare and walked out of the room talking into his phone.

Dee adjusted her leg to ease the pain. Even though she'd told Jerome to alert the floor nurse she pushed a button to alert the floor nurse too.

"What are you doing back?" Dee said.

"They're short handed right now. The nurse said to give you one of these. She said something about you being so difficult."

"Do I look like road-kill?" Dee said, trying hard to keep the usual edge out of her voice.

"I'm trying to help you. Do you want some more medicine?" Jerome was confused by her sudden change in attitude.

"No, no, the pain isn't quite bad enough yet. Just answer the question. Do I look so bad, so old and mean? I hate that I'm shrinking. But road-kill seems so final, so cruel." Dee looked very small in her bed.

"Who said that? It's not nice." Jerome's natural kindness surfaced. "Maybe I should call the doctor."

"Be honest. Have I been such a pain in the past week?" Her behavior was getting a bit loopy. "Oh never mind, just give me some medicine," Dee said, regaining some of the old tone in her voice.

Jerome put the pill into Dee's tiny hand. He felt the moistness of her palm. Dee put the codeine into her mouth, bit it once to speed the affect, and swigged down the water he handed her. From habit she crushed the paper cup before handing it back to Jerome.

"Hold my hand," Dee said as the drowsing relief from the medicine soaked through her. "I saw you smile when I asked the question about road-kill. Is that what RK means on my bed chart?"

"It was only a joke, I'm sure. Just the nurses," he said.

"Honesty works, then," Dee slurred. "My name is Dolores if you'd like to call me that instead of Dee." He held her hand because she did not let go. It seemed so small.

"I'll be okay. You can go now if you want," Dee mumbled as her breathing slowed into sleep.

Lines Which Move

"I think I must be lesbian," Irene said as she announced this week's personal discovery. She used the teapot from her dead mother's collection, the one with the chip on the spout. As usual Irene angled it a little sideways to make the tea come out straight into the cup. Serving Maddie at the low coffee table hunched her back and she hoped Maddie couldn't see her trembling hands and the secret bald spot atop her gray head.

"Oh, you are not. It doesn't just happen like that," Maddie said. Since the day the women had met, standing over the carcass of the bitch coyote with three bullet holes bleeding into the overwatered grass, Maddie and Irene had bonded while Dee was brought along as an act of mercy.

"I must be. It's so clear. I saw a special on TV and it got me thinking how I don't need a man anymore." She carefully put the teapot back upon the placemat. "I don't think I was born this way. They say it happens to us when we get older, sometimes after we've gone through menopause. Then our true selves come out." Irene sat across from Maddie, waiting for her thoughts on the subject.

"Irene, I know you want me to have your opinion on this discovery but I can't help but laugh. It's not something that happens overnight. You'd have known a long, long time ago. I think you watch too many of those cable channels and I think you miss your husband a lot and you're very lonely."

Irene stared back at Maddie with the 'you haven't convinced me yet' look. Irene said, "How do you feel around me now? Doesn't it make you nervous I might feel the wrong way about women, about you?"

"Close your eyes, Irene, and imagine kissing a woman. Here let's try it. Pucker up, honey," Maddie said with throaty sarcasm as she moved around the table to sit next to Irene. When she leaned in to kiss Irene on the lips, Irene held her breath like a child going under water. Maddie fumble onward anyhow, pressing her lips against Irene's until they broke out laughing, slipping off the love seat to the floor. "Okay, so you see, you are not a lesbian because I'm a damn fine kisser."

Irene wiped the tears of laughter from her cheeks as she struggled back up onto the chair. "Okay, so maybe I'm not lesbian, all the way. But Maddie, I have a lot of affection for you, more than a sister. It keeps me warm sometimes to think about just being around you. I'm too old to have girlfriend crushes."

"Maybe you miss your husband more than you know. I didn't really like sharing my bed with mine at the end. We both had spontaneous gas at night and we'd wake each other up so rudely. How was it with you?"

Irene's face softened when she spoke. "It was nice. Really comfortable, like soft warm blankets, we shared the space and rested our heads against each other and I could hear his thoughts and he could tell me mine. Sometimes we even had the same dreams, I could tell him mine and he would finish it for me. I miss that so much."

"You were lucky," Maddie said in a deeper tone which caused Irene to smile gently back at her. They held hands for a moment.

"What do we do about Dee?" Irene said. "Her daughter says she gets out of the hospital on Thursday. I thought maybe we could take turns staying with her. She won't let her son stay over because there's some bad blood between them."

"We should take turns staying with her. I'd prefer she not stay at my place or she might become too dependant." Irene nodded her agreement. Maddie continued," Dee has become a handful since we let the coyotes go from Patrick's garage."

"We should contact her church. The Pastor may be able to help find some younger person who needs AP credits for elder care. Besides she may need to be carried and we aren't strong enough to do that."

The women knew Dee attended St. James Catholic Church daily. Maddie agreed her fervor for early morning Mass would quickly wear them down. So they decided to find a young driver for her morning routine.

"What about that boy, Sean?" Irene said.

"How do you know he would help? He is Patrick's son."

"He helped last week when Ruby was moved into the assisted care facility. I don't think he's like his father. Did you see how gentle he was with her? And she responded so well. Besides Dee's different after her surgery."

"You've already planned this, haven't you?" Maddie said. Irene smiled innocently. "Who would have known, almost having a stroke the way her arteries were blocked. What did they call it?"

"Transient Ischemia. The doctor said she was lucky she got shot or she might have died in her sleep one night soon. Do you think that's what was making her so difficult?" Irene was optimistic, as usual.

"Perhaps a lot of the cause, but maybe she's been a bit difficult all along. If she accepts Sean it will take a lot of pressure off of us," Maddie said.

After Maddie had gone home Irene felt good about their day. They'd worked together to figure a way around the burden of Dee. It was so nice, she thought, to have a friend to laugh with and feel the same way about her. Of course, Irene mused, I couldn't let her know I felt so warm, so comfortable when we held hands. Not anymore.

The Return Policy

"Welcome home, Dee," Maddie said without enthusiasm. Irene stood back to watch. She wondered if Maddie would let Dee bait her today.

"You told me that yesterday." Dee's voice was petulant.

"I wasn't sure if you would remember," Maddie said. Irene felt the assault on her friend beginning.

"Maddie, quit being so effusive, it doesn't suit you," Dee taunted some more.

"That's an ugly way to put it, Dee." Maddie's face became flushed as her anger rose.

"Dee," Irene interceded, "we just want to be sure you're better."

"Than what?" Dee said as she looked at Irene. "I've been shot in the leg by some idiot rental cop and my arteries have been scraped. I'm obviously a reformed woman, can't you tell?"

"God, you're so difficult," Maddie said. "Don't you pick on the boy, you understand?"

"Sean and I have an understanding so you just keep your nose out of it."

Maddie looked at Irene. "Shall we go?"

"No, no, I don't think so. She's still not right in the head, can't you tell?" Irene knew they needed to get along. None of us, she thought, is strong enough to be alone again, ever. "Besides, we agreed to help her until she got better."

"Girls, I'm right here. Okay, I'll behave for as long as I can tolerate you." Dee smiled indolently from the leather recliner. "What do you girls want to play?"

"What a bitch," Maddie said under her breath.

"Huh? I didn't hear you," Dee said.

"I said what an old..."

Irene interrupted, "Maddie, your blood pressure." Then to both of them she said, "Let's just enjoy our visit."

Maddie clamped her mouth shut and stalked off to the kitchen. "I'll play at making tea, alright." Irene noticed Maddie muttered to herself a lot lately.

Irene lowered her voice. "Dee, I need your help. Maddie has got to keep her blood pressure down."

"Don't you whisper behind my back, Irene," Maddie yelled. "What are you saying to her?"

Irene sighed to herself. She raised her voice so Maddie could hear from the kitchen. "I said we're going to practice strengthening our memories. You two are going to tell a story. First one person tells their story; then the second person uses the same theme and characters but adds their own twist. I decide who the winner is."

"Wait a minute, who says you get to be the judge?" Maddie was back in the room carrying three cups of ice tea on a plastic tray taken from the Kings Buffet.

"Since I'm the only one who is not experiencing memory problems to date I will be the judge." Dee snickered at Irene's response.

"Are you sure you can handle the competition, old lady?" Dee said, obviously feeling more vigorous than Irene had expected. Maddie grumbled, but sat facing Dee and strained as she lifted her legs up onto the ottoman. Irene watched closely for any new signs of her discomfort. Maddie paused for effect, took a long slurp of her cold tea and stared hard at Dee as she started.

"Ninety days, no questions asked." Sarah repeated the guarantee again in her head as they pulled into the parking lot. That was going to be her strategy, even if it was well beyond the return date. She figured she would keep at it until they gave in on the return for a deal better than she ought to get. "Maybe I should have gotten the extended warranty. But they wouldn't tell me what it would guarantee unless I actually bought it. I'm too good at money to gamble like that, even then." Sarah ticked away in her head at all the extras she had paid for so long ago. Going over each failing in the product enraged her more every day. They swelled in value lost over the past twenty-five years as she worked herself into a pre-negotiation frenzy.

"Mom, are you ready?" Flora, her daughter, had come along for support, verbal muscle so to speak. Outside the store Flora held her by the left arm as Sarah looked up at her tall daughter's face. "Am I doing the right thing, it is way past the warranty?"

"Oh Mom, they deal with this all the time and you deserve something better, don't you?" Flora had a way of answering by flipping the question, which Sarah had always admired.

Sarah took a deep breath. "Okay, I'm ready. Let's do this." In a short walk they stood in front of the matrimonial counter. It looked like any other service area in the store.

"Can I help you, Miss?" Nice touch, Sarah thought.

Sarah hesitated a couple seconds and then committed herself, body and soul, to the process. "I have a return to make."

"Yes, purchase duration?" Sarah thought his effeminate affectation was feigned.

"Twenty-five years." The salesman looked up.

"Policy duration?" he asked next. Sarah looked down at her paperwork.

"Well it says ninety days, no questions asked!" The salesman looked twice from the paperwork to Flora. He wasn't shocked, just verifying. There were more of them these days. Buyers' remorse etched like crows feet around their eyes. Sam knew his scheduled lunch would start in ten minutes and he thought maybe he should cut to the chase. Policy didn't allow him to recover time on the back end just because a customer had delayed his lunch start time.

"Would you repeat that, Miss?" Sam said as he took her paperwork and keyed the policy number into the computer. These spousal returns were always a pain before lunch. His cell phone buzzed. It was the floor boss reminding him his lunch started in seven minutes. Okay, he'd have to hurry this along.

"Ninety days, it should have been ninety years." Sarah was an able negotiator. She always had been. So the first thing to do was to blur the definitions - the terminology had to be twisted in such a way she could convince the salesman he owed her something. "When I bought him it probably said ninety years. You guys must have changed the paperwork when I wasn't looking. You took advantage of a young, eager bride!" Then to keep him off balance she added "Check your records and while you're at it, I didn't get all the extras you guys promised."

Sam started to open his mouth to deal with the duration question but she leaped right into the pause to keep Sam focused on the 'extras'. He knew this was going to be a tough one.

"No muscle tone, sagging butt at thirty years old, bad listener, bad dancer. I really wanted one who could dance." Sam inhaled to speak, a dead give away. "And like it. He was supposed to like dancing, not just do it to please me." Sam had sympathy with that. He loved dancing, too. "Okay," he thought, "one for her."

Four minutes to go. Sam was feeling the pressure. Flora stepped up next to Sarah, which really did intimidate Sam. "Well, maybe we can offer you some prorated adjustments."

"Oh no, I don't want refurbished. I always get new."

Sam knew he had to take a stand. One minute to go.

"You failed to buy the warranty. However your husband did buy one." Sam emphasized 'your husband'. Sarah's tongue flicked out to wet her lower lip. She never knew the husbands got any chance to balance the bargain. They'd never told her. As if reading her mind, Sam added "It's all spelled out in the warranty."

Sam looked at his cell phone to check the time. It was lunch hour and any lost time was on him. Nobody cuts into my lunch, he thought. With malice in his voice he continued speaking, "In fact, his warranty gives him first right of erasure. You know, wipe your mind clean for refurbishment." Sarah's eyes widened. "It states refurbishing shall automatically be triggered when your policy number is accessed by the store. You know, like now." Sam was remorseless as he held a poised index finger over the keyboard. He smirked as he maintained eye contact with Sarah and Flora. They looked so much alike.

"Sam," said Sarah in a much softer voice, "Maybe Flora can buy you a very nice, very expensive lunch?" Flora stepped closer to the counter. She smiled as she touched his arm with one index finger.

"Yes," thought Sam as he pulled his hand away from the keyboard, "it works every time. I've got to watch my weight the way I've been eating lately."

"Well, I have to admit, I'm impressed," said Dee. "Now what were their names again?"

