

# Fourteen Flowers

Fourteen Short Stories

Dale J. Flowers

#

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Dale J. Flowers

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# Table of Contents

I. Milkweed

II. My Pop-Up

III. Ancient Campfires

IV. Coattails

V. Blood Red Lips

VI. Reflections of a Face Reflections of a Face

VII. Grandpa

VIII. Lost Seasons

IX. Elsie May

X. ADHD

XI. Cold Comfort

XII. A Simple Prayer

XIII. A Small Life

XIV. A Cold Touch

About the Author

# I

Milkweed

My dad always told me how elves could ride on milkweed that floated down from the big tree in our backyard. In late summer I'd watch from my bedroom window as the white silky fluffs drifted through the air. The elves as small dark specks clung playfully on their ride to earth. I ran out of my bedroom, down the steps and out to the backyard. By time I got there, they had already scampered away. Only the milkweed on the taller blades of grass remained, struggling for one more tumble in the summer breeze. Anyone that small must have run for the tulip bed where they could easily hide. I'd search, of course, but the results were always disappointing.

"Dad? I asked, "Why can't I ever find any elves.

He gave me his all knowing smile, one that bordered on laughter, and said, "Anytime a human sees an elf it changes him."

"Changes?" I asked.

"Sure," he said, taking a long thoughtful drag on his cigarette. He held the cigarette by two nicotine stained fingers and exhaled thought his nose. The smoke pushed down and then gently lifted up and was gone. "Elves can't be too careful. They know we humans have power to change what we see. You didn't know that did you?" Again, the smile. The cigarette went back up to his lips. "Yep, highly susceptible to how we look at things." He took another drag and buried himself back into his newspaper.

I went back outside to contemplate the power of my eyes. I stared at a line of ants harvesting bread crumbs over a sidewalk crack. They were carrying off the part of a sandwich Billy Redtree had dropped last Friday. No matter how hard I stared, they seemed indifferent. I knew ants had the skeletons on the outside; probably this shielded them from my stare. I tried it on one of Mom's roses, for maybe a good minute. That was when I noticed several wilted petals with their black shriveled edges. I leaned away quickly, and glanced up at the living room window, not wanting Mom to see what I had done. Never again would I stare at a flower that long. Even at Grandpa's funeral I avoided looking at the flowers: the large white lilies, red carnations, irises, and back to the lilies again until finally settling on Grandpa. What harm could it do? His pale nose, chin, and forehead lay above the rim of the casket. He was the first dead person I had ever seen.

Seated in pews, we were walled in by stain glass windows of Saint Paul's and a bunch of other saints. There were only two clear glass windows. A flurry of milkweed was streaming by the one closest to me.

I wanted to ask my dad about the elves. But my mom was in between the two of us. She had the sniffles pretty bad. _Did elves attend funerals?_ _Did they have some special task to perform?_ They were such a secretive lot. Who knew what they might be up to?

One of the milkweeds got stuck on the outside of the window sill. I started to stand up for a better look, but Mom sniffled and put a firm hand on my shoulder forcing me back down. I tried to get dad's attention, but he just kept fidgeting with his breast pocket. It had a hanky in it. Maybe he was gonna get the sniffles too. He peeled it forward. Behind it was a pack of Winston's. He rubbed the tops of two filters. Mom gave him a look, and his hand dropped down to his lap. It was a nervous hand, one that needed to climb back up to his breast pocket.

The milkweed was nervous too, alive with a struggle, each of its silky threads shaking and twisting. I just knew some elf was stuck up there. If I rushed outside and helped him down, he'd know I wasn't someone to hide from. We'd be friends. He'd show me magic. Maybe, just maybe he'd give me some. I wouldn't seem little to him. Outside, I was almost tall enough to reach up on the window. There was probably a bucket or a box or something I could climb up on and help him down. He'd be so thankful. My dad always said I had ingenuity; I'd show the elf ingenuity, _my_ special power.

My mom put her hand on my shoulder. She didn't want me staring out the window anymore. I wondered how long Grandpa would take.

Father Polanski said something about 'remembrance'; everyone bowed their heads. That's the thing about church. You don't have to listen, just watch, so I bowed my head. He said a short prayer. This was good, because now everyone got to stand. We filed into the aisle. Slowly, everyone worked their way up to Grandpa. We were kind of far back. We could have had a closer seat, but Dad needed to finish his cigarette before we piled into the Chevy.

The milkweed was still doing its tangled dance, its silky arms shaking. We were only three more people from Grandpa. I wanted get outside in time _._ I sure hoped so.

When driving to Grandpa's funeral, there was a dead dog on the side of the road. It was Billy Redtree's dog. He had it since a pup and got it for Christmas. Mom said that made it special, but dead things weren't special.

"Dad," I said, that's Billy's."

"Yeah," he said.

"Why did that happen?"

"Bad elves," he replied.

"Bad elves?" I asked.

"The ones with the black magic. You can't expect good things all the time. You just _can't_."

His voice was kind of stern; it quieted me down. Now I understood that some elves should be avoided.

"Ok, Father," Mom said, "That'll be all."

That quieted dad down; he even muffled his cough, but I wanted to know more about the black magic. Did she think I wasn't old enough? What kind was up there on the window ledge? Mom should've quieted down; I needed to know. She said if I wasn't careful my imagination would run away with me.

We were only one more person from grandpa. His casket was surrounded by flowers and had the sweet sickly smell. Was that because Grandpa was starting to rot? He looked OK from the top. Maybe people rot from the bottom up. I didn't want to see him any more. It was hard not to see grandpa as not being special. I grabbed mom's hand to let her know. But she just pulled me up to Grandpa. My chin came up to the edge of coffin.

He was kind of stuffed into the frilly purple cloth. It was a lot like the purple pajamas he wore, except this was darker. It was the same color purple I had seen Father Polanski in during a high mass. I remembered because he looked like a very large bird, not like a Sesame Seed Big Bird, but more like the kind from the zoo. Grandpa was very pale. Billy said they drained dead people. That might've explained it. Grandpa's nose always looked a little chipped, like something had taken a few nips out of it. Maybe he had a run-in with one of those bad elves. I looked over to the windowsill; the elf was still there, struggling. Did the elf come to see Grandpa off? What if it was one of the bad ones who nipped Grandpa's nose? My mom pushed me closer to Grandpa. I put my free hand on the casket to keep from stumbling forward. Even his lips were pale.

Dead people really looked drained. I tried to get my hand off the casket. It was cold, and I didn't want get drained; I need someplace warm, like my pocket. My mom had a tight hold on me. Her hand was shaking, and her sniffles had turned into sobs. Dad was patting her gently on her back. She was squeezing my hand pretty hard. I couldn't lean away from the casket. That's when I noticed Grandpa doing something I'd never seen him do; his hands were folded. I don't think he prayed much because Mom used to get on him about not going to church. He was in church now. That should have cheered her up a bit, but her sobbing was becoming kind of embarrassing.

Dad led mom away from Grandpa. She still had ahold of me, and I was pulled along. She didn't need to do that; I was more than ready to go. Grandpa's hands worried me.

"Mom, can Grandpa pray?"

"No, we'll do that for him now."

"But his hands."

"His hands—oh, they just put him like that to make him look natural."

"Then why didn't put his hands in his pocket?" Grandpa always had his hands in his pocket, rattling his change. He'd have me guess how much. He said if I guessed right, I'd get to keep all of it, but I never got it right. Dad once said, _Grandpa was so old_ , _he'd cheat death_. I must have guessed a million times and never once got it right. Maybe Grandpa had cheated me. Maybe a bad elf guessed right. What did Bill Redtree's dog owe a bad elf? Did Grandpa try to cheat an elf" Was this how an elf got even?

Dad escorted mom outside with me still attached. While she worked her nose with a tissue, I went around to the side of the church. It was just as I thought. The window was out of reach. Even with my hands outstretched, my fingertips barely touched the windowsill. I needed something to stand on. I ran to the back of the church. There, by the faucet, was a bucket. Grabbing it I ran to the window, set the bucket upside down in between the rose bushes, and climbed up. The milkweed was gone. Standing on the bucket I looked around. In one of the rose bushes the milkweed was stuck. Jumping down, I got up good and close. The elf was gone. He could've been hiding anywhere.

"Hey, let's go," called Dad from the corner of the church. "Everyone's ready."

He coughed waiting for me. I jumped down and ran up to him.

"You shouldn't cough," I said.

"I know," he replied.

"Mom doesn't like it."

"I know," he repeated."

He took me by the hand and led me back to the Chevy. We waited in the Chevy with the engine running. They slid Grandpa's casket into the back of a hearse. The hearse pulled away, and we followed in a long line of cars. Grandpa's cemetery was filled with smooth rolling hills of grass. Grandpa's grave was close to a tree. A breeze pushed the tree's shadow over the grave site. It shook a bit, then retreated letting the sun back in. Everyone gathered to one side of the grave.

Father Polanski sprinkled some holy water into the grave using a silver shaker on a wooden handle. It would keep the bad elves out. But what could they do? Surely, Grandpa wasn't special to even them anymore, unless . . . were his pockets filled with change?

Dad had a coughing spell. Mom's patted his back. When that didn't seem to help, she looked cross. Father Polanski made the sign of the cross and so everyone did, except for Dad who kept right on coughing. He pulled his handkerchief out of his breast pocket. His Winston's fell on the ground close to the grave mound.

A dark cloud was moving in. That was when I saw it: a tuft milkweed was stuck three, four, five graves over on a tombstone that was in the shape of a cross. An elf was struggling; the milkweed was filled with a twisted fury. He wanted to get down. Maybe he was afraid of getting blown into Grandpa's grave. They'd be fillin' it soon. If no one noticed what would happen to the elf. I backed away from Mom, between my aunts and uncles. When I was sure no one noticed me, I ran towards the cross. A strong breeze shook the milkweed free. It didn't blow it towards the open grave but away from it. I ran after it. The elf was getting a pretty good tumble, his little speck of himself unable to get free. I ran from my dad's cough. I ran and ran, his jagged harsh cough growing faint. Stopping on top of a hill, I looked through a fence made of black iron poles that had points on top. It was where the cemetery ended and a busy street started. Across the street was Veteran's Hospital where Dad went for his cough. At first, he went just on Tuesdays. Then he went every Tuesday and Friday. Finally, he stayed there. The next time I saw him was at Saint Paul's. He had the same sickly smelling flowers around him as Grandpa had. This time Mom and me rode right behind the hearse. We were the first to get out at the cemetery. There were hundreds and hundreds of silkweed drifting through the air.

A dark cloud moved over us. It looked thick and heavy and you just knew it would be a soaker. Every one of them was gonna get washed down to earth. It was not good for elves to come to earth too quickly. When I asked my Dad why, he said, because they're too small for that. We walked up to the grave with one silkweed bounding over the ground ahead of us. It tumbled into grave. The rain started.

My aunts and uncles gathered around. It was cold and made me shiver. Drops struck the dry mound of earth, sending up little powdery puffs. It didn't last too long before becoming a muddy mess. One fat drop splashed next to my black loafers, sending a smear of watery dirt over its toe. I looked up at mom to see if she disapproved. She had the sniffles again.

Little dirty rivulets ran off the mound. They turned into little dirty streams and poured into the grave. My mother took my hand as they lowered Dad into his grave. I thought I heard Dad cough twice. No one else seemed to hear; my ears were closer. A milkweed was floating half soaked in one of the little streams towards the grave. It got stuck on a wet clump of earth by the grave's edge. The stream built up, washing the soaked seedpod into the grave. It really didn't seem like anything an elf would be interested in.

# II

My Pop-Up

I've been working on this, my pop-up book, for almost a week. No simple feat, considering all of its parts, intricate and precise, have been cut and shaped without a scissors. Just a straightedge and a good eye for detail is all I need.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

"I'm fine." I don't want to look up. I'm folding this piece of construction paper. It's tan with just the right thickness. The seam must be creased just right.

It's not easy carrying on a conversation when trying to get this paper to look exactly like a morsel of squid. When finished, it will unfold into an amazing tentacle that cleverly elevates with the simple flip of a page. If I pull this off, it will be page five. I'm on the verge of mastering it, and she wants to chat, interfering with my week's work.

"Tell me about your wife," she says.

"Well, it's a pretty average marriage. She doesn't want to spend much time with me. Actually, I only want to spend a little more time with her than she does with me."

"Do you think that's normal?"

Man . . . I folded that one perfectly, a nice clean edge.

"Do you think it's normal?" she repeats.

It's not like I didn't hear her; I am occupied.

"We've been married twenty years. Of course, it's normal. If I could just get it down to wanting to spend less time with her, just by a smidgeon, we'd have an equitable relationship—" I hold up the piece of paper. "Look!"

"Nice," she says.

That's _nice_? This woman doesn't have a clue. Maybe I should have married her. I laugh at this, and she looks at me like I'm crazy. She'll just have to go with that; I don't want to offend her. I stifle the laugh and return a calm look. I can tell this is a look she's not ready for; her eyes are making some kind of adjustment. It's kind of a comical one; I burst out laughing again. I could really use a pair of scissors, but it might be a while before I get a pair.

"When they brought you in, they said you were calling out for"—she looks down on a yellow pad of paper—" _squid_."

Good lord, what does she think I'm working on right now?

"Jon," she says empathically, "it must be hard."

"Sometimes," I reply, embarrassed. I'm hoping it's not hard in this loose fitting get up. I'm afraid to look down. I try to make eye contact to keep her up here with me, but my embarrassment gets the better of me. I glance off to the side and through a window with the metal mesh. . . . It must be the late afternoon.

"So how's it been?" she asks.

I wish she'd switch topics. There's no way I'm looking down. Like me, she refers to _it_ as _it,_ never as a penis or a dick. Penis sounds too much like something that would climb out of one of those undersized tiny cars at the circus with about a dozen other frolicking penises. Dick sounds too unfriendly, not to mention unflattering. Well . . . considering she asked such an indelicate question, she must be one. Personally, I've never come up with anything better than _it_.

"Its doin' OK . . . I guess."

Her confused look is back. This time she doesn't go to the yellow pad to help herself out. She just looks at me.

_It_ has become one of those useless appendages that just seems to hang around without any real purpose. Maybe it's like me. It exists in the flesh, but I have thoughts and feelings; it only has feelings. Explain that to a wife who's done with _it._ Such explanations do not exist in the flesh or as thought. She has come to the conclusion it has no place in a marriage. I'm supposed to arrive at the same conclusion, but at age forty two why should I have to? That's where it and I part company. I have my book, a purpose.

She still has that look while she taps the point of the pen on the yellow pad.

"Look, I'm really trying to finish this." I glance down at my work.

"Do you remember, before you were brought in, you were walking down the street naked?" she asks. "Remember, on Holloway Boulevard early last Thursday morning?"

I vaguely remember a lot of lights and some commotion. It was one of those hot sultry mornings where the pavement had never quite shed the summer heat. It was almost too uncomfortable for bare feet, every stretch of grass was a nice cool change.

"I was drinking."

"Your blood alcohol was not that high."

"That doesn't mean I wasn't."

"Were you?"

"Where am I?" Actually, I'm not quite sure.

I look around and see a couple of windows, the metal chair I'm sitting on and another one next to me with my materials. She's sitting on one as well and hesitates as if in thought, then makes a little notation on the pad.

"Were you high?" she asks.

I take the construction paper and fold it into thirds.

"Were you high on anything?" she repeats.

Why is it that some people are really good at asking questions but not answering them?

"Jon, why don't you tell me more about June?"

"June follows April."

"You know what I mean, your wife, June."

"Oh, that June," I say trying to infuse a little levity into the situation. It useless; it only accelerates the pen tapping. She obviously lacks a sense of humor

"She likes stir fry every Sunday."

"What else?"

"I cook it for her."

"What do you cook?"

"Mostly vegetables: turnips, zucchini, broccoli, that sort of thing. She never eats it all. She just picks at it absentmindedly and then shovels most of it to the side of the plate with a fork. That always struck me as odd, you know, to want something but then avoid it."

"How does that make you feel?"

"It's wasteful."

"But how does that make you feel?"

Now there's a thought—how do wasted vegetables make me feel? How does broccoli make me feel, zucchini, turnips—brother!

"Well, I spend the time making the meal, and she doesn't eat much of it. She leaves most of it on the side of the plate. I get to clear the table and scrape part of me into the garbage."

"You feel like you're scraping a part of you into the garbage."

"What?"

"You said, 'I get to clear the table and scrape part of _me_ into the garbage.'"

"I said that?"

"Yes," she says, making a note on her pad.

"I meant the meal. I scrape part of the _meal_ into the garbage."

"It's not what you said. . . . Jon, what part of you do you feel is being scraped into the garbage?"

Just walk over to the trashcan, tip the ceramic plate, scrape with a fork, and watch the green beans, sliced mushrooms, and zucchini do their brown sauce slide. The thing I had spent time on for us, almost half an hour carefully stirring in a wok, know takes its final sliding dive into the trash. It slops onto the empty plastic salsa container, some crumpled paper towels, and anything else where things with the least amount of value collect. The white plastic sack lining the trashcan has more value than its contents; it's why the plastic sack will remain until full. Don't wanna waste a trash liner. The stir fry, yes, but not the liner. My efforts are part of its contents. Eventually it will get yanked from the trashcan and put in a bigger trashcan out by the driveway. On Thursday the trash truck will carry it out to yet a bigger pile of trash—what a life. Have I've been here since Thursday? What a life.

"When can I get some scissors?"

"Why don't you want to talk about June?"

"I'd rather talk about July."

July follows June, or someone did, and off they went. Last time I saw her, she was having stir fry with him at the Panda Inn.

"Jon, why don't you tell me about your book?"

Now she's talkin'!

"You know how there are books made for children, the kind when you turn the page, different parts of the page pop out at you?"

"Sure, pop-up books. I got a couple of those for my nephews last Christmas."

"Exactly! But no one makes them for adults or when they do, they're really kind of lame. I'm talking about a pop-up book for adults, one that appeals to the child in the adult. When does an adult ever get the chance to be a child again? Hell, some kids never even get the chance." I'm talking a mile a minute, but she seems to be hanging in there. "I'm working on one that will do that."

"Did you miss your chance to be a child?"

"What?"

"Did something happen to take away your childhood?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" I ask angrily. I'm tired of her insinuations.

"Jon, you're standing."

"What?" Why do I have to stand for anything? What's she getting at? My heart's racing, like I should hurry off, but to where? The Panda Inn?

"You're standing."

I look around. Sure enough I am standing. The construction paper is on the ground, and my chair is on its side. I straighten up the chair, and sit down. It's a little confusing to carry on a conversation with some people; obviously, she's one of them. I bend over and pick up my piece of paper. Staring at it I say, "My book." But now I can't quite remember . . . Something to do with my book.

"What's it about?"

I look at her, trying to gather the meaning of her question.

"Jon, your book, what's it about?"

"Oh—the book!" The snow and ice of cold winter fills my thoughts, surrounding me in a happy frozen delight. "It's about penguin called Gurgy."

"Gurgy?"

"Yep. She's the nurturing type, and not the type that takes off for the open sea without as much as a note. She goes fishing for her baby, comes back to the ice float, and regurgitates her most recent catch for her offspring. When you turn a page, all the bits and pieces Gurgy had caught pop right up: bits of shrimp, seaweed, smelt, whatever is down there. I just finished the squid page."

"And you think adults would like that?" She crosses her legs and moves uncomfortably in the chair. She's maybe thirty five and could actually be considered attractive if every strand of her jet black hair hadn't been straining to be part of the bun stuck on the back of her head.

"Sure! And you know how little boys are at that age. It will be something the whole family can sit down together with."

"Jon, so you believe, adults would like to see a pop-up book about . . . well . . . Penguin vomit."

Her voice is steady and calm like a parent ready to dispense the knowledge of the world to a child. There are many realities, and I'm not in the mood for being pushed any further into hers.

"Naw—no way. I've designed it so it looks more like sushi. The Japanese will love it!"

Some people don't handle a lot of excitement well. I make the effort to calm down.

"Why don't you show it to me?"

Now this has me thinking; she did say _it_. I have one of two choices. Something instinctively tells me I should go with the last page I've been working on. I set my makeshift book of construction paper on my lap. She looks down. I open it up. Out pops the tentacle of my squid. Oddly enough it looks like _it_. Maybe it needs more work.

"Oh my god!" she exclaims.

# III

Ancient Campfires

1925

Table legs gave out a short screech. Kitchen chairs jostled. Lurching like stiff legged ponies, they galloped across the worn linoleum. What was the source of all the pent up frustration? From a long forgotten embattled band or tribe, or perhaps fleeing war-torn Poland and Germany? The stampede was on, jumping forgotten hurdles over worn, chipped linoleum.

"Pop, calm down," grimaced the teenager.

His hands held tightly to his father's wrist, keeping the kitchen knife at bay. But the middle aged man couldn't calm down, not quite yet. The legs of a kitchen chair weren't done rattling across another two feet of floor. Father and son continued their awkward dance. Hands to wrists, they did the two-step as another chair accompanied them, its wooden seat pressing against the back of the man's leg.

Was it really just another ancient rush from the deep past? Did it really matter?

His wife clutched her green apron tightly to her waist. She used her only weapon, fear. She shot it at him with her wide-eyed look in need of being saved. The insult boiled him over. Her son, Landy, to the rescue, his strong adolescent hands held tight to his father's wrists. Now it was Landy's turn to grip tightly to his father's past. Inheritance was like that. Rage was like that, beautiful, beautiful rage. Without it, his father would have been lost, unrecognizable. And for Landy, how else was he to bond with his father? With it they could soar away almost breaking free. But not quite before gravity dragged them back down. With one good shove, Landy plopped him unceremoniously into the chair, and dear ole Dad found his place, sitting beneath the glare of a dangling bare bulb. Exhaustion started its inevitable seep. Landy stood above the drunken, middle-aged man, still locked to his wrists.

"Just take it easy, Pop. Won't ya?"

It was an absurd request. And yet, an exhausted breath was slowly hoisting up the white flag.

Landy easily removed the serrated knife from his father's hand and placed it on the kitchen table.

Landy had known by his father's unshaven look and the smell of alcohol a rough night was ahead. He hated the look, rough and unkempt, bristling with aggravation. He detested it more than the smell of liquor. It was what he had noticed first, before the faint whiff of alcohol accompanied his father's staggering entrance, the screen door banging. It was the bristles of his phalanx which meant trouble when getting in close. Father and son's ancient dance, in fact, had once been performed around campfires, before there were boots, before there were sandals, where bare feet stomped and flames licked the night sky with a frenzied presence. Now, with civilization, where else could it be performed but around the kitchen table?

His father turned towards the table. He draped his arms over his head that came to rest on the table. Landy looked down at his father, but what could not be seen was the stampede coming right for him. With each passing year their bond strengthened. From the ashes of ancient campfires their hearts had been forged together.

1955

**Every Sunday Landy took his family on their traditional drive.** He was clean shaven with a crisp white shirt that fit loosely over his barrel chest. Driving through St. Louis County, he slowed for a stop. His thoughts surfaced with an irritation, his foot tapping the aging accelerator. The carburetor, eager to stall, was a constant source of aggravation. With each sputtering hesitation, the toe of his shoe provided a relentless tap. A billboard of a bottle of _Southern Comfort,_ with its icy beads of condensation, irritated him like late night sweat. _Booze_ , Landy thought, tapping the gas pedal to sustain the carburetor's life. He never touched alcohol himself, even when offered a beer by friends. His family would never have to worry about a knife threatening drunk. Landy's attacks were always verbal, harsh, slashing things that cut.

Landy's car approached a red light. His right foot tapped again. The car trembled up the hill. His wife sat in the front with their six year old son, Dell, in between. Their eight-year-old daughter, Charmy, sat in the back. Dell was staring out the driver's side window. He was fascinated by a metallic gray contraption that sat on the sidewalk by a traffic light **. . . .**

**. . .** When Dell walked home from grade school a swirl of autumn leaves spun around his ankles. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, protecting his fingers from the autumn chill. On the corner of Gravois and Delores, Bevo Mill, a restaurant, stood in the shape of a windmill. For an authentic look it was made of white masonry stones complete with huge wooden lattice blades permanently frozen in place. Dell's older sister had explained how the wind made a windmill's blades turn. This perplexed him; those blades never budged. He wondered how strong the wind had to be before they moved. That day the blades never caught his attention, but next to Bevo Mill on the sidewalk sat a strange sheet metal box. About the size of a small refrigerator, it was waist high with a tall stove pipe that ascended to eight feet. It seemed out of place with everything else on Gravois. The traffic made sense. The storefronts made sense. Even the windmill that never turned made more sense than this gray metal contraption. He watched it for almost a half a minute. It did nothing. The image played with his lack of understanding, but its meaning was pending **. . . .**

. . . Looking out the driver's side window, Dell examined another metallic object. Smoke was funneling out of the stove pipe. A newspaper boy stood there warming himself as he fed another piece of cardboard into it through an open metal door. Suddenly, Dell, excited with the discovery, exclaimed, "Look! It's for burning!"

"SHUT UP," roared Landy, still struggling with the Chevy.

"Landy!" scolded Dell's mother, using the first name rarely used around the children. Her son leaned towards her, his head sinking into the protective nest of her lap. She placed her hand on his head, her fingers coming to rest on the curve of his forehead. He lay there, staring at the Chevrolet insignia fastened over the car's radio. His eyes traced the curves of the polished metal, his father's reprimand, now a quiet glimmer.

The vehicle crossed the intersection, and the family resumed their Sunday outing. Landy enjoyed investigating the peripheral areas of St. Louis County. Moving down Chippewa Boulevard, the urban sprawl showed itself off with new construction, sprouting up along their meandering path.

"Look there, Mom," remarked Landy, to his wife, Ginny, drawing her attention towards a new A&P grocery market. It stood there, inviting as a work of art. "Look at all that parking. That's the way to go."

Ginny looked with supportive interest. Her hand pressed against the blond cowlick of her son's head. Landy had entered the grocery business in his own modest way. He had started with one small neighborhood store and would soon be opening a second. But it was the supermarket that made his eyes flash with envy, or as he put it: "That's where it's at, Mom."

Dell surfaced from his mother's lap in search of the parking lot. His head appeared above the passenger side window. A splash of sunlight stung his eyes, its warmth lapping over the side of his face. He squinted, viewing the panorama that danced by the window.

The family car, now warmed up, moved through St. Louis County no longer in need of coaxing by a nervous foot. The Chevy rolled smoothly through a Sunday of soft hills and deciduous trees.

.

**On Monday morning** Landy foot tapped nervously, the tension traveling down his leg and into traffic. A frenzied state possessed him as his foot beat out a primitive rhythm for every twist and turn of the street. The residential limit of 25 MPH gave way to the 40 MPH dash to work. He understood the value of time. As owner and manager of a neighborhood grocery, using time efficiently was a commodity. Like a stack of soup cans, nothing could be out of place. It was the driving force propelling him to the top of a residential hill on Hampton. He knew just how to avoid the morning congestion that lay in ambush.