Irene spoke first. "No fair, you have to follow the rules; same names, same theme. The idea is to make you focus on what you heard and be able to repeat it. Maddie's doctor said it helps to repeat stories in order to maintain your memory. Besides, it's fun, don't you think?"

"Sure. And it's to establish whether I've got any marbles left. No problem, girls. You should go to the bathroom first. I don't want to be interrupted once I get started."

Maddie and Irene finished using the guest bathroom after helping Dee hobble to the toilet in her bedroom. They met in the kitchen, where Maddie found some Ritz crackers to share.

"She seems pretty sharp, definitely better than when we first met her," Irene said.

"But as mean as a mule. I hope she doesn't scare Sean away," Maddie said. "I don't think I have the energy anymore to be around her for long."

"I know, you look so tired today. Did you take your insulin?"

"Girls," Dee yelled from her bedroom, "grab your chairs and don't wait for me. I'll just clump along by myself down the hall as quick as I can with my shot up leg and bad arteries."

"What a sarcastic old bitch," Maddie said, pleased to get to finish the phrase Irene had cut her off from saying earlier.

"Come on, Maddie, relax, let's help her to the recliner and hope she can remember who we are." Maddie thought the comment was funny and sputtered cracker crumbs as she giggled walking behind Irene in the dim hallway.

"Ah, that's better," said Dee as she felt the leg rest come up under her calves. "Okay ladies, where are we? Hah, got you."

"Enough, Dee, quit taunting Maddie. Do you remember enough to tell us the second part of the story?"

Dee smiled angelically. I'll call it 'Two Sides to Each Warranty'.

Sarah accepted at last that her slow, unresponsive Glen had out planned her twenty-five years ago. There were moments now when she caught herself standing in heavy contemplation about what had happened during those years. Once in a while Sarah did feel some guilt for her attempt to return, no, revitalize Glen for his own good. It was during one of those moments when Glen snuck up on her.

"Boo." Glen stood behind Sarah, poking her with his index finger.

"Oh my God I didn't do it." She jumped at the same time as she blurted the words.

"What? Didn't do what?" Glen's voice was always flat. So calm she could never tell what he was really thinking. It aggravated her more in the recent years. Today she was caught between fear and anger.

"The clothes. I know you need some shirts for work tomorrow."

"Don't worry. Now you'll just have to wash them naked and that's more fun, isn't it?" Sarah exhaled, facing away, at the least sexy thing she thought she'd ever heard, even from him. She had avoided his advances for such a long time and now the fear he would discover her attempt to trade him in for an upgrade was affecting her rationale. She thought she might need to do 'it' to distract him.

"I'll get the clothes going right now," she said as she squeezed past him, avoiding any contact.

Glen was dumb about many things. But he'd heard the shaking in her voice and it triggered a memory about what his Dad had warned many years ago.

"When you hear the fear and it's a long time after she stops putting out, double-check the marriage warranty. It has an access code which gives you the first right of alteration. I can't explain the feeling you'll get when she's tried to upgrade you, except it's different than the sense you get when she's cheating."

Glen never thought it would come to this. Maybe Dad had been right. Glen knew he should check.

"I'm going to the store, Sarah."

"What store?" Her response was so quick Glen feared the worst was true. "Maybe I should go for you. I can pick up whatever you need." Even though he was still in the bedroom he could hear her hesitate in the kitchen.

"No, its okay. I want to get out." Then he thought he heard her clothing hit the floor, like when they were much younger. She would be naked. He made the decision. In a moment he was into the car and backing out of the driveway. Glen heard Sarah yell for him to stop, to come back, but he knew there was something important he had to do.

At the matrimonial counter Glen watched as the salesman keyed, one at a time for accuracy, the policy number of the marriage warranty.

"Ah, yes, now I remember," Sam said. "Last month. And I must say you have a lovely daughter also." Sam loved his job.

"Wait. My daughter was with her too?" Glen lost all faith for a brief moment.

"Of course, they always are you know. Impossible to break the bond." Sam was beginning the up-sale. He felt his discourse rising to the chase and his heart beat faster. He loved his job. "I saved you, you should know."

Glen stared hard at Sam. In the world of men, at least, Glen was a good judge of character. "What'd you get out of it?"

"Lunch, and let's just say Flora is also a very predictable woman." Sam was a bastard. They both knew it. But right now he needed Sam. "You know, you need somebody like me on your side. We men do have to stick together," Sam continued without looking up from the computer screen.

"What do you recommend, Sam?"

"I'd say we need to consider your wife's attributes and her complaints." For Glen to see he spun the screen which already showed the notes Sam had posted after her visit. There were so many of these 'returns' Sam was forced to keep diligent notes. "I'd suggest you consider enhancing yourself and let me add a little blush to her cheeks, so to speak. There's no effect on the warranty and it's only a few extra dollars a day over time. That way you can still exercise the full return policy should it become necessary."

"How long does it take?"

"Sign up now and by the time you get home everything is golden." Sam winked. In five minutes the automatic monthly withdrawal was set up on Glen's account.

"Sarah, I'm home."

She stepped from the dim-lit hallway as he turned from closing the kitchen door. Sarah wore a very snug full length white cotton dress.

"Here I am, Glen." He felt the tiredness of a long slow marriage lifting from his shoulders. He had not heard her purr for a very long time. It made him feel strong. There was a new weight filling against his thigh. His face reddened. Absorbing Sarah with his staring eyes Glen saw the rough volcano contours of her nipples tickled alive through the fabric and he realized she wore nothing beneath the dress. He took in the sensual mature width of her hips and then the way the cotton sucked smoothed over the amazing mound below her flat belly.

She heard the involuntary cluck sound from the top of his mouth men do not know they make in anticipation.

"You're all dressed up," Glen said, "why don't we go out dancing?" Glen had changed also.

"You can't go like that." Sarah pointed at his thigh.

"But I want to dance," he said.

Sarah knew he wanted to show off. She did not need the competition anymore.

Irene was amazed at how well Dee had remembered the names and held to the theme of Maddie's story. She looked to Maddie for acknowledgment. But Maddie was deep asleep, with her head lolled back and her gaping mouth revealing receding gums and worn stained teeth mixed with a myriad of gold-backed porcelain crowns. Irene was worried about Maddie's tiredness which increased every day. She knew it was not just the high blood pressure. The insulin treatments had become particularly hard on her. Still, Irene thought, it would be disloyal to let Dee know without Maddie's permission.

"Let her sleep," said Dee, "She needs it more than I do these days."

Dee's Viewpoint

"Don't worry Dee, I wasn't gone long," Sean said. He faked a boyish grin, waiting for her mind to return to the present. After all, he thought, she'll come back to reality when she understands I'm here to help her.

Sean had agreed to watch Dee at her home due to the urging of Pastor John after he'd confessed to the odd taxidermy his father and he had done on the neighborhood pets. Jerome had seen Dee's flashes of disorientation lessen in the weeks since the operation to clear her blocked arteries was done. He learned the worst times for her were at night so he slept on her sofa while she tossed throughout the nights in her bedroom.

"What have you got in the envelope?" Dee focused upon the manila envelope Sean held behind his hip.

"Just a permission slip for school. My dad has to sign it so I can play football this season."

"And what else?" He could see Dee was probing the way his mom use to do. Sean knew he was caught.

"Some photography I had printed for a class project. Nothing much." Sean's could not keep his self deprecating tone out of his voice.

"Why don't you want me to see the pictures?" Dee said.

"No reason. They're not very good."

"Let me see them," Dee said as she reached around his side.

He was unable to make himself resist. Dee pulled the envelope free of his grasp and sat and motioned for Sean to take a seat across from her. He noticed the gardeners mowed with renewed vigor.

"Do you want me to close the window?" Sean said.

"Why, dear?"

"The noise, doesn't it bother you?"

Dee did not look up from the photographs she'd spread across the table. Sean squirmed, his adult shoulders a prelude for the man he would become some day. He hoped Dee would not recognize the subjects of his photography.

"I see," said Dee as she shuffled the photographs a third time. Sean squirmed some more. Finally, he saw Dee's jaw set as she made her decision. "You have talent. Why would you want to play football instead?"

"I love it," Sean said, unable to put into better words the sense of control and power he felt while on the field of play.

"It will make you stupid, dear." Dee said the words very slowly, looking into his eyes.

"You don't understand." He hated it when his eyes watered, blurring his vision when he needed it the most.

"Why wouldn't I understand? Is it because I'm a woman, dear?"

"No, because, well maybe." And Sean hated it when he was uncertain.

"Why do you think Ruby is the way she is?" Dee said.

"I don't know."

"Hits, dear. She took too many hits in the head playing football and soccer and they ruined her mind. She has fighter's dementia, similar to what the Quarry brothers had. Do you want to be that way, dear?"

Sean blinked. He hadn't known why Ruby was always shaking. He was silent for a moment. He'd read about them, the local boxers with the greatest hearts who'd absorbed punches like sponges.

"She played football?"

"Yes and took steroids and she was very good even as a woman in your men's game."

"How come I never heard about her?"

"Because she played back East. But you're a smart young man, dear. Just go ahead and read about head injuries in sports." Sean rocked a little as he contemplated her words. "Consider this, Sean. You've taken some great photographs here. Will you still have the sense of perspective to do this after you get your brain all bruised like Ruby?"

Sean recognized their conversation had gone into a direction he'd never thought possible with the old lady who'd raged against him and his father just weeks ago. The conversation was like talking to a normal person who really cared about his future.

For Sean, assisting Dee was no longer a penance. As Dee returned to a sanity, which the blocked arteries had deprived her of for such a long time, he felt her replace her anger at the disappearance of her dog with a rebirth of motherly instincts for him. He regretted that he had taken pictures of the taxidermy of dead pets from the condo complex.

Scruples

"She said not to come back no more." Jack was not making fun of her use of English grammar. They both knew it was sensual the way she spoke.

"I thought you said you called the arrangement off, not her." Patrick spoke in his monotone cop voice when he had something else on his mind.

"I did, but that pissed her off, she said because nobody had done that to her before. Anyway she got in the last word."

"Why?"

"Because I've got no verbal skill when I fight with women," Jack said.

"No, I mean why'd you call it off, the arrangement?" Patrick's face started to show more interest, the way his eyes widened and one cheek dimpled as he screwed his mouth sideways in disbelief that anybody would give away what Olivia had to offer. It wasn't that she was movie star beautiful, but she had a mature woman way of making a man forget about everything but her warm body wanting his and showing him that she really enjoyed the moment, sometimes wildly and other times equally. He knew it was a gift she gave and he did not look down on her for it. Neither did Jack. "I know, you couldn't keep up with her, that's it, didn't you try the blue pill or something?"

Jack's eyelids narrowed the way older military men's do when they think they have something thought provoking to say, like they're looking into the distance. "I'll admit she had to slow down for me to stay in the game. But that wasn't it. It was Juan."

"Did he threaten you? He couldn't have scared you, for Christ-sakes, he's so fat he'd wear out getting to the head." Patrick started to become animated as he struggled with the concept any man could willingly walk away from Olivia's bed.

"Naw. I saw him in his room. Dumb slob, just lying back on his bed, rolls of fat on rolls of sagging fat, pastries and used dishes on his night stand just out of arms reach. I saw. Really saw this time. I felt like I was seeing an adult version of Hansel and Gretel. He was reaching out for the pastry but I could see he was fighting not to do it. He was sunk into the bed and there were tears running out his eyes and down his jowls so I couldn't tell if it was sweat or the tears soaking the front of his undershirt. I swear he was trying so hard to not reach for the food she'd set out for him. It was painful to watch."

"That's kind of gross." Patrick lost his school-boy zeal for a ribald story. He leaned back in his lawn chair and tucked his hands into the deep front pockets of his shorts, cradling his balls on each side.

"Worse. I looked at his eyes. Have you ever seen his eyes, Patrick? They never looked that way to me before. He has pretty eyes, nice human eyes and I saw a brother in pain. I couldn't be part of that, her leashing him to the bed and to her with food, retaining him with a desire he couldn't resist. Food's just like any other opiate. We used morphine in Vietnam, but it was necessary a lot of the time."

Jack paused for a breath. He'd also leaned back in his chair, the rubber cross straps pressing into his muscular back, as he mimicked Patrick by the way he stuck his hands into his front pockets.

"What next?" Patrick couldn't help himself. He had to ask.

"My dick was still wet with his woman all the way throughout my pube's and I'm walking around in this guy's house because I could and I have to see him, Juan, lying there unable to defend himself. How screwed up is that? The time was right for me to have an epiphany. Right then I went back to her bedroom."

"Was she there?" Patrick wanted to know the details, forgetting for the moment about the description of Juan.

"She's bent over the bed changing the sheets cause of the mess we'd made and from behind I see her perfect woman rear and her sweet salty hole and then from the side against the low lamp I could see through her nightgown, one of Juan's old cotton t-shirts, and see her brown breasts hanging down like soft-tipped pears and I wanted to plug in behind her and reach around and feel the weight of her breasts in my hands again and manipulate her swollen nipples between my fingers just one more time."

Patrick's eyes widened as he got caught up in the flow of the story. "Did you do it?" Suddenly he became aware of his hands moving deep in his pant pockets and pulled them out as if to prove they were empty.

"God, I wanted to do it but I couldn't forget about Juan trying to resist the food in his bedroom with the glow of the wall light over his headboard shining down on him like a spotlight and his tears running out the sides of his pretty eyes. I asked myself 'could that be me?' I realized that sometimes gluttony isn't just gluttony and other times lust is just lust and I have the responsibility to change if I can. You know what I mean?"

Patrick considered Jack's rendering of the events. Patrick swallowed like he was going to say something and Jack hesitated to let him speak. But Patrick felt no need to participate or to interrupt Jack's confession with his own. It was a sign of weakness. He remembered how Jack said ex-Catholics still have the urge to confess years after becoming disaffected. But, he thought, that's not the burden I really have. Patrick knew his own problem was about making amends, about his son's coming of age and him protecting his son better than he had his childhood friend. He did not want to share the confession moment with Jack. He just wanted to listen.

Patrick said, "Yeah, I know what you mean. How'd you break it to her? I know she has a real temper, not the screaming type, more the get even sort."

"I went around to the other side of the bed and helped unhook the sheets from the mattress corners. She looks at me and says 'You seen my man, I saw you. Don go in his room no more. I said, 'Is this his room too?' She says, 'You see him, it ruin you for me'. I say, 'I've seen him and it's ruined you for me alright, what I've been doing is wrong'. She says, 'From now on, it is'. To her it was that simple. The end. Then she asks 'You wan me fix you breakfas afore you go?' Her accent through her soft full lips was so enticing I wanted to say yes, but I just pulled the sheets across the bed away from her, rolled them into a ball and dropped them in the hamper as I left."

Jack took a deep breath as he finished the story. Patrick thought, over the last six months I've seen him transition from being a man with callous disregard for everybody into a man of spotty principles regarding some people. That's some improvement. Even his Margie might approve.

They heard the approach of Sean, Patrick's pride and joy, as he kicked the crisp huge Sycamore leaves that had fallen since the gardeners had left yesterday. Winter had been strange spells of heat followed by turbulent cold drying Santa Ana winds spun in from the Great Basin more often than usual this year.

"Don't say anything to Sean about this," Patrick said. "He doesn't need to find out this stuff so young."

Jack rolled his eyes. "She's a good teacher if nothing else."

Patrick held his breath and stared back in response. Sean opened the gate after a brief struggle with the lock and let it clang shut behind him as he walked over to their chairs.

"Hey, Dad, Jack. Want some cookies? That nice Central American lady from a couple of buildings over gave me these. She said you'd know why."

Taking Flight

"I won't raise our children in a cave, Laureen." Tommy no longer stuttered. And now, he was taking a stand, for the first time, in a relationship which mattered to him.

"It's only paint, Tommy. What's the matter with you?" The dark shadows of the painted sidewalls wrapped entirely around the patio, making Tommy feel like he was blanketed and suffocating within the wings of a crow. He felt flashes of enclosure from the past, sparks of his stutter, the whispering scrape of black feathers, no longer the wondrous free ocean scenes which were once Laureen's trademark. He did not want to go back to the stifling place he had been before meeting Laureen.

"You're too dark now. It's taking over everything." He heard Laureen give that rude scoffing hack but knew if he turned around he couldn't stick to his plan. "You used to be so alive. Your favorite colors were blue and yellow. They came out of your finger tips and made anything you touched alive." He loved her ocean and beach paintings.

"Yeah, well things change. I'm pregnant. I'm paralyzed and pregnant." Tommy could feel her fear. "You're not," Laureen finished.

Tommy turned around to face the words as much as to confront Laureen. "I made you that way. I'm responsible too. I want this. All of this," he said as he threw his arms open.

Laureen looked doubtful. "Why would anybody want this? You pretend more than even me."

"You know," Tommy lowered his voice, "I never really notice what you can't do. I just want to keep up with you. But you're tearing us apart. Don't you want our baby? I do."

"At least we can be sure it's ours. Who else would have me?"

"I don't feel sorry for you. You can't make me hate you. So stop it."

Tommy touched her cheek with the back of his knuckle. Laureen closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. Tommy knew he could only do it to her when she had her eyes closed. With the flat of his other hand he slapped her face hard, smacking loud on the cheek.

"What the hell! You prick, why'd you do that!"

"Want me to do it again?"

Laureen's eyes moistened from the sting, but he could see she was angry, fighting back mad. She pushed forward in her wheelchair, punching upward at Tommy's face, her fists glancing off of his chest twice before he grabbed her by the forearms. He could see by her eyes she was trying to kick at him. That hurt him more, feeling her limits, the suffocation her soul felt from the unresponding legs.

"Prick," she said again with very little energy.

"I am." Tommy stepped back. "Are you done yet?"

"Let me hit you in the face, you son of a bitch." Recharged, she'd never cursed so roughly around Tommy. "Why'd you do that?" Her face was still flushed. "Tough guy. Hitting a pregnant paralyzed girl. What the hell." She tried to roll the wheels over his foot, but Tommy nimbly stepped back.

"You need help, Laureen."

"That was help?"

"Are you going to give up on our babies? I'm not. I'll never hit you again," Tommy said.

"That's good to know."

"Quit being so crappy. Nothing's easy. You've got it all. Let me love you. Let me be devoted. You paint the way I wish I could sing. You're beautiful. I don't stutter anymore." He'd made his pitch the best he could. Tommy was as emotional as he'd ever let Laureen see him. He stood beaten in front of her, the long silk hair hanging with strands stuck to his high cheekbones from the tears.

"Never hit me again?"

Tommy shook his head in agreement.

"Come here," she said. Laureen smiled. Tommy walked into a right cross. It did not surprise him. He knew he had it coming. And he didn't want his children to ever see them hit each other. Kneeling, he held onto her legs as they cried in the middle of the sand, surrounded for the last time by dark paintings wailing from Laureen's soul, surrounded by the walls in the patio which Laureen had transformed to look like the embracing wings of a crow.

"Don't you ever knock?" Laureen lay on her back so she was forced to look upwards over the top of her forehead. Tommy's hair hung in Laureen's face while he unsuccessfully tried to stop the involuntary thrusts which had taken over his surging hips as he climaxed into Laureen. They'd heard Kathleen's gasp come from the patio door.

"What are you doing?" Kathleen's voice peaked in surprise at what she'd walked in to see. Since it was a rhetorical question Tommy and Laureen laughed for a second. Kathleen gawked. It had not occurred to the couple Kathleen would think Laureen was incapable of sex, which would mean she thought Laureen was also unable to enjoy it. And more.

Tommy rolled off Laureen, scattering sand when his elbows plunged into the makeshift beach. Kathleen covered her face with her hands as he stood and smoothly stepped, still hard, into his pants, the canvas cloth snapping with the fierce thrust of each leg.

"Don't leave me here." Laureen's voice echoed how vulnerable she felt left alone on the sand. Tommy bent and lifted Laureen into her chair. Laureen wrapped a towel around her legs and hips but did not bother to cover her breasts and muscular shoulders. After all, Kathleen was just her twin.

"God damn it, Kathleen, quit staring and shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"Your face does. And you have no right. None at all."

"I just didn't think you could, you know, how can you feel it, you know?" Kathleen focused on Laureen's face, not even dropping her eyes to see her sister's ripened nipples.

"Tommy, please give me a robe. It's okay honey, she's an idiot." Neither saw Tommy's grim smile because they did not take their eyes away from each other.

"I am not."

"Give me your key." Laureen knew what would hurt Kathleen.

Tommy sat in a patio chair against the painted wall, as if pushed aside by the heavy arm of familial fighting. He leaned back and melted into the scenery of the painting.

"Should you guys be doing that?" Kathleen said.

"What? Don't mince around it. Say it, Kathleen. Sex!"

"Have some class, Laureen. Okay, sex."

"Why not?" Laureen's face was returning to its normal tanned color. Shoulders flexing, she lifted herself with her arms to be more comfortable in the chair. Her shoulders squared towards Kathleen like the powerful wings of a schooner's sail.

"What if he hurts you?"

"Kathleen, if I can sit on a surfboard I can do this. What else?"

"Nothing. But. Nothing. Yes, there is something. What if you get pregnant?" Tommy coughed. Laureen turned to lock eyes with him for a moment, deciding what she wanted to share.

"I hope it's healthy. I hope our child is a boy."

"What do you mean?" Kathleen was shaking her head in slow motion side to side, as if grasping what she had considered impossible a moment before. "Are you pregnant?"

"I am. We are. Soon after you moved out." Laureen saw a flicker of a smile. Kathleen is always so good at adapting, she thought. The palm fronds which hung over the patio shifted in a fresh breeze. Tommy was glad to have an excuse to look at the sound.

"Congratulations. Here, let me give you a hug." Kathleen stepped onto the sand, sinking slightly in the few steps it took to get to Laureen. "Okay?" Laureen thought the question was odd. She realized Kathleen had never felt the need to ask permission before.

"What have you done?" Laureen said as she put her hand on her sister's belly just before embracing her.

"Playmates," Kathleen said as she held onto Laureen's embrace as she looked over her shoulder at Tommy.

Adjusting To The Fall

After the fall from the roof Beef and Crow were damaged goods. Physical disability, no matter the reason, was grounds for layoff in the construction industry. There were ways for independent businesses to get around the California State laws regarding on-the-job injury, particularly in an at will industry such as construction. Although management had made no attempt to stop Beef and Crow from harassing employees such as Tommy, the poor behavior became a justification to terminate them after they were injured falling from the roof. They were paid for their medical bills and given two months severance.

Had Beef and Crow attempted to gain new employment it would have been futile unless they found a very small outfit. They were lazy at first anyway, burning through one month's severance in a week as they drank heavily, toasting each other and swearing to revenge their problems caused by Tommy's defiance. Ultimately they got into a bar fight which ended poorly for the other guys, and they were arrested and sentenced to two months in the Santa Ana jail, plus one year's probation.

The first month after being released from jail Beef got into an argument with Crow about nothing, and used his fists to club Crow so senseless the man wandered the streets drooling in traffic. Crow became another unreasonable man at the fringes of the homeless camps along the Santa Ana River underpasses, shifting for food and a dry place to sleep. He never saw Beef again.

Beef got drunk less often after beating Crow. That type of activity drew too much attention. Going back to jail would have been a third strike in California; more if anybody checked in Montana. Beef wanted to remain in Southern California for the climate; particularly since he had no prospect for roofer work year round in Boise. As the months passed the depraved whims of his angry psyche resurfaced. Beef selectively bought blow jobs from men and women of non-white skin who also had long black hair. He often left them injured, clubbing them on the back of their heads with his huge hands. And always, Beef fantasized he was punishing the upstart Indian. Those events went undetected by the Police, maybe because they occurred inside Santa Ana's small skid row and the tangent barrio.

After several months Beef did find a job as a tree trimmer for an independent gardening business in South Orange County. The owner did not care to look into Beef's past. He did not run a background check, barely looking at Beef's face, amazed that Beef demonstrated the ability to climb to the top of a tree using only a rope as his tool. Beef's job was to top and trim the fast growing Eucalyptus and Seedless Mulberry trees and exotic Pines which had been planted helter skelter throughout the many condominium complexes in the South Orange County area.

Beef was a perfect fit for the job - tall, strong and able to climb any tree without fear. He did not request insurance or sick pay and wanted only a little more than the illegal Mexicans. And the people needing tree trimming in the County were less nervous about having a big white man in their yards than Mexicans. For Beef, Orange County was a world where he wandered freely through the green belts of the middle-class. They seldom looked twice at a person who wore a uniform shirt and a baseball cap and worked outside in the summer heat. Beef had a talent for the job. He relished working alone, looking down on the world from his secret hiding places in the trees, taking his time in order to draw less attention while he studied the weaknesses in people's home security.

The day he saw Tommy he'd clung like a gorilla against the high trunk of a Seedless Mulberry tree deep in the Laguna Sands condominium complex. He heard Tommy first, his laughter mixing with the vibrant peel of Lauren's voice while he pushed her wheelchair in circles on the sidewalk below. He could see the woman was pregnant by the swell of her belly and he could hear they were happy as they joked about how well she floated in the dense salt water at Dana Point. Lauren's shining golden hair was flung over one bare shoulder and Beef saw her white teeth before the sound of her laughter reached the top of the tree where he clung.

Beef shifted his position to get behind the tree trunk in time to avoid a glance upward by Tommy. Beef thought, that Indian always did have a sense about these things. From his one armed grasp of the overhead branch he studied Tommy, still walking the way he used to as if his feet did not crush leaves. He could see that Tommy was almost unprotected the way he was so completely engaged with the girl. Once Tommy stopped turning her in playful circles to lean forward and kiss her pink lips and Beef saw Tommy's sleek black hair envelop her face and right then Beef wanted to drop on top of them to end this. But Tommy stood up straight, turned his head to look down the sidewalk and Beef could see his nostrils flare a little, as a deer's would, sensing danger.