Letting up on the gas, Landy arrived at the main intersection still ahead of the mob. He felt a sense of relief as he pulled into the intersection. Pushing the accelerator halfway down, he concentrated on the distant green light ahead. One block remained when it blinked out, replaced by yellow. His foot went to the floor; the car lurched towards the intersection. The red light blinked on, signaling a full minute lost while the intersecting hordes rolled by with indifference.

"Damn it . . . Damn it Joseph to Mary," scorned Landy, braking to a stop. He always started with the lesser saints. "Thank You—God damn You!" Having reached the top of the list, he blasted his Creator. Running the rapids of the east bound lane left little time for introspection. Security always remained just out of reach. In his peripheral vision, traffic was piling up on the inside lane. He immediately adjusted the pressure of his foot. Turning his head slightly to the left, he tried to catch a hint of yellow on the opposing traffic light. It dangled from a thick black wire some twenty feet up, taunting him. He squinted, revving the engine. No morning competitor would rob him.

At work, Landy surrendered to efficient friendliness. His cheerful behind-the-meat counter look was appreciated by the regulars. From seven in the morning to five in the evening, not a tremor disturbed the discipline of a man who understood the value of good customer relations. All of the day's frustrations were held in check until reaching the Chevy. When the work-day ended, money was placed in a cast iron safe, and a padlock snapped into place on the front door of _Landy's Food Saver._ There was nothing left to do but race home.

Ginny stood by the stove tending to the breaded pork chops that sizzled and popped in the frying pan. Landy's car pulled to a quick stop in the driveway. She glanced out the kitchen window confirming his arrival. A snarling speck of hot grease struck her wrist. She tensed, rubbed the spot while watching Landy from the kitchen window. She focused on the pork chops as Landy opened the door. He blew through the kitchen bumping a chair out of the way with his hip.

"How was your day?" she asked, clutching her green apron tight to her waist.

He didn't answer. But she did find an answer in prayer. Every night she'd connect to God until the tightness had left. At her insistence, on every Sunday, their family went to Saint John's for the eight o'clock mass. Here they knelt, until one's knees ached and you knew God had listened.

**By 1959 Saint John's had become a familiar place**. On the green and black, checkerboard floor stood its marble pillars, holding God's house up in lofty praise. Three sections of pews with a dark mahogany stain stoically faced the altar fifty rows deep. The altar appeared as a facade of white frosting, like a giant wedding cake, ornate and decadent. It didn't quite touch the ceiling before encountering the Son of God, who hung from a cross forever expiring over the faithful.

Dell knelt with the other six-graders on the lightly padded kneelers that were covered in a maroon vinyl. He had knelt there every first Friday since the first grade. The day commemorated something of great spiritual significance that could no longer be recalled. However, its sense of importance was imprinted on his knees, reminding him not to squirm.

Folding his hands and supported by his wrist, Dell leaned into the pew trying to take the pressure off of his knees.

The alter boy rang a tiny silver bell.

Dell looked up. For a brief moment he was not aware of his knees. The sound, crisp and clear, marked the passage of time. It rang a second time. The third time would announce communion was pending. The white communion wafer tended to stick to the roof of his mouth. As a second-grader he had worried about the body of Christ being stuck up there. An absentminded finger might try to dislodge the gooey mass. A bit of it could get stuck under his fingernail. His mind spun in terror. _What part of the body of Christ could it be? A bit of finger, toe—eye?_ Eyes! No telling. God the Father's judgmental eyes would be upon him, as would his dead Grandmother's. By the third grade he had learned one good swallow easily dissolved his worries.

Now that he was a six-grader, suffering was accepted but not understood; his knees ached. Christ had died and suffered for the sins of both the born and unborn. For the most part, the concept was easily accepted. After all, his salvation hung in the balance. But why did Jesus have to take on the sins of the unborn? Fasting before communion, the flesh burning fires of purgatory, all seemed perfectly normal, but the question of the unborn lingered. Shifting to his right knee, he attempted in vain to relieve his left.

On Sundays, when attending church with his parents, he noticed how older men knelt: resting their butts against the edge of the seats, alleviating the pressure on their knees. His mother never scolded his father for this. Even Dell's father found the edge of the seat irresistible. Dell, though bothered by his father's undignified posture, envied the advantage. Dell assumed it was a privilege for men not boys. On first Fridays, the nuns trolled for third-graders engaged in such infractions. Any serious lack of devotion would result in getting yanked from the pew and into the aisle. Then, pushed to the hard tiles, you'd be expected to praise the Lord on aching knees.

By age eleven, Dell drew women compulsively, their breasts and nipples, much too high on their chests, almost choking. Everyday, after coming home from Saint John's Grade School, he retreated to his bedroom. With a number two pencil, he added to the collection. They needed safe keeping.

The attic access panel in his bedroom the knee wall was removed. Ducking down, he pulled a string to a sixty watt bulb that was attached to a stud. Squatting, he entered the attic clutching the drawings to his chest. Above him the rafters bulged with fiberglass insulation. Between two of the rafters, he carefully stuffed the drawings into the pink fiberglass, plunging his arm up to the elbow. It left little red splotches that irritated.

Even when taking a bath the irritations could not be scrubbed away. Contemplating the small red marks, he didn't have to count them knowing penance was equal to the number of drawings.

The silver bell rang.

Dell looked up.

Father Majeski held the sacred host up to the crucifixion's bloody feet. Dell remembered how he had briefly considered becoming an altar boy. Having command of the tiny bell, with all eyes upon him, would have been divine. But Latin was the stopper. Sister Mary Ellen's English class had confirmed this. For Dell, the concept of _past perfect tense_ was incomprehensible: _How could something be in the past and also be perfect?_ In catechism he had learned nothing was perfect, except for his Heavenly Father. Sister Mary Ellen understood the concept of past perfect tense. So did those students she had designated as redbirds. Dell was a bluebird. Redbirds sat on the side of the classroom next to the windows. Redbirds could aspire to becoming alter-boys, but not bluebirds. Dell would never ring that silver bell, but he did have his daydream. It was a salvation of sorts, a distraction from aching knees.

Slipping into his daydream, Dell entered his subterranean maze. It was the same one he had been cultivating for past half year. It had an endless series of horizontal tunnels, each one ten feet deeper than the last. All of them were intersected by a single shaft that plunged deep into the earth. There was barely enough light to see several feet ahead with just enough room to crawl. The dim light swallowed everything into a protective secrecy. He had the mental power to transport himself to the next level within a heartbeat. On the second level he waited.

In the tunnel above him, a twelve year old girl crawled unknowingly towards the shaft. Blindly she fell. As she passed him, he quickly reached out, grabbing one article of clothing. As she continued her descent, he reappeared by each intersecting tunnel. Additional pieces of clothing were wisped away until she arrived naked on the bottom. Without the least bit of hesitation, she crawled towards him. He was also naked. Instinctively, she turned over and slid under him, grabbing his erection. Wrapping her legs around him, she placed her heels on the small of his back. Dell began to crawl towards no particular place, in no particular hurry, endlessly.

The silver bell rang.

Dell surfaced. With the slight arch of his brows, he acknowledged Father Majeski and the alter boy. Sister Mary Ellen was trolling the aisle. Dell bowed his head, sinking back down into his labyrinth in search of a new playmate.

Again the bell.

Dell stood. He made room for several students who worked there way out the pew. They moved towards the front of the church for communion. Dell knelt back down with one boy separating him from George Chiffon. Dell always made sure he wasn't next to George who had his own diversion.

George had half a dozen holy cards, including the Blessed Virgin, Saint Joseph, and baby Jesus. He slid baby Jesus up between the crack of the pew's seat and backrest. The Blessed Virgin soon followed. It was a puppet show of sorts. With the card popping up and down in the crack, baby Jesus hopped joyfully towards the Blessed Virgin. Saint Joseph, always the antagonist, popped up intercepting baby Jesus. As usual, they got into a tiff, the cards dipping and slashing at one another. The show was abruptly suspended by the boney talon of Sister Mary Ellen. Her black age spots rippled over the veins in her hand, growing ridged as her grip tightened around George's collar. Half dragging him out of the pew, she pushed him down onto the green and black tiles. With folded hands held up to his face, he repressed a sly smile. For George, this was not humiliation; he had been elevated to someone worth noticing.

The bell rang.

Several holy cards remained lodged in the seat. Dell waited for Sister Mary Ellen to return to her pew. He reached over and picked up the holy card that had a young Jesus sitting on Saint Christopher's shoulder. Dell flipped it over. On the back was an indulgence: a short prayer reducing the time one would have to spend in purgatory. His eyes widened. The indulgence would reduce purgatorial suffering by two hundred years by merely uttering the seven word prayer. The next week, he mindlessly repeated the prayer on his afternoon walks home. Even a black and gray mongrel baring its snarling white teeth from behind a rusty wire fence did not deter Dell. He simply walked by, murmuring those seven words. Eventually, the holy card was relegated to his sock drawer, but not before reducing purgatorial fires by millenniums.

When reaching his late teens, Dell took to wearing a Saint Christopher's metal at a time when the Church had stripped Christopher of his sainthood. It struck Dell as a kind of an amusing revelation. He wore the metal everywhere. But for now, as a twelve year old, salvation was a must.

Purgatory had a way of seeping into Dell's thoughts. He knew his sins would have to be purged by those flesh burning flames. Hovering against the vaulted ceiling was his grandmother's eyes, absent the memory of her sweet summer treats of peppermint ice cream. He couldn't see her dead eyes. But surely _they_ saw him: huge and translucent, peering into his very soul. Her eyes as big as clouds hovered above, reaching into those secret places he meant to keep hidden. The weight of them bowed his head as he folded his hands. He prayed for something uplifting. Sister Mary Ellen smiled gently as she strolled by, appreciating his devotion. She returned to her pew and the contemplation of her rosary. But the labyrinth was calling. He quietly descended, waiting for his next playmate.

~

**During the summer of 62, family dinner had become a well established tradition.** Father, Mother, Charmy, Dell, and their oldest 26-year-old daughter, Dena assembled around a cramped kitchen table.

"Let's say grace," said Ginny, the sign for the two teenagers to begin.

"Bless us oh Lord for these thy gifts," started Charmy.

Dell bowed his head, waiting for the ritual to end, fingering the Saint Christopher metal that hung from his neck. No longer interested in prayer, he took in the contents of the table. The thinning trails of hot corn, mashed potatoes, green peas, and pork chops smothered in a white sauce dissipated as quickly as grace.

Charmy concluded with the sign of the cross. Hands and arms shot out in frenzied motions filling plates. Dell looked down at the peas. The small green things squished disagreeably between his teeth. Encouragement from his mother as energy needed for a healthy growing body only aroused his suspicions. He assumed his thin wiry body would never be transformed into a man with an expansive chest and well defined pecks no matter how many peas he ate. The peas sat there, immobile, buffeted by a pork chop. Even with his mother's encouragement, he merely rolled one an inch with a fork. It came to rest next to the mashed potatoes on its _Bird's Eyes_ dented side.

When a child, he thought they had been given the name, _Birds Eye Peas_ because of their round little beady shape, _like bird's eyes_. He had been set straight by Dena who had explained the company name and logo. He watched Charmy mixing the peas into the mashed potatoes, a clever way of disguising the hideous things. He made the attempt but stopped short when the pristine white potatoes started streaking with a repulsive green.

"Dad," announced Dena, "Remember that news program on _Channel Two_ last night. A lawyer said his client was not guilty because he didn't remember committing the robbery. Well, my psychology teacher said that insanity pleas rarely worked and were just a figment of a defense attorney's imagination."

Dena had graduated from St. Louis University a year ago but had remained in her father's grocery business as assistant manager and accountant for the supermarket on Grand Boulevard. She had inherited her father's gift for numbers. Now, with her degree in math from Saint Louis University she had become indispensable to the family business, tightly bound by patriarchal loyalty.

"What's a fig-men?" asked Landy still chewing.

Dena looked at her father and with a broadening smile replied, "Dad, it's not fig-men. It's figment. You made it sound like some kind of dried fruit—figs."

Dena burst out laughing. Ginny and Charmy joined in. Dell jumped in but didn't have a clue: _fig-men_ and _figment_ seemed the same to him. Like his father, Dell's dyslexia tended to mesh similar sounding words together. For Dell, a bathtub was a tub-bath, grasshopper was hop-grasser, and on it went.

Landy's eyebrows slanted inward eyes, digesting the lack of respect. His fist tightened around the fork. It plowed through the mashed potatoes. Dell's head was tilted back with laughter and un-chewed ridicule. Landy's lips curled back baring gapped front teeth. "SHUT UP!" he bellowed.

The table submerged in quiet. Dell concentrated on the peas he had assembled on one side of the plate. Placing his fork on one, he rolled it back and forth taking count of each of the four small dents. Separating it out from the herd, he lifted it to his mouth. His tongue maneuvered it between two molars. He watched his father who was vigorously cutting into a pork-chop, the knife scratching hard against the plate. Dell tightened his jaw—squish!

Dessert was laid out in handsome proportions. The clamber of forks continued until the hurried scrapes of forks could be heard as if trying to relieve a porcelain itch.

"Dell, don't wander too far after supper," said Landy, pushing his chair back, "We're gonna work on your bedroom attic."

Now that their middle class home had been sold, and their move into an upper class residence of St. Louis Hills was pending, the attic had been designated for remodeling. Years of Landy's hard work had paid off. With his rise up, nothing could be left behind indicating otherwise. The fence was always painted, trash always put out, and torn worn trousers replaced. Before they moved, the attic's billowing insulation would be hidden by a smooth sheet of fiberboard.

Landy moved upstairs with a sheet of fiberboard, a hammer, and a pocket full of nails. Dell followed. Landy bent down approaching the knee-wall. His hand pulled a half dozen nails out and stuffed them in his mouth, the metal heads protruding. The access panel was removed. They bent down and moved into the attic. Turning around they had just enough room to squat shoulder to shoulder. A sixty watt bulb glared up from the base of a stud. Landy set the hammer on the floor joist next to the porcelain fixture. He adjusted the fiberboard against rafters.

"Hold it steady," commanded Landy through the nails.

"OK," said Dell.

Dell kept both palms pressed firmly against the fiberboard, annoyed by his father's need to tidy up an attic no one would ever see. It was a place where one occasionally pulled the light-string, tossed in something, pulled the string and was off _._ So why fix it up. Just so you could open the access panel to the smooth looking fiberboard? What was the point? Landy knew the point; any number of things could be ignored but not someone else's judgment. Home was where he could be himself. But once out the front door and beyond the front yard, judgment waited, customers waited. He had sold their home inviting judgment in, and no one would ever see insulation billowing from rafters.

The hammer struck the nail; the rafters vibrated. Landy pulled another nail from his mouth while keeping the head of the hammer pressed against the fiberboard. The nail was placed and tapped twice. Satisfied, he hammered in earnest; the rafters shook. Taking another nail, he placed it on the fiberboard and pounded unmercifully.

At the lower end of the insulation, with each blow of the hammer, a drawing inched out: a top of a head, and then, lopsided large eyes, followed by disproportioned choking breasts, and a dark fat navel. With a little tremor she inched out a bit more and floated casually to the floor. She lay between his feet, staring up at his crotch with dilated graphite pupils.

Panic!

Dell's heart shifted into overdrive. Holding his end up with one hand, the other shot down grabbing the drawing. He stuffed it inside his t-shirt.

Landy remained focused, the hammer well directed.

A second drawing inched out. It fell to the floor. Grabbing it, Dell stuffed it under his t-shirt. A third, fourth, and fifth drawings descended. By the sixth, seventh, and eight, he was operating at warp speed, no longer grabbing single sheets but harvesting fistfuls. He sucked his stomach, trying to hide his sordid past. Keeping _his_ eyes on his father, his hand blindly dove for another. It struck the bare bulb with a pop!

Darkness.

Quiet.

"GOD DAMN YOU!" roared Landy. "How the hell could you break the damn thing? You're not even doin' _anything_."

Relieved, Dell exhaled quietly.

Landy made a profane exit. He went through the bedroom and thumped down the stairs sputtering.

Dell remained squatting, his hands frantically feeling between the floor joists.

Landy, still steaming, ascended the staircase.

Dell carefully adjusted his t-shirt.

Landy squatted as he entered the attic. He placed the hammer by the porcelain fixture. With the aid of the light coming through the access, he carefully unscrewed the shattered bulb, avoiding its jagged edges. He set it in between the floor joists and quickly screwed in a hundred watt bulb. The illumination bathed the attic in harsh white. Not a drawing remained. Dell looked down at his stomach. Placing a hand over his t-shirt, he flattened it.

Landy tightened the right side of his mouth, his lips firmly holding three nails. "HOW CAN ANYONE BE SO STUPID," wrapping his thick fingers around the hammer, he retrieved a nail from his lips, "TO BREAK A GOD DAMN—" Lifting the hammer its metal head struck the bulb with a pop!

Darkness.

Quiet.

Father and son remained shoulder to shoulder as if huddled around a campfire with drums beating in their chest, waiting for the last ember to die.

# IV

Coattails

The overcoat Kenny wore was a fine weave of lamb's wool with a beige silk lining. It was perfect for keeping out the damp morning chill. He could have used a hat. At age fifty-two his thinning hair was streaked with gray, letting the mist bead up on his scalp. He was indifferent to this. There were many things he approached with indifference, but not to what lay ahead on Forty-third Street. It wasn't the glittering bit of tinfoil from a gum wrapper. Nor was it the half dead cockroach, its thorax smashed flat, legs twitching and pleading. It was what lay within their proximity.

Bending over, he picked up a half smoked Winston, perfect except for the smudge of lipstick. He placed the cigarette between his lips and searched both pockets of the overcoat for a match. Nothing. Undeterred, he unbuttoned the top two buttons. His dirty fingers slid into the coat's breast pocket. Disappointedly, he put the cigarette in the coat's outer pocket for later, carefully smoothing down the flap as added protection against the weather. It would have to wait; he had an appointment. Pulling out the business card, it read: _McMillan and Brewster Publishers, Three hundred thirty-one, Sixty-first Street_.

The coat was a gift, of sorts, from Jonathan Walter Malt. Jonathan had been a novelist of some renown. In the eighties he had several novels on the best seller list. Then, through a self imposed exile, he simply dropped off the literary radar in spite of his publisher's encouragement. Now, with a quick flurry of e-mails, McMillan and Brewster's were all abuzz with his return. McMillan and Brewster's had not exactly fallen on hard times, but sales had been lagging for the past few years. They were eager to see Malt's latest work. However, the coat and manuscript now belonged to Kenny.

True to Jonathan's eccentric nature, he had stopped off at _The Green Shamrock_ for a couple shots of blended Scotch. Stepping out into the night chill, he flipped up the collar of the overcoat and noticed Kenny. Kenny stood on the sidewalk admiring the neon sign of the _Green Shamrock_. Only two of its four leaves were a glowing green, the other two sputtered erratically. He checked his pockets for a bit of cash he didn't have. His hand pushed into the other pocket. Pulling out a crumpled piece of paper, he unfolded it carefully, looking at it hopefully. Jonathan, always a soft touch for the local down and outers, invited Kenny back inside for something to ward off the chill. Being about the same age and both having been born and raised in the Midwest, they hit it off.

After finishing their drinks, with Jon's manuscript tightly tucked under his arm, they hit the streets. The Scotch had mitigated the night chill. It even provided the streetlights with a soft glow that seemed to warm their very fingertips. Kenny was so taken by Jon's life as a writer he invited him back to his place.

They sat on wooden crates by the side of a dumpster while Jon gave Kenny a private reading of the first chapter. A chilled breeze stirred the bits of paper, but Jon read on and Kenny listened intently. A Norwegian rat stopped to sniff the words of Jonathan Walter Malt, and with the twitch of its nose and jerk of its tail was gone. Closing the manuscript, Jon solemnly said, "Tomorrow morning at ten, I will meet with my publisher, Karen Hill, and I shall start anew."

Kenny could have listened to another chapter but didn't want to seem imprudent. He had learned to never be demanding and had made a career of it. His preference was to dissolve into the landscape, part of the background everyone rushed by.

Sitting on those crates, they reminisced about the colorful autumns of the Midwest. With the crunch of leaves beneath their heels and the white tough winters, they had lived their boyhoods only miles from one another.

They were rounding a conversation into spring when tightness in Jon's chest and a shortness of breath delivered a lethal blow. Kenny sat stunned, watching Jon legs twitch as if pleading for his help. Unaware of the trickling gutter to his back, only his breathing and Jon's solemn repose held his attention. Kenny picked up the fallen manuscript and tried to offer it back to Jon. It was a useless gesture, and he knew it. Laying the manuscript back down, he set it close to Jon's feet. He contemplated the figure which was still on the crate, shoulder leaning awkwardly against the dumpster, head slumped.

It wasn't the first time Kenny had seen a dead person. He had lost several friends through the past six winters, but he had never witnessed the actual event. Finally, Kenny could feel the cold again. Even the hunger in his stomach returned with a low rumble. The wool overcoat had become a serious consideration. Carefully, almost gently, he unbuttoned it. He peeled it down Jon's left shoulder while trying to ease the arm away from the dumpster. The body shifted. Kenny couldn't control the weight. The cadaver slid off the crate and to the ground. Kenny experienced a chill that could not be attributed to the damp night. A certain sacrilege had been committed. Yet, it was a very fine coat. He continued unbuttoning and pulling until it was his. Trying it on, he told himself, _it_ _wasn't really stealing_. How was theft possible? The dead really couldn't make a claim on anything except for someone's memory. Buttoning the coat he considered the wallet. He bent over and reached around towards the back pocket. With two fingers he carefully slid the wallet out. His fingers felt the heat emanating up, wrapping around his wrist, holding tight. The quickening pulse of Kenny leapt into his heart. He jerked his hand up. The wallet slapped against the wet pavement. Standing transfixed, he remembered Jon pulling out a twenty to pay for their drinks. It was the finest gift he could remember. Taking it would have been theft; the wallet would have to stay.

He listened to the gutter dripping. He stared down at Jon amongst the sandwich wrappers and the pieces of cardboard. Jon's mouth was open in a perpetual whole of astonishment. The rest of his face appeared calm, not like when he was clutching at his chest with his face twisted in agony. The painful look had left along with Jon, and he wasn't coming back.

Tomorrow was Thursday, trash day; they'd find him then. Tonight Kenny would have to find new lodgings. He noticed a business card sticking out of the manuscript as a bookmark. He slid it out and studied the address of a publisher. The manuscript had to be worth something, a finder's fee. Picking up the manuscript, he turned it over. A piece of eggshell was smashed flat on the manuscript. With his fingernail he peeled most of it off. He'd return it Thursday morning. "What was the publisher's name?" he asked himself. "Karen, Karen Hill."

.

**Tuesday morning Karen Hill** stepped from the cab directly in front of _McMillan and Brewster's._ Tall, thin, and in her forties, her wide brim vinyl hat shielded her from the morning mist. The full length beige coat gave her the quiet look of composure except for the red heels. They carefully avoided the trickle flowing along the curb. With a little skip, her blond hair flew back and the sharp contour of her jaw jutted out as she landed on the sidewalk. Her attaché case held last night's work: several manuscripts, each carefully marked by dozens of color-coded tabs. But, it was Jonathan Walter Malt that held her thoughts.

Entering the building, she crossed the lobby. She nodded to the aging desk clerk, a shrunken man in a white shirt and navy blue pants. He returned a nod that jittered with Parkinson's disease, prickling her. She looked quickly away towards the elevators. Her father also had the shakes but for a different reason. She stepped into one of the elevators and pressed the top button. Arriving at the top floor she was once again in command.

The elevator door opened to an expanse of fluorescent lighting that hovered over a half acre of cubicles. A wide six foot aisle served as an avenue that led up to her office. She gave an impatient look until seeing her twenty-four year old secretary, Lucy. Lucy's new three inch heels clicked out an obedient route towards Karen with a clipboard. Karen started walking towards her office passing Lucy.

"Morning, Ms. Hill," said Lucy.

Karen Hill made only glancing eye contact. Snatching the clipboard, she barely broke stride. Lucy turned on her heels and followed, two pairs of red heels tapping out the morning rush.

Paully, Karen's personal assistant, stood looking youthful and appropriate by her office door with a grandee latte. He opened the door.

"It's wet out, Ms. Hill," said Paully.

"It's wet out," confirmed Karen. She whipped the hat from her head, giving it a shake by its wide brim. Several drops struck Paully's lower lip. He didn't budge and wouldn't until she passed. He took the hat from her and licked his lower lip.

"I hope everyone remembers what day this is," said Karen. Taking the latte, she entered her office. It was an expansive place without the need for fluorescent lights; a glass wall provided plenty of natural lighting.

"Thursday, beamed Paully.

Lucy looked at him with disapproval. Paully shrugged his shoulders in confusion. Karen approached the picture window, veering around a huge desk of polished oak. She positioned herself by the window and stared out.

"Its Jonathan Malt Day," said Lucy.

"Mr. Jonathan Walter Malt Day," said Karen, turning around. It came out as a statement not just to correct but to celebrate. Now, she rewarded herself with the first sip of coffee. It would be only one of four cups she'd have that day.

"Mr. Walter Jonathan Malt," agreed Lucy. She gave Paully another look. He shrugged his shoulders again and slinked back into the avenue and then turned towards the refuge of his cubicle.

Karen set the cup on the desk, noticing a smudge the cleaning lady had missed, again. She slid the cup over the smudge.

By late morning Karen had her second latte. She stood by the window in anticipation. Taking a sip, she eyed the busy street below. Paully poked his head back in and said, "He's on his way up."

Karen set the coffee on the desk. Walking around it she went out of her office and stopped in the avenue's halfway point. She folded her hands and waited. The elevator dinged, and the door slid open. Karen walked briskly towards Kenny as he stepped out.

"Welcome back Jonathan," she said. "It's so good to have you back with us." She hadn't been with McMillan and Brewster's back in the eighties, but Walt's reputation still lingered from a time when sales were robust.

Lucy and Karen took in Kenny's rough unshaven face made more remarkable by his fine tailored coat. Even his bloodshot eyes added to the look of a rogue writer, hard bitten and seasoned by life. Karen thrust her hand out. Kenny extended his hand with dirt impacted fingernails. Karen's smiles were well seasoned performances, but this one gripped her face so tight forcing the left cheek to take on a lopsided quiver. They shook.

"Jonathan?" questioned Kenny. His eyes flickered nervously from Karen to Lucy.

"Mr. Jonathan Walter Malt," said Karen, correcting herself. "You brought your manuscript." Her enthusiasm was perfectly timed and measured for just the right effect.

"Got her right here," said Kenny.

Deep behind his worn eyes only a handful of neurons fired, and yet, the realization of his promotion from homeless to author struck. It penetrated with enough force making his back arch. Even the elevation in his shoulders carried prominence. He took the manuscript from under his arm and partially peeled back the first page considering its importance.

She waited for him to extend it to her.

He pressed it to his chest.

Her eyes flickered with a moment's insecurity as she focused on the eggshell stuck on the lower corner. Quickly, she recovered and brightened with an eager, "Let's go to my office and see what you've been up to."