Beef remained hidden until Tommy pushed her wheelchair through the front door of their condo. He decided destroying Tommy and any people he knew would be a far greater pleasure if it included pain and horror. Even he knew it would take some patience and planning.

A Good Day

When the warm Santa Ana winds cycled south from the Great Basin they harvested the last of the crisp Sycamore leaves from the branches. The intemperate wind littered the grounds of the Laguna Sands, which stretched from the coastal overlook where Patrick and Jack often spent their sleepless nights discussing politics, to the first rise of the Santa Ana foothills where the long extent of the community terminated at the unused trash bin which now housed Juan's Coyote-dogs. With the uniquely Californian mix of Aleppo Pines and Sycamore trees and Ash trees and Red Gum Eucalyptus planted throughout the grounds no amount of wind would ever take away all the shade in the aging community.

Tommy was as happy as he'd felt for many years. Becoming a father solved for him the feeling of not belonging which had haunted him since he had left his home on the Kahnawake Reservation. He thought quietly while he pushed the half-asleep Laureen at a meandering pace from the car onto the condo sidewalks. He recalled the many intervening construction jobs he'd had, which had created their own tempo of drifting as a way of life and how they had left him in a limbo of sorts between his heritage and his future. After the incident with Beef and Crow on the Irvine Woodlands rooftops he'd moved onto a more exquisite form of construction, the framing of high-rises, where the rarified skills of the workers mostly eliminated the destructive type of men he wanted to keep out of his life.

He appreciated that neither the length of his hair nor the race of his parents mattered to the people he worked with these days. They simply accepted his talent for working un-tethered as he guided the crane-held steel beams to where they were bolted and then welded into place. Sometimes after work he'd had a beer, only one, with another beam walker. Tommy smiled at the first time he heard Chris say he preferred to be called the Scotsman from down under. The man seemed to relax more on the heights of the sparsely framed high rises than in a bar. Chris was ranked internationally as a short-board surfer so it made sense he shared Tommy's talent of beam walking un-tethered when framing buildings. Eventually the two decided it was more fulfilling to surf after hours than to hear retold stories at the bar.

Tommy shook his head as he thought about learning to wear a surfboard tether. It had been an emotional hurdle to be tied to anything, like a dog as he argued with Chris at first. Then Chris took him far enough out into the hard surf so chasing the loose surfboard to shore helped Tommy accept that the tether's efficiency was as useful an adjustment as braids in his hair when working in the wind. Later Chris introduced Tommy to his girlfriend Kathleen, whose golden smile and easy personality disarmed even male competitors in the South Coast surfing contests she'd won. As Tommy looked down at Laureen he remembered how Kathleen had vetted him for several weeks before she suggested they double date with her sister Laureen. She'd made sure he knew Laureen was a surfer also.

Some of the tenants in the Laguna Sands condo complex were discomfited by the wild wind swirls of blown leaves and as he guided Laureen's wheelchair, he could see them peek out at them from behind their Venetian blinds. Tommy told Laureen that walking in the wind was an opportunity to pretend to be somewhere else, such as New England, without the discomfort of the nipping cold and shorter days. They relished the break from the summer of predictable weather which had come to make them feel locked into a daily routine of work, surfing, and living together. Tommy thought, today is a good day.

"Race you to the pool," Laureen said as she leaned into the wind suddenly full of energy and pumping the wheels of her chair. Tommy was caught off guard because he'd been walking backwards so he could see his rich black hair flutter in front of his face.

"No fair." Still, he hesitated to give Laureen a lead which was not too easy to overcome. Lithe as a deer he moved from standing to full strides on thin calved legs which had the gracefulness of his ancestors. He grabbed the handles on the back of her wheelchair, pulling back as he slowed her to a walking pace while he enjoyed watching the wonderful flex of her neck and shoulder muscles as she strained to regain her speed.

"Let go you half-surfer," Laureen said to insult him. Tommy felt the tickle of her long blonde hair against his knuckles. He released his grip and instantly regretted it as she shot forward at a speed which left two rubber burn marks on the sidewalk. The chair went airborne where Pine tree roots had lifted the sidewalk concrete slab like a mini-ramp. Tommy saw Laureen's arms rise the way they did when she caught a strong wave, her paralyzed legs strapped astride the board and her arms rising as graceful wings which enhanced her flight. He marveled at the strength of the woman.

"Be careful," he said into the wind. Tommy knew she could not hear and would not listen anyway as the wheels thumped down on the concrete. She artfully braked the left wheel so the chair spun around like she'd cleared the wattle end of a wave. Scudded leaves sprayed up in a rainbow behind her and as she came about the wind pulled her streaming golden hair away from her face.

Tommy caught up. "You are out of control," he said as they laughed together. "How's the little deer?" He looked at the round mound of her belly and Laureen touched herself on top of it.

"No movement today. But he's strong, I can tell. He's a surfer for sure, just waiting for the right wave, that's all."

Tommy wondered again how he'd been so lucky. "What color will his eyes be?"

"One brown and one blue, you know that."

"And his hair?" Tommy tested some more.

"Long." Tommy could tell by her answer there were other things she wanted to do. "I need some more paint for the wall. And can you put on a white base paint today so it will dry by tomorrow? I have some ideas I need to get out before I forget them."

"Later," Tommy said. "I'll do it today, but we have time to walk to the coast overlook."

"Tommy, I told you the waves will be stood up by the wind and they're too rough for you to surf alone."

"I just want to look. See the way the wind is tossing the tops of the trees. They have their sound. I want to hear the sound of the waves when the wind tosses them. It's different."

Laureen smiled. Tommy saw she understood how the sounds of nature were his passion the way mural painting was hers. "Want to race?" she said.

"No," said Tommy," I want to walk with you and hold your hand and feel your hair on my arm."

The wind buffeted their backs at the overlook. The concrete bench offered little protection but neither one minded the turbulence whipping the loose strands of hair in their faces.

"Do you miss her as much as when she left?"

"How'd you know I was thinking about my sister? You still surprise me." Laureen said as she brushed some stray hair out of his eyes. She sat back gently smiling.

"Your eyes get cloudy and you clench your painting hand without knowing it."

"Why did she have to go so far away? Australia, what can she do there she can't do here?" Laureen looked at the breaking surf, her lips counting the seconds between crests.

Tommy knew Laureen already had the answer in her head; she just had to say it out loud so he could commiserate with her. It made the hurt easier for her. "If I went somewhere far away wouldn't you follow me?" Tommy said.

"She's going to have a baby too."

"Well, I know you'd follow me even if you won't answer my question. When's the last time you talked to her?" he said.

"She's having a good time. In fact I know she's having a good day. We don't need to talk very often, we just know. Kathleen worries about you, you know, she doesn't understand how you can frame the office buildings without wearing a tether for safety."

"How do you know that? Besides I'm safe if I don't think about it. It's in my blood."

"I know. You're a skyscraper dancer. She just isn't as close to you as I am. I," Laureen said as she moved her hand out of his palm to slide it under his belt and down to his groin, "get you all to myself. She just get's the second hand smoke." Laureen grasped onto his swelling penis for emphasis.

Tommy laughed and reached for her breast, which she blocked by adjusting her elbow.

"You just let me play for a minute, half-surfer, and then we can go take a nap." He loved the flash of her smile.

She swung the wheelchair to face him and yanking down his zipper she leaned forward to put all of him deep in her throat, using her mouth like a moist bellow. Tommy couldn't believe she was doing that in public but in a very short time of her pounding on his pubic bone he'd lost all inhibition.

It took only five minutes with the warm wind wildly splashing their hair and the furious sound of the surf below and him feeling her hot ears as her head rose and fell in his lap, holding her head gently in his rough roofer hands as she brought him nearer to orgasm with well timed nicks of her teeth on his shaft, as she sucked and sucked relentlessly and rubbed his balls until Tommy came so hard it splashed down her throat and she had to swallow several times before she could catch her breath.

Laureen looked up at Tommy's face before she took her mouth off the tip of his penis and slowly licked it clean. She ran her tongue around the rim of her red lips without taking her eyes away from his. Carefully she zipped his shorts and then patted his flat belly when she was done. Tommy leaned back and sighed. Laureen smiled.

"Now, let's go back home where I can get mine. It'll take a little longer," she said. "Then you can take a nap."

It was a very good day in the wind and the sun for them.

Toxic Love

The first cup she served to him was always loaded with her sleep medication. Merriam's habit had begun recently, handing Warren his morning coffee before he could get into the kitchen make his own. In a short time she would not let him into the kitchen in the morning and he waited on the sofa until he was served. If he tried to enter Merriam herded him out of the kitchen with her harping tension and the nervous sandpaper of her slippers pushing behind him. After all it was her place, she rationalized, and the arrangement made with him to stay a very long three months ago had developed an unforeseen downside.

She'd started the dosages in his coffee out of boredom, since Warren no longer resisted her dominance in the kitchen. The months seemed a lifetime and Merriam, after years of solitude, craved more space. He was always around, in the way across the room, seated on the chairs and blocking her view out the front window. It was just getting old, not being able to do exactly what she wanted when she wanted because she was being polite to this lover who had somehow inveigled his way into becoming a guest. So she thought why not dose him with a downer in the first cup and then stand him up with ground Viagra in the second cup. The results, maybe dangerous if carried too far, were interesting. Like dosing a rabbit with codeine and then ten minutes later with a follow-up hot shot of testosterone, right into the old male brain. Merriam contemplated what she was doing as she watched Warren from her tidy kitchen.

"Did you finish your coffee?" She couldn't wait any longer, he was so damn slow.

"I'm not done."

"Quit faking that British accent you old fool. Well hurry up, your other cup is getting cold." Merriam held the second cup, balanced out of his reach as she noted the sluggish cast of his eyes. She knew it was unsafe to let him savor the first cup too long.

"I'd just like to relax, if you don't mind." Warren made a sloppy attempt at snapping the newspaper, but the coordination of his wrists was not good.

"So would I. Drink it up so I can get my own coffee. I want to get off of my feet."

"Just let me get my own." She heard him slur and wondered why he wanted to get his own coffee.

"No, you'll mess up the kitchen. Besides you're too noisy." She stood defensively between Warren and the kitchen door even though he'd made no attempt to get up. He simply dropped one foot off of the coffee table with no real energy. She was eager to see the Viagra affect soon.

"Warren, you know how I feel about my kitchen."

"Wish I'd known before I moved in."

"You're muttering again," she said stepping toward him, anticipating his next request.

"More coffee, please. I'm done." He rallied and held his cup up, although his drugged eyes did not share the enthusiasm. Merriam traded the second saucer and cup, very careful that the liquid did not slosh over the rim.

"Don't let it get cold," she said sweetening her voice to ensure he was more inclined to drink as directed.

He sipped. "Why do you use a second cup? Couldn't you just pour more in my first cup? I hate to see you have to wash so many dishes for me."

Merriam hesitated, but then continued on her way back to the kitchen. That is the second day he's asked that question, she thought. "Don't worry, I don't mind. Washing warms my hands in the morning. My circulation isn't what it used to be." Yes, she thought, he needs a dosage increase tomorrow.

He'd better drink that coffee pretty quickly if he knows what's good for him she groused to herself as she ran her fingers in a clockwise circle around the cup's rim and dipped her small hand into it to rinse away any evidence of medication. A little hardened powder remained on the bottom so she scratched at it with her chewed fingernail for several minutes.

Merriam knew Warren would obediently sup the second cup, his gray overgrown eyebrows touching the rim in his eagerness to get it all. He will feel the strength coming back into his body. Yes, she thought, I did it pretty good today.

Merriam did not notice she'd dropped her cup until after it shattered on the linoleum floor. Warren spoke into her ear, standing close against her back.

"Have I told you how nice it is to share your place? Yours of course, just as it should be."

Merriam gripped tightly onto the counter edge to let the dizzy feeling pass that seemed to happen a lot lately in the morning. She felt Warren wrapping his arms around her to guide her hands onto the cup under the warm water. The warm water mixed around their hands and soothed Merriam. She did not see the small wick of cotton soaked in amyl nitrite Warren had passed beneath her nostrils so that it would overcome the affects of the drug submerging Merriam in drowsiness.

Merriam blinked, like awakening from a poor sleep, feeling Warren's body pressed against hers and she realized she was standing at the sink.

"What happened?"

"You simply dropped the cup," Warren said, his nearly British accent very proper again.

Merriam felt sick to her stomach. His coffee breath blew past her ear offending her heightened sense of smell. It seemed like this had happened yesterday. And then she felt his hardness against her rear. Distracted thus from her nausea, she turned around in his arms.