Lucy shot ahead. Paully rushed forward, hurriedly opening the door as Karen approached.

Kenny thrust his free hand into the coat pocket and felt the Winston. He badly needed a smoke. Even with his hung-over fogged brain, he knew he must stay the course. However, each cubicle he passed, he instinctively checked for a lighter or a pack of matches. Lucy moved into the office, retrieved Karen's coffee, and stood at attention in front of the desk.

"Well, well," said Karen encouragingly. "It's been too long since you've been back with us."

"Too long," said Kenny. He scanned her desk for matches. Not a single one, not even an ashtray, just perpetual neatness except for several opened manuscripts with their colorful little tabs.

Lucy nervously set the coffee down.

"I'm certainly glad you brought your manuscript," said Karen. She nodded towards the manuscript still held tightly against his chest. Again, the eggshell stain caught her attention.

"Got her right here," he said. He slid it up against his left side of his chest and gave it two soft taps as if burping a baby. Catching her look, he turned the manuscript over and noticed the piece of eggshell. Carefully he used his fingernail to scrape it off. Holding the flake between his dirty fingertips, he was unsure what to do with it. Looking at her, he waited for a suggestion. When none came, he placed it in the pocket of his overcoat. Smoothing the flap he looked at her.

"So, how about that first look?" she asked.

"Ahh," he said as his thick brain grappled with anything that might lead to some enumeration. He looked out the window as if the answer might be found on the wings of a passing pigeon. Shaking his mental dice, he tossed out, "Could we talk about it over lunch?"

"Lunch?" she questioned. It leaped out with greater concern than she intended. "Lunch," she softened with new found enthusiasm. "Why—why not? We'll make it brunch. Lucy, a table at Louie's."

Lucy raced from the room, her five inch heels working overtime on a delicate balance.

"Well, Mr. Malt shall we?" asked Karen, extending her hand towards the door. She passed by and waited for him in the office avenue.

Kenny turned to follow her. Together they walked towards the elevators. Paully rushed up with her coat. Slowing down, Karen allowed Paully to help her on with it. He rushed away as Kenny and Karen waited for the elevator. The middle one dinged, and its door slid open. Paully rushed back with her hat. She took it, and he stepped back. The door slid shut.

On the ride down, Karen caught the faint odor of Kenny. It smelled like sour milk and skin. She attributed it to Jonathan Walter Malt's eccentricity. The smell of money she mused. She considered her fragrance, Floral by Gucci. Over the past ten years, her sense of smell had diminished. She compensated with extra dabs of the Gucci fragrance. Now its citric scent hit with such force, her underlings would throw hidden glances at one another as she strolled by. However, in the elevator it mixed with Kenny's stench until creating a blend that smelled very close to rotting mandarins that neither one could fully acknowledge.

A cab was waiting by the time they exited the building. They arrived at Louie's by eleven. The posh restaurant's grill was separated by a bar where flames made celebratory leaps in the dim lighting. The maitre'd seated them close to the bar by a table with a candle that quivered in a small red glass. Kenny looked longingly at the array of bottles on the bar's shelves. His eyes played them lovingly as if a xylophone.

Karen excused herself after placing their orders. After all the lattes her bladder was in need of relief. Kenny waited until she disappeared down a hallway before ordering a whiskey sour. Its slow burn down his throat felt good. It carried the extra benefit of quenching his hunger. He ordered a second and then a third. By the time he had finished the third, he easily entertained the belief of what it was like to be a novelist, a best seller, in fact.

Returning from the hallway, Karen was met by Lucy. She rushed up to her with Karen's purse. Karen took it, dismissing her with a nod. Lucy quickly exited the restaurant. Karen strolled back to the table, confident and poised. Sitting down she ordered Chablis. Kenny knew a green light when he saw one and ordered a refill. The waiter returned with the whiskey sour and the Chablis on a small round tray.

Karen smiled in approval. She understood men, their egos, and their weaknesses as well as the three empty glasses sitting by Kenny. With each swallow he took, she was sure he was moving closer to surrendering the manuscript.

"Mr. Malt, if you don't mind me asking, with your talent, why did you stop writing?"

The waiter set the drink in front of Kenny. He set the manuscript on the table and picking the drink up in both hands took a sip. "Well," he said, "I ran out of paper."

She laughed and so did he. Hers had a girlish chime to it; his, a bit too loud. Her eyes stayed glued to him, providing more attention than he had experienced in years, except for the time he had been arrested for vagrancy. But this was different. What she was offering was long overdue. So long, in fact, he felt much younger than his fifty-two years.

His lack of eye contact she found disconcerting. She did her best work when a client was fully engaged, but no problem. She would wait. When he did look, she picked up her glass of wine, pursed her lips, and slowly sipped. Watching him over the rim, they both broke into smiles. She ordered another glass of Chablis, and when that was gone he boldly said, "You should really try one of these." He raised his hand, getting the bar keep's attention. Kenny flung out two fingers.

The waiter set down two whiskey sours. Kenny slid one over to her. She picked it up and sipped. Her brows tilted up in approval while her lips pursed, and her throat burned.

"See, what did I tell ya?" asked Kenny.

Her brows didn't stay arched; Kenny had set his drink down on the manuscript. Her eyes dashed in ready for a rescue, but the rest of her remained poised and in control. Her smile returned, forced and perfect.

"This isn't bad at all," she said.

She took another sip encouraging him to join her with a slight arch of her wrist. The extension of her hand forced a current of air. It leaped from her fingertips, forcing the candle flame to quiver. He picked up his drink and gulped. She laughed at the lusty display. He did as well, though he wasn't sure why they were laughing. It didn't matter. It felt good to laugh, to be in a warm fine place, with such a woman, laughing. He liked the way she picked up the cocktail napkin to cover her laugh as if embarrassed to show too much joy. He started to set his drink down. She quickly leaned forward, setting the napkin on the manuscript, intercepting his drink. He pointed at the napkin, and again they laughed.

"That's the first thing I've seen you do for yourself all day," he said. Throwing his head clear back he laughed and took notice of the ceiling's recessed lighting.

She wasn't laughing. She was analyzing his remark; he was analyzing the ceiling. There was something about his remark she found offensive. There was something about the lighting he found fascinating.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Huh?" he questioned, coming back down from the ceiling. But he wasn't done with those lights. He couldn't remember ever seeing anything quite like them. He tilted his head back up for a further study.

"You said something about me never doing anything for myself," she said vaguely, hiding her concern.

"Well, it's just that . . ." He paused as he took a quiet count of the small rounded openings. There were five tiny ones in just the ceiling above their table. There had to be twenty tables in the place, quite a wiring job he concluded. He was on the verge of doing the multiplication when he lost his train of thought. His lack of concentration became a mindless stare. Each light glowed with blurry fascination, but his neck was getting stiff. Looking back down at her he said, "Huh?" He rubbed the back of his neck, working out the kink.

"What did you mean?" she repeated. The answer had become a critical piece of the needed calculus.

"About what?"

"You seemed to be inferring I don't ever do anything for myself."

"Oh yeah, that. You got people's legs workin' like crickets in summer."

"So you think I don't do anything for myself?"

"You don't like doin' stuff for yourself, do you?" he asked.

"Look," she said forcefully, "who doesn't want things done for them? "It's how we measure success."

"You wouldn't want everything done for ya, would you?"

His question seemed to carry a hidden meaning. It required a quick study but there was no time.

"Why not?" she questioned with force. It carried the indictment of absolute certainty, something meant to suspend all further conversation.

"You'd want everything done for you?" he asked perplexed. His eyes took on a confused look. He waited for her answer.

"Well," she conceded, "I know that's not always possible. But, yes, if possible, why not?" This confirmation came with the force of personality, one that had swung many deals her way.

"But still, there are some things," he countered almost sadly.

She flipped her almost shoulder length hair back and smiled, remembering her true goal. "Like what, she quipped, "folding your own clothes, picking up your dry cleaning?" She was being clever and knew it. How difficult would it be to beat this man at his own impertinence and still secure his allegiance?

Kenny drifted off into a slushy alcoholic thought. "I wouldn't want anyone to wipe my butt," he said mournfully into his drink. "I wouldn't want that done for me. There are some things." His voice trailed off in quiet desperation.

Karen was taken back. She was unaccustomed to such frank talk. One of her employees once referred to her as an asshole. She immediately terminated his employment. But the insult lacked Kenny's personal touch; his bordered on a peculiar intimacy. She watched Kenny staring deeply into his drink. This was no ordinary man. But what kind of man? He was still a mystery.

His thoughts sloshed into deeper consideration. "My friend, Markey, he's a paraplegic. He needs someone to wipe his. Maybe he's an exception." Again, he drifted into his drink, contemplating the translucent shapes of ice. Thoughts of Jon Malt drifted by. Kenny was thankful Jon's body had been claimed; the dumpster was Kenny's again. Still, sadness lingered. It was the same feeling he had every night after retreating to the back of the dumpster. However, sitting here with this most remarkable woman, the feeling didn't make sense. One melting ice cube slipped and thoughts returned to Markey. "The asshole's very, very sensitive. Maybe having someone wipe it could be . . . well . . . nice. Aw, but Markey, poor ole Markey wouldn't feel a thing." He remained staring at his drink, despairing over the melting ice. He stuck his finger in and swirled the ice.

There was nothing left in his glass worth having. He wished he could have another but lacked the confidence to ask. He lifted his finger from the glass and stuck its tip in his mouth.

Karen watched him suck the end of his finger while she reconsidered her asshole. Every Thursday she had her six-thirty massage. As the masseuse worked his hand down to her lower back, she was reminded of her secret fantasy, her very sensitive sphincter. She knew she was a woman of great possibilities. Even with all the alcohol, her sphincter had not been anesthetized. She tried to fathom the depth of Jonathan Walter Malt.

Kenny looked up from his drink and stared into her with his bloodshot eyes; she swallowed and blinked as her cheeks clenched.

There was something about her that reminded Kenny of summer, a good summer. It was the summer of ninety-nine when a case of rotting mandarins had been tossed into the dumpster. He had picked the best of the litter and feasted for days.

She considered asking him back to her place, but it carried the potential of one of those awkward moments she wanted to avoid. All the alcohol had made her uncertain. She still wasn't quite sure of him, and now she wasn't sure of herself. Something about him kept her off balance.

"You know, Mr. Malt." Her hand slid across the table and lightly settled on top of his. "Jonathan." She waited for that sign all men gave when ready. He looked at her through blurred vision. She watched his eyes melt into hers. "Maybe we should go back to your place and get into that novel of yours," she suggested.

"Ah," he said with great uncertainty. His eyes once again skidded over the bar's bottles, not admiringly but as a place of refuge. "My place is kind of a mess, how about yours?"

She smiled yes.

# V

Blood Red Lips

The curve of her ivory white collar skimmed close to the arch of her neck. It trembled to the beat of her heart or from some other unknown source, the air conditioning perhaps. Whatever the cause, it reminded me of the wing of a moth.

The moth had settled too closely to the center of a yellow dahlia last fall. Only one wing beat slowly. I bent down for a closer look. There, its head had been snared by a spider. The moth did not struggle, except for that one wing, more like feeble resignation. I reared back in horror; as I did now from her blood red lips.

Even with the distance of our table, her ruby red lipstick brought her disturbingly close; how absurd. That crimson island was trapped in a sea of porcelain white skin. The effect, shocking. She smiled setting my retinas ablaze. My only hope, smile back. So I did. But those red flame lips leapt at me, my heart picking up the pace. So there we sat, awkwardly and resolute.

Bill Robber was responsible for this. Some friend. He fixed me up on this blind date. Then, the last minute call, and bingo, I'm stuck on a failed double date. So here I sat with Rosemary waiting to be served our dinner.

I could ignore everything but those lips: her high cheek bones, the soft cushion of her chin, and the earlobes with the small pearls that dangled from thin gold chains. I remained stranded on that island of red.

The celebratory clink of a wine glasses several tables over woke me from my stupor. Had minutes passed? My eyes jumped with embarrassment and were caught by her cool greens just below the eyeliner.

Why did Bill have to bail? Blind dates need the buffer of a familiar face. Picking up my glass of water, I took a sip, contemplating my irritation.

Her glass went up as well. She sipped. Was she also stressed? Most likely. We were both working through our uncertainties: the strangeness, the need for mindless chit-chat, and, of course, the shock of the drive over. Desperately, we tried to avoid dead air time, trying to repress the trauma of the drive?

She set her glass down. My eyes followed it to the table, stuck to the two red prints that remained smiling. Perfect bloody reminders. Aware of my stare, I retreated back up: past the three tortoise shell buttons, past her collarbones, and past the soft curve of her chin. Those lips! I retreated higher and into her eyes. Not much refuge up there either.

The first time I encountered her emerald greens was shortly after picking her up at her apartment on Elm. No sooner did we pull away when my cell chimed the first few bars of _Beethoven's Fifth_ that preceded Bill's bomb shell: "Hey bud, can't make it."

"Can't make it?" I questioned.

Sorry, dude—got this thing."

Before I could question, "this thing," he was gone.

So we drove down Elm, searching for small talk. As I turned onto Marconi, the unmistakable screech of a cat.

"My God!" exclaimed Rosemary. It was one of those guttural pangs that leapt from her stomach, forcing her eyes to explode into twin emerald terrors.

I wasn't doing much better. "Jez-us!" was my best offer, no consolatory gesture, just the inescapable knowledge of me as executioner.

"Should we turn back?" she asked.

Looking in the rearview, I saw a twitching tail attached to a very dead cat.

"Naw," I sighed miserably.

We sat numbly, driving down the street. Hurriedly, I turned off Marconi; I needed to get off that street. The shock of it left me driving right by Zia's Restaurant, our intended location. Past the glassy stares of storefronts we rolled miserably along. I settled for Mario's, a little restaurant on Holly.

I opened the door for her. Not my usual, but it was a must; she needed to see I was caring. Still, we couldn't make eye contact. She stared at her purse. I opted for the glossy hood of my Camry. I closed the door. We moped up to Mario's. I opened that door too.

The maitre d' picked out our table. I made a point to pull her chair out, of course. Her response, she slumped down like a sack. She unfolded and folded the cloth napkin, maybe four times. Mario's had the indirect low lighting thing going with little flickering candles on the tables, a place one could almost hide, thankfully.

Finally, finally, finally, the waiter. He set down two glasses of water I ordered for us. There was no point in waiting for her; she was too distracted.

"Would you like a drink?" I asked.

"A gin and tonic," she blurted out. Then, as an after thought, she added softly, "Thank you," as if remembering the need to be civil. She threw out a feeble smile, struggling to show teeth. It failed as it settled into a thin lined grimace.

The gin and tonic was a good choice, something with enough punch to sedate. I went with a screwdriver.

"Make em doubles," I said to the waiter.

It was a long wait until our drinks arrived. During the interim, I had wandered back up to those bloody lips while that twitching tail stabbed repeatedly at my memory.

"Here you go," said the waiter, setting our drinks down.

Neither one of us responded. We simply took our drinks in both hands and managed several good swallows before realizing, maybe, just maybe, we weren't following some undefined protocol.

We set our drinks down. Her index finger circled the rim.

We smiled feebly.

After an appropriate amount of time past, we picked up our drinks. But this time we sipped, little polite ones. However, enough of these were strung together until it almost seemed like a race to see who could make it to the bottom. She set hers down first. I followed.

"Do you think it suffered?" she asked.

The alcohol had started to relax me, and before I let slip _No fuckin' way_ , I caught myself and saved the moment with, "No freakin' way." I took the stir straw and swirled the ice while that tail stirred my thoughts. _Oh, that tail_. "It never felt a thing," I assured.

"You're sure?"

We picked up our drinks letting the ice clink.

Peering over the rim I said, "Absolutely."

"But . . ." She faded off and stared into her drink.

I knew she was relieving the cat's last shrieking breath.

"It really didn't," I reassured. "Someone can be unconscious and they'd still emit a sound on their last breath."

"You're sure."

"Absolutely," I said with authority. "Turn off an iron lung, conscious or not, you'll get a groan."

She looked at me; we both knew my experience with iron lungs was zip. However, I was finally starting to breathe easier; the vodka was doing its job.

The waiter arrived with our dinner: pasta in a white sauce, salads, and side order of garlic bread.

She stared at the pasta; the white sauce stared back with its diced bits of chicken.

"I'm afraid I'm not very hungry," she said.

"Let's get out of here," I offered gallantly.

Standing, I laid down some cash and moved to her side of the table, ready to do the chair assist.

Stepping from Mario's air conditioning the hot humid night gripped my neck. Just the short walk to the Camry left it feeling moist and tacky.

"I don't think I should drive for awhile," I said. "Feelin' a bit tipsy."

"Fine."

She turned from me, and with the click of her high heels began walking down the sidewalk. Her light blue skirt, cut at the knees, appeared more of a gray as she left the restaurant's lighting. Its pleats rustled a questionable goodbye. I quickly caught up with her.

We turned down a residential street filled with quaint brick homes. A full moon accompanied our walk, peeking out amongst the elms. It could have been the vodka, but I considered holding her hand. Some things require thought and this certainly did. I eased my hand towards her, considering the rhythm of our stroll. Somewhere ahead of us in the dark, two cats shrieked, long high pitched irritants that pierced the moon. One of them darted across our path as a shadow knifing into the shrubs of the next home. Rosemary stopped. Clasping her elbows, she shivered.

Next to her were three cement-steps that led up to the path of the home. Sitting down on the second step, her skirt rose just above her knees. The moonlight turned the pale skin in into two brilliant white snowcaps. Oddly, the moonlight made her red lips appear black. For some reason this struck me as funny. I started giggling. She started crying. With resignation I sat down beside her.

I waited while the moon worked its way from one elm over to next, and then, waited a while longer for its light to trickle down through the branches. Finally, she stood.

"Sorry," she said.

"That's Ok. It's just—" Couldn't think of a thing. Why did she apologize? Why I was about too?

She started walking and I joined her. We went to the end of the block, crossed the street and went deeper into the residential area. Here, the lawns displayed homes that were set back with well lit windows.

"There's a lot of these little brick homes here," I said, trying to make conversation.

"Yes, yes there is," she agreed.

But she was staring at the sidewalk. There were no brick homes for her. There was nothing down there but the click of her high heels, above that, the passing glow of the streetlights. We continued on like that for almost and an hour.

A few more blocks and we approached another commercial area. We passed the plate glass of store fronts. All of them closed up tight for the night but one. Its neon light demanded attention, blinking its red greeting.

"Hey, a bar & grill. Are you hungry?" I asked eagerly.

It was after nine; a little food might be helpful.

"Oh, I don't know," she said vaguely. She put her hand on her stomach as if considering the possibility. She looked at the neon sign; it was an outline of a cocktail glass. At least she was no longer staring down at the sidewalk, a good omen.

"Let's check it out," I said.

"Sure," she agreed vaguely.

I held the door open and she entered.

The place was a wooden collage with a worn oak floor in need of a fresh coat of varnish. Aging pine tables and chairs, a tongue & groove ceiling with bare beams, and walls of knotty pine completed the decor. All of it was poorly lit by the glow of a jute box, bar lights, and the flicker of a TV.

We seated ourselves in the back corner away from the bar. The other half dozen tables were empty. Only three of the barstools were patronized by overweight men, their eyes fixed to the baseball game that flickered from a TV suspended over the bar.

The waiter, also the bartender, approached our table with a coffee stain decorating a dingy apron. He set down two menus.

Rosemary picked up one and stared at it blankly.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Not sure." She looked up at the waiter apologetically.

"A screwdriver, and a gin and tonic," I said.

He nodded and left.

"This has been quite an evening," I said.

"I suppose so," she agreed.

I wanted to get things to level out, maybe salvage what was left of the evening. We almost managed to look at one another, but the TV admitted a noisy cheer as if recognizing our attempt. We turned towards it; a base runner advanced to third.

The waiter set our drinks down. I nodded in acknowledgement and he left.

We sipped slowly. Everything had slowed down. There was no longer a need to rush from anything, just sit and accept the feeble work of the AC.

The guys at the bar groaned; a homerun arched out of the park.

Rosemary was looking at the door. Did she regret coming here? Maybe she regretted being with me, the cat killer. I caught myself gulping my drink, trying to swallow the thought.

She remained fixed to the door, sipping her drink through the stir straw. Her red lips remained tight to that candy striped thing; it was hard to imagine she'd ever find anything more compatible to stick between those lips. She sucked the drink, the last few drops slurping through the straw. Setting the drink down, she rattled the ice. She looked at me, embarrassed? She rattled the ice again, feigning disappointment with an odd, red, twisted smile.

I returned an uncertain one.

The jute box over in the far corner was playing an oldie-but-goldie: _Kat Stevens_ , maybe _Moon Shadow_.

I picked up my drink and with forced levity announced, "Here's to Kat."

Here brows twisted inward. The red lips squeezed tight. She burst into tears.

I gulped my drink, finishing it. Setting it down, I mumbled, "Fuuuck," too drawn out to be a catharsis, too inaudible to offend.

She opened her purse and pulled out a tissue. Blotting the tears she sniffled. Then, the transition: she blew with authority as if rallying the troops. She stood, stuffed the tissue in her purse and said, "Let's go."

"OK," I said standing.

The alcohol on an empty stomach made standing kind of fun, the tip of my nose numb, a broad smile ready to arch. Ah, but not so fast; the red lipstick had been smeared vertically up her lip and over the tip of her nose. Studying it, I considered offering her a napkin but why bother; she was already half through an indignant turn towards the door.

She walked up to the door and held it open for me. We left.

The moon was well ahead of us by several blocks. This irritated me; it was escaping and leaving me behind. I turned to her to complain. But, the moon had done its black magic; her nose with the lipstick smudge appeared as if someone had taken a nip out of it.

I laughed.

She stopped.

"What?" she demanded.

I was taken back by her aggressive tone; my hands slid into my pockets; I bowed my head.

She waited. "Well."

But now I was studying the two brass buckles on the instep of her high heels. The moonlight did a little dance over them as her feet shuffled impatiently.

"Well" she repeated.

She wasn't letting me off the hook. Reluctantly, I raised my head, ready to meet her head-on, eye to eye, preparing for the night's confrontation. But the hollows of her eyes were buried deep in shadow. So what was left? Just her nose, fascinating: everywhere her porcelain white skin was lit up like a lunar landscape, except for the black lips with the vertical streak pointing the way to the strangest nose.

"You're just a lil nipper," I laughed.

"A what?"

"You have a smear of lipstick on you nose. It looks—" I laughed. "Like someone had taken a little nip."

Digging into her purse, she stepped next to a streetlight. "And when were you planning to tell me about it?" she asked indignantly.

Was she letting me have it for the cat? Maybe she was somebody who just shouldn't drink.

She pulled out a compact, flipped it open, and took a hard look. "Can't see a damn thing out here," she said. She threw a hard look at me as if I was personally responsible for the bad lighting. Yeah right, like I controlled the moon, the stars, and stray cats.

She angled the compact at the streetlight. Pulling out a tissue, she scrubbed her nose and said, "This light is useless." Frustrated, she closed the compact with a snap. "What do you think?" she asked. She tilted her nose up for inspection.

I tilted my head way back and looked up at the streetlight, just had too. "I think it's a high pressure sodium one," I said innocently.

"What?"

"See how the light's yellow tint? That's high pressure sodium for sure."

"No! My nose."

Approaching her cautiously, I staggered slightly. I steadied myself on the lamppost with an outstretched arm. My wrist almost rested on her shoulder with the flat of my hand against the lamppost. The smear now extended half way up the bridge of her nose.

"You're fine," I said jubilantly. It was a long walk back to the car, and I wasn't in the mood for an extended gripe. "Let's turn down here." I glanced down at a side street.

"Why here?"

"I don't want get any further from the Camry. This should eventually get us back around Mario's."

We turned down the residential street. We passed lawns, each with a few steps attached to a path that led to a small home with quaint banister railing.

"My feet are killin' me," she complained.

She sat down on a step using the banister railing for support. She pushed her high heels off with her toes and massaged the soles of her feet.

"Ah, that's much better," she sighed.

She rolled her stockings down and stuffed them into her purse. She held both shoes by a finger and thumb. Using the banister railing, she pulled herself back up.

"Shall we?" she asked. Her tone was light and playful. Amazingly, she wasn't angry any more.

"We have to watch for Holly Street," I said. "If we pass it will be walking till the sun comes up."

"Holly has all those storefronts, can't miss it."

So, we walked, the moon leading the way.

"You should try going barefoot," she said happily.

"No thanks. Never been into it."

"Seriously, the warm cement feels good." She stopped and had me watch as she wiggled her toes with conviction.

"Yeah, until you step on a bottle cap or something worse."

"Suit yourself."

She swung her arms freely; the shoes dangling from her hand added to her stride.

Within a half hour, the humidity was thick and the alcohol just starting to drift from its upside. The vodka wouldn't become a dull ache until the morning, but still, it was poor fuel for a hike. I tried to remember how many blocks we had walked east. Holly Street could be a ways.

Incredibly, Rosemary picked up the pace, swinging her high heels. Her bare feet slapped happily against the pavement while the heat of the night beaded my forehead.

We walked for the longest time. The moon peeled off to our left. It hovered over the rooftops, finally growing distant until only its feint glow skimmed along the treetops.

Oddly, the street came to an abrupt end. We stopped and stared in confusion at a dark expanse ahead of us. It stretched out into an unexplainable distance.

"What?" I asked to no one in particular.

"Where are we?" she asked.

We were up high, maybe by as much as fifty feet, overlooking what exactly? We stood under a single streetlight that lit a patch of grass. It rolled softly down a slope until gobbled up by the night. Then what? Nothing but the immense blackness, but not quite; somewhere out there was a few white specks of distant lights.

"Is that the Mississippi?" I asked.

"The Mississippi?" she questioned.

We looked south and north along the stretch of black. With just the right vision, I could almost imagine the east bank of Illinois, the little twinkling lights, distant homes.

"So where's Holly Street?" she asked.

I turned around and looked back up the street.

"Jesus," I complained. "We must have passed it . . . maybe, a couple miles back."

"How could you've miss it?" she said sharply.

"Me!" I retaliated incredulously. "You said it would be easy to spot, storefronts and all that."

"Well, that's just great, two miles back."

"Maybe less, I'm not sure."

"I'm barefoot," she complained.

Starting back up the street, we didn't make it more than a half block when, "Son-of-a-bitch!" she said painfully. She took one hobbling step and stopped. Balancing on her right foot, she lifted her left for inspection. "I stepped on something."

_Probably a bottle cap_. I bent over for a look. She put her hand on my shoulder for balance; I resented the touch.

"It's not bleeding," I said.

Not trusting my analysis, she continued the examination. She set her foot down.

"It feels sore."

Letting her hand slide off my shoulder, she tested her foot with her full weight. She started a hobbled walk for several steps and, then, sat down on the curb. Carefully, she slipped on the shoe to her right foot, not bothering with the nylons.

Should I've mentioned the nylons? Maybe not.

She carefully put on the left one and stood.

We walked back up the street. Only a few homes had their lights on. And the moon, it had escaped. How I envied it. The only thing I knew for sure, it would be a long walk with hobbled Rosemary. My walk was stoic, my eyes straight ahead; I had no desire to encounter that nose or _those_ _lip_ s.

"How much further?" she complained.

"Not much;" I didn't have a clue.

I resented her uneven gait, the annoying clip-clop of the high heels. And as far as her foot was concerned, it wasn't my responsibility. My collar was damp, my underarms soaked, even my underwear clung in the endless Missouri heat. The humidity was unbearable. And yet, I endured the incisive clip-clop.

We crossed; how many streets?

"Oh god," she moaned and stopped.

I was tempted to say, _Come on, it's getting' late_. But I took two more steps, stopped, and asked softly, "What's wrong?"

"I think I'm getting a blister," she said.

_Should've worn the nylons,_ I thought.

"It really hurts."

"Why don't you sit down, and I'll have a look."

She sat on the curb between two parked cars.

I stepped into the street. Squatting down, I lifted her foot and set it on my knee.

"Careful," she hissed.

"OK."

Slowly, I slipped off her shoe; she groaned. Turning her heel slightly, I aimed it towards the nearest streetlight.

"Looks kind of puffy," I said. Touching it with my index finger, I asked, "Does this feel tender?"

She reared her head back and hissed.

Contemplating the ball of her foot, I grunted, "Hmm."

"What?"

"Looks like whatever you stepped on gave you a little bruise down there."

"Well, I can't take another step in those heels."

"OK, OK," I agreed, slipping off the other shoe.

I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket. Doubling it up, I tied it around the ball of her foot. "Maybe this will take the pressure off a bit."

Holding onto her forearm, I helped her up. She took a tentative step and stopped.

"Hey!" It was the most cheerful sound she had emitted in almost an hour.

"What?" I asked.

She was looking down a side street.

"I see a light down there."

"A light?"

"Just a couple of blocks. See?"

Sure enough, there was a glow a block down, too bright to be a home.

"Holly's not that way," I said.

"But it's someplace, someplace that's open, some place to sit down."

"Alright," I agreed.

She took one miserably limp and stopped. Tentatively, she placed her hand on my shoulder. I placed my arm around her waist. Funny, how that kind of contact binds, joined at the hip, you might say. She looked at me hopefully. It was a look I could buy into, as long as I avoided those lips.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Good to go," she said cheerfully.

We proceeded at kind of a three and a half legged limp. For every ten feet, she needed to rest. Stopping, she lifted her foot by an inch. Then, setting it down, she titled her head back and laughed. It erupted with such force she gripped my forearm, her nails digging.

"What?" I asked, patting her hand, tying to get her to loosen her grip.

"Do you know what we've been doing?"

"Not really."

"Bar hopping!" she exclaimed with a burst of laughter; her nails reasserted themselves. I joined in; after all it was kind of funny. I would have laughed harder, except for her nails.

We made it across the street. Not a set a headlights anywhere, just the blank stare of the street. What time was it? I checked my watch. Unable to make out the time, I noticed two trickles of blood had run down my forearm.

We passed a tiny cluster of storefronts. The light was coming from the one at the far end. We made slow steady progress until coming to a neon light. We stopped and stared: _Simmer's Bar_.

"God," she said with relief. What'd ya think?"

She actually wanted my opinion, miracle of miracles. Still, I hesitated.

"A place to sit down," she pleaded.

Jokingly, I said, "A gin & tonic sounds good."

"Boy, I'll say, she said, reaching for the door. She hobbled in.

I followed.

A forty something waitress stopped by our table. She looked tired and worn. We were the only customers.

"A gin and tonic," said Rosemary.

"Maybe we should have coffee," I suggested.

"When you been through a night this traumatic, one needs a little empathy."

"Alcohol induces empathy?"

"Of course!"

Maybe she was right. "Make mine a screw driver," I said. "Better make em doubles."

We didn't have much to say until our drinks arrived. We sipped our drinks while enthusiastically devouring a bowel of complimentary peanuts.

"Boy! Have you every tasted anything so good?" Rosemary asked.

I had to admit, they were delicious.

"Each one is perfectly salted," she said. Holding one delicately between her thumb and index finger, she brought it to her lips. Her red tongue darted in and out between redder lips, tasting the salt. Catching my look and realizing the absurdity of it, we both laughed, a bit too loud; the waitress gave us a disturbed look.

Finishing the bowel of peanuts the waitress eyed us with suspicion. We drained our drinks leaving only the ice.

The waitress approached.

"We're getting ready to close," she said. She gave me her best fake smile. It did little to hide her sentiment.

"Oh, OK," I said.

I paid up and went to assist Rosemary. This time she needed assistance. I lifted her by the elbow, but she only made it half way up when my free hand slapped onto the table for balance, rattling the ice.

The waitress stepped in rendering assistance. She appeared apprehensive; maybe it was the dry blood on my arms or maybe it was Rosemary's nose. Or maybe her bare feet came into play. My handkerchief was gone!

Thank you," Rosemary smiled dreamily.

Was she smiling at me or the waitress?

Finally, we were both managed to straighten up enough to aim ourselves at the door.

Staggering outside it had to be well past midnight, and, still, the night hadn't cooled. We stared aimlessly at the streetlight across the street. We were at a lost as what to do next.

"I need to lie down,"

she said.

Understandable, I thought. But then, she stated to slump.

"What are you doing?" I asked alarmed.

"Gonna just have a little lie down."

"Not here! We'll get picked up by the cops."

"But you see," she said as a matter-of-fact, "I absolutely need a wee bit of a rest."

Grabbing her by the arm, I stopped her descent.

"Look, you can't lie down here. Let's go down by the river."

"That's almost, what, two blocks?"

"We can make it."

I led her down the sidewalk. We crossed the street, leaning into one another for support. She wasn't limping too badly, must've been the alcohol. When we arrived at the bank, I was exhausted.

"Let's get out of the light," I suggested.

We moved down the slope a ways and sat clumsily down. The grass was invitingly cool. She lay down.

"You know," she said, "I don't think that cat felt a thing."

"I don't think we can _feel_ a thing."

She laughed, but it was a weak one.

"Just need a few minutes and I'll be as good as new," she said.

I lay down beside her, the grass cool against my back.

Struggling to get into my front pocket of my _Dockers_ , I pulled out my cell phone. My hand rested on my chest with the cell. "I've got a plan."

"A plan?" she questioned.

"I'll call a cab."

"That's a great plan," she said groggily. Her hand eased down by her side, her fingertips lightly brushing up against my hip. "It's a great plan." Her hand turned over, palm up. She lightly tapped my hip with one finger; maybe an offering for my ingenuity. I would have held it, but I was occupied with the cell. It didn't have enough bars. Relenting, I let the cell rest on my chest while my hand searched out hers. Her hand was remarkably cool, mine, very clammy.

Above was a scattering of stars. The moon was long gone. Propping myself up on my elbow, I looked down at her. She was breathing deeply, asleep. I considered her lips, but then, lay drowsily back down and thought, _What a pair._

# VI

Reflections of a Face Reflections of a Face

I knew before I met her, she'd be the one. Her image flickered on the pond's ripple, her blouse and jeans smearing her image in contrasting tones of peach and denim. But the pond, not more than fifty feet across, had just enough distance to hide her face in the mystery of a single shade tree. One long arm of hers swung languidly, fingertips disturbing the water into ripples that emanated out, then, dissolving into the pond's stillness.

I looked up from my sketch pad, the pretense of some serious effort, but carefully studying the ripples marking her face. She knew I was here, the artist across the way. However, it was her face that kept swimming towards me, the thing that kept dissolving quicker than my eyes could puzzle it together.

Looking down on my sketch pad, I studied the sheet, not a mark, just the snowy white and harsh against the noon sun. I had been coming here since June third, my birthday. They always mark the beginning of existence and should never be ignored. I knew the comings and goings of the place: the black cat from the tall surrounding grass, the single splash of a frog, and the cluster of starlings, unsettling in the tree. But there were no real trespassers, except for her—perfect.

For several years I knew you did not get to really know someone until you knew the face. There was one gal with high cheek bones and wide blue eyes; it was her eyes that really marked her insecurity. High cheek bones by themselves will never do, but place them in a pair of wide blues, puzzle solved.

I flipped to another blank page, disturbing thoughts piercing, or was it just the sun's harsh blinding reminder. The more I stared at the white sheet, the more it told me what to do. The glare poured out its vision: _stand up, walk along the pond's perimeter, and find where the lines and images of her face meet._

Standing I took my sketch pad and walked casually along the pond's edge looking at the blank page. But that was the thing about _nothing_ ; it was always something. Stepping around the cattails the page gave its blank hypnotic stare, its vision becoming clear, my retinas burning with blinding clarity. I was thrown back into the past—all the shimmering faces questioning my motives.

Looking up from my sketch pad I brushed up against another set of cattails. A shock of butterflies took flight, hovering by the pond's edge, their images fluttering over the water's surface. Green shimmering speckled water merged into what? A face—her face? My heart fluttered with the intensity of the winged creatures in frantic search for what? The butterflies hovering above the water's edge assembled its watery collage: lips, forehead, and somewhere disappearing into the pond's depth her hair. How could I not be startled? How could I've been so careless? I stared in amazement when the starlings chattered with laughter. Angrily I spun on them. "What," I shouted. Their taunting disrespect was offensive as that frog's ridiculing splash.

"Hey—hey—hey," they clamored from their tree.

"Hey yourself," I shouted back.

"I didn't say anything," she said looking up from her paperback.

The starlings leapt into amused flight. I was furious, furious over the starlings' ploy of my predicament.

"I didn't mean you," I offered apologetically.

She threw me a perplexed stare. How could I explain about the starlings? I smiled to ease the tensions. But the furrowed lines in her forehead told me the starlings had done their work. I wanted to swear at them, but this would have left only more unanswered questions. To my back the frog splashed; I knew what that meant. So I waited and sure enough, a second splash, closer. It told me what would follow. She looked around as if expecting to see someone else, someone breaking through the tall grass, but there was no one, only the two of us in this remote place. The starlings settled back along the limbs and stared down in scornful amusement.

"Are you expecting someone," she asked.

"No . . . I mean, not really. No one comes here much."

"I come here on Saturdays."

"Today's Saturday."

The shade of the tree was streaking her face. Only her chin and forehead caught the sunlight, and her forehead still carried questions. I knew they delighted in this. It made me want to shout all the more, but I refrained. Discipline was something required of anyone with a vision. I had both.

"Yes, its Saturday," she said with a smile. There was something in that smile, the lines in her forehead melting into disdain meant to put me in my place. This was _my_ place. The starlings jeered, a chorus to her scorn, and my blood boiled. Was she in league with them? But I was disciplined, self contained. And then there was that splash.

Two eyes, bulbous things watched me from the water's edge. The amphibian had been watching throughout the summer. It floated there with just its eyes breaking the surface. I didn't need any more witnesses. Next to my foot was a stick: five feet in length, four inches in diameter. Picking up the stick I gripped it tightly in my left hand. Inching towards the pond's edge, I raised the stick slowly.

"What are you doing," she asked standing with alarm.

"There's a frog—"

"I know there's a frog," she said, taking two steps towards me and stopping.

Turning towards her I lowered the stick. "It's been watching."

I looked back at the frog, its marble eyes still peering with its glassy stare. She took several more steps and froze into a shuddering stare. The frog splashed out of striking range, their collaboration obvious. Her eyes remained fixed in a cluster of cattails.

"My god," she exclaimed.

Her hand covered her mouth. Stepping towards her, I tracked her eyes towards the cattails. Just beneath the water's surface the corpse.

"My god," she said again.

The air of her voice hissed through her fingers. Turning my way she looked at my stick, her shock transforming into fear.

Again that splash.

We both turned back towards the water's shallows to the face. The girl's face had risen with all the plump warmth of her living past.

She turned back towards me, clutching her paperback in both hands. Her eyes still looked at me with fear, but now with something added, something she refused to ask. This disturbed me more than the frog, almost as much as the restless starlings.

Lifting the head of the stick, I crashed it back down and said, "Well?" The word came out harsh, distinct, demanding.

"I just came to read my book," she said, taking a half step back. She lifted the book towards me as proof.

"And the frog," I demanded.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"The frog," I said softening my voice, not wanting her to panic.

She looked out at the pond and back at me. "The frog?"

Just another coy feminine ploy? There were still a good ten feet between us, an unsettling distance. Taking one cautious step towards her, I snapped the stick down and said with a silken voice, "Your friend the frog." But the stick thumped like a misplaced exclamation point. She froze like a frog waiting for a predator's swallow.

She didn't answer.

Impatiently the stick snapped again. "The frog," I repeated.

"I—I," she stammered dropping the book. It lay on the damp ground, upside down, split open. I knew without looking, its newsprint would suck up all the dampness of this dead place. As I stepped forward she stepped back. I bent down picking up the book, a simple courtesy. She backed up further. Inside the book on the title page was today's date, and _Happy Birthday Jeannie_.

"It's your birthday?"

"Y—Yes," she said with an annoying stammer.

"Jeannie?"

"Yes," she admitted as if revealing much more than she wanted. "I rarely come here," she added, as if this would save her.

"Happy birthday, Jeannie," I said offering her the book.

I could see the two open pages were stained by the pond's mossy edge, a reminder of this ruined moment. Her hand reached out tentatively like a feral cat desperate for a morsel from a human hand. She accepted it not knowing the true extent of what she received. But I knew the value of such things. She held it tightly, her eyes still eyeing my stick, insulting. I moved back to the water's edge, crouching down, knowing with certainty the frog would not be far. I could hear the girl swallow like the sound of wet leaves clogging a pipe, followed by her footsteps moving off slowly, and then, more hurriedly. She never thanked me for my gift.

# VII

Grandpa

**Summer** **settled on Missouri as a thick heat** , heavy and still. By July every sidewalk and street was held in its humid clutch. In the morning a hazy cataract of a sun hung above the cityscape. Timmy and Charmi, ages eight and ten, waited on the corner of Chippewa and Jamison for the Chippewa bus to carry them to Webster Groves.

The bus stopped with a hiss; its doors folded. Timmy climbed up followed by Charmi. Charmi stopped by the driver holding out a five dollar bill.

The driver eyed it disapprovingly said, "I don't have change for that."

But a middle aged woman sitting up front said, "I believe I do."

She rummaged through her purse while Timmy climbed onto the seat across from her. He stared at the tip of his tennis shoes, curiously noticing one frayed toe. It had been perfect just last spring, and now the change seemed quite sudden, as if ruined overnight.

The gray metal box mounted on a short gray pole mechanically digested the coins. The coins didn't so much as fall as clamored. They were separated by size behind a small glass window on the side of the metal box.

"Thank you," said the bus driver to the woman.

"You're welcome," said Timmy, staring at the coins.

Charmi, embarrassed, quickly sat down next to Timmy. Leaning into him she repressed a giggle. Timmy responded with laughter, certain that he should.

Over River Des Peres, along Chippewa, and past the A&P, the bus rambled. Charmi made sure they got off at Velvet Freeze. It had been a place their grandmother had treated them to ice cream. With her grandma smile, she had reached into her change purse, her bony fingers retrieving precious coins. Charmi and Timmy walked quickly back to Velvet Freeze almost at a run. They bought sugar cones topped with large scopes of peppermint ice cream. Their eager tongues competed against the summer heat, rescuing sweet drips that hurriedly raced down the cones.

Grandma had been gone now for over a year. During the summer of 53' Timmy and Charmi had stood in their kitchen with their seventeen year old older sister, Dee. It was a vigil for their grandma. No one would leave the kitchen where the wall-phone hung until finally the call came from the hospital. And then the tears. Charmi and Dee made the regular trips to kitchen counter where the Kleenex box had been set. They moved back and forth from the box of tissues to the kitchen table sobbing. Every now and then they pulled a fresh tissue from the box. Timmy stood and watched, relieved that they were too absorbed with heads bowed to realize he was tearless. On one of their circular journeys to the tissue box, Timmy joined in, but he could barely reach the box of tissues. He took one and dabbed his tearless eyes while following them back over to the kitchen table, knowing there'd be no more peppermint ice cream. . . .

. . . The air brakes hissed and the door folded back. Charmi and Timmy stepped down from the bus. The air breaks hissed and the door clamored shut. They took a half-block walk to a single story brick house with bricks neatly arching over the front doorway. Here, they'd spend time with their aunt and grandpa. It was the beginning of a summer tradition lasting some three years when Timmy told his mother, "I don't want to visit anymore." Her eyes registered quiet surprise and then accepted the request as a child's moment of passage.

Aunt Hortense and Grandpa's home was also home to nine cats. The basement bristled with their sour smell. The house was immaculate. The dining room, living room, and even the kitchen had a cleanliness betrayed only by that basement smell. For Timmy, the smell seemed out of place, but Aunt Hortense's cats didn't seem to mind, and Timmy loved cats: their slow graceful walk, tails that snaked around in all directions, and the vibration under their chins.

Their Grandfather, a slightly bent man, appeared to be perpetually on the verge of giving up a secret. His suspenders and slicked back strands of gray competed with his untamed eyebrows. Bending down with sparkling eyes and the chronic smell of stale cigar, he gave a poke to Timmy's ribs.

"Grandpa", squealed Timmy, twisting sideways.

"We're gonna pick peaches today at your Uncle Bob's," said Grandpa.

Grandpa and Aunt Hortense took Charmi and Timmy to their Uncle Bob's backyard just down the block. Another summer ritual began: picking peaches.

They gathered in the backyard. Grandpa walked towards the tree, careful to avoid a fallen split peach that laid split next to the tree trunk. A collection of flies eagerly sampled its wound. The peach was almost perfect except for that sliver of imperfection. Timmy would have picked it up and handed it to his Grandpa, but it was beyond redemption. He dismissed it with a glance.

Grandpa and Timmy worked as a team. With a helping hand on Timmy's butt and back, he pushed Timmy up to the first fork in the tree. The old man's left shoe pushed into the soft crack of the fallen peach. Flies retreated in disarray; the rotten brown oozed against the sole of his shoe. The bottom of his brown leather oxford carried the rotten stuff with each step, leaving a telltale smear on dry blades of grass. Grandpa would have been perfect, except for the rotten streak. He kept his focus on Timmy's small legs and arms that pushed and grasped at the tree's limbs. Timmy raised himself up ready to please. His Uncle Bob and Aunt Hortense sent up encouraging praise. With each breeze shards of sunshine stabbed through the flickering leaves at Timmy's eyes, but his focus remained steady on one big prize just out of reach.

"Can ya get that one?" asked Grandpa pointing the way.

"Yeah, just gotta get higher," said Timmy, pleased to have all eyes on him.

Timmy moved up and out onto a thinning branch, proud to pick fruit inaccessible to anyone else. His grandpa, uncle, and aunt stood protectively below. Most of the fruit would eventually find its way into canning jars after their Aunt spent countless hours over a hot stove with boiling water. Hot steam would fill a kitchen that already brimmed with the July heat. With her hair confined to a red bandana and sweat beading on her forehead and the back of her neck, a year's worth of jam and jelly was collected and stored.

Timmy worked the tree. Straining for one ripened beauty just out of reach, he shook the branch a bit too much. The plump fruit gave way to gravity striking Timmy squarely on the right eye. It was not pain he felt but embarrassment. After all, he was the premier peach-picker, and he'd let one get away. Grandpa only laughed, signaling to Timmy the peach was of no real concern.

During supper, the elderly man pointed to the bruise around Timmy's eye, retelling the story of the peach that got away. Timmy just looked on with curiosity at the smiles surrounding the kitchen table, unaware of the purple and black ring surrounding his misfortune.

The day went fast. All summer's light seemed to have vanished in the blink of a child's eye. Every window was filled with night except for Grandpa's bedroom. Here, a bit of light from a street lamp shown through a tall bush. The shredded pale light settled over the bedspread as long bony fingers, the breeze shifting its gnarled touch.

Grandpa still had the king-size bed that had accommodated Grandma and him. For Timmy, what remained of her were the memories of those short walks to Velvet Freeze, his tongue eager for that sweet melting peppermint.

Now her bed provided ample space for the duet of peach pickers. Grandpa entered with that rotten streak marring the otherwise perfect place. Timmy wanted to tell someone as his grandpa approached, but the telling of it would've seemed like an even greater violation.

At night, the streetlight cast eerie shadows in the bedroom, moving and shifting with the rustling of the covers, bony fingers still searching. Timmy's numerous trips to the bathroom gave only short-term relief. The walk down the hallway only delayed the return trip to the bedroom. The fingers returned.

"Are you OK," asked Grandpa, his voice cracking with quiet concern.

"Uh huh," was the soft reply.

"That's your third time."

"I had to go."

"You're OK?"

"I'm OK."

Decades later, when a co-worker unexpectedly placed a friendly hand on Tim's shoulder, he froze in moment of alarm. His mind would quickly remind the body there was no need for panic, shoulders slumping in forced relaxation. Such was the legacy of a grandfather—the work of a pedophile is never done.

# VIII

Lost Seasons

**On Madison there were one lit window for each of the two bedrooms** , beacons staring out from a single-story home. The one nodding out first was mine. The remaining one, Lynn's, stared out until midnight. Mine went back on at 2:30. This was our home at night, like a giant weary head where only one eye slept at a time.

.

Getting back into bed, I Propped myself up on the pillows and adjusted my glasses. Running my hand through thinning hair and then over a stomach a bit too fleshy, I challenged my vanity. I reached out for my companion: a magazine, a book, or anything with words to feed on. After thirty minutes my eyelids droop, the light went off, and Madison could sleep.

By 5:00 AM, our neighbor, Matt could be heard bounding down the seven wooden steps of his two-story home. He was vigorous and in his late sixties. The pickup door clamored shut. The engine turned over followed by the crunch of gravel. The vehicle moved towards Fifth. From my bedroom window, I could see the soft glow of Lynn's. By now, she'd have started her exercise: the small careful circular movements of her feet, followed by the bending of her knees, the bed sheet rising and falling; I could see it all in my mind's eye. After fifteen minutes, it would be her hands turn. They'd rotate slowly, followed by fingers that ran through her long hair. At age fifty five, it hadn't lost its color or sheen. She had learned through the past decade that exercising was the prerequisite for getting out of bed. For her, morning was a time where consciousness slowly broke to the surface as if a diver avoiding the bends. She never bounded out of bed, but sat on its edge until perfectly balanced, hands on the mattress and feet firm against the rug. By 6:30, she'd cautiously stand greeting the morning light that streamed through the bedroom window on dancing bits of dust.

The pink terrycloth towel dropped to the linoleum floor. Grabbing a three-foot wooden dowel she pushed her drenched sweatpants to her ankles. Holding the sweatpants down with the wooden dowel she stepped out. The shower would be next.

I lay in bed, waiting for the sound. And, there it was, the running of water from the hot water tank inside my closet. I had fifteen minutes. I fumbled on the night stand for my glasses. Putting them on, I got out of bed. Walking out of the bedroom and through the kitchen, I went into the small room adjacent to the bathroom. Bending down I folded the pink towel in on itself. Grabbing it, I walked towards the laundry room. A damp bit of towel had me quickly adjust my grip. Stuffing them into the washer, I dropped the lid and went into the living room to wait.

Lynn stepped from the bathroom with a fresh towel around her waist. Catching her reflection in the window, she looked away. It was an unwelcome sight; her sunken breastbone and protruding ribs, reminders of her diminished weight.

She walked into the living room and noticed me in the recliner. My eyes received her passively, not bothering to track her as she walked by.

"I'm ready now," she said.

I looked up.

She undid the towel. Her legs, barely a hair on them, were smooth and pale with a few blotches of veining purple. When her legs had become swollen two years ago the hair fell out. When the swelling subsided only a few wiry survivors remained.

Grabbing her violet jogging pants from the recliner's armrest, I held open one leg. She stepped into one and then the other. I pulled them up to her mid thighs. She grabbed them and finished the effort. Looking out the picture window she noticed the sunlight splashing over the leaves of the Alaskan roses. The slightest breeze made them shimmer with an emerald green brilliance. Closing her eyes she breathed deeply as if taking in their spicy fragrance.

"It's going to be sunny today," she said with enthusiasm.

My eyes shifted towards the window. The sunlight didn't penetrate my interest.

"There's an overcast pushing in," I said rubbing my forehead. "How ya doing?"

The question worried me. Her pain was never completely absent. It had lumbered in as if a bear taking up residence, every shift a threat.

"I'm doing OK," she said, pulling her hand through her long strands of hair. Her hair slipped through the webbing of her fingers falling along her shoulders like spun silk. This caught my attention, my eyes surfacing into the here and now. She took her other hand and ran it through the other side, alternating the sequence. It was a gentle exercise, something she did to relax her muscles. I considered getting out of the recliner, an old desire rising. But knowing better, I walked towards the door, rubbing the left side of my groin.

"Is that still bothering you?"

She stood on a carpet square in the living room, marching in place, exercising her legs.

"Just sometimes." I moved my hand away. "Off to work." I gave her the obligatory kiss and grabbed a jacket from the coat hook.

"I love you," she said.

These were difficult words for me, never feeling quite deserved. And yet, there were times I'd rush out the door before hearing them, registering the pang of their absence under the weight of my feet.

.

**Friday evening** , I slid my hands through the ceramic bowl on the counter. Fishing out a handful of loose change, I carefully avoided a rough part. It had been chipped when angrily flinging in the car keys. I studied the handful of change. Satisfied, I put it in my pocket.

"Going to Matt's," I said, walking towards the front door.

"Don't forget to be back to help me with my shoes." said Lynn.

"Around nine," I agreed, closing the door.

I walked down the steps, part way down the driveway, and cut over Matt's lawn. Climbing the porch steps, I knocked twice on the front door and entered. "Hope you're ready to give up your hard earnings," I said, "I'm in a winning mood."

Across the living room and through the kitchen doorway, I noticed Matt sitting at the kitchen table shuffling the cards. The bright incandescent ceiling light created a sharp contrast between the doorway and the dark confines of the living room.

"Well, pull up a chair," said Matt, looking cheerful, far removed from the middle aged anger and alcohol that had driven his wife away. Now a deacon of his church, he had been tamed by age and sobriety.

"Jimmy here?" I asked, moving towards the kitchen.

"Couldn't make it."

"So now what?" I asked, moving towards the sink. Turning on the faucet, I filled a glass while rubbing my groin.

"I've got more Pepsi," said Matt.

"Naw, that's alright. Can't play cards with two anyway."

"What's with the rubbing?"

"Aw, this thing keeps poppin' out. Been doing it for over a year."

"What thing?"

"It's like someone slipped a half of a golf ball under my skin. Pops out, burns a little, I rub it, and it goes away for a while."

"That's a hernia."

I laughed. Noticing Matt's eyes were not laughing, I questioned, "Hernia?"

"Yeah, I had one of those once. You need to get that thing takin' care of. Just a little patch of Teflon and you'll be good as new."

"A hernia?"

"Yep, how did you get it?"