Turn About

Olivia had been preoccupied by her own bouts of belching. They had begun one morning after she finished washing the cart of dishes she'd retrieved from Juan's room. It was new to her, the way the belches came after a brief rumbling in her belly. Then there was the acidic burn in her throat and the putrid smell from the inside of her stomach. For a person who'd held such control over the household for so many years, stuffing Juan with the oversized portions of food each meal every day until he'd relented all rights in how the house was run, she was surprised that this internal enemy seemed unwilling to take orders from her.

She changed her diet to try to trick the belching into subsiding. That had no effect. She tried over the counter anti-acid pills, unwilling to go to a doctor because of the cost and the embarrassment she felt. The new turmoil in her life was startling and she sought the comfort of the kitchen to hide the smell bursting from inside her belly along with the offensive burps that were part of the package. Therefore Olivia spent less time poking into Juan's bedroom where nothing much had changed in the last ten years. Eventually she left the food on his tray without surveying the room for any secrets he might be holding. To her this was the normal progression of their marriage, him loving food and seclusion and she wielding food as the weapon to keep control of the home.

So Olivia did not notice when Juan began to change his lifestyle. At dawn he arose to take gasping walks. He took a revitalized interest in his role as the repairman of the lawn sprinkler heads and sweeping out the trash bin enclosures. There was no decrease in the amount of food she took to his room or the amount of empty plates left outside his door on the trays. In fact, the plates and bowls were often licked clean, which simplified her task of washing dishes.

The frequency of her burping increased and she sometimes turned down cooking jobs that came her way when it involved using the patron's kitchen. Olivia had a physical problem which affected her sense of self-attractiveness. She no longer felt that her overwhelming sensuality was good enough to draw men into her bed, fearing at the wrong moment a belch would burst upward from her belly, burn through her throat and embarrass her by blowing deep into the lungs of a lover. She no longer took in any men as punishment to Juan for having forsaken her for her well cooked meals. Her life had become a nervous process of moving through dim hallways to the living room to the kitchen, anticipating the surprise attack of a burning belch which had stolen her love of her own sensuality.

Juan dropped weight in slabs, so fast his skin could not retract fast enough, so it hung in ripples around his chin and his belly and the back of his legs. Fifty pounds the first month, then another and another until he began to be a semblance of his young silhouette. On the patio he lifted dumbbells with increasing vigor. Yet he ate all the food Olivia left him, sometimes asking for more, the plates clean as if they'd been washed by his slathering tongue. And he lost another fifty pounds, down by over two hundred so that he appeared taller than he'd been twenty years ago.

Olivia could no longer contain her suspicion that he must be flushing the food down the toilet or taking weight loss pills. She waited until Juan left for a walk to the trash can enclosures to check his room. All she found was a dog leash and a tennis ball hidden underneath his bed. The bed, she thought, he'd been too fat to kneel next to three months ago so he could not have hidden anything underneath it unless he'd drop-kicked it. The next time he took a walk to the trash bin she followed.

"How long this ben goin on?" Olivia was furious at the sight of the two dog-coyote mix animals jumping in excitement against the pen. She saw how Juan had secured the block trash-bin enclosure with chain link across the top and had installed gates behind the swinging metal doors so there was a double entry to protect against the animals escaping.

Juan turned slowly. "Leave them alone."

"So you feed them my food, not you?" Her eyes raged. Juan said nothing, he turned back to put his fingers through the chain link to greet the dogs. And then it happened. Olivia could not suppress the bubble which became a belch bursting ripe air out her mouth. She covered her mouth with both her hands and Juan turned to look and the dogs howled like Coyotes as if joining the chorus.

"You should see a doctor," Juan said, unaware of the true frequency of the eruptions. He was so tall and wide his frame silhouetted against the sun and his shadow covered her full female form. Olivia held her hands over mouth, feeling her secret was out because it was the first time she'd burped in the presence of Juan. It made her feel less significant to him, thinking she had lost her power over him that she'd wielded for so many years. She noticed how his pretty brown eyes swallowed her smallness as she stood in his shadow and how the eyes did not seem to judge her for the belch or for following him.

"You lose so much," she said. "Do it hurt?" Juan considered her question, which she intended to be painful, loaded with more than what was going on with his weight lose. Olivia looked past him at the dogs jumping around their cage. "Hey, is they the Coyote thee Dee let away?"

It was an easier question for Juan to answer. He explained how he'd come upon them trapped inside the block enclosure, starving and obviously not dangerous. He explained how that was an opportunity for him to do something more than live the way he was. He told her how Jessica had helped him care for them and was his conspirator in the raising of the dogs.

"Who is Jessica?" There was a flash of jealousy from Olivia.

"The small older girl you see at church with her Grandpa. I know you see her because she and her Grandpa talk to Pastor John after Mass each Sunday."

Good Wood

"Wood. I love the grain and the feel under my fingers when I caress it," Elizabeth said as she massaged his forearm to maintain physical contact.

She could remember how it felt for her when she rubbed him with baby powder on every body part, after they'd both air dried from the shower before love making. She'd taught him to be patient that way, reining him back against his wild horse surges so she could enjoy the swell of her own orgasms as well.

"After I've sanded the surface with the 220 grit, I run a damp cloth across the skin of the wood, I let it dry and what's left of the oak feels like baby skin. That's what I look forward to when I work with wood," Elizabeth elaborated. She'd finished her thought and looked expectantly at Jerome. She knew he hated how she took so seriously the checklist the counselor had made for them to follow, but she believed that it would make them communicate better. Now, she thought, he is supposed to talk about his favorite hobby and then we can move onto talking about the things that scare each of us.

Jerome gulped and the blank look left his face. He's going to have to come up with something pretty good, she thought. Touching him always makes him think about sex and distracts him. But the way sex was before I was pregnant always distracted him. She felt the flicker of impatience behind her eyes and realized he probably saw her eyelids squeezing together in her customary snarl.

"When at work, when I get to them, the injured, before they have a chance to choose which way to go, live or die, I love the comforting them. It's as if my presence really means something then, it makes a difference and I know, I just feel the glow inside me when they've looked at me and I say 'everything is going to be alright, you're going to be safe now' and I touch their forehead or their shoulder or if I'm at the foot of the gurney I grip their foot and they look at me and accept me like their savior and they sigh like they made a choice because of me." Even Jerome seemed surprised at the detail of his contribution. He'd never told her that before. Maybe, she wondered, because I always feel disinterested when he speaks about his work as a paramedic. Maybe in my mind his work is merely a service industry and my architecture and artwork is a place I see above his waterline.

The script said she should pause before responding because that was one of her weaknesses. She felt the baby kick and he glanced down at the little bump where its head or knee or elbow braced outwards.

"He must be listening. Do you want to touch him?" Elizabeth said, reaching out to pull his hand from behind his folded arms. "It would be good for him to have his father touch him as you speak." She loved his voice, especially when he played the rich baritone vibration into it. She knew he could say just about anything when the times were better and she would fall all over it.

"Jerome," she said, "Sometimes I feel myself pushing back in our relationship. I think I may be doing that because I want all the pieces to be perfect like they used to seem they were when we got married. Maybe I shouldn't want so much."

She knew that was as close as she could come to an apology about the way things were between them. She pulled the flat of his palms onto her belly and he focused like he was trying to conjure up some magic trick, which made her laugh.

"No silly, come around behind me. That's it, press up against me and place your palms on the sides of my stomach." He sighed and although she did not expect it, he hardened against her soft rear. "Take your time cowboy," she flirted, enjoying the touch of his hands on their son in her belly and the simultaneous conformity of his body to her backside from the shoulders, down along her straight back and buttocks all the way to where his knees came up against the back of hers. "Now say something low and sexy into my ear so he can hear."

"When I am away from you I think of the wonderful smell of old dusty Africa, the home of my birth and the place where we met." He continued until Elizabeth took him by the hand and led him up the stairs to their bedroom. She closed the curtains and lit a candle for the mood and touched flame to the incense stick that smelled of sandalwood and she was very slow at taking their clothes off.

Afterwards Jerome snored on his back like a lion, his knees drawn up and splayed. As is the biological nature of women, Elizabeth felt energized. Her mind reeled in all the things that must be done to prepare for their son and care for her husband and continue to do her job at the firm and still complete her artwork at home. She arose and silently wiped herself clean of the semen in the bathroom, choosing not to shower or Jerome might awaken.

Downstairs Elizabeth sat at her design table, first sharpening pencils and then arranging them in a row just so-so as customary preparation for the task of drawing. Ten pencils seemed enough. Then she forced herself to focus on her assignment, drawing the lines in quick succession using right angles and sharp edged rulers to formulate a house model on the graph paper.

In the sunlit silence around her she made the only noise, the quick slash of the carbon across the paper. Soon she felt the pressure of the eyes that made her skin chill into little goose pimples. Without lifting her head she studied through the front window. It took several minutes to see him because he was hidden in the leaves of the tree. Across the lawn, beyond the sidewalks, thirty feet into the branches, Elizabeth spotted the huge bellied man. He steadied his swing seat by holding onto the branch above with a long ape-like arm while in the other hand he held a chain saw. He made it look small. She knew he'd been watching her between the slashing of the branches. As the limbs fell in graceful arches ending on the ground in a single shiver, in that brief time she saw how he watched her through the window.

Elizabeth felt the disruption of his presence as invisible waves buffeting her happiness. She went to the window, being careful to stay out of his line of sight, and adjusted the wooden blinds so he could no longer look into her home.

The Confessional

"Bless me father for I have sinned and you have before me."

"Hello, Patrick. Dee said you might come."

Patrick held his breath inside the coffin scented cubicle which had not changed in the thirty-five years of his absence. It still held the hint of Frankincense and Myrrh in the silk screen like a veil hiding his face from the priest. Father John continued to speak since Patrick did not answer.

"Bless me Patrick for I did sin and mine was omission. I have carried it for many years and have not had the strength to confess it to any other." Patrick knew the priest heard the butt of his pistol scrape the hardened oak of his seat.

Patrick felt the rage rise through his thick neck into his Irish cheeks and saturate his wrinkled forehead so the bubbles of sweat rose but did not run. The confessional box felt as if it was sweltering in the late day. His poor choice of a polyester suit made the stale air seem worse. Still, Patrick did not speak, his mouth worked in concert with his tongue, rolling and adjusting cotton words which would not come.

"Patrick, I am asking your forgiveness. I should have done more. Can you say I am forgiven?"

So calm, so perfect, _his answers are so believable even I want to agree with him and I can not answer him because that makes him okay. Not so easy priest, not so easy._ Patrick cleared his throat and when he did not speak he felt the priest fidget. Go ahead, be uncomfortable, be like I have been since then, wondering why it happened to Joe who only wanted to be my friend. He gave me his old mess kit to join the Boy Scouts with him and then he told me what the initiation was to be and the next day I gave it back to him like a scared traitor friend. _Go ahead priest, tell me you want forgiveness for not stopping them either._

"Patrick, are you listening? I didn't know at first." Father John heard again the butt of Patrick's pistol scrape on the hard oak bench as Patrick adjusted his position. "No, that's a lie. I knew but they were my bosses. I could have been transferred and if that happened I couldn't have helped the boys afterwards. After it was done to them." Patrick guessed Father John stopped when he realized the irony of what he'd said.

Patrick swallowed to moisten the inside of his mouth and he pressed the rough palms of his hands against his rugby eyebrows. He felt the sweat soaking his collar beneath his double-chin so he loosened the tie another tug. Leaning forward he rested his elbows on the small shelf below the sliding silk window which shielded him from the priest.

Through the screen he could smell the yeast and wine from Father John's breath and it reminded him of the six a.m. Masses he'd served dutifully as an altar boy. He remembered the false ceremony of each day of the preparation in the vestry, the practicing of Latin phrases which were only foreign words. And the donning of the black pretend priest robes which went on first and were buttoned neck to floor and then the white blouse with rounded fluffed shoulders which came next, dropped over his head like a starched woman's dress. It completed the dress up for his part of the ceremony of the Mass.

In the instant of the memory Patrick recalled the priest always smelled like wine before Mass. He remembered all the time spent at the church as a boy, come to nothing, meaning nothing through the years except carrying the responsibility of knowing they hurt Joe and they'd taken advantage of his youth, his vulnerability after his mother had died. Those men had harvested his virgin red lips beneath a Pine tree and Joe had relented because he wanted to belong before he ever knew what he was giving away.

"Patrick, this is very uncomfortable. You've got to say something. Or I'm going to have to tell you to leave."

_Go ahead priest, tell me to leave, to go to hell or to heaven or to whatever Purgatory it is we're both trapped in._ Patrick leaned back against the bench, for the moment only partially aware of Father John, thinking again about the Boy Scout initiation. Did they always do that to the new ones, he wondered, did that happen to his own father on his way to becoming an Eagle Scout? He wondered why he was so worn out by the memories, why it haunted him more lately, becoming a heavier burden the older Sean got. Maybe it was because Sean was a good, sweet kid, like Joe was a good, sweet kid, and both were vulnerable, absent their mothers. Patrick knew he drank too much. Maybe that was the problem. Raising a son alone wasn't easy. But why, he wondered, did this sin of omission haunt him more than the body counts in Iraq or the daily dark side of being a homicide detective?

"How's your son? Sean, right? I've seen him at Mass with Dee."

"Shut your fuckin' mouth! You hear me. Don't you ever look at him again."

Patrick's thick shoulders barely fit in the confessional when he stood. He heard Father John recoil and hit his head against the opposite silk window frame.

"Screw this. Why didn't you stop them? Joe was just a sweet boy and you heard their confessions and you knew they'd fuck him again. Why didn't you stop them? Stop all of them all these years? They stole his life, they never paid for it. What's this forgiveness shit? It's a get out of jail free card. Nothing more." Patrick's spittle specked the silk screen.

"Patrick, Joe's gone. He got Aids and he's gone. You've got to let him go. He got it in college. It was his choice."

"No it wasn't, you hand-celibated jerk off. I've got a son and you don't and what the fathers do or fail to do makes choices for their sons that they never knew they had."

"What do you want me to say?" Patrick could hear the fear in Father John's self serving question and he realized the priest actually thought he might use his department issue pistol. Good, he thought.

"He's my blood. Leave Sean out of your churchy plans." Patrick abruptly punched the confessional door open with a pop from the heels of his hands, like standing up an opposing player with a wrist shock. One step and he stood in the fresher air of the church's high ceiling nave.

The afternoon light angled downward as it streamed through the stained glass windows and in the flow of light there were golden and blue and red and green beams in which he could see the sparkle of dust specks adrift, as weightless as souls in Purgatory trapped within the light trails, bounded by the darkness around them and condemned without fault to endlessly floating until everything submitted to the coming of night and eternal silence.

"God bless you, Patrick."

"Stay in there priest or I'll shoot you where you stand." Patrick heard the echo of his own footsteps as he left the church nave by the center aisle. He overcame the urge to turn and genuflect as he entered the vestibule. The sunshine beyond the last door to outside was so refreshing.

The Glue

"You look like bloodhoun when you on top, you skin hang all down. And you sweat drip."

"I thought you wanted me here."

"I do, I do, I jes don want look you. Get behin me," Olivia said as she deftly kicked one leg up enough to swing it over his head and roll onto her belly. She braced up onto her elbows and knees to push her butt against his groin. Juan did not remember her ever making the move with him.

He felt her body tense when she was done repositioning herself to make his entry easier, since he was still a very large man. Juan saw her put a hand over her mouth. Yet it came of its own accord, the belch spewing a bracken sound from deep within her stomach for five seconds, an eternity in bed.

"What the hell was that?" Juan said. He felt his penis go flacid before he had a chance to enter Olivia from the rear.

"Nothin. Don you worry bout nothin." Olivia tried to back onto Juan's erection but there was noting left to hook onto.

"I lose all my damn fat and you say you don't want to look at me and then you say that was nothing?" Juan stepped back from the foot of the bed, hanging as limp as a sock of wet sand. He saw Olivia perched on her elbows and her knees with her rump in the air and her face covered by her long black hair tossed forward. "This is not what I dreamed about all the time we don't have sex. You have all these reasons for not wanting me and you, you belch like a seal." Juan was furious because in that moment he recalled the parade of men she had led into bedroom over the years and now for him she was gone to seed just like him. The revelation was almost as maddening as understanding he'd missed his turn all those years and now it had to be more than sex to be good sex.

"Come here, Juan, it only little gas." On cue another belch rippled from her mouth as she tried desperately to muffle it into the mattress. Juan wasn't sure if he should throw a blanket over her or ask her if she needed help. He was certain, however, he no longer desired to mount her, not from any angle.

"Must be something you ate, you think?" He was rough, the same way he sounded many years ago. Juan could see Olivia's shoulders shaking, but she made no move to lower her rump while she cried.

"I can't help, it won stop."

"How long has this been going on?

"Three month, maybe more."

Juan was struck by the realization she hadn't brought a man into her bedroom for three months. She wasn't back, he reasoned, because she wanted him after he'd lost so much weight. He knew she'd given up on outside men because of her embarrassment from her own belching. The glue that held them together was dissolving.

It is a great butt, he thought, unable to take his eyes off her positioned on the bed. He hesitated. Another belch rumbled through her sobs.

"How about I leave you and your friend alone?" he said, unable to hold his sarcasm in check.

Olivia rolled onto her side, like he'd kicked her just enough to push her over, and she pulled the bedspread over her naked body. Juan turned the light off as he closed the door realizing they were for the first time in many years, equals.

As late as the evening had become Juan decided to take more food to the dogs. He resisted nibbling as he walked to their cage at the trash bin. The dogs danced with excitement, rattling the chain link as they threw their bodies against it.

"Be quiet." They were immediately and they sat still waiting for their food. Juan pushed chunks of meat through the fence and the half-dogs gulped without chewing, trying to be ready for the next piece so the other would not get more. Juan knew Olivia had cooked the food for him. It was the second gift from her tonight which he was turning down. He wondered to himself why he was okay with the way things had been for the corroded years of their marriage. He recalled the conversation they'd had so long ago that started them down the path to where they found themselves now; gluttony for him and infidelity for her. They are not so different, he thought.

"I need more," Olivia had told him.

"I'm doing as good as any one man can," Juan had said. He knew what she meant and somehow, he remembered, it had not bothered him.

"I need more, more often, differen. I cook you many differen meal an you give me only one." He loved her accent.

"I have no sense of smell but I'm always hungry. What can you do about that?" He could not admit he'd rather eat than screw a different way.

"We married," she said. "I am Catholic an marriage should no be undone. We commit forever with blood of Jesus. But I need more down here." She grabbed her crotch, giving him a look like a drunken man in front of school girls.

"I'll think about it. Now finish cooking," Juan said.

Juan remembered how a month later he'd moved into a separate bedroom; she'd chased him out because of his gluttonous snoring. Two months afterwards she'd begun serving him many meals at his night table and leaving extra helpings outside his bedroom door. Two more months and he'd gained fifty pounds since the talk about her needs. At the six month mark, a deadline she'd set for herself, Juan knew Olivia took her first of many lovers. She taught them to satisfy her insatiable cravings until she needed a change. And he continued to eat in his bedroom, drowning out the sounds down the hall with his eating and the television.

The Baby Shower

"Another bladder infection," Laureen said as a matter of fact, which surprised Elizabeth. She'd assumed the pregnant paraplegic would be a little more despondent. After all, she knew how the discomfort of her own pregnancy was a burden each day the baby grew.

"Do you drink a lot of cranberry juice? It helps me?" Elizabeth said.

"Oh jeez, I practically pee the stuff. I think I keep getting re-infected because of Tommy." Elizabeth arched both her eyebrows as she considered the picture. "What about you, any problems down there?" Laureen looked expectantly at her. It seemed to Elizabeth that Lauren had no sense of embarrassment.

"Not from Jerome, I can tell you." She lowered her voice a shade. "He says he's so busy saving lives he doesn't want to stack them up in me."

"Yeah, some men are funny that way," said Laureen. "I think they get scared of touching the baby before God meant them to. It's what Tommy says anyhow. Not his problem, I can tell you for sure." Laureen threw back a handful of peanuts and shook out her golden hair as she looked around the room. "How come I don't see much of you?"

"I work a lot, trying to get ahead of my projects before I start pregnancy leave. I've got to get them lined up so I just have to sign my name on the submission dates." Elizabeth paused to recall how much detail she'd taken with the planning and then the execution of each building design.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to make you think about work. This party is for both of us," Laureen said.

"Well, I love what I do. I'm an Architect, you know."

"You are? I paint murals. Sides of buildings, walls, some canvas. It's kind of like layering pictures in your mind." Elizabeth could see Laureen was proud of what she did so she decided there was no good reason to get into the superior complexity of her own designs.

"How do you reach up, way up on the walls from your...?" and her eyes shifted to Laureen's wheelchair.

Elizabeth heard the upbeat background in Laureen's voice, "It's no hindrance. Tommy made me ten foot handles for my brushes. You'll have to see them sometime. He's such an artist with wood and metal. Besides, I surf a lot," Laureen said as she raised her bare arms and flexed her biceps like a muscleman. The bulges were extraordinary for a woman; as hard as shadowed iron.

Unconsciously Elizabeth folded her arms and cupped her bony elbows with her hands. "You surf? How? It's so dangerous even if you can walk," and she wished she could grab the words back from the air.

"Adaption. That's what Tommy says. Oh, he's so beautiful. I taught him to surf. Besides, in the water I don't have to worry about when I can pee, I just do it in my wetsuit."

"Maybe that causes your bladder infections." Elizabeth wanted to clamp her hands over her own mouth. She turned to look out the living room window, across the green lawns, when her peripheral vision picked up the flicker of a falling branch as it hit the ground.

"Look at that, in the tree. I feel like he's watching us. Doesn't it look like that to you?"

Laureen spun her chair and edged her knees against the window sill. Her eye edges crinkled as she focused. "He's not wearing a shirt. That would be something awful to paint. Huge hairy belly on a wall. Yuck. I don't think he's moving, well maybe he's so slow because he's so big. I wonder if Tommy's seen him?"

"I think he knows we're watching him. He gives me the creeps. It's gotten so every time I hear something in the trees I wonder if it's him hanging up there and leering. I wish he weren't around here so I could get out for more walks." Elizabeth moved back from the window.

"You know what, we can take walks together. Call me the next time you want to go," Laureen said.

Elizabeth nodded her agreement, still cupping her sharp elbows within her folded arms. She wondered how this young woman could be so perky and confident after all the things that had been taken away from her.

Several days later the two women met for their first walk. Elizabeth wore her co-coordinated navy blue nylon jogging outfit with the yellow stripes down each arm and leg. Laureen wore a pink Body glove swimsuit which cut away from her underarms so they would not chaff as she spun the wheels of her chair.

"I have to ask," Elizabeth said, "how does it feel when you have relations with your spouse?"

"First of all, he's not my spouse, he's mine." Laureen smiled up at Elizabeth as she rolled beside her. "He's very caring. When I was first paralyzed I thought everything was dead below the waist. I was so surprised when we were on our second date and he kissed me on the back of my neck and I began to feel things. Turns out I was really more sensitive than before. I was always noisy during sex before the accident. After the accident I even began to see flashes of color when I orgasm. Rich, full colors that stay in my mind for days. So its good, not that I wouldn't want my legs back so I could wrap them around him."

They moved in steady silence as they achieved a rhythm, enjoying the spirals of tree shade falling on the sidewalks. They worked their way to the far eastern side of the condo complex where the foothills started into the National Forest. As the sidewalk curved back westward they heard the whine of Juan's coyote-dogs.

"What's in there?" Elizabeth was timid about getting closer to the sound.

"Oh, you have to see them, they've grown so much," Laureen said as she pushed ahead to pull the bolt from the latch securing the swinging metal gates. Elizabeth gasped.

"Are they the coyotes that Dee and Maddie were talking about at the shower? I thought it was just a made up story started at Jerome's poker party."

The coyote-dogs were jumping in joy as they licked Laureen's fingers through the chain link. She pulled some Ritz Crackers from a wheelchair pocket to appease them.

"They are beautiful, aren't they?" Juan's raising them with help from Jessica," Laureen said.

"Teacher Julie's daughter Jessica? She knows about this too?"

"Its okay, Elizabeth. They're half German Shepherd. Juan says they're double-smart, like a Mexican-American, so if you raise them without hitting them they'll be very loyal, he says. They eat just about anything, but he's trained them to wait for permission."

"Can I touch them?" It was uncharacteristic for Elizabeth to subject herself to asking permission from anybody. She held a cracker in each hand and waited for the wet noses to snap them away.

"Why are your eyes closed? Say ' _bueno_ ' and look them in the eye. These dogs aren't afraid of eye contact, they respect it."

Elizabeth followed the instructions and immediately felt the nip of their front teeth at the tips of her fingers. She clapped her hands together in childish delight as she jumped back.

Elizabeth was alerted by Laureen's silence. Then she also heard the man as he sang to himself. The coyote-dogs became furious, snarling and throwing themselves against the chain link.

"It's him," Elizabeth whispered.

"Don't worry about the dogs. They don't like how he sounds either." Laureen swung the metal gates closed and dropped the bolt through the latch. The women decided to retrace their path to move away from the man in the trees before he saw them. Out fifty yards the women had a better angle of sight. They could see how he hung by a climber's belt from the trunk and clung to a branch above his head with one long arm while he sawed through a limb with the other hand. The hair on his back was matted by sweat.

"I can practically smell him from here," Elizabeth said. Both women wrinkled their noses.

"I'll have to remember to tell Tommy about him," said Laureen. "I forgot to mention it to Tommy after the baby shower."

The Innocents

Tommy was pleased the way life had worked out for them in the past months and smiled to himself as he walked along the winding path. He only smelled Beef as the apish man touched him on the shoulder. Tommy tried to spin away but the vise-strong grip Beef had acquired from topping trees was overwhelming.