I hesitated, my thoughts going inward, considering an ancient past. "Well, you know Lynn and I can't do it anymore. About a year ago, she had hold of me and was pushing her hip into me. What was pain for me, well, she thought was ecstasy."

Matt forced a laughed, "Well, at least you got it honorably."

My eyes drifted away from his remark and towards the window. My eyes stuck to the darkness. "Yeah, honorably," I said unconvinced. "There are only two reasons to have sex."

"Just two?" questioned Matt, his brows arching with amusement.

"Yeah, to have kids or pleasure. If you're not into one of those two, what's the point?"

"I can kind of see that, but," picking up the deck of cards, he shuffled them with a slow meditative motion, like a monk gliding over prayer beads. "What about things like, well, make-up sex?" Noticing my intense stare, he looked down, once again divining secrets from the deck.

"Make up sex? You mean when a couple fucks out of insecurity? That's a great use for it."

"Could be, giving and getting pleasure back to security. What are the options anyway? Stay pissed off at one another until the whole mess is buried too deep to be exhumed." He shuffled the cards slowly, methodically, as if each card might slice through another point-of-view. "Hell, why not fuck it away?"

"Fuck it," I said, scratching my head.

We both laughed while he aimlessly cut the deck.

"OK," I conceded, "I get that, a kind of physical therapy. But unless there's physical pleasure, I don't see how two can stay for the long run. You know, to give a _shit_ about pursuing it down the years, even a little bit." My hand gestured out, two fingers pinched together holding up the absurdity of _a little bit_.

"A little bitterness there," said Matt half kidding, eyeing me with friendly suspicion.

"What do ya mean a little?"

We laughed releasing our tension.

My eyes grew serious. "Jesus, it's been ten years."

Matt slid the deck over to me. I straightened the cards into a pile and then gave then a little tap. "We need Jimmy," I said standing. Well, I guess I'll be going."

"OK. Take care of that thing."

"Yeah, I'll have Doctor Hill take a look at it."

I moved out the front door, closed it, and stepped onto the porch, inhaling the cold marine air. I held it, looking up into the night sky traveling into the past. . . .

. . . "Did you remember not to masturbate," Lynn had asked as I moved across the living room. Her words came as casual as my swallow. The corners of my eyes tightened, intimacy without passion, surrendering to my lack of control. Those words, ' _remember not to masturbate_ ,' signaled a compliance as causal as asking someone to pass the salt. It was understood, sex was used to help maintain our relationship. Or, maybe to do me a favor; this I resented. Taking off my clothes, I flung them on the couch and put on a blue robe.

My eyes greeted the ritual of Lynn's long nylon blue dress as she entered the living room. It shimmered down to her ankles, like water sliding down glass, the V-opening down her back, an offering. She stopped by the picture window looking out.

My lips descended along her shoulders. Peeling the dress down, my lips moved down her spine, one kiss at a time. I moved over the curve of her buttocks, inching towards those inner reaches, anything to move her along to the bedroom. Slowly, I peeled the dress down her hips, gravity doing the rest. I let my robe drop and led her into the bedroom. Here, the cool currents of air encouraged a blue bed sheet to serve as a refuge.

We lay down. I was on my side. She lay on her back, placing pillows on either side of her head, and under her knees to reduce the risk of injury. I applied oil, ample amounts, over her stomach, breasts, and vagina. A little extra went into her cupped hand. She placed her oiled hand around my penis, gently massaging it. My left hand moved along her stomach, slowly, waiting for her to arch, encouraging my efforts.

Arching her back slightly, she carefully avoided stressing her neck. Tightening her grip, she felt the power of my thrust. Encouraged, she pushed her hip into my groin. Noticing the grimace on my face, lips curling in a way that told her I was close to an orgasm. She pulled tight forcing my thrust to jam into her hip. My face tightened. With one more pull the thin muscle fibers of my groin stretched to the breaking point, tearing a porthole for a bit of my lower intestine to peek through. Life rushed out. Laying there the pain subsided. The sweat slid off my forehead. It was time to rest.

Getting out of bed, I retrieved the robe and rubbed my groin. I looked out the living room picture window. The Alaskan roses rippled through a memory awakening the time we first met in Eugene. I tried to remember if we had always been like this, her pretense, our lack of passion. Had my insensitivity wasted youthful chances, our chances? The thoughts scattered through my mind, all those moments when touching could have made a difference. Had they been squandered in the rush to feed our insecurities? But how could it have been any different? _It was so long ago_. _But we had a few moments, didn't we?_ I tried to remember those moments. The Alaskan roses shook me from this improbable place. Rubbing my groin, I opened my robe and stared at the strange lump of flesh. _An infection_? Rubbing it, it vanished. . . .

. . . Exhaling, my breath steamed the night air. I moved down the porch steps, the last one emitting an uncomfortable creak. I cut across the lawn to my driveway. Climbing the cements steps, I was home.

"Hello sweetie," said Lynn, marching in place on her rug. "You're home early."

"Jimmy didn't show," I said, hanging my jacket on the coat hanger. I moved towards her.

She watched me approach as she stood in place, worried. Placing my hands on her waist she put her hands on my forearms. I leaned in to kiss her.

"Be careful," she said. Pushing down, she forced my forearms away.

"Uh, OK," I said, moving back a step, drifting towards the recliner. "You know that lump, along my groin?"

Lynn looked towards me as her hand ran through the ends of her hair.

"Matt thinks it's a hernia. That's gonna have to be our last time."

"OK," she said, running her hands through her hair, marching in place, knees pumping.

I watched her closely, knowing what was to follow: loss, regret. But her look, perplexing. It was not the look of loss or even concern. And then I got it. No more having to put on a long sleek dress. This lurid thing had been put to rest, tucked neatly away providing relief. Having cast ourselves as tragic lovers, my delusion, egg shell thin had been cracked. I swallowed knowing it was only my loss, watching her stroking her hair, its silky length fanning over her shoulders.

Bending over I picked up the remote off the end table. I placed my hand on the small of my back.

"What's wrong," she said, watching me rub my lower back.

"All that yard work."

"Yard work?"

"All that digging yesterday by the driveway."

"Why don't you go to an acupuncturist?"

"Drive all the way to Portland for that?"

"Seaside's just fourteen miles."

.

**Driving into Seaside, I turned off highway 101 and drove for several blocks.** I turned down a narrow street, no sidewalks just a scattering of trees quietly removed from the beach and tourists. Slowing down, I watched the mail boxes for 237 Pine.

I stopped by a small one-story house with a worn deck, bleached gray by the coastal rains. An attached single car garage had been converted into a studio. Walking up the driveway, I opened the door and stepped into a small reception room. Against one wall was a couch covered in a long beige sheet. Across from it was a shelf with neat tidy items and a chair in the corner. Settling into the couch, I sunk deep, knees rising up giving me the feeling of a third grader in a second grader's desk. _Futon,_ I thought. The shelf contained various personal items including origami swans, dried bundled herbs, and small ceramic bowls. S _omeone cares about their space_ , was the conclusion. A wicker basket full of magazines caught my attention. Rooting through it, I fished out a health magazine and began leafing through it, looking for something of interest.

The door to the treatment room opened, and a middle aged woman stepped out. Making uncertain eye contact, she broke for the far end of the room, its smallness forcing an uncomfortable intimacy. Stopping by the chair, she picked up her sweater and draped it over her arm.

"See if that helps, Jeanne" said a woman from inside the treatment room.

"It always does, Karen," said the woman turning back, smiling with relief.

The acupuncturist stepped into the reception area. In her late thirties, she was thin. The two women hugged. I sat there, uncomfortable and unsure, wondering if hugging was required.

"Thank you," said the middle aged woman. They stood briefly making eye contact. The client left and walked down the driveway.

"Hello, I'm Karen Marion," she said turning towards me. She offered her hand with intelligent eyes and a smile. Her face, slightly stretched to her thinness, was dominated by a wide friendly smile, but when the smile retracted, her eyes dominated. These were eyes that seemed older than the rest of her, heavily creased when smiling, unusually calm when not. I shook her hand carefully, as if it could easily be damaged, and then set mine down by my side. She looked at me, assessing my character in a quick sweep, my knees tight, hands now resting awkwardly along my sides.

All of my massage therapists had been women with strong arms and thick trunks with enough bulk to move walls. I stared, trying to comprehend her look. She was not anorexic model thin, but someone who was designed to be thin for the duration. Conscious of my scrutiny, I forced my eyes to relax; we smiled.

"I have a few questions to ask you," she said, pulling a clipboard from a small waste level shelf.

She sat on the chair, upright, her professionalism contrasting the long floral dress that touched the toes of her black platform shoes. She went through a standard form and led me into the treatment room. It was just long enough for her to move around the massage table. There was a chair in the corner for clients and a small table at the far end containing lotions and sterile needles. She moved to the table. Her short blond hair fell short of her shoulders framing her face in a polite inward curl.

"Have you ever had acupuncture before?" she asked.

"No, this is my first," I said sitting.

She probably suspected as much, noticing my awkwardness, the way I sat unsure what to do with my hands.

"You can take off your shirt—" Before she could finish with, _'I'll_ _be right back_ ,' I pulled my light blue sweater over my head. Popping back up, I caught her slightly amazed look. I pulled off his t-shirt in one sweep, and sat holding them in his lap. The pale skin of my chest was cut short by the baseball tan of my neck. My hands lay awkwardly on the pile, knees tight not wanting the clothing to slip through.

"When you're ready, you can get up on the table, I'll be right back," she said exiting the room.

I climbed onto the table, my face sinking into the head rest. For several minutes, I studied the floral pattern of the rug.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

"Yes.".

She entered and turned on the CD player, filling the room with flutes pulled deep from Ming Dynasty. Her hand rubbed a lotion into my neck and shoulders. Wintergreen filled my senses. I was struck by an emotional pang. It resonated with the music as a vibration, sending a quiet tremor through my body, something indistinguishable from pleasure or pain. She picked up a hand full of needles and began her work.

.

**I grabbed the earphones that was attached to the TV** by a twenty foot extension cord: Lynn's protection from sounds she could no longer tolerate. She had grown hypersensitive to loud sounds, strong smells, and bright lights. I unwound it towards the recliner. Plunking down, I elevated my feet. Shaking my slippers loose, they hung by my toes. I scanned the TV with the remote, settling for CNN. The catastrophe of Iraq caught my attention. I relaxed, mesmerized by eerie glow of ascending anti aircraft fire. Its graceful arc searched the black sky for stealth bombers, while below, Baghdad was intermittently illuminated by bright flashes.

"Mindy's being noisy," called Lynn from the bedroom. The stress in her voice tugged, furrowing my brows.

"Yeah," I said indifferently.

The TV flickered with little bursts of light.

"For almost 15 minutes now."

"What am I supposed to do about it?" I already knew, aggravation tightening my vocal chords.

"Can you call?"

"Jesus, second time this week, why can't you?"

"I can't get up right now."

"God damn it!" Standing, I discarded the headphones, clumsily letting them drop to the floor. Moving towards the phone, I picked up the receiver, dialed and waited. I put it back down. "They must be out," I said approaching her bedroom.

"And they left Mindy out?" There was desperation in her voice that strained her throat. "They know about her," she pleaded. She watched a spider crossing the ceiling, a strand of cobweb waving it on. She tracked it with a building grief. Turning from the bedroom, I went out the front door letting the screen door bang.

I stepped out onto the porch, staring across the street towards the corner where a two story white house stood. On the cement porch stood small, gray, curly Mindy. She had been bred with a desire to bark at things seen or imagined. She stood there yapping aimlessly in high alert. She charged down the steps, coming to a neck-wrenching halt by a twenty foot tether. Straining against the rope it barked at nothing or something. It could be a smell, a leaf, or a bee. She rushed back up the steps and sniffed the air. Panting, she refueled for the next bout.

I went down the steps and to the side of the house. Taking a garden hose, I filled a large plastic bucket three fourths full. I lifted it with a struggle and walked into the street. A tongue of water rolled around the bucket's white lip. I stepped carefully, avoiding the water's mischief.

Mindy watched me approach with my unfamiliar scent. She bolted down the steps. Part way across the lawn she was whipped into the air by a frenzied jerk. Her strangled fanaticism provided all the justification needed for a series of sharp yaps.

I kept coming.

She fell silent.

I closed to fifteen feet, ten feet, five feet . . .

Mindy turned with her tailed tucked. She slinked away, taking refuge on the porch.

I walked up to the porch, glaring at her. Her sorrowful eyes pleaded her case, but my predatory stare refused to yield. She made herself small against the screen door, her black caramelized eyes seeking forgiveness. Rearing the white plastic bucket back, I let fly a deluge. It struck the dog with such force she was lifted on a wave by several inches. Her body pressed against the screen door as she crested on the foaming white splash. Docking on the wet cement, she sat soaked and quiet.

"Now—shut—up," I growled.

I walked back across the street, went up the driveway, and entered his home.

"Could you get Mindy to be quiet?"

"Yeah," I said, eyeing the remote.

She caught the lightness in my voice, her eyes curiously searching out the reason in the ceiling's cobweb. "How?" she asked.

"I asked her to be quiet." I settled into the recliner.

"You asked her to be quiet?"

"Well, actually I told her to shut up."

"And she listened?"

"The bucket of water helped."

"Bucket of water?"

"Yep, one wet fucker."

"Adam!" she laughed.

.

**Friday afternoon, I pulled alongside 237 Pine.** It had been a sleepless night. The late night read had failed, leaving me tense and aggravated. I turned the engine off, letting the radio linger on NPR. The political scene irritated.

"Politicians," I grumbled.

Walking up the driveway the political antics of the day ricocheted around like gnats. I opened the door to the reception room. Moving to the futon, I plunked down, my knees riding up. I reached for a magazine from the wicker basket when the adjacent door opened.

"Morning, Adam," said Karen, opening the door.

"Hello, Karen," I said, forcing out enthusiasm, not wanting to appear impolite, mindful of those nipping gnats.

She sat on the chair and picked up a clipboard. "So how are you today?" She studied my chart.

"Well—" I didn't want to admit my lower back still hurt, but then it always did. I considered telling her it helped me sleep, but went with, "—my shoulder is less stiff."

"And the lower back?" she asked, making notations on the clipboard. Looking up, she noticed my hands resting at my sides, and my left sandal tapping out a silent tune.

"Ah, about the same."

"Well, why don't you come on in?" she said. Standing, she opened the door to the treatment room.

Stepping inside, I settled into the chair.

She moved to the end of the massage table and adjusted a few items. Turning towards me, she asked, "So what do you do?"

"Movies, listen to NPR, political cartoons."

"You draw?"

"Just cartoons."

"Are you published?"

"In a few papers along the coast."

"You must have lots of material with all that's going on during this election year."

I relayed to her the latest disturbances in the current political scene. She became attentive. Encouraged, I went on with foreign policy, the miscalculations, the expense, the waste. In the flick of a synapse, I shot up to such a miserable height that even poor sleep failed to hold me down. Karen joined in adding a few fiery bits. We threw in larger chunks, stoking our concern until our eyes glowed bright with outrage. We protested against a system that was a threat to its people, its democracy, _our_ nation.

Catching her breath in a single gulp, she caught sight of my distressed angry self. Her mind focused under the whip of professionalism stiffening her spine. She had bought this home. Its one-car garage had been remodeled into a tasteful bit of architecture where professional care was offered. But I had wound her up with my discontent. Her eyes became serious, rigid.

I froze under her stare, my hands retreating back to my sides. We mirrored the look of saboteurs having bumped into our own detonations. The ensuing silence stretched in need of a release. Slowly, lowering the clipboard, she gathered herself up and stood.

"I'll be back when you're ready," she said calmly. Leaving the room, she closed the door.

I pulled off the sweater and T-shirt, and then slunk face down onto the massage table.

Returning home with wintergreen emanating from my shoulders, I turned off of Fifth and onto Madison over the familiar crunch of gravel.

Mindy bolted from the porch, her tether stopping her short of the minivan. I swerved.

"Stupid fucker," I growled.

It was impossible to adjust to Mindy's blinding attacks; I was forever yanking a hard right. Fantasies of swerving in the opposite direction swirled, taking out the nuisance in one foul squeak in a moment of perverse pleasure.

.

**On Wednesday, I had Karen on my mind**. I moved south on the coastal highway listening to NPR. A controversial program held my interest. My eyes froze with the thoughts of last Saturday's embarrassment. As a precaution, I turned down the radio. However, whispers of political graft seeped through. Self righteous indignation hooked me on its point which I gladly squirmed. Nearing Karen's, I drove political thoughts from my mind by turning the radio off. But my curiosity was peeked; it went back on.

I turned off the highway and down G Street. Turing onto Pine, I parked in front of Karen's and walked up the driveway irritated.

The usual brief introduction went without a hitch. Karen led me into the acupuncture room. She went to the far end of the table. I sat in the chair. Our best behaviors rode out on polite smiles. With small talk we trotted around one another.

"Have you seen any good movies lately?" she asked.

An avid movie-goer, I could discuss a film's cinema photography, the director, and its production. Occasionally, I could even explain how a movie was linked to some vintage forties or fifties thing.

"I saw a movie last weekend, after I left here. It was called _Caliber_. Have you heard of it?" I asked.

"Yes." Her eyes flickered with recognition, creases arching in approval.

"Remember the scene in the basement?"

"Yes! Where the furnace started to glow and rumble."

"Yeah, well, remember that poster on the wall?"

"Mmm . . . not really."

"Well, no one does. I didn't either." It always felt good to dispense of bit of film trivia. "I read where the director had to fight to keep it in. The studio heads wanted it out because of its little satirical dig against the president."

"You're kidding." Her brows slanted in disapproval.

"Just shows how the corporate structure has attached itself to the federal government."

Her curious blues were seeking knowledge I gladly fed. Soon, our eyes burned brightly. Gladly we leapt from the precipice. We rallied against the unfairness, the injustice. Then, catching herself, her back arched. With her elbows locked, she exclaimed, "We— _can't—_ talk—about—this!" Her arms swept wide in the grand gesture of the home base umpire signally safe. I sat there, my eyes absorbing her passion that had slammed shut on my zeal. My hands drifted awkwardly down. My head, tilting back as if on a broken hinge, released a short burst of uncontrollable laughter, jettisoning tension. My sweater and T-shirt followed. I climbed onto the table; my body giggling with the aftershock.

Making the turn off of Fifth onto Madison, I relaxed on the scent of wintergreen.

Mindy's ears sprang to attention. Her nose had the scent. She bolted down the steps minus the tether carelessly forgotten. Charging with a new found freedom she sprung into the street and stopped a foot in front of the minivan. Looking up she yapped just once.

The pale green of my minivan approached. An attempted second yap fell silent as the vehicle swallowed her like an orca swallowing a prawn. My foot made an instinctive play for the brake, my sandal pressing awkwardly down. The van slid on the gravel, tires crunching out its resistance. I waited for a yelp or thud. Nothing.

The mini came to a stop.

Mindy remained underneath, the oil pan and strange smells must have been truly mesmerizing. She pranced back out and stared up at the grill. Her nose gave a nervous twitch.

My heart lifted, my conscience relieved. Still, my secret wish had been denied.

Mindy no longer carried a domineering look, but a perplexed one of bewilderment. Turning, she quietly trotted back up to the porch and lay down.

"Stupid fucker," I grumbled.

.

**A week later, I backed the** **minivan into Karen's driveway**. Walking up the last ten feet of the driveway, I let myself into the studio and sat down. Opening the kitchen door, Karen noticed me sitting, smiling, with my knees pressed together. She smiled back, a professional one.

"Hello, Adam."

"Hello," I said, moving my hands up to my sides and onto my lap clasping them together.

"Lacey's with me today; there's no school. So if you hear a little voice calling—"

"That's fine. How little?"

"She's six."

"Hey, you two should see, _Searching for Nemo_."

"We did. She loved it," she said, with enthusiasm, stepping down into the reception room.

"Did she get the humor?"

"She laughed at the right places."

My eyes shifted up and to the right in thought.

"And Dory, the fish, she loved Dory." Her eyes brightened.

Dory, the fish without a short term memory, swam in and out of our conversation. Our smiles relived the story of the animated film. She moved toward the window adjusting the blinds, the morning back lighting her lean figure. Her long legs silhouetted against the sheer floral fabric of her dress, cascading down to her ankles. The fascination of it held me. The light defined her calves, knees, thighs, all of it encouraging a curiosity towards that dark shadow. Quickly, I shifted away in the pretense of things with greater interest.

"Well, we can go in the room now," she said.

Entering the room, I sat in the chair. She stood at the head of the massage table, leafing through the clipboard.

"How's the back?" she asked.

"About the same."

"The shoulder?"

"Better, back to normal."

"OK. You can get on the table when you're ready. I'll be back in a moment."

I took off my shirt and t-shirt. Climbing up on the table, I lay down and waited.

She opened the door and entered. Her dress rustled as she went by placing the needles, putting them in my shoulders and neck. Her platform shoes appeared through the headrest, and I wondered why platforms. They seemed out of place. _To add height_?

The dress's floral hem brushed up against the shoes' high gloss.

I considered the advantage of appearing taller, though the contrast of the floral pattern of the dress and the black platforms confused me. _Maybe she likes them_.

She moved down to my feet, pushed up on my left jean leg and then the other. Another series of needles were placed, each one like an insect taking a small bite. She tugged slightly on my jeans at the waist; I lifted my hips slightly. My lower back exposed, more needles found their mark.

"I'll let those do their work," she said, "I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

Somewhere in the background music eased me a little further along. My breath deepened and the music rolled in on a wave of wintergreen, cresting into my unconscious. I floated out to sea on a current of musical strings.

I heard a door open, and my mind surfaced with vague thoughts dissolving into the soft earthen tones of the rug's pattern.

"How you doing?" asked Karen.

"Doing fine," I said groggily. My awareness settled back on the table. My left nostril was stuffed up.

She set her hands on my shoulders, their warmth relaxing, leaving their infrared signatures. Taking out the needles, she moved slowly and meticulously until the last one was gone. She went to the head of the massage table. Picking up a tube of lotion, she squeezed an ample amount on her hands. Sliding her hands along my shoulder blades, she worked her way inwards and down my spine. She repeated the motion until her hands became the gliding curve of my back, each vertebra absorbing her touch.

I breathed in wintergreen. Surprisingly, sadness tightened in my chest, settling along my eyes, thoughts scattering like moths shaken from tall grass. I waited patiently for the images to settle long enough to have one good look. No one had touched me with such a deliberate effort in what seemed like . . . my thoughts trailed off to distant places. I exhaled on a smooth wave riding it to a shoreline that existed nowhere else but here. I tried to recall the last time Lynn and I had made love. . . .

. . . The image of Lynn appeared lying on our bed, when we still shared a bed. I had started to enter her, my arms elevating my weight above her, the tip of my penis barely starting its familiar slide. She shuttered, not in pleasure, but pain; I froze. The years had been rolling towards this moment with her body giving out its warnings. My arms held me there, straining above her, looking into the liquid of her eyes, registering her pain. Starting with her casual neck aches to regular trips to the chiropractor, her eyes filled with the years of a body in chaos until all that was left was the repression of tears. Hovering above her, I remained attached by a bit of soft flesh that felt to her like a hot, sharp shard. Carefully I moved off. Desperation gripped me the way pain gripped her. I grabbed a handful of covers as if this might secure me to the earth before unseen forces flung him into an orbit from where I'd spend a life time removed from touch. . . .

Lying there, on the massage table, what disturbed me most was that I could no longer remember the season that had marked our ending. I tried to materialize the amount of light coming in the bedroom window on that day. But in the Northwest, diffused nondescript light was so common to all seasons it simply couldn't be placed. _Was it winter, fall . . . spring?_ Why was it important? Eased away by Karen's smooth even stokes I was relieved to be in her hands. I exhaled, not wanting to be anyplace else. The corners of my eyes held their liquid. Each of her strokes worked free a sorrow that could not explain any better than I could recall a lost season.

# IX

Elsie May

**I returned to the university** in the summer of 1970; the psych ward had delayed me by less than a year. At twenty-two I was a junior at South East Missouri State. However, during my Thorazine hibernation at Martin Army Hospital, Broadway Street had gone through a metamorphosis. Standing on the corner of Broadway and First Street, I was amazed, almost stunned. Instead of the one dismal record shop located next to the aging Broadway Theater, the street had spouted head shops, record shops, boutiques, and one well lit ice cream parlor. They offered everything from tie dyed shirts to a potpourri of incense and a variety of protest posters. Broadway's makeover dipped east for four blocks until cut short by Front Street. Beyond that the Mississippi River eased its way south. Obviously, the shops were eager to cash in on the latest college set. In my absence, the earth had cracked open swallowing up much of Cape Girardeau's redneck attitude while inhaling cash sales, assuming you didn't wander too far from campus. Beyond that you'd be back under the good ole boot heel of Missouri.

I was letting my hair grow out. The breeze forced it to struggle against its natural curl that failed to cover my ears. All the instilled repression, from Catholicism to Thorazine, had left an appetite for things still to be tasted. I just needed a boost or someone versed in the ways of the new freedom that percolated along Broadway. The only thing holding me back was my conservative background. One could easily change from a polyester blend to cotton bellbottoms. But try and wander too far from your roots of original sin and those whispering voices to repent would be back.

I wanted to meet other long hairs as soon as mine grew out a bit more. But most of all, I wanted to fall in love. I knew this instinctively with every cell and molecule of my body. I was primed for the explosion that would thrust me into the arms of another—such a weakness. Yes, the spirits were whispering again, but not the crazy ones. This time they were the honest ones, the ones that wanted to protect me from my weakness.

.

**On Monday,** I walked through SEMO's campus, passing Academic Hall with its brick bell tower. A sidewalk led down twenty cement steps. The landing pointed the way to McKinley Hall, several hundred feet away. It was the most modern building on campus. The efficient cement structure sported double glass doors, not the usual heavy medieval kind that blocked all sunlight. Entering, I bounded up a flight of stairs. I entered 202, took a seat in the back. Nervously I shuffled through my binder for the report on classical conditioning.

The professor, a small man in his forties with distinguished thinning hair, fumbled with a roster. "Today, we'll have our oral presentations," he said.

It was all the prompting needed; furiously, I scanned my two page report.

The professor read the first name off the roster. A student stood, approached the podium, and read his paper. When the student finished and sat down, another name was read from the roster; the pattern was set.

I didn't hear their presentations. I was too preoccupied with last minute rehearsals: reading and re-reading, hoping I wouldn't stumble over the words, wishing it was already over.

"Dell, Dell Rose," summoned the professor.

I wiped my clammy palms against my Levis and stood. Walking up the aisle, I passed students who absolutely must have had higher SATS, brighter futures, and knew more about the content of my feeble report. I placed my hands on the podium to steady myself. Reading with a voice that scratched its way up my throat, I remembered how it sounded on a tape recorder in high school: the nasal sound, my god awful lisp, the very reason I attempted to avoid any words with an 's'. Finishing, I walked back to my seat, relieved to sit down, disappearing into the rows of desks. Now, I could listen to someone's presentation.

By time the last report was presented, I felt at ease.

The professor walked up to the podium and began the lecture for the day.

I opened my notebook and took out a pen. Looking up from my notes, I noticed a girl two rows over and one seat up. There was something about her, the way she took notes. Her chin rested on the desk while her pencil squiggled in time to the professor's lecture. She remained fiercely committed to the pencil point behind wire rim glasses. Everyone else was erect with proper classroom posture but not her. Her eyes, mere inches from that sharpened graphite bit were intriguing and the smooth curve of her long neck, amazing. However, my view was impeded too quickly by the shag cut of her hair. It shimmered in the fluorescent lighting as her head shifted. Neither brown nor black it appeared to have just a hint of red that appeared and disappeared with each tilt of her head.

I turned a page in my notebook, tried to focus, but couldn't. The curve of her neck had me. A curious sparkle by her ear lobe was monetarily exposed by the flick of her hand. The glittering bit was a small earring. And with another flick it, gone. She had returned to the serious business of taking notes.

The class was dismissed and I let the students file by. Pushing myself up from the desk, I moved towards the door. They emptied into the hallway, pooling into small groups by the staircase. I weaved my way through, moving towards the staircase. From a distance of thirty feet the girl broke from the herd and approached.

Frozen in place, my free hand nervously went up to my chest.

She didn't so much as stop as plant herself directly in my path, five feet away. Her lean frame shifted, titling her hips towards me, and well above it was her waiting smile. "Hi," she said. Her eyes were alive, bright, her smile an enthusiastic white. "I liked your speech."

How could anyone like my voice, let alone the presentation? She felt sorry for me. Her pity fueled the temperature in my chest.

"Thank you," I mumbled.

She was wearing bell bottom jeans, fashionably frayed at the ends.

"I thought it was really interesting," she added.

My throat tightened as I tried to think of something interesting. "Thank you," I repeated.

"My name's Elsie, Elsie May."

She noticed my Levis, an older straight legged style of light blue, leftovers from high school. I wasn't wearing a belt, but a blue silk tie, another leftover. Its knot sat neatly on my left hip, the two ends hanging down. However, it seemed to appeal to her as if something curiously different. As her eyes hovered there, my free hand clutched nervously into a fist. I pushed it into my pocket.

"Elsie, let's go," someone called her from her group.

I exhaled disappointment and relief.

A tall girl grabbed Elsie's sleeve and pulled her away.

"My name's Dell."

"Nice meeting you Dell," she said, glancing over her shoulder.

Before I could think of my last name the group had swallowed her up. They moved towards the staircase. Only the gloss of her hair appeared above a cluster of shoulders, shimmering as she descended.

.

**During Wednesday's class** , I made a point to study Elsie: the way her hair curled at the ends, the childlike way she remained attentive to her notes, and her sudden transformation when sitting upright, becoming more adult than anyone else in the room.

The class was dismissed, and I hung back, waiting for her to exit. She walked down the staircase. I followed her at a discreet distance of fifty feet, impressed by her athleti _c_ stride.

She turned down Pine, the very street I lived on. I quickened my pace, closing the gap. Scuffing my shoe would have gotten her attention. But I lacked the confidence and dropped back, stopping at my place. She continued on her way to Broadway, turned and was gone.

.

**Friday's class was dismissed.** I slowly assembled my notes while watching Elsie leave. Shoveling my papers into the binder, I moved towards the door. Stepping through the doorway, I looked right and left; she wasn't there. _Moving fast,_ I thought. I quickly walked to the staircase. Not a sign of her on the stairs or pushing her way through the glass doors. I rushed down the steps and pushed through the doors. Nothing. I stepped out and onto the landing, still nothing. From the sidewalk the twenty cement steps was visible from here, a good two hundred feet. She simply had vanished. Exhaling, I started the walk to my apartment.

I didn't know at the time, but from the east side of McKinley Hall, Elsie had been watching. She kept her distance at a good fifty feet. I catapulted myself up the twenty steps, two at a time. I went a block down Pine, and turned into my rental and moved along its side towards the basement backdoor.

.

**It took another week to drop the pretense.** This led to after class walks. Actually, they were more like hikes. We charged under trees canopied by the green leaves of early fall. By mid October a carpet of red and gold lay at our feet. When we found the play of our conversation, November's leaves no longer held their intensity and parted with each kick of our feet. Anything refusing to give way crunched underneath, like crinkling laughter in full appreciation for our spirited walks.

"We should spend a day and visit each other's favorite teachers," she said.

This topic was a complete change from her last topic, one involving the pleasure of eating raw cookie dough. I didn't mind. In fact, her enthusiasm for everything kept me alert and interested. Hamby, my philosophy professor, was my favorite. But this man was the stoic conventional type, and I was reluctant to invite her into such a man's class.

She grew quiet. Her gait even slowed, arms folding in on themselves. "My boyfriend, Jon, after we have a fight, he drops acid and takes off."

We walked in silence.

With my head down, I took in the information. The autumn chill nipped at my neck. I turned up my collar, thrusting my fists deep into my pockets. It was the first time she mentioned a boyfriend. Never really expected someone like Elsie to be without one. I didn't know Jon, never met him, but instinctively disliked him. I mulled the information over. Taking drugs as a postmortem to a fight angered me.

"Anyone who takes drugs for any reason but to have fun is sick!" I blurted out.

Stunned quiet ensued until the full weight of the statement settled.

"You're an idiot!" she said.

We laughed dissolving the tension. My hands leapt from my pockets and my arms swung free again.

"I play the piano a little," I said.

"What kind of piano?"

"Stuff I make up. If we went to the music building, I could play you something."

"Deal!"

Passing Academic Hall, we made a right turn towards the music building. Up several flights of steps we bounded, filling the stairwells with nonstop conversation until arriving at the second story. I already knew which room I wanted, the one I used when feeling bored or lonely.

We entered a small room with two vertical windows that overlooked McKinley Hall. I closed the door and Elsie stood looking out the window. I improvised in _A-minor_ on a baby grand. It was the only key remaining after trying to master a Chopin etude.

After several minutes I looked for Elsie, trying to gauge her response. She was no longer by the window. She wasn't at the end of the piano either. I hadn't heard the door open, but she seemed to have vanished. I looked over my shoulder still staying with A-minor; no Elsie. Then, as an instinctive afterthought, I leaned sideways and looked under the baby grand while my hands ran up the keyboard. There she was, lying there, completely stretched out in denim repose, her flop of dark hair on the floor.

I stopped playing.

Her eyes sprang open catching mine.

"Marat/Sade," she said.

"Marat/Sade?"

"The theatre department is putting it on this Friday night. We should get stoned and go see it."

"OK. What time?"

She rolled on her stomach. Propping herself up on her elbows she said, "Sixish. I'll come by your place."

"OK."

"Hey, know anyone looking for some speed? Some guy's selling."

"How much?"

"Twenty dollars for a hundred hits."

"I'll take a hundred."

"Okie-dokie, sixish. I'll bring it by Friday."

.

**Friday night came with two raps on my basement door**. Elsie pushed her head in and asked "Anyone home?"

"Come on in,." I said.

She bounded in swinging a small plastic bag from her hand, a macramé purse dangling from her shoulder. Plopping in the only chair, she swung the purse over its back. Her eyes and lips beamed with pleasure. She held out the plastic bag.

"You got em, perfect," I said. "Should we give them a test drive?"

"Ab—so—lute—ly," she said, handing me the bag.

I walked over to the kitchen sink and filled a glass of water.

"How many should we take?"

"Well, Jimmy says about two or three."

I counted out six on a saucer and brought them over. Setting them on the rug that was in front of the chair we huddled around the plate. I quickly swallowed three. So did Elsie.

"I gotta pee," she said standing.

"It's over there," I said, pointing towards the bathroom door.

Elsie disappeared into the bathroom.

I put the glass and saucer in the sink and sat on the bed to tie my tennis shoes. The toilet flushed and she stepped out flitting through the room, examining its nooks and crannies.

"What's this?" she asked, looking at the top of the refrigerator.

"It's a potato plant." I moved next to her. "See. It doesn't need soil."

I held up one of its three short vines as proof. She looked at it carefully. It was halfway in a jar of water, suspended by three toothpicks.

Many things briefly held her attention. Then, it was on to the next intrigue. She did this throughout the small one room apartment. The stove at the head of the bed, the beaded curtain towards the entrance, the window sill at the foot of the bed that looked out at the bare ground, all received an intensive but brief study.

"How long has it been?" she asked, moving to the middle of the room.

"Thirty minutes," I said glancing at my watch.

"Do you feel anything?"

"Not sure."

We began to wonder if the small white pills had been worth the money. Elsie looked anxious, probably hoping I hadn't been ripped off. We both knew anything but pot was a risk. We sank down on the rug, folding our legs facing one another. She watched me place two fingers from my left hand on my right wrist.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"My normal pulse is sixty beats per minute. Anything above that will be a good sign."

Elsie rested her hand on her knee, placing two fingers this way and that, searching for her pulse. "I can't find mine," she said discouraged.

I looked at her forearm and then down at her wrist. Sliding my thumb over her knee, I wrapped two fingers around her wrist. It was surprisingly small, a contradiction to her boundless energy. I pressed slightly, concentrating. Glancing at my watch, I checked for the location of the minute hand.

She breathed slowly taking in my efforts; my head bowed, eyes hidden.

Looking up, I slowly traced her forearm. Curious about a small indentation my eyes pooled into the hollow of her elbow. I continued up to her shoulder where the white of her skin disappeared behind the neckline of a navy blue sweatshirt. Drifting in an almost careless fashion, my eyes traveled along the curve of her neck. A glint of earring caught my attention; then, it was over the soft curve of her chin. Still ascending, I moved past her lips and along the bridge of her nose when caught by the blue of her eyes. We held our breath; a rush of blood surged. In the flecks of gold and white of those blues, I panicked. Fleeing down her neck, I ran over her shoulder and arm, taking momentary refuge on her wrist. Catching a ride on the minute hand, I resumed the count.

"There," I mumbled. "Seventy-two, what's your normal heart rate?"

"I don't know," she said.

"Oh, this won't work," I said removing my hand. "You have to know your normal rate."

"Let's get stoned before the play," she said.

Leaning towards the chair, she pulled a joint out of her purse.

Halfway through the joint the speed kicked in, percolating our conversation. She handed me the joint. Moving over to the side of the room, where an oil painting lay drying on the floor, she squatted down to examine it. She looked over her shoulder, noticing me sitting on the bed. I was re-tying my tennis shoe, the joint dangling from my lips. She sprang up, took two giant steps, and plopped down next to me. The bedsprings squeaked, almost upending my balance; our shoulders collided briefly until we righted ourselves.

"You can't handle this while you're tying a shoe," she said, taking the joint. A teasing smile flickered across her face as she stood.

"Hey," I complained reaching for it.

She stood and moved out of reach, casually taking a toke.

"Time to mosey," she said.

I scrambled to find my favorite plaid flannel shirt. It wasn't anywhere. Grabbing an old brown replacement, I wore it as a jacket over my navy blue sweatshirt. She passed me the joint as we left for the theatre.

Walking down the sidewalk we inhaled the crisp air and crunched the dry leaves. The tree limbs sliced at the moon sending slivers of moonlight over her shoulders and down her back. My spirits were hovering above. If they could've, they would have shouted for joy. But they merely whispered encouragement. A breeze threaded through, sending the leaves into a crinkly applause. A horde of them made a celebratory leap splashing about our shoulders.

"Jon and I split up," she said solemnly. And before I could hope, she added, "Chuck and I are together now, but it's just a business arrangement."

Chuck was Jon's best friend. Elsie treated it like it was the changing of the guard, but I wasn't buying. With someone like Elsie, such a causal sexual arrangement was not possible. I picked up the pace, needing to get away from the misery of it.

I held the joint just out of reach forcing her to speed up. She grabbed my wrist, her grip impressive and exciting, her nails biting. She retrieved the joint and took a short drag and handed it back. I took a drag and stretched out my stride and asked, "Can you walk a little faster?"

"I can walk as fast as you," she shot back, reaching for the joint.

My stride increased.

"I hate you," she said dramatically.

"You're one among many," I quipped.

Her eyes rolled in the back of her head, remaining only long enough to grab onto a thought; glancing down she said, "Oh look, a magic rock!"

She stopped and squatted down.

Backtracking several steps, I stopped by her and bent down.

She picked up a stone and handed it to me.

I examined it carefully, rolling it over my palm.

She got up quickly and continued walking.

"Hurry up, slowpoke," she said.

Sticking the rock in my pocket, I took three quick steps catching up. Much later, during one of our springtime walks, she'd mention how she picked up a rock. Claiming it to be magic, she gave it to Chuck. Even so, I'd hang on to my rock for years; it would take that long for the magic to wear off.

We stopped at the corner and waited for traffic to pass. Her eyes grew distant.

"At home, when I lived at home, I hid cake mix under my bed from my stepmother," she said.

Elsie had countered her stepmother's verbal attacks with little treats of cake mix. She would dole out just the right amount based on her level of stress. Adding water, she'd mix it. Crouching next to her bed she'd take little sampling tastes from the tip of a spoon while listening for footsteps.

I stood there, unsure, trying to joke it off with a smile. She reached out for support, like a bird approaching a branch. But sticking my hands in my pockets she opted for a drag and then handed me the joint. This I took.

"They say speed will fry your brain and eat your heart out," she said.

My mind spun trying to catch up. We crossed a street. Discarding the roach with a flick, I noticed something familiar; Elsie was wearing my plaid flannel shirt. "Hey, where did you get that?" I asked.

"Get what?" she questioned with a knowing smile.

"That's my shirt!"

"Oh, this old thing, I found it."

"Where?"

"In your closet."

"Oh," I replied, surrendering to the illogic of it.

I felt oddly complimented by the theft, just as I would feel guilty when stealing it back a year later. _"You went through my closet!"_ she'd accuse, and I'd be left standing there in stunned silence, ashamed of my indiscretion.

"Don't you believe, I mean, if someone wants something, _really_ wants something, they have the right to take it?" she asked. A swirl of leaves agreed with her fanatical urgency.

I could barely utter, "No." That single word seemed like such a violation; anything she felt was conviction enough. She was always feeling, and the sheer will of it I found intoxicating. It was something I was incapable of. Only my spirits held this power while swirling overhead.

We plowed through a shallow pile of maple leaves, crunching and scattering them in our wake. Passing the campus theatre, we turned into the alley and approached the service entrance. About a dozen people had already gathered. Someone on the inside was clanging a chain against the metal door. It sent Elsie and me into alert. Up for adventure we skirted along the side of the group. Like children edging up to a concession stand, we were eager for our treat.

The metal ribbed door, large enough to admit a truck, creaked and groaned. Rolling up, it swallowed itself like a huge coiling tongue. We looked at each other with expectation. The door cleared. Immediately, we moved inside joining another group, about twenty in all. Along the group's perimeter were actresses costumed in asylum white. With demented groans they herded our group forward. We shouldered our way up to the front, eager to be first. Here, another metal service door stood.

The door trembled, rising slowly. An intense sliver of light seeped between the floor and the bottom of the door. It glaring brilliance climbed up our legs and chests. Spilling into our dilated eyes our pupils contracted. Frozen we waited for our eyes to adjust. Slowly, I made out silhouettes: shoulders, heads, rows, and aisles— _we're on stage_! The theatre's spotlight illuminated my confusion to the entertainment of the audience. Instinctively, I tried to maneuver behind Elsie. She did the same but our retreat was blocked by the group to our backs. Trapped and adjusting to the light, we searched out two sets of steps on opposite sides of the stage. I exited stage right, Elsie stage left. She opted for a seat in the second row. Fearful of the asylum whites, I settled into one of the back rows. Sitting alone, I waited for the performance to end.

I left a little early and waited for Elsie on the corner. Leaning on a streetlight, I watched an excited squad of moths circling above. The theatre doors sprung open **,** and the patrons poured out. Down the front steps and onto the sidewalk they approached.

Watching Elsie exit, I righted myself. Passing me with a small group of four, she said excitedly, "Were off to a party. Come on."

I watched her drift across the street. She was highlighted by one streetlight, then the next. Entangled with her group she disappeared into the night. I turned in the opposite direction and walked back home.

I entered my apartment and pulled the string to the bare bulb attached to a ceiling joist. I went about putting things back in the prescribed order. Visual organization was a must, clutter in the small place, intolerable. In the apartment nothing was ever more than ten feet from anything. Taking the stone from my pocket, I placed it on the refrigerator next to the potato plant. Looking down, I noticed three red marks. I crouched down for closer examination. It was the partial footprint of Elsie's tennis shoe. It was clearly the same crimson red used on the oil painting. How she could have walked on the stretched canvas and not detected the extra spring in her step? There was something very desirable about such a lack inhibition, admirable in fact.

I took out a roll of cellophane and tape. Carefully, I stretched a small piece of cellophane over the footprint and used four pieces of tape to firmly secure it. With a felt-tip marker, I titled and dated it next to the artist's name: _Elsie May, 1970, Footprint_. Standing up, I looked at the three treads admiringly, feeling good about its permanence.

.

**During the weekend, I only had to glance at the footprint for the memory of Elsie to surface.** In the early afternoon, I grabbed the sketchpad, headed out the door, and walked down Pine towards Broadway.

At Broadway, I turned east towards the river and walked for several blocks before deciding to cross over. A horn blared. I hesitated. It was a blue Ford Falcon parked across the street. A hand waved vigorously out the driver's window. "Dell—Dell!" Elsie jumped out, and ran across the street wearing a yellow sundress bursting with large sunflowers. She was waving a piece of paper. I got my driver's license!"

She bounded up the sidewalk and towards me. With a skipping jump, she stopped two feet in front of me.

"The guy at the counter kept staring at my boobs," she said happily.

She was fashionable braless, and I tried not to look.

"Look at my new car," she said excitedly.

Quickly, I turned from her breasts and towards the blue car.

"Chuck helped me pick it out. He said it only has sixty something on it. It's perfect, don't you think?" The yellow of her dress seemed to have grown with her excitement.

I remembered the first time I had met Chuck. Elsie had led me up a flight of stairs to a second story apartment. Here, a small group of young men bustled about, moving in a friend's belongings. The living room was barren of furniture but alive with movement. Two young men hurried about with boxes. An unusually tall man, with striking blond hair and a strong build, stood by the wall looking down at the baseboard. He stared at it as if contemplating some mystery. This was Chuck Walters. "All that dirt's a problem," he said.

"A problem?" I questioned.

"Yeah, roaches eat that stuff."

"They eat it!" I couldn't imagine how any creature, even a roach, could survive on just dust bunnies.

"Well . . . " he hemmed and hawed, "they, ah—well, they like to fuck around in it."

We both laughed and I liked him immediately. I knew instinctively Elsie's attraction to him, solid reassurance. . . .

But now, looking at the blue Falcon, it seemed perfect, small and peppy: _an Elsie car_.

"Let's go for a drive in the country," she said.

I got in without asking where.

We left Cape behind, traveling along Highway Sixty that sliced through the rolling hills of the country. The sloped shoulders were thick with grass and splashes of deciduous trees. It separated a farmland that swelled with abundance each summer. But for now, the wild spring flowers dominated along the farmers' fences where the highway crews had failed to cut.

Without warning, Elsie swerved off the road, gravel biting the tires. The Falcon came to a sudden stop. She flung the door open and raced up the embankment.

_Looking for a place to pee_ , I thought.

She dropped to her knees. Frantically she pulled at a clutch of wild flowers, plucking at the earth as if preparing a chicken for dinner. Racing back to the car she draped the handful of long stemmed flowers over the rearview mirror.

"Look," she said, "aren't they wonderful?"

The flowers, purple, yellow, and orange dangled from the mirror. They hung there in the sun, trembling as the Falcon came to life. We bounded back onto the highway. The windows were open, a sure sign it would be a hot summer.

"There's Anvil," she said.

Out the driver's side, I tried to catch a glimpse of the town. Nestled in the cool shade of the passing trees were a few weather worn structures, barely hinting at occupation. A few more tucked deeper in hinted at a ruined town.

"Remember, it was in the news," she added. "There was a race riot here."

Race riots were all the rage that year, and little Anvil had played its part.

"Doesn't it make you feel like you're part of history?" she said excitedly.

"It's not the history I want be part of," I replied in a moment of rare contradiction.

In a flash Anvil was gone. The highway took us deeper into Missouri's farmlands.

"Let's visit Ellen," said Elsie.

"Ellen?"

"Ellen, my good friend, Ellen," she confirmed. "She's one of my favorite people."

Elsie had a collection of favorite people. Her desire to be consumed by other lives was endless, like a collection of postage stamps that could be visited with the flip of a page or the turn of the Falcon's wheel.

The Falcon rumbled off the highway and onto a dusty gravel road. A farmhouse stood at the end. Close by was a small trailer. It stuck out like a silver thumb. The Falcon came to an abrupt stop between the two.

"I'll be right back," said Elsie.

She ran from the car with the yellow dress restricting, the sunflowers gripping. Reaching the house she brought herself to a stop with two bouncing skips. She tapped on a rickety screen door.

I glanced around the property. A working farm with cultivated fields, it was waist high in green. Whatever grew there bent in regular sweeps with each passing breeze, as if an invisible hand giving its blessing or shoeing flies.

Kicking gravel alerted me to Elsie's return. She came to an abrupt stop with an armload of clothes. I turned away from the fields and towards Elsie.

"She gave me these to wear," she said. "That's Ellen's trailer. Let's go inside."

I got out of the Falcon and followed Elsie to the eighteen-footer. Elsie pushed her way in, and I followed.

"I can't stand wearing a dress, if ya know what I mean."

The trailer was designed strictly for efficiency: a two room affair with a kitchen in one half and a bedroom in the remainder. A bathroom was tucked to the side where two curtains served as a door.

Elsie whipped one half of the curtain aside and stepped inside. She closed it with the same vigor.

I sat down in the only cushioned chair, facing the curtain. It rumpled and bumped to the pace of Elsie's manic efforts.

"This is Ellen's," she said. "Pretty neat, don't ya think?"

"She lives out here?"

It seemed strange that Ellen would have her own place and still be living next to her parents.

"Yeah, she likes having her own space," said Elsie.

There was a four inch gap between the curtain and the floor. She discarded the loafers with a few quick flicks. Her bare feet shuffled about; the dress dropped like large yellow petal. Unsure if I should be watching, my eyes shifted up to the midpoint. Fascinated by the split in the curtain, where the two halves failed to meet, flashes of white appeared. It descended to the floor leaving a thin line of flesh. The crease held me until I nervously moved down to the crumpled slip.

The shower began to run signaling it was time to be quiet. It ran barely minutes before Elsie's wet feet appeared below the curtain's gap. Her foot pushed the dress and slip to the side. Ellen's jeans and shirt dropped clumsily to the floor. She leaned forward to pick them up. The curtain slid just enough to the side revealing one bare leg. Giggling with embarrassment, she quickly grabbed the curtain. But the other half parted slightly revealing a bare shoulder. She laughed. Quickly retrieving a shirt, she draped a long sleeve of red flannel across her shoulder. She bent over grabbing the jeans. Her head appeared through the curtain. Clutching at the jeans and shirt, she glanced down at me. She held the intensity of my eyes in hers. I lowered them to the streak of flesh; panicking, I rushed back up to her smiling face. Flashes of white skin disappeared and reappeared while busy hands and clothing hid this and that.

Ellen entered the trailer, taking quick note of the performance. With strong farm hands, she pulled the curtain together with a snap, putting an end to the show.

Not sure what to do, I focused on the curtain. Only the subdued giggles and the rustling of clothes could be heard. Ellen stood guard with her large boned presence. I didn't make eye contact. It was unclear what my role should be. The curtain was as good as anything. I studied the dark thick material; the subdued horizontal stripes and vague paisleys held the full weight of my concentration.

The curtains snapped to the side.

"Here I am," said Elsie. She rubbed her damp hair with a towel, thick strands of wet hair slashing in every direction. She shook her head, and then smiled at me as if to say, _There, that'll do._

"Mom's waiting for us," said Ellen, turning towards the door.

"Oh-ke-do-ke," said Elsie. She turned towards me. "Let's go have lunch." She rubbed her stomach emphasizing a child like glee for eating.

I was shocked. No one was expecting me for lunch, with strangers no less. I felt like an intruder. Getting up, I followed Elsie and Ellen towards the main house.

Leaning forward, I asked Elsie, "Are you sure it's OK?"

"Sure," said Elsie confidently. "They have lots of food." And then for reassurance added, "I do this all the time." Most likely she neglected to mention she had called Ellen earlier regarding her afternoon visit.

The screen door swung open revealing a large country kitchen. A sprawling table occupied the center of the room. Ellen's father and mother were already in the midst of their meal. It was spread over a checkered tablecloth with four hot dishes that included mashed potatoes, corn bread, and green beans. Elsie took a seat as if she was sitting down with her family. With uncertainty, I eased into a chair next to her. She grabbed the mashed potatoes and began loading up a plate. Ample helpings of every available item were added. I took little dabs of this and that. Short conversations sprouted and died, leaving time to inhale mouthfuls of food. Everyone contributed something except me. To Elsie's amusement, I remained unusually quiet and reserved. While contributing to the table's entertainment with her special brand of dialogue, she checked in on me with a quick glance. I remained slightly hunched and ate slowly while observing the goings-on of the table. She seemed amused by my awkwardness, as if it brought out a kind of protectiveness.

"Well, thanks Mom, I gotta get back to work," said Ellen's father. "Elsie, take care now."

"You too, Fred," said Elsie.

Ellen's mom began clearing the table and said to Elsie, "Now, don't feel like ya gotta rush off. There's still plenty left."

"I'm full," said Elsie dragging the ' _l_ ' along for the ride and patting her stomach.

Elsie got up and I followed suit, carefully placing the napkin on the table.

Ellen and Elsie walked towards the Falcon with me trailing. Farewells were sprinkled around while I leaned back into the Falcon's seat relieved. Elsie hopped in, turned over the ignition, and put it into drive.

We drove back down the road to the highway with the wilted flowers dangling lifeless from the rearview mirror. She looked at me, as if she wanted to tell me something but wasn't quite ready to spring it on me. For now she was content, full, and happy. We engaged in our manic conversations while dashing through the green hills of Missouri.

Entering Cape, we turned down Broadway and made a left onto Howard Street.

"There's someone I want you to meet," she said, pulling along side a two-story apartment.

She parked the Falcon. We got out and walked up to the front door front. She opened it and entered. I followed her up the staircase as if tethered. At the top of the staircase, she knocked on the door twice. It opened revealing a young woman with an ice cream smile and short cropped blond hair. The bangs cut straight across her forehead seemed to brighten with her smile.

"Elsie!" proclaimed the woman with beaming eyes.

"Sam!" said Elsie, in a half shout of glee.

Elsie moved into the apartment. They exchanged hugs with such enthusiasm it was as if they hadn't met in eons.

Turning towards me, she said, "This is my best friend, Sam!"