Beef had hidden along the path Tommy normally walked from the carport to his condo. The size of the dark bushes overshadowing the way increased the isolation of the place.

"What's up, Tut? Forget somethin'?" Beef's voice had gotten deeper, beyond sinister. Tommy kicked back to stomp Beef's foot but the huge man was still very nimble on his feet. Tommy felt a yank on his hair and he knew at once that he who controls the head wins the fight. Tommy reached for his knife he'd always carried when working with Beef, intending to slash away his own hair to free himself of Beef's grip. His hope withered when he remembered that for Laureen's peace of mind he no longer carried the blade inside his waistband. Tommy stopped struggling. He wasn't giving up but he knew trying to counter Beef's hold was a waste of effort.

"I seen your babe, Tut. Hell on wheels, huh?"

Tommy remained silent. There was nothing else to do.

"Must be awful fun gettin' a ride on that wagon."

His slurring voice revolted Tommy. Tommy felt Beef's grip adjust on his hair and he wondered if he jerked away hard enough right then if he could rip his own scalp free in the effort.

"Don't try it. Hiawatha, we got some things to settle." Tommy smelled the rank musk of Beef's bare chest and overheated underarms.

"Leave her out of this," Tommy said without any stutter.

"Too late. She's trussed and tagged on the pretty little beach you guys got. So's the kid."

"What kid?"

"One's always doin' good for that old lady. He must want to get laid real bad."

"There's no need to involve Sean. He's a good kid."

"Too late. He's gonna be my first course, you know what I mean?" Beef chortled like a hog at his own joke. Then he struck Tommy with a heavy-handed downward blow at a spot on his neck where the Caratoid artery pulsed near the surface. Tommy was pile driven into the ground. He shuddered a moment and felt the clunk of Beef's feet against his face as he went unconscious.

"Come on, Tut, wake up or you'll miss the party. I want you to hear this real good."

"Leave him alone, you prick," Laureen yelled as she fought to turn around in her wheelchair. She felt the baby kick as she turned and flashes of light and sparks loosened in her brain. But Tommy was lashed to the back of the chair by his shoulders and a loop was tightened around his neck which held him upright so her arms could not hit at Beef. Beef used a short-handled pruning shear to whack Tommy's face hard enough to slice the skin, drawing an additional line of seeping blood with each slash. Laureen could only turn her head enough to see the horrendous compilation of cuts crucifying her Tommy.

"There you go, got your attention." Tommy was barely conscious. "First we're gonna cut your hair. Just be still and she don't get hurt."

Beef dangled a serrated bread knife in front of Tommy's face he'd found in Laureen's kitchen. He hacked at Tommy's raven hair until there was a gross mess of hair trampled into the sand at his feet. When he was done with Tommy's hair he stuck the knife loosely into his belt and lifted Tommy's head high and saw Tommy's dilated pupils looking back at him. Beef slapped Tommy's shorn head one more time.

"Now I'm gonna do the boy. She can watch and you can listen."

Sean lay on his side in the sand near the floor length curtain from the living room, bound but not gagged. His frightened eyes followed Beef as the hoggish man trudged toward him through the sand. Beef held the pruning shears in his right hand and lifted Sean by the nape of his shirt with his left hand.

"First things first, gotta make sure ain't nothin' to cut me," and with one hard swing of the shears he knocked Sean's teeth inward. Stunned, Sean spit the shards of his teeth out along with a gruesome jetsam of blood and saliva. "Makin' yourself pretty for me, huh boy."

Laureen felt Tommy flutter against the ropes behind her. She leaned forward trying to free herself from the wheelchair by stretching the taut rope that held her arms in place.

Beef pushed Sean to his knees in the sand and reached around him to cut the rope that bound his ankles. "Given you some traction, boy, don't want you fallin' over before I'm done."

Laureen yelled and yelled and more flashes of light hit her brain as the clots in her spine loosened and Tommy struggled and Beef turned to face her, never taking his hand off the top of Sean's head. She was surprised at how such a large man could have such a small erection.

"You're next sweetheart, after I'm done with the choirboy." He turned back to Sean and slapped his face open-handed a couple of times to revive him. "Pay attention boy. Don't you bite down or I'll kill the girl."

Laureen saw Beefs hips sluggishly ramming into Sean's face and she screamed for him to stop and he laughed as he looked up at the trees. When he was done he dropped Sean into the sand. Sean landed stiff armed, his wrists still bound together. Beef turned toward Laureen.

"I'll need a few minutes to recharge, honey." He felt Sean tug at his leg and kicked back like he was shaking a little dog loose from his cuff. "You can't have no more, boy. Only so much of old Beef to go around."

The doorbell rang the buoy bong that Kathleen had installed so long ago. Laureen stiffened. Beef looked up at the curtain in the patio doorway.

"Expecting a delivery, girly?" He laughed.

Laureen said nothing, thinking it was probably the three old ladies who checked on her each day at this time. She hoped they did not use the key she'd given them. Nobody pushed through the curtain so Beef looked back at Laureen. He chortled once more at his play on words.

Sean persisted pulling on his leg. Beef became aggravated and forgot the front door. Sean tugged again. Beef turned and bent over and pulled Sean up by his hair. Beef's momentum in lifting Sean off the ground and Sean's speed propelled the knife through his thick fat-layered gut skin. He never saw the bread knife rip into his sagging belly just below his hairy navel. To Laureen it looked like he'd stabbed himself.

"One thousand push-ups a day." Sean mouthed the rubric from Jack, as he struggled to his feet driving the knife higher and deeper into Beef.

The Conspiracy

Sean strained to gain his feet, willing one heavy leg up at a time. He felt his hands slipping onto the serrated edge of the bread knife. Beef loomed above him, balanced precariously on tip toes in the sand, responding with whimpers at each nuanced shift in the thin blade which was imbedded many inches into his gut. Laureen yelled as she struggled harder against the ropes, her face gone apoplectic with the effort. Tommy's feet pushed futilely against the sand behind her.

Beef tried to stand taller on his toes yet the blade inched upward inside his gut and the blood gushed over Sean's hands as Beef looked down at Sean's face. Just when Sean's eyes began to soften, just when Beef took a breath as if to jump backwards, he felt the blade firm up and he saw Dee's small hands grasped above Sean's so that Sean's hands stopped slipping up the handle.

"You deserve to die!" Dee's terrier voice came from her mannequin mouth which was nearly touching the blade of the knife. She pushed harder, grunting with the effort, rocking back and forth as Sean hung on like a puppet master no longer in control. Beef's scream subsided into a shriek since he could not get anymore air into his lungs because he inhaled his own blood. Dee rocked in grim determination so Beef could not unhook himself from the serrated blade while she sawed through his intestines, upward through his gut and wiggled it into the bottom of his heart. Beef looked over his huge shoulder and saw Maddie and Irene braced like gray miniature gnomes against his back and then he dropped dead into the sand.

Laureen panted from the bounds of her wheelchair, which was mired in the sand half up the wheel spokes. She panted because of what she saw that she never wanted her unborn son to have to see. Laureen attempted to lift herself free of the chair with her muscular arms but she did not have enough strength left in her upper back. She felt the stab of pain transferred from her uterus and there were new flashes of light in her head and she knew she needed to act or she would lose their son.

"Maddie, get Jerome, I need him to deliver my baby. I can't make it to the hospital," Laureen gasped.

"We can't go to the police," Irene said.

"Just get him." Laureen was panting faster to control the pain.

"Maddie, you have to get Sean and Dee cleaned up. Go, now," Irene yelled.

Dee still stood poised between Laureen and Beef, as if he would come back to life. She had taken the knife out of Sean's hands and Sean had taken several steps backward where he sat down on the patio step. His eyes were a picture of devastation and his mouth a grotesque bloody semen hole Beef had left in his wake. Maddie came back from the kitchen with a wet towel and wiped Sean's young face clean of the liquid from Beef's ejaculation before she cleansed his hands of the blood.

Irene called Jack and Patrick while Maddie called Jerome. When Patrick stepped through the drawn patio curtains he saw Sean seated on the steps. When Sean saw his Dad he started to cry in slow bubbles, drawing his knees up to his chest. Patrick knelt in front of him and wrapped his arms around his son and rocked Sean as if he were a baby. Jack stood with a hand on Patrick's shoulder. Laureen saw and wondered how people did such things to one another.

"Dee thinks we ought to cut him up. Are you okay with that?" Jack said to Patrick.

"Dee, I'm the police. We can't." Patrick almost begged.

"If this horror done to our Sean is made public he will become known as a victim of abuse," Dee said. "It will engulf his entire life. The only true justice has already been done."

Patrick looked into his son's eyes and he saw for now he would have to make the decision for his son.

"Let's take the body to my garage. It'll be quiet there," Patrick said. "Will you be able to help?"

Dee said, "We all have to agree." She was relentless as she looked around at each one of them. "Okay then. What are we going to do with the pieces when he's all cut up?"

"Dee," said Jack, "do you know Juan is raising two of the coyotes?"

Laureen panted quietly in her wheelchair, struggling with the cramps that she knew were too early. But she heard anyhow.

"Yes, I know a lot more about him and his wife and you boys than you think." Jack and Patrick looked at each other as if agreeing she was right. "I killed the third one," she said. "We're even."

"Do you know what a good cook Olivia is?" Jack asked.

"Are you thinking she could cook him for the coyotes?" Dee said.

"Do you think she'd do it?" Jack said.

"She's still an illegal," Dee said. It was something neither Jack nor Patrick had known. "Do you think she can get those Coyotes to eat human?"

"Oh yeah," said Patrick, "that woman can cook."

Laureen heard it all, nodding in stoic agreement. She had seen way too much. The struggle had hurt in ways nobody knew. She felt her unborn son kick and she knew her strength was abating. As if expecting the crush of a pounding wave she braced herself higher in the wheelchair. Her beautiful muscular shoulders flexed and her water broke to run in a hot gush into the sand. Oh god, she thought, don't let that man's blood contaminate my son.

Little Deer

Jerome stepped over the huge man sprawled face down in the patio sand of Laureen's mural world, his ankle brushing against the coils of Beef's large intestine that had leaked out. Jack was on his knees in front of Laureen who even in her shock never let go of the arms of the wheelchair. She could still hear their voices.

"Jerome, I already called for an ambulance. They can't see this. You can't say anything about what you see, not even to Elizabeth. Trust me." Jack spoke with a military precision. "You have to get Laureen to the hospital. Help me pull the wheelchair out of the sand and we can meet them outside." Jerome shook his head in response to the ex-Marine.

Jerome knelt in front of Laureen and shined a penlight into her eyes. Laureen did not resist the brightness.

"She's in trouble. Is that her water? How long ago?"

"About twenty minutes, I think. There's the siren, we have to go." Jack's urgency aroused Laureen from whatever place her mind had gone. She fought against the armrests.

"Who killed him?" Jerome asked as they rolled Laureen past Beef.

Jack spit on Beef's body. "The kid and Dee." Laureen nodded her head.

Laureen knew the situation for her was critical as Jerome knelt beside her gurney in the ambulance. She held her breath to make her heart react into a normal rhythm.

"Breathe, Laureen, breathe."

Her chest struggled with uneven gasps as she spoke.

"I don't want to go, not done, not yet, let me hold him, save him Jerome. Save my baby."

"Damn it Paul, give her the paddles, now." Jerome yelled at his paramedic partner.

"What about the baby?" Paul said.

"It'll be okay, I hope, save her first," Jerome said.

She felt the thump of the paddles against her bare chest. Laureen panicked, wanting to push them away but she felt her arms strapped beside her. She felt the violent flash of the fibulator as her back arched off the gurney. She could not speak after that, trapped once again in her mind by her body's failure.

_Don't, no more, you'll hurt him, don't hurt him, let me be. I've been a good person I've taken all your best shots. Save Little Deer for Tommy._ Beneath her she felt the gurney and the ambulance roll smoother upon the roadway, like being on a surfboard just past the last onslaught of breaking waves into deeper water.

"Paul, push it man. Don't slow down for the intersections, we'll make it. Laureen what do you feel? Try to communicate. Squeeze my hand twice if it hurts when I press."

Tears leaked down her pallid cheeks in slow lines and her chapped lips parted once but could not close afterwards. _Oh lord I can feel him don't panic we'll make it Little Deer squeeze his hand it can help hold his hand he says don't you know._

"Laureen, I'm going to spread your legs, I have to strap them to the rails."

Laureen looked at Jerome from her inner place and Jerome looked scared. _To stay, to go, to linger, to accept_. _Sometimes the choice is not a choice._

"Please don't accept Laureen, don't accept, fight." Jerome began to cry. She felt so much compassion for her friend as she watched.

Laureen blinked in surprise. _I can feel my legs, look I lifted them to save my child. I feel him I should push._

"Laureen, I'm pushing down on your belly, help if you can hear me, I need to push, forgive me, I know it hurts."