She used _best_ with such conviction, something reserved for the rarest of occasions. Had I heard correctly? Did she say, _Sam_? But, I still wasn't sure of her use of ' _my best friend'_. Was Sam also one of many, like Elsie's collection of favorites?

"Sam and her husband, Stony, have moved back from Alaska," she added.

_It was Sam_. One of those names that changed gender from Samantha, exerting an egalitarian right.

"This is Dell," said Elsie. "We've just came from Ellen's."

Elsie and Sam engaged each other in their own brand of rapid fire conversation. I quietly, tried to piece together Elsie's latest mosaic. Elsie and Sam stood in the living room, pouring out conversations, filling each other up with their lives. From the kitchen entered a man in his late twenties. He was short in stature with a full beard and a brown hair drawn tightly into a ponytail. His beard was a wild unkempt thing that looked as if it wanted to jump in every direction at once. This was Stony, Sam's husband. His legal name was Albert Hampton, but Stony was the name thriving in the personality that had grown along with his wild unkempt beard. If there was ever a man who longed to be reborn into the Wild West, it was Stony. He only had to be handed a tin plate to make the outfit complete before panning for gold along one of the untamed streams that meandered through the Old West.

We eyed each other cautiously as men frequently do, tentative first encounters. Within a week, we both discovered we liked history and were game board enthusiasts. It would not be long before countless hours of strategy games consumed our evenings.

"Dell," said Elsie enthusiastically. "I threw a bottle into the Mississippi. I put a note inside." She looked at me and then Sam, tying our attention together with the tug of her eyes.

Several summers ago, she had stood barefoot on the cool bricks of the waterfront. She gave the bottle a healthy toss, watching the precious thing float away. The bottle bobbed along for a hundred feet in the muddy waters before coming back to shore. A young woman bent down retrieving it. She examined it with scientific curiosity.

"She actually was the one," concluded Elsie. She looked at me. "Can you imagine?"

I couldn't, but for Elsie it was confirmation of divine intervention. Her enthusiasm brightened Sam's smile. Suddenly, Elsie's eyes dimmed as if a dark intruding thought had surfaced. "Well, I think its time to mosey," she said.

I returned a puzzled look, sliding my hands into my pockets.

"You haven't seen my new place," she said. "You've seen my new car, my best friend, but not my new place."

Her eyes lightened, waiting to infect mine. I looked at her agreeably; my hands lifted from my pockets. She sprinkled out her farewells and we went down the staircase.

"Where's it at?" I asked.

"Down by the waterfront. It's my own place. I don't have a roommate anymore. Can you imagine?"

Climbing into the Falcon, we turned off of Howard and doubled back to Broadway. Driving east for six blocks, we turned south and traveled two more blocks on Front Street.

"There it is," she said in a solemn tone.

She pulled over and parked.

It was an older building on the last street bordering the river. The block didn't know if it wanted to be residential or commercial. The two-story aging brick apartment rested tightly against the sidewalk not allowing for a single blade of grass. We creaked up the wooden stairs that emptied onto a well lit hallway. Elsie's was the first door to the left. Unlocking it, she pushed it open.

"Do come in," she said dramatically.

We walked through a small kitchen and into the adjoining room.

"Look!" she said, leading me into a large bedroom. "See how I've trimmed all my candlewicks."

It was an oversized room with a tall ceiling and plenty of natural lighting from two double hung windows. On the opposite wall from the bed was the chest of drawers. It was decorated with a dozen candles of various sizes, shapes, and colors. Next to the bed on a nightstand were another three large candles. On the windowsills were still more candles. Each had well trimmed wicks. It was admirable.

"Even the bed has one of those old bronze things," she said, motioning towards its frame.

The bed had its bronze bars rising as if a jail cell with two pillows peering out. I looked at wooden floors, and then, at the expression on Elsie's face; her mood was shifting.

"I've got something I gotta do in the kitchen," she said quietly.

All of the emotion had drained from her face. She turned and walked toward the door. Her body moved with resignation, a sign for me to follow. I stopped at the doorway, noticing the bedroom closet door. It was open just enough exposing a bit of familiar flannel. Walking over to the closet, I opened it further, revealing my shirt. Pulling it off the hanger, I put it on. Entering the kitchen, I sat at the table with the pride of a jewel thief.

She bent down by the sink with an empty grocery bag. Carefully, she opened the cabinet doors beneath the sink. Inside was a collection of cleansers and detergents from past tenants.

"Look at this awful stuff," she said with near fatalism.

A bent Ajax can with a rusty top sat in front of a filthy huddle of containers. She lifted one with grim resolution and deposited it into the paper bag. This was a new look for her: forehead furrowed, lips tight, and eyes dull, amusing. Opening the sketchbook, I began to doodle while occasionally glancing at the floor show.

Elsie lifted the remaining blue plastic bottle with two fingers. It had a white powdery crust along its top. Something that once provided cleanliness was now removed as if a dangerous isotope. She carefully maneuvered it into the bag. Normally, Elsie would have acknowledged a job well done, but not this time. Carefully with disgust, she folded the top of the bag in on itself and shoved it into the corner as far from her as possible. Standing, she looked at me, her eyes growing curious. She approached.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Just doing some free style."

She watched the ink pen move across the paper, and then stop.

"Here," I said, pressing the pen into her fingers, "your turn."

She sat down at the table and looked at the paper.

"Just continue where I left off." I pointed at the end of the line.

She looked at me. When I didn't offer any further explanation, she studied the paper.

"Don't think about it," I encouraged.

She placed the pen on the paper and started drawing. The pen traveled over the paper making intersecting loops and lines, and then stopped. She handed the pen back. I drew a twisting line over half the page and gave the pen to her. She took her turn. After a few minutes the page was filled with fanciful twists and turns. This became our ritual. Whenever visiting her, if someone laid down a pad of paper, a pen would appear igniting our scribbles. Very little conversation was needed to fuel the activity; we became absorbed, making our connection where the other had left off.

"What do ya think?" she asked.

Tilting my head, I looked at the drawing.

"It's a balanced designed," I said. "What do you think of my shirt?"

I waited for her astonishment to compliment my stealth, but her eyes conveyed pain. She stood up, taking a step back.

"You went through my closet," she accused.

"I found it," I said, attempting to put on playful face. Trying to sort out the confusion, I needed reassurance. But her hurt look told me what had belonged to me, no longer did. A mysterious violation had been committed. I looked down at the table and realized I was standing.

"You shouldn't go through my stuff," she said.

She turned her back on me and moved towards the sink. Taking a glass from the dish-drainer, she turned on the faucet. The water rushed into the glass, its harsh protest rushing towards the brim.

I waited for the glass to fill.

"Let's go," she said, turning off the faucet.

She drove me up Broadway and took the back way to my apartment. She could've pulled in the alley and parked in the graveled backyard next to my apartment, but she opted to park on the far end of the adjacent church parking lot. We got out and started walking across the parking lot. At the halfway point she stopped, but I kept going. Cutting across the alley, I went into the backyard and stopped at the stairwell. I turned around to wave goodbye. She was hopping up and down in a kind of mania, arms and hands waving like a scissors.

I waved, relived the seriousness of the flannel shirt was over.

"Do you know how often I look for that green car of yours and think about having babies?" she announced over half a parking lot.

Like a swatted fly on a window sill, I stood stunned, wondering how she could do such a thing. Turning from me, she bounded towards the falcon. Climbing in she drove off, most likely to fuck Chuck, a Chuck-fuck, fucking Chuck.

.

**In early June, Elsie and I climbed up the stairs and into her apartment**. Entering the bedroom, she pointed towards a sofa by one of the windows.

"Look, Chuck picked it out. Actually it's a loveseat, I think. It's kind of old but real comfy."

The sofa sat in front of the windows with a coffee table. We sat down on the sofa. The air was noticeably absent with the windows closed.

"Do you want a drink of water?" she asked standing. "I need a little sip of something," she disappeared into the kitchen.

I didn't here the tap run.

She returned with a small box and sat next to me with her knees together. Her back was arched, posture unusually formal. She leaned forward setting the box on the coffee table.

"Look at these." she said. "Look at all these," she repeated.

Her hand flittered nervously over the box. It was filled with index cards. She pulled out several.

"What are they?"

"They're from the placement department. See this one?"

She leaned forward, encouraging me to do so as well. "It's for Florida."

I leaned towards the index cards.

She placed it on the table. "Here's another one for Florida."

Florida was her special place, a _sun worshiper_. She had worked the summers as a lifeguard. I remembered she had once proclaimed, ' _A tan is my one remaining middle class value.'_

"There's lots of job openings for special ed teachers down there," she said.

A third one joined the pile and then a fourth. It was the fourth one that sent my mind reeling, the meaning of the pile becoming clear. I leaned back. _Florida_ , I thought.

Elsie stared at a fifth card and then, me. Her eye contact made me nervous; I looked down. She shifted and then sighed as if annoyed.

One day Elsie would be gone, absent from our playful conversations. She'd be graduating soon. I had enrolled in graduate school. After that, she'd gather herself up and be gone. Just like that, gone. I stared at the index card with its various bits of data and hand written scribbles. With my hands on my lap, I unconsciously gripped the tips of my fingers.

She gave the fourth card for me to look at.

I stared at _Tampa, Florida_ , printed neatly in pencil. There was not enough air in the place. I wished I could open a window.

.

**By mid June classes were nearing the semester's end**. The pace had picked up. Even the rotation of the earth seemed to have kicked up a notch. Elsie and me walked full throttle, charging down Broadway towards the waterfront.

Her arm cradled a textbook while her free hand held a pencil. Jotting down a something on its jacket, cake mix was added to her grocery list. I had my sketch pad tucked under my left arm.

Fueled by teasing, we trekked along in one of those bubbles that tuned out everything but each other. Our playful bantering kicked up as we made the turn towards her apartment. We filled the staircase with our laughter and jostling. Elsie raced ahead. I caught up at the landing. Playfully bumping into her, she dropped the book but still clung to the pencil. She plopped down next to the book, her feet dangling down the stairs. She reached for the book.

I sat down beside her and untied her tennis shoe. Abandoning the book, she furiously retied the shoe. I leaned across her, untying the other shoe. Laughing, she tried to beat off the attack, her fists pounding my hand, the pencil striking at an angle. The lead point repeatedly pierced my skin. Not quite drawing blood, it left little graphite tattoos. Elsie remained lost in the moment. Horrified, I moved my hand away, but not too far or too quickly. I stood up allowing her time to tie the shoe.

She stood smiling.

I smiled back cautiously. Catching my slightly distraught look, her eyebrows did an odd twist. She picked up the book and stood.

The key went in and the door opened. Elsie strolled through the kitchen and into the bedroom. I followed. She flung the book on the bed.

"Don't you love the weekends?" she asked. "We should ab-so-lute-ly get high."

She sat down on the throw rug folding her legs. I knelt down across from her. She leaned towards the bed and took the macramé purse hanging from the bedpost. Laying it in her lap, she ran her fingers over the earthen colors. They were nervous fingers, stumbling over the bulky weave. She looked down as if studying it, but her hands remained confused, uncertain. She was short of breath, but blamed it on the run upstairs. Her eyes seemed to be rushing her thoughts along at a maddening pace.

"Here's some good stuff," she said handing a dime bag of weed with a pack of Zigzags.

I began rolling.

Elsie watched my hands place the bits of weed on the paper while her hands fidgeted.

"Chuck asked me something," she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

I continued rolling, carefully not letting the ends spill. Concentrating hard, I replied, "He asked you to marry him." I sealed the joint with the tip of my tongue.

"I never thought anyone would ever ask me," she said. "You know, actually marry me."

Such a statement did not fit my mosaic of her. Glimpsing her insecurity, I found it incomprehensible. The need to rage stuck in my constricted throat, and with a simple swallow I sent my spirits to that dead place. After all, this was Elsie: beautiful, beautiful Elsie. Sitting quietly, my body filled with resignation. Giving the joint one last roll, I handed it to her. She did not accept it. Her face contorted into a strange grim mask. With her body shaking in silent laughter, she leaned to the side, away from me by four, five, six inches, but it might as well have been light years.

.

**I left Cape the summer after graduating.** The trunk of my Olds was packed with all my stuff. I made a brief stop in St. Louis. From there, it was a flat out burn over the flat nothingness of Kansas followed by a quick layover in Denver. Speed was a good distraction; I only had to stay focused on what lay ahead, forcing everything else to slip away. But, every time I stopped, Elsie came streaming back in. Even after the three day grind to the West Coast, my thoughts turned to her a the rest-stop outside of Eugene, Oregon. With my head resting against the headrest and the pines dripping on the windshield, my mind replayed the last time I saw her. . . .

. . . I had just knocked twice on her apartment door when the third was suspended by, "Dell—Dell!"

I turned around. She was at the foot of the stairwell wearing a long, cerulean blue dress. It had a stylish 'v'-cut, running down between her breasts with the point of the 'v' stopping just shy of her navel. With the backlighting of the glass door, her skin was iridescent.

"We can't play today," she said. "Chuck wants me to celebrate our engagement with some of his best friends."

I remained up there, staring down at her.

"Jenny lent me this dress. Don't you think it makes me look sexy?"

I nodded yes. It wasn't much of a nod, more of a weak bow of my head, taking me back to the point of the 'v'.

And with the usual lilt of her voice, she slammed me with, "Sam thinks I should marry you."

I just stared. Placing my hand on the banister railing, I held on. She placed her hand on the banister railing. At a distance of twenty feet, we remained connected like that. Then, she turned around, opened the door and left for her celebration. Some things you can hold on to, other things, untouchable.

# X

ADHD

I'm Alexander-Daniel Harold Dart. Usually there are things goin' on, things that some people can't keep up with. I'm fourteen and realize there are lots of people like that. It's been obvious since I was twelve _._ I'm trying to be tolerant, but it's difficult. At Saint Vincent's, girls with tits don't like me. I know this for a fact because of my study. The ones, who are flat, get along with me just fine.

Mary Sue's flat and had lunch with me, once. I gave her half my peanut butter and jelly sandwich since she had forgotten to bring hers. We sat on the steps in the foyer and ate it. I let her have the tinfoil it was wrapped in so she wouldn't get any on her dress. She's starting to bud up; it's a matter of time before she turns on me too. Right now she's sitting in front of me taking notes in her purple notebook. It won't close properly; it's got some weird shiny thing stuck in it. On the front are all these gold stars in the shape of a happy face. She carries that thing with her everywhere.

I still have my reoccurring nightmare. The one were I walking home from Saint Vincent's and two huge tits approach me from both ends of the street. In a panic I run across the street. They wobble after me in that menacing way. I start climbing a picket fence to escape but get stuck on its sharp points. The tits press in on either side; the pressure in my head builds. Just as I'm about to pop like a pimple I wake up. It's kind of disturbing.

School's OK. But I'm a little too fast for most of my teachers. Mrs. Hendrix keeps goin' on about the Romans and aqueducts. It's kind of slow for me, so I get out my notebook and continue on with my study. It's really quite amazing. Cindy Beckman has the biggest tits; she dislikes me the most. I'm fairly sure there's a direct correlation with size and dislike. So far, with Cindy on top, Mary Sue on the bottom, and five others in between, there dislike for me is proportional. But this is only a random sampling of seven pairs. Mr. Hood, our science teacher, said a sampling to be of value must be a good size. So I'm planning to do the entire freshmen class or at least as much as I can get access to. I've carefully logged every pair by size. Winter can be tough because of all the sweaters. Now its spring, and that's a help. Cindy is sitting two seats in front of me and over one row. There's a new girl in class that's a runner up. A judgment is needed. I get up to sharpen my pencil, so down the aisle I go. Mrs. Hendrix gives me a look. Not surprising; she's got big ones. I stick it in, sharpen it, and head back. It's just as I suspected, the undone top button on the new girl's blouse is full of cleavage; she's gonna hate me.

Furiously I make notes in my notebook. It's a flow diagram outlined in black felt tip. Cindy's on top, accept the new girl will soon be replacing her, but not just yet. She doesn't know me, so scientifically speaking I still have to be introduced. Make's me nervous; that's where Billy Bentforth comes in. Billy is my best friend and says I have a tit fixation, but actually I just like tits.

"Alex, you paying attention?" asks Mrs. Hendrix.

Before I can say or do anything she's looming over me. She takes one scowling look at my notebook and confiscates it. Slowly she walks back up the aisle. With each turn of the page, I sink lower in my desk. When she gets to the Cindy Beckman page, she turns to look at me but doesn't say a word. She's got one of her serious things going. She walks back up to the podium and scribbles something on a piece of paper.

"Go see Mr. Howard," says Mrs. H. The class groans at the sound of the vice principal's name. "Give him this," she says holding the notebook in her hand. I walk to the front of the room and take the notebook.

"This too," she says, handing me the piece of paper.

I take the slip of paper and try and walk with pride out of the room but it feels more like a slink. In the hallway I stop at the fountain to get a drink but actually I'm reading the slip of pape. It states the time I left and for Mr. Howard to take a good look at my notebook.

Entering the front office I wait at the counter. The secretary, Mrs. Bimmer asks, "What is it Alex?"

"I'm supposed to see Mr. Howard."

"During class time?"

This only adds to the weight of my embarrassment. I don't want to show her the note or my notebook, so I just say, "Mrs. Hendrix sent me."

"During your history class," she repeats, like I didn't hear her the first time.

"Yeah." I look down at the counter, feeling myself grow warm.

She looks down a hall towards the VP's office. Mr. Howard's door is open. "Well, then, go on back."

I walk around the counter, stop at Mr. Howard's door, and tap lightly.

Mr. Howard looks up from behind his desk. He's a short guy with glasses and wears a tie with little crescent moons on it. It's the only one he every wears with six little crescent moons. The third one down has a stain on it. It's been like that forever. He must have only one. The breast pocket of his white shirt is stuffed with pens and pencils. The crescent moon with the stain reminds me of—"Alex, what are you doing out of class?"

"Mrs. Hendrix sent me." Mr. H can be real impatient.

"During class?"

I just went through this with Bimmer. It's irritating, but I hold back, knowing what's best. I hand him the slip of paper. He adjusts his glasses and reads it. My palm is sweaty from holding the notebook. He looks up and holds out his hand. I give it to him. It has my sweaty palm print on it. For a moment my chest gets tight but the sweat spot is on the bottom side of the notebook, and it goes bottom side down on his desk.

"Why don't you have a seat," he says, nodding at one of the three chairs against the wall.

I sit down as he begin to look at page one. He makes it through pages two. He turns to page three and his eyes go intense. It's the Cindy Beckman page. He knows what he's looking at but not who. It's labeled in the bottom left corner, _Cindy Beckman_ in felt tip, so it's just a matter of time. There it is: the narrowing of the eyes. He looks up at me and adjusts his bifocals with the poke of his index finger. It takes great effort on my part not to squirm. I can't contain my right foot; it's got a rapper's beat goin'. Fortunately, the office has one of those cheap thin rugs, and the tapping is muffled. I place my hands on my knee and press—no luck; now my hands are shaking.

"What's this?" he asks, turning the notebook around.

Leaning forward with my elbows vibrating I scrunch up my eyes to study it. Obviously, it's a tit. Does he really want me to say _tit_? Am I supposed to confess? Is it best to say breast when confessing? Boob or tit seems inappropriate. My nerves get the better of me, and I blurt out, "A study!" If I' said this with more poise and control it might have helped, but a bit of frothy spit flies out of my mouth. We both do our best to ignore the spit-froth, but it's large and fluffy enough to kind of just float down, drawing our fish eyes like a lure. It lands on my hands, which are still desperately trying to quiet my knee. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. Why now? I woke up once with this big drool thing going, but it was after my dream.

Mr. Howard goes back to the notebook. Quietly, he delves deeper into to it. Quietly I wait for the verdict. He closes the notebook.

"Do you realize this entire thing is filled with breasts?"

"No," I reply nervously.

"No?" he challenges.

"Only up to page fourteen," I explain.

He opens the notebook to page fourteen. Everything after that is blank.

"See," I offer, hoping this will make me seem only half as perverted. I'm thankful I haven't started in on the rest of the sophomore class.

Setting it down, he closes it from the back. Folding his hands they come to rest on my wet spot. I hold my breath, but he doesn't saying anything or even looks down. Off to the side of the desk is a small pink pad of hallway passes. He slides it over onto the wet spot and takes one of the ballpoints out of his breast pocket.

"I want you to have a little chat with the counselor." He scribbles on the pass and hands it to me. I take it, stand, and start to walk out the door when he says, "Alex?" I turn back around, and he holds out the notebook. "Give this to Mrs. Grave. She'll need to see this."

Walking down the hallway, I've taken the precaution to pull my sleeve clear down. It keeps my sweaty palm off the notebook. My sandals slap against the linoleum letting me know I'm alone. There's a bench in front of Mrs. Grave's office. Next to the door is a narrow little window so she can see who is waiting. Usually the bench is filled with deadbeats, but the administration has been pushing to keep students from roaming the halls. So things have tightened up. I'm must be an exception. I knock on her door and sit down. I seriously consider tearing out page three, but the door opens.

"Well, Alex, what brings you to my little abode?"

Mrs. Grave has the friendly way about her, the way all counselors do. It's meant to set you at ease, but her red lipstick sets me on edge. Sheepishly I hand her my hallway pass. She takes it, reads it, looks up and waits. I hand her the notebook. She takes it and offers me a seat. Her chair is in front of her desk. She sits down only a few feet from me. She has big ones. They're absolutely huge like my Aunt Thelma's.

When I was ten my aunt gave me one of those over enthusiastic Christmas hugs; I almost suffocated. The top button of her Christmas green blouse was made of ivory in the shape of a turtle. It pressed its little tortoise shell against my forehead. When she let go I pulled away gasping for air. It smelled like lilacs in there. For a year I thought they all smelled like that. I was so dizzy I had to excuse myself and went to the bathroom. When I looked in the mirror my forehead had the tiny little squares of tortoise shell imprinted on my forehead above my right eye. The thought of lilacs lingered for a year in a disturbed kind of way. Then, next Christmas I got the same treatment but with vanilla, like cookies. It was the first time it occurred to me they might be for tasting.

Furiously I try and maintain eye contact with Mrs. Grave. But it's like my eyeballs are being pulled as if by the gravity. There is no way I'm going down there. Lilacs, vanilla, whatever, I'm staying up here.

She breaks off the eye contact. This only provides momentary relief as she begins to page through the notebook: page one . . . page two . . . page three and here we go. She studies it. Her eyes do a curious little jitter. Her hands go up to her collar. Her finger pulls it together slightly, and a sweeping shame fills my face with strange warmth. I wait for the ridicule that's sure is to follow, but nothing. She turns to the next page, and the next. Finally, she gets to the fourteenth. My ears are flames. I'm sure they're beet red. I want to cover them with my hands but they're occupied holding my knee steady.

"Well, Alex, you know what?"

I'm thinking expulsion, parents, maybe medication.

"What's that, Mrs. Grave."

"I think you should keep this at home."

"Oh, OK," I say in a whisper.

She hands it back, and I get up and turn. There's someone waiting on the other side of the window. I open the door.

"Just a minute, Alex."

I freeze. I knew it: parents, expulsion, medication.

"Would you wait outside for a moment? There's a note I want you to take back to Mr. Howard. It'll just take me a minute." She smiles at me, and her red lipstick cracks along the fissures in her lips. It's truly horrible.

"Ok." I walk out the door and sit next to—it's Mary Sue. I lean my back into the cool cement wall. My undershirt is sticky with sweat. My head leans back, and I glance down. She's holding her purple happy face notebook. She gives me a nervous glance then looks down at her notebook. It's still got the shiny thing stuck in it. The cool masonry seeps into my back. It does help me relax, chilling the sweat in a satisfying way. My eyes drift down towards Mary Sue. I zero in for a sneak peek, just one quick—"

"Thank you," she says.

My eyes take off on a _Holy Jesus Christ_ flight down the hall. The top button of her blouse is imbedded in my retinas, its two button holes staring wide eyed. If I could, I'd race down the hall, crash through the glass door, and run home. "I'm sorry," I blurt out.

"Sorry," she says confused. "For the sandwich?"

"For the what?" Now, I'm confused.

"When you shared your peanut butter and jelly sandwich with me . . . well . . . it was nice."

"Oh," I say, laughing a bit with relief. I wipe the sweat from my forehead. Now my hand is sweaty again. Casually I slip it behind my butt to dry it. It forces me to lean slightly to the left, bringing me inches from her. They don't smell like vanilla or lilacs; it's a relief.

She nervously flips the pages of her notebook. A flattened wrinkled sheet of aluminum foil glitters by. A whiff of peanut fills the air. My mind can move very fast, but I can barely keep up with this.

We sit there quietly for what seems like an eternity. In my mind, countless times the tinfoil is wrapped and unwrapped from the neatly halved peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

"You know—" we both start to say, cutting each other off. We laugh nervously and look away. She stares at her feet. I'm staring at her purple happy face notebook. What's in there besides the tinfoil from my peanut butter and jelly sandwich? In my peripheral vision I see Mrs. Grave standing up, getting ready to open the door.

"There's a dance—" we both start to say.

"It's the _Gum Rappers_ ," she blurts out happily.

"Yeah, they're good," I add.

The door opens

"I'm goin'," she says, her words rushing out.

"Me too, yeah me too." My words jump out leaving me breathless.

"Well, Mary Sue," says Mrs. Grave.

Mary Sue grows quiet and clutches her notebook crushing a very purple happy face to her breasts. She turns slowly as the counselor's door open. Her eyes widen with worry.

"It's not so bad," I reassure in a whisper.

# XI

Cold Comfort

Once in a great while, sensation and thought become so entangled as remain too knotted to be undone. Like a child running through spring grass, she stopped long enough to stomp into that all too inviting puddle, discovering the depth was much greater than bargained for. This was Mary Ellen at age four. She had discovered a small special place, absolutely perfect for releasing simple tensions.

She walked across the living room to the recliner where her father sat. His slippers dangled from his big toes under the rustling of his _New York Times_. In the wake of his distinct smell of English Leather, she flopped down on the floor. Her hips began pulsating against the rug until her position was confirmed by the building warmth.

"What the hell! Helen," came her father's scornful, half frightened plea, "Come get your daughter!"

Mary Ellen froze as she felt her mother lifting her. Mary Ellen's desire crashed through the floor, the weight of her father's words pressing down. Their explosive shock resonated well into adulthood. It was condemnation for only the small piece of flesh that was forced into exile. Here it would remain as a non-feeling part.

**Twenty-eight times** the spring grass had sprouted into summer, only to dry and bend under the demands of fall. Finally winter had stripped it of all its warmth. Mary Ellen had grown accustomed to the seasons, finding its cycles comforting. She was an independent woman with relentless disciplines. Jogging up country roads in lug sole boots and backpacking for three days on meager rations were all part of her regimen. She loved the wilderness and the tall ancient trees with its thick clinging moss. The icy mountain peaks offered trickles soon to be rushing streams. The wild life fascinated her but only at a distance. It was never anything she would consider inviting in, like the Monarch butterfly that had flittered through her bedroom window. Alarmed, she had chased it down with a towel, forcing it outside where it belonged.