She could hear so much better, she thought. _Kathleen help us push, for me, why can't I feel any stretching down there, I should feel it, you have to help me I can't remember how to do this without you_.

"Come on Laureen, breathe, take a breath," Jerome said. "Mission Emergency her lips are turning blue, tell me what to do. Laureen, you have to stay with me for your baby."

The radio gave back instructions while Paul blew through another intersection.

I'm so tired of trying Tommy I want to hold him to nurse him to touch you again Kathleen come back home why can't I feel anything no pain anymore don't leave me again.

"Jerome, you have to take the baby. Cut her below the stomach, mid-way between the belly button and the pubic bone, slice sideways ten inches," continued the flat-voiced instruction on the radio.

"Oh god Laureen I have to do this, squeeze my arm if you hear me, if it hurts too much, he'll suffocate if I don't, hold on for him." Jerome's tears mixed with her blood on her belly.

Laureen still pushed down in her mind. She saw the sparks turn into a fireworks crescendo and marveled at how beautiful they were before she realized what it meant. She wept inside for all the things she would never do with Tommy and her son. _Kathleen I'm so tired of trying so cold out of the water put me back in the water, don't let it take him too, give him to Tommy. You take care of them love them like I would I know you hear me._

"Jerome when you have your hand behind the baby, pull it up and out, steady, hands under the head. Untangle the umbilical. Okay, you delivered the baby, remember you saved the baby." Jerome had not stopped crying.

Laureen recited in her mind the lines of the duet her sister and she sang to each other as children. _Watch over me little sister while I lie asleep, Shhh Shhh big sister no need for you to weep, Take care little sister of mine who have to stay, I'll watch over them big sister, blood promises to keep._

The moment of peacefulness gave in to a rush of fear.

Kathleen why did you go away why aren't you here come back come back I'm so lonely let me hold Little Deer. kathleen.

Jerome untangled the umbilical cord from Little Deer's sweet feet. Leaving it attached he placed the boy's ready body on Laureen's chest. Jerome took her limp hand and rubbed it on the boy's back until the baby coughed and cried to breathe for the first time. Laureen smiled and then her grey eyes clouded.

Laureen let the life of Little Deer within her leave through her belly. As it lifted out of her she felt relief as the rest of her life floated away also, as if it was the last glow of an ember settling on a calm night ocean. She exhaled a final long breath and accepted her passage into another life; a life at last extinguished with the resistance an ocean permits a spark.

With the resounding silence came the gift of consolation. She felt the use of her legs return and she imagined herself floating on her back on the warm saline waters in a summer night when the iridescence lit the rolling swells and there was no wind and the drift took her further from shore while her body softly rose and fell to the cadence of the pulsing ocean and she knew if she wanted, her body could walk once more but it was no longer necessary in the place she was going, a new satisfying place, and her mere purpose now was to love forever that Kathleen and Tommy and her son existed until it was their time, until the water tension no longer supported her body and she slid in descending circles to take her place of rest within the sediments of time.

Blood Keeps

In the background the pulsing of the oxygen machine had been a pleasant white noise which had lulled them into a thoughtful silence.

"Who's going to tell him? I can't do it."

Jerome looked around the room before responding to Patrick's question. He'd been studying the baseball stitches circling Tommy's face. Jerome wondered if the scars which would surely follow would ever shrink away into Tommy's skin, so they would see again the unmarred copper smile taunting them into laughter at their poker games. So much had changed in the past week, thought Jerome, and Tommy did not deserve this.

Patrick stood on the opposite side of the hospital bed, shorter than Jerome had remembered him, his unshaven face purpling where his nostrils flared as his nose got larger as he became older and he drank more. Jerome saw how Patrick was still a mess about his son and Tommy and Laureen. He decided it was not necessary to make the decision then. Tommy could not hear anyhow.

"I can't either, not now," Jerome said in his low soothing accent. "We should call her sister. She has to know. She can deal with him better than us."

Kathleen had stood silently behind the hospital room separator curtain with neither man aware of her presence. Watching the men through the slit in the curtain she heard them and smelled their unbathed bodies which made the small space unappealing and overwhelming. She needed to get out for air so she stepped into the hallway and leaned back against the wall. Her feet were swollen and she was worn down by the long flight from Australia and she felt hollow inside even though more lonely tears could gush out with the least provocation.

In the corridor the linoleum enhanced everything; the shadowless lights, the sounds of soft soled footsteps which pushed the injured she did not see, the smell of hospital food delivered on noiseless carts, the hopelessness of the moment. To regain her composure she focused on the painted yellow line at the base of the corridor walls.

She noticed how the enamel walls closed together as they shrank into the distance. She understood the line led the way to the emergency room, to the place which was supposed to have granted her sister more chances. Kathleen turned her head to follow it when the range of movement of her moist eyes was not enough to keep the line in sight. She felt the kick and placed her palms on both sides of her distended belly to reassure her daughter inside. The line promised them 'this way to emergency, to your second chance, follow me' it'd said and it had not worked for her strong shouldered sister who must have already used all her second chances. The disappearing line was a reminder to her in the reflecting gray corridor how life goes on even if she was so tired, so worn out from crying, so empty and alone now that Laureen was dead.

Kathleen pushed away from the wall and stepped back into the dimness of the room where Tommy lay in the presence of his friends. Jerome turned around only because Patrick's eyes widened.

"Kathleen, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," was all he could say because he had seen the eyes of so many people in his line of work as a Paramedic, when somehow they already knew about the passing of their best friend. Patrick dropped into the chair next to the bed, once again his eyes welling with tears he always held back. "He tried to protect them, he really did, he fought so hard, he saved my Sean, he did everything anybody could," Patrick said as his voice faded lower until he made no more sound than a sniffle.

Kathleen stepped around Jerome to be near Tommy's scored face. She ran her fingers through his knife-chopped hair. The darkening circles beneath her great grey eyes enlarged like rain laden clouds and she stroked Tommy's head wondering how his face could have been so brutalized while his head had not a single cut.

"Well, I'll take care of this, Tommy, don't you worry, we'll work this out together." She hummed a low tune which Laureen and she had sung together when they played as girls. Jerome slid a chair behind her and she sat without altering the rhythm of stroking his hair.

"How did you know? We didn't have a chance to call you," Patrick said, never completely truthful.

"We were very close. She was stronger in the crisis. We shared many, many things." Kathleen closed her eyes as she spoke. "Tommy loved her the best that you men know how to love. It's not the same. We never stopped being the best friends. Blood keeps, you know, blood keeps."

"When are you due?" Jerome said. "You must be exhausted." He'd seen the slump in her shoulders when she sat. The corner of Kathleen's closed lips curled upward in a little smile.

"I am going to have my daughter very soon. Then I'll have two children," Kathleen said.

Patrick looked up from his daze. "I didn't know you had a child already."

Kathleen smiled at Tommy. "She told me yesterday when I slept all about this. We agreed about Tommy and their son. I'll take care of this. Blood keeps blood, you know," she repeated, "it's our code."

Sifting The Sands

Tommy pondered how it was nearly a year since the vague Southern California season he'd lost Laureen. He sat high-knee'd in Laureen's wheelchair for the weekly card games. Introspectively he fingered the risen red scars on his face.

Jack humored his sullen participation. Patrick was less forgiving. Tommy no longer bothered to brush his hair to keep the loose strands out of his face, even though he knew it aggravated Patrick by the way the man would not make eye contact. But there was a bond between them not even Tommy could understand.

Across from Tommy at the card table built for eight, young Sean sat with his man sized elbows on the table edge so he could steady his hands as he pressed against his new front teeth with his thumb.

"Something bothering you white man?" Tommy said, glowering at Patrick.

"Come on Tommy, why you got to say that? He'll kick your ass," Jerome said.

"You keep out of it Jerome," Patrick said. "Look, Tommy, just keep your hair off the crackers. I don't want mites in my food."

"Well Patrick that's a new low, even for you." Tommy was pleased to have drawn Jack onto his side for the regular card game conflict. "Tommy, one beer, that's all you get," Jack added.

"Look at him. Sulking all the time like a teenage girl. Jesus Christ, get on with it Tommy. And pass the damn crackers to Dee, will you?" Patrick, unshaven and red in the face, looked at Tommy with disgust.

"I don't want any crackers," Dee said. "And Patrick quit being such a bully. You don't want to piss me off. I have friends, you know." Tommy smirked through his strands of long hair, pleased also that Dee was protecting him.

Dee's elbow barely reached the table so she held her cards face down and Sean could not see what she held. "Do you always look at my cards, young man? Haven't you learned any better from me?" she said.

Sean brayed, throwing his head back so she could see the silver backside of his new teeth. Dee slapped him on the stomach and he sat forward to look at his own cards. Tommy enjoyed watching their relationship grow.

"Juan, I thought Olivia was coming tonight?" Jerome said.

"She's watching Jessica while her mom is out of town. She's going to teach her how to cook."

"God, I hope it's not meat," Tommy said. He had not made an inside joke for months, so there was a brief silence before Patrick and Jack laughed. Sean tossed a cracker at Tommy while Juan shook his head, still looking at his cards.

"Tommy, it's getting painful to see you in that wheelchair. Don't you think you ought to move on?" Jack said.

"I will when Kathleen's ready. Not before," Tommy said. His voice and eyes softened when he spoke.

"Where's she tonight?" Patrick asked.

"She went to Juan's place with the kids. Olivia's going to teach her how to cook too." Juan nodded knowingly, shifting an outside card to the middle of his hand.

"Seems everybody wants to learn how to cook," Patrick mumbled. Sean looked at his Dad for a moment, then at Dee, and back at his Dad.

"Dad, did you hear Pastor John left town without saying good-bye?"

Tommy noticed Patrick focus on his card hand with renewed interest. Tommy stood so suddenly Laureen's wheelchair launched backwards and banked off the wall. Patrick did not yell at him.

"Got to take a piss. I can't even hold one damn beer," Tommy said a little louder than he meant to do. Dee leaned over and patted Sean on the arm.

"It's okay, dear. He probably got transferred and didn't tell anyone. That happens all the time in the Church." While pulling on his forearm with her soft old hand she peered at his cards. "Oh look, Sean, you've got a full house."

Tommy stopped behind Sean to take a look and he sensed Sean felt like he was being distracted on purpose. Tommy, soundless in movement, continued to the bathroom to consider what to do next.

Tommy came back into the room, his hair brushed and feathered, shining the way it used to as it lay on his back and shoulders.

"Looking at yourself in the mirror again?" said Jack. "You know, we'd help you pay for some cosmetic surgery to lighten those scars." Everybody nodded their heads in agreement.

"Nope, I'm turning over a new leaf. Say good-bye to the chair after tonight." Silence fell again in the room. Patrick cleared his throat.

"Tommy, I'm an ass. It was the 80 proof talking," Patrick said.

"You know, Tommy," Jack said, "We don't have enough chairs here anyway."

"Dad, did you do something to the Pastor?" Sean asked. Tommy studied Sean as if he were peering through smoke.

"Why do you ask, son?" Patrick seldom used the word.

Tommy nudged Juan on the shoulder. Juan snorted, pretending he was a sleep.

"He's always nervous around me. He said I look a lot like you," Sean said.

"No, not that I recall. I went to confession a while ago. I doubt it's anything either of us will ever repeat," Patrick said.

"Dear," Dee said, "your Dad was just trying to do the right thing by going to confession. I asked him to save his soul for being so belligerent. But some people can't handle the truth about the one true Church." Dee was more convincing than Tommy had ever heard her.

Jack slapped the table. "Juan, wake up, you're snoring. Play your hand." Jack threw a mini-carrot at him. Juan opened his eyes.

"I'm not cut out for much more of this tonight," Juan said. "Too much noise and I've got to get up early. Olivia's calling the Coyotes down from the hills before sunrise to feed them. She said we have to make room in the freezer."

Jerome had been quiet during most of the card game, taking and discarding cards with no obvious interest in most of the conversations. He asked, "Do you think she needs any help? I'd like to see them again. Are they much bigger?"

"Sure, but get there early, at the cage. They love her cooking," Juan said.

Tommy saw Sean looked back and forth at Dee and his dad. Tommy again sensed Sean was making the connection between the coyote-dogs and the Pastor. Tommy raised his hand to get Sean's attention.

"Do you have anymore of those tall votive candle glass containers?"

"Yeah, about fifty," Sean said. "Don't you have enough sand saved from Laureen's beach?" They'd all called her mural painted patio that even before she died.

"These are to help me purify the sand. I sift the sand back and forth between the containers through really fine mesh to clean out any debris and stuff."

"What will you do with the sand when you're done?" Sean asked.

"Kathleen wants to make a sandbox for the kids when we move to Australia. Maybe you should come with us." Tommy turned to Patrick. "What do you think about that, white man?"

He knew Patrick loved his son enough to let him go. What else could he do? There was always a price to pay for killing.

###