In August the evening's oppressive heat grew tired of trying to lift itself off the earth. Only the distant mountains with their three snow-capped peaks offered a welcoming chill to her blue-green eyes. She sat looking out the second story bedroom window, trying to catch the slightest hint of a breeze. She noticed her neighbor, Kyle, who was weeding along a row of his backyard tomatoes. The vines, heavy with ripened fruit, shook as his freckled shoulders brushed against the dark green vines staked with strips of red cloth. His shirt hung from the fence, and sweat glistened off his muscles in a way Mary Ellen found fascinating. Each stubborn weed forced a ripple over his shoulder. She was intrigued by the way the sunlight lit up the beads of sweat. He labored in the prime of youth, quickly snapping off full red tomatoes and placing them carefully in a shallow wooden crate. He brushed the sweat from his brow, catching the motion of Mary Ellen's bedroom curtains and then her.

"They're giants," he said proudly. He held up one as proof with a broad smile.

"They're beauties," she called back.

A little shocked by the unexpected contact, she combed a nervous hand through her long silky hair. Pleased to be noticed, her hand floated casually down to her knee.

"You want some?" he asked.

He placed the tomato down and then lifted an almost full case as proof of his abundance. With his arms and triceps straining against the weight, she made her decision. "I'll be right down."

Moving barefooted from the window, she moved into the hallway and down the stairs. She stopped long enough to look in a mirror that hung at the end of the staircase. She noticed a peculiar look in her eyes. She adjusted her hair and stepped through the back door and onto the porch. Moving down the five wooden steps, she slowed, not wanting to appear too eager.

"Take as many as you like," he said.

Standing, he let the crate rest on the top of the wooden cedar fence. Balancing it with one hand, he ran his free hand through his thick blond hair, exposing a white streak of forehead rarely touched by the sun.

Approaching the fence, a bit of unrestrained excitement ignited her smile. She stopped a few feet from the fence. His spine straightened with the pride of his offering. She took a medium one.

"Thank you," she said looking at the tomato, turning it slowly, revealing one slight blemish.

"Oh, here—that's no good," he said, the words tripping out.

He took the tomato while simultaneously handing her another. His fingers crusted with soil, the nails impacted with dirt, touched hers. Glancing down she noted the contrast against her white, clean manicured look. A slight disturbance registered in her brows.

"Take as many as you'd like, he continued. "I've got way too many. They'll just go to waste over here."

She took a second larger one.

"Here," he said, giving her a third.

She awkwardly juggled it in the crook of her arms.

"Would you like another one?" he asked, already extending an arm with a larger tomato.

"I can't," she said, breaking into a laugh, already being forced to balance the load under her chin.

She began the careful walk back up the steps, still laughing. Turning around, she asked, "What am I going to do with all these?" The furrows in her brow took on a playful concern.

"Well . . . you could invite me over for salad."

"What kind of dressing?" she asked turning her back to him.

"What have ya got?"

"Blue cheese and Italian," she said, entering through the back door,

"Blue cheese."

"Okay," she said, the screen door banging shut.

.

**Blue cheese it was,** with crisp endive lettuce layered with sliced mushrooms, cucumbers, carrots and tomatoes. Mary Ellen served the salad on two ceramic plates along with two bowls of steaming pasta.

"Great looking salad," he said.

Their forks nosily clanked against the plates. They sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table, both hesitating to speak. But by the time they had begun swiping that last bit of lettuce against the remaining streaks of blue cheese their enthusiasm for words had grown.

Kyle placed his elbows on the table, leaning forward with that desire for greater intimacy. Mary Ellen's eyes brightened. She placed her fingers on the end of the table and leaned in. But something in the air forced her to re-assess the moment. She leaned back into her chair, her voice still friendly, but a bit coarse due to some unexplainable tension. It gave her a sense of alarm that knitted her forehead with displeasure. Confused, she stabbed at the remaining piece of tomato, dragging it over a streak of dressing. Tentatively raising it to her lips, she took a cautious bite.

"You know," he said excitedly, "with the kind of sun we get here, I could grow just about anything."

"We do get plenty of summer," she said with forced interest.

"Yeah, I'm going to add onto my garden plot, put in an herb garden. Do you like basil?"

He bent around in the chair, pointing out the window towards his backyard. She watched him lean from the chair. His arm extended as he pointed into a future only he could see. There was something appealing about him, the way he included her in his basil, as if he were planning to grow a future with her. This made her smile as if one grew a future the way one grew a small leafy plant.

"Sounds like a good idea," she said, disguising her nervousness with a smile. "Why don't we go into the living room?"

"Okay," he said, taking his plate and placing it into the sink.

Turning towards the living room he hesitated, waiting for her.

"I'll be right there," she said, placing her dish into the sink. "I'm going to heat up some water. Did you want some tea or coffee?"

"Coffee's fine," he said.

He moved with uncertainty into the living room, noticing the bookshelves made from pine boards and cinder blocks. They were stacked three rows high, topped off with several photo albums and ceramic figurines. He considered his choices: two aging cushioned chairs or a sofa. The obvious choice was the sofa. Sitting down, he noticed a lever on the side and pulled it back, elevating his feet.

"Hey, it's a recliner," he said.

"A what?" she called from the kitchen.

"Your sofa's a recliner."

He smiled broadly at the discovery and the luxury of having his feet propped up. His blue thongs dangled by their straps from his big toes.

"Oh yes, got it on sale last December," she said entering with a bright smile.

She looked at his toes, the foam thongs dangling. Her smile vanished. She scrutinized every inch of him, from the tips of his toes up to his hands folded on the back of his neck. They held a perfectly contented smile she resented. She looked back down to those hideous dangling thongs. He appeared too smug and satisfied lounging on her beige sofa. She retaliated by sitting down on the chair furthest from him, relieved to see the brightness of his face melt. Examining his hurt look, she noticed him stoically trying to mask it with a neutral one. He unlocked his hands and set them awkwardly on his lap; her heart softened.

"The water should be ready. Do you take cream and sugar?" she asked.

"Just cream, if you got it."

"Half & half I got," she replied, moving towards the kitchen.

Kyle stood, taking note of his surroundings. The lace curtains made endless gestures in a hot August breeze, the ceiling fan turning in vain. The albums tugged at his curiosity with their tan simulated leather filled thick with memories. He walked up to them and ran his hand over one. He considered opening it, hoping for a glimpse of Mary Ellen's history: places she had been, friends, family, hopefully not a boyfriend lurking. It seemed like only a violation to casually turn a few pages, knowing she could return at any moment.

"Here you go," she said, walking in with a ceramic mug in each hand.

"This is quite a collection you have there," he said, admiring the album's thickness with a little pat.

"That one's ancient history," she said, handing him a cup. "Wasn't sure how much cream you wanted, so I just put in a splash. I'll get more if you like."

He took a cautious sip. "Perfect," he said. It was a word he had planned in advance.

She opened the album. His eyes took a curious look over the rim of the coffee.

"Most of these are from the Blue Ridge Trail up Mount Elba over the last five years."

She paged slowly, starting from the back, going from fall, summer and into spring, and then into fall again. There were no young men standing in the changing seasons. Only intimate shots of scenery with ferns and violets were nestled up against the thick bark of tall pines. Above it all were snowy peaks breaking through the branches with their needles fracturing the sunlight. Not a hint of anyone else; these were lonesome walks, her private sanctuary.

"Look at this one," she said, opening it to a snowy stretch on Blue Ridge. The photo held winter on the pines, branches bowed under the weight of a pristine white. "The first snows in December are the best," she added. "Up at the two thousand foot level, the snow smells like . . ." She began to inhale with her eyes closed, imaging she was standing there, the clear air chilling her lungs. She stopped in mid breath; harshness filled her nostrils, a reminder of some ancient foul place, one she had closed the door on decades ago. But it was beating on the thin barrier of her memory, pushing it open. She shook herself awake. "I'll get more creamer."

"I don't need any more," he said perplexed.

"For myself, I need a refill," she said hurriedly.

She picked up her cup, and moved quickly towards the kitchen. Under the gaze of his eyes, she felt like she was fleeing from the scene of the crime. She forced herself to slow down, wanting desperately to negate the sensation. But she felt an evaluation was being leveled by the watchful eyes. She stopped in front of the stove, where the kettle was steaming. The vapor rose against the floral pattern tiles, dissipating along with her panic. She exhaled, turning off the burner, noticing condensation sliding down the weeping tiles. Refilling her cup, a surge of anger tightened her throat, the absurdity of herself, gripping tight.

"I think I could use a little warm up," said Kyle peeking in.

Her hand jolted, forcing a tongue of coffee to leap onto the stove. The burner hissed its disapproval, belching a scolding plume of steam.

"Damn it," she said.

"Oh—sorry," he apologized, entering and grabbing several paper towels from the sink's dispenser.

He dabbed furiously over the stove's enameled surface. Scrubbing around the burner's rim he tried to erase his mistake.

"That's not necessary," she assured.

"Did you burn yourself," he asked, turning towards her.

"No—no I'm fine," she said, looking at him, appreciating the worried look, his facial muscles taunt with concern.

"That's good," he said.

He relaxed. She felt a slight pressure along the tips of her fingers as he held a moment's worth of care. She found his voice comforting. Her other hand moved in locking their hands together. But, there it was again, the faint drift of that unexplainable scent pushing between them. It was stronger than before. Its repulsive seep hardened her as if every pore contracted against his touch. Her heart no longer beat with passion but banged on an ancient crypt. She shuddered with a confusion that moved her close to tears. She felt them pushing up her throat. They seeped into sinuses; a few uncontrollable sniffles followed. Breaking one hand free, she gave her nose a tweak.

"Oh," she said, with a distraught whisper, "I must be coming down with something."

She sniffled again. He leaned back a bit, unsure. Her focus blurred, her eyes tearing. She gave a greater sniffle. It vibrated deep within her sinuses. Forcing her other hand to come to the rescue, she turned and grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Can you believe a cold in all this heat?"

She dabbed her nose with the paper towel, knowing it wasn't a cold. She glanced towards the open kitchen window, trying to detect some irritating pollen drifting in on the breeze sabotaging the evening. The room felt stuffy, the complete opposite of Mount Elba with its chilled clean air. High up on trails, close to permanent winter, she could breathe in every molecule. But the air in the kitchen was thick, almost rancid. She looked at Kyle through her fingers. Taking the paper towel in both hands, she blew hard enough to startle him into a retreat. He was still too close. She inhaled a great quantity of air, slowly filling her lungs. She held it, and sneezed, blowing him back another step. Folding the paper towel she blew again.

Kyle shifted his weight to his other foot. He placed his right hand in his pocket, no longer sure of his role. He felt more like an irritant than someone who comforted. He glanced around the kitchen at the toaster, the microwave, and the blender that had no apparent use, just something to be turned on when needed, nothing more.

She walked back into the living room blotting her tears. Kyle followed, watching her sit in one of the plush chairs. He sat in the other one, separated by a small end table, clasping his hands awkwardly.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Oh, just my sinuses," she replied, smiling feebly.

"Maybe you should have some mint tea. I hear that's good for a cold."

"Yes, mint tea," she confirmed, starting to stand.

"I'll do it; you just rest," he said standing quickly, and moving towards the kitchen. "Where do you keep it?"

"In the cupboard, by the fridge."

"Okay," he said entering the kitchen.

She watched him moving in the kitchen with just an elbow and a bit of shoulder flashing through the doorway. She heard the cupboard open and shut. The tap ran briefly followed by the clank of the kettle settling onto the burner. The noises were reassuring. Each of them helped her relax. Her sinuses began to clear. She waited to catch another glimpse of him, anticipating just a brief bit of his pale blue shirt or any part of him. She smiled over the thought of him. Leaning back into the chair, her thoughts eased into his care.

"Here ya go," he said entering. His eyes were buried deep in a steaming ceramic mug, trying to still the tea's rippling confusion with a firm look. "You probably should let it cool."

"Thank you," she said with clearing eyes and a smile.

She inhaled deeply, sensing the rush of mint filling her. A stream of molecules hitched a ride turning the mint's essence into a sacrilege. Her eyelids sprang open. She stared up at him, confirming the smell, a deadly fragrance of— _what?_ It smelled like sweat and something carrying a heaviness that could not be lifted. . . . Like _English Leather_ , she thought. _Intolerable_. Her eyes watered. Her throat tightened. She stood up and moved to the window trying to escape into a breeze, but only the thick evening heat gripped her.

"Are you okay?" he asked again. He stood momentarily and started to approach.

"Kyle," she said in an almost stern voice, halting his progress. "I have to rest. Sorry." She moved towards the staircase. Placing her hand on the banister, she ascended the steps mumbling an apology, all the lightness having been drained from her.

She entered her bedroom and slumped into the chair by the window overlooking the backyard. Below, Kyle walked through her backyard towards a low spot in the fence. He swung his right leg over followed by the left. Tracking a worn path, he walked past the row of tomato plants and moved towards his back porch. Mary Ellen saw none of this. His retreat was of small importance when compared to the evening's last shimmer of white on the distant snowy peaks.

By ten that night, she was watching the moon make its approach. There was something about the way the moonlight slid off the mountain's icy peaks. She imagined her favorite jogging path was painted in a lunar pale white. It was where she wanted to be, right at this moment, amongst the tall stately conifers with its frigid touch.

Kyle settled into the recliner of his living room, his feet rising up with dangling thongs. He curled his toes inward. A little shake sent the footwear to the parquet floor. He grabbed the _Oregonian_ off a small end table that was littered with gum wrappers and stale cake crumbs. Turning a page, the newsprint gave a little tremor. His eyes stared out the window, over the backyard, and up to Mary Ellen's window. Pulling her image together, he noticed her forehead, cheek, and shoulder painted with the soft brush of moonlight. Her eyes, deep in shadows, gave the look of seriousness. He tried to imagine where her gaze went and her mind had settled. She bent slightly to sip cold tea. The light slid about her with a sensuality Kyle found antagonizing. Braking from her, he forced his eyes deep into the headline he barely read. He skimmed over the newsprint and up to the paper's edge. Looking back into the night, he settled on her windowsill with an agonizing pang. He stayed momentarily, breathing out with a hiss. Finally, he indulged, taking in the curvature of her forehead, her neck half in shadow, lingering on the nearly invisible. Again, his anger teased him, forcing him to retreat to the newspaper. He dismissed it with the upward flicker of his eyes. Standing, he took in the full measure of her, not with a sensuous look but with intensity.

.

**By fall the early morning light streaked over Kyle's bedroom window** , warming the bedspread. His hand brushed halfway through his hair. Gripping it, he held it as if trying to pull out a reminder for the day. But he already knew what he'd be doing that morning. After his juice and coffee, he'd get out a bag of tulip bulbs that sat on the back porch. They would go in next to the tomatoes, making his garden complete.

He set the bag next to the garden plot, brushing up against a tomato plant. Its acidity he found appealing. He remained crouched, thinking of how his labor had created this spot of beef-steak tomatoes. The sun, though still hours from its zenith, poured its energy onto the navy-blue sweatshirt warming his shoulders. He considered pulling it off and slinging it over the cedar fence but changed his mind; the backyard was no longer private. Soon, he was in the meditation of digging, the spade plunging and loosening the dirt. His hands crumbled the larger chunks until scooping out a small hole. He carefully set in a bulb. Filling and tamping the spot down, he left a shallow depression that marked each tulip's plot.

Mary Ellen watched Kyle from her kitchen window as she washed the dishes. She noticed the remaining tomatoes, bright and red. A fleck of shame rippled through her. She plunged her hands into dish water. Repeatedly she massaged them, appreciating the sudsy clean feel. She calmly looked up, noticing Kyle vigorously working the soil.

He drove the spade in with concentration, wiggling the blade. Tensing his forearm, he pulled back the handle lifting out a chunk of earth. He thrust the spade back in.

Her hands dove into the water, submerging them up to her elbows. Pulling the dishcloth out, she gave it a rinsing twist. Her eyes looked back at Kyle, foam sliding down her forearms.

Kyle had almost emptied the bag. The sweat along his neck and shoulder blades had begun its slow descent down his spine. It collected at his waistband, forming a darkened line that migrated out towards his hips. He knew she was there; the flicker in the darkened kitchen window was obvious. But he was determined to remain with his work.

Mary Ellen could feel beads of perspiration building along her forehead and collar bones; _hardly enough exertion to warrant this_ , she told herself. The forecast called for rain. She looked at the blue sky with suspicion. She slid the double hung window up, alerting Kyle.

"Morning, Kyle," she said cautiously.

Kyle glanced up from the unfinished cut of earth. He held his stare, pretending to be uncertain as to where the greeting came from.

A breeze lapped at Mary Ellen's brown hair, flopping across her face as if an after thought. She watched his eyes soften into a smile; she assumed she was forgiven and relaxed.

"How are you this morning?" she asked.

His expression dissolved; she squeezed the washcloth.

"I'm fine," he said.

"I'm making tea, if you'd like—",

"—I've got to finish this, thanks anyway," he said bluntly. "The weather's gonna change."

Bowing his head, he returned to the earth, the spade slashing viciously.

"Well, have a good day," she added, wringing out the washcloth.

She continued with the dishes, running the rinse water over a glass, noisily drowning out the crunch of earth. She watched his shoulders moving, his shoulder blades pushing against his shirt. She grabbed both ends of the curtain, and yanked them shut. The breeze lifted one end slapping her face. She fought back with a determined hand. The irritation became too much; she abandoned the remaining dishes and left the kitchen.

She grabbed a load of wash from the bathroom hamper and quickly walked into the adjacent laundry room. Flipping open the washer lid, she struggled to hang onto the pile of dirty clothes. She force fed the load into the washer. Tossing in a half cup of detergent, she let the lid drop. She gave the washer dial a half twist and pull. She stared perplexed. Twisting the dial again she pulled—nothing.

"Shit!" she said. Pulling the wash out a light snowy mist of detergent fell to the floor. "And it will probably rain," she sighed, looking out the window.

A distant dark stretch of gray was encroaching on the morning blue. Now, it would be a quick rush, hauling wet wash to the launder mat and back.

.

**Flipping on the kitchen light, she noticed Kyle working in the evening rain.** He was hunched over in a green raincoat and yellow rain hat. Crumpling the soggy tulip paper bag up, he stood and stuffed it in the coat pocket. He went to the new plot of tulips and stared down at the bare ground. The small depressions had become small ponds, each trembling under the endless barrage.

The rain blew in the window spraying her neck. Placing her hand on the window sash, she prepared to shut it but hesitated.

"Kyle," she called out, "kind of wet out there for that, don't you think?"

"I'm just about done," he said, still staring at the ground.

"Well . . . when you're finished, would you like to come in for some tea?"

She watched him remain fixed to the ground, the drops striking the brim of his hat. He looked up at her as if her words needed to swim out to him before rendering a verdict.

"Okay," he said, straightening up and walking towards the low point in the fence.

He swung leg over followed by the next. Unzipping the coat he approached. He took off his hat as he stepped up and on the porch. Shaking it vigorously, he hung it on the door knob. Taking off his raincoat, he placed it on a white plastic chair sitting on the porch. He entered the kitchen to the slosh of soaked thongs.

"I'll meet you in the living room as soon as the water boils," she said. She pulled down a box of mint tea from the cupboard.

"Sounds like a deal," he said.

Sitting on the couch, he pulled back the lever, elevating his feet. He listened to the windows being assaulted by striking sheets of rain. There was a pattern to it, as if its inhalation held a delay until its wet breath struck again.

"Do you have to dangle those things like that?" she asked entering.

"Like what," he questioned, staring at his thongs.

She inhaled deeply, the rush of air scraping the all too familiar smell against her nostrils. It swelled her thoughts with resentment. She didn't hand him the tea but placed it on an end table with a ceramic clunk.

"Like that," she scolded, nodding towards his thongs.

"What the hell," he murmured, kicking them loose.

She had never heard him swear, not even when spying on him from her kitchen window when he bumped his big toe against a piece of brick hidden in a tuft of backyard grass. But this simple phrase she detested, layered with a fraternal familiarity.

"What?" she said with a great explosion of air.

"Well—what," he shot back.

There was no hiding it now; volleys had been fired; it was war.

"What?" she demanded, flinging her arms out.

"Never mind," he said, having no idea what he was defending.

Standing, he spun towards the back door. He walked barefoot over the oak floor, out the door, and down the porch steps. He came to an abrupt stop in the pouring rain, not bothering to slam the door, leaving it gaping wide. Standing on the sodden ground, it oozed up between his toes.

She clasped her hands together, studying him: the rain matting his hair, the green t-shirt sculpting wet cloth over his shoulders. The night air rushed in, feeling cool and moist wrapping around her shoulders and legs.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked, standing by the door.

"Getting wet," he answered with his back to her, the downpour muting his words.

"You're what?"

"I'm—getting—wet," he shouted.

"Yes, I know that."

She grabbed the umbrella that stuck out from a large Chinese vase next to the door. Popping it open, she walked down the steps, stopping several feet from his back. The rain plunked against the nylon umbrella. Heavy determined drops were cascading into little rivulets rushing off its sides. His back was soaked, except for two small spots below each shoulder blade. He smelled clean and new, like something born of water.

"Kyle," she said, forcing him to turn.

A vicious assault drummed off the umbrella like endless small thundering hooves. He stood there looking at her. His eyes carried a sternness she found oddly familiar. His hair was matted like one wet autumn leaf, almost laughable. But his look kept her in check. Oddly, his fresh washed smell melted her eyes. This he caught, encouraging a step forward. She tilted the umbrella back letting him in, the rain striking both their faces. The gutters overflowed with a clamor and the downspouts gushed noisily with indifference to a weeping sky.

# XII

A Simple Prayer

I entered Saint John's vestibule, head bowed. Stopping by the holy water fountain, my fingertips took a little dip.

Walking up the aisle, I started the sign-of-the-cross, staying five rows back. Even though there was hardly a soul, I didn't want to be noticed at this time of night. I genuflected and slid kneeling into the pew, finishing off the sign-of-the cross.

"Dear God," I whispered, "I know we've had our difficulties. It's been a two way street. But, I've never given up on You. And You? We're both still here—right?

Raising my head, I took in the altar, a stately texture of so many white pillars and marble ledges. It could've been a wedding cake, except for the absence of the decorative bride and groom, the crucifix the center piece. The crown of thorns seemed to weigh unusually heavy, the head of Jesus unusually bowed. I bowed as well and waited. Nothing. So I went with another sign-of-the-cross. Still, nothing. I stayed like that for a while longer, because you never know.

"OK," I sighed, "You got Your plan. Right? Let's see if we can make something of it."

Stepping out into the aisle, I genuflected while running through one more sign-of-the-cross, knowing these things could be redundant. But, you never know, best to play it safe.

"Oh," I said, still on one knee, "that time I was ten and broke into votive candle, change box. Well, it was nothing personal." _Kenny's Comic's_ had a deal on marvel comics. Remember, on Thirty-ninth Street. Spider Man, issue #37, too much to pass up. Not the kind of thing I would've confessed to Father Majeski. I knew You'd understand.

I stood, feeling a little better. But the night tingled with worry. Leaving, I walked down the marble steps and headed back to Broadway. My car was parked one block over. It seemed safe enough but having locked the keys inside, what a disaster.

The sirens had settled down, but by now the three-alarmer had brought out the first-responders in force. Even from Elm Street, the curious were filtering towards Broadway. I figured it was enough of a gathering for a safe peek.

A young couple was moving towards Broadway. I picked up the pace, settling in behind them. They, in turn, joined several others. We created a little knot of curiosity seekers. _Safety in numbers_.

We passed a Toyota Prius, a Ford Focus, and approached my Corolla. My heart picked up the pace as we did the walk-by. So how noticeable were the keys? The streetlamp made it obvious for anyone looking: the white rabbit's foot and the apartment key dangling useless. But would the cops be looking? Even at this late hour there were the other parked cars. So my little Corolla's wasn't that big of a deal—right?

Rationalization kicked in as my thoughts ran wild: I didn't really expect an answer from You. But, You're looking over me. Right? Any acknowledgement would help, anything at all. A little blink from one of the parked cars, anything. . . . Nothing.

A cruiser slid by. Its brake lights blinked. Not the sign I was looking for. Foolishly, I almost froze, leaving the safety of the group. But the cruiser just made a lazy turn at the corner of Broadway, and I kept up with the group; thank You for that. Thank You, thank You, thank You.

I could've called a locksmith. Too many cops for that.

We made the turn onto Broadway. Two blocks further on, a crowd of several dozen had already gathered. We joined them.

The cops had a cruiser at each intersection. No one would be allowed closer.

Even from this distance, it was impressive, the two story warehouse a glorious blaze. Bright! Beautiful! A blazing tongue of flame licked up, thrusting into darkness, pushing the night. Sparks shot out, and the heavens quivered in ecstasy. _Let it burn, let it burn, let it burn._

We were just part of the gathering. But not really; I was different, separate from the rest. A smile almost lit up my face, but I refrained.

Three firemen ran with a thick length of hose. Their yellow heavy coats couldn't hide their frantic efforts. The extension ladder rattled up. It leaned against a wall threatened by a second story window that spewed smoke, big rolling gray curls of it. One guy clamored up the ladder, dragging the hose over his shoulder. It put the worry on. I didn't want it to collapse, didn't want anyone to get hurt. Look after him Lord, I prayed . . . oh, and my car keys.

Well, if it collapses, his choice. Firefighters did choose this high-risk occupation. So did I.

The guy at the other end cranked the hydrant. The hose stiffened. Water streamed out trying to drown the beast. Funny **,** it burned like the pouring rain, a baptismal by fire.

The flames had worked their way past the second story up to the roof. The access door to the roof was wide open. Smoke billowed out and finally flames leapt joyously out. There was something about a fire that made every futile attempt to put it out, divine.

The cops had their backs to us. They were just as awe struck as the rest of us. Even at this distance it warmed my forehead and flickered off the glasses of several bystanders. Everybody watched. Not a worry in the world. Whatever problems they brought had long been offered up.

Tomorrow it will be the usual dead wet smell. I'll come by anyway, depressed again, weighed down by another uneventful day. Unbelievable, how something so alive one night can be so dead the next.

Odd, my hands felt cold even on a summer night like this. I stuffed them into my Levis. And there, waiting for me was my Bic Lighter, its textured plastic case and metal tip, comforting. Still, I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling of my car keys. Just the split second of carelessness. Everything was routine until reaching into my empty pocket. Quickly, every pocket was checked. Even the ground around the Corolla got the once over. Looking up, I peered into the driver's side; the rabbit's foot taunted me. But I knew St. John's was near; time to plea my case. But now, watching the down pour, I knew my own baptismal stood for something. Didn't it? Had too. I was part of the One True Faith.

I pulled out a pack of Marlboroughs from my breast pocket. Shook one loose and placed it between my lips. _I lit er up_ , sucking in the deep satisfaction of the night, knowing, You'll keep me safe. Right? Have faith.

# XIII

A Small Life

There were two kinds of dreams: the kind when asleep and the awake kind. It was the latter of these that were of little consequence, until taken seriously. This was why Robert stood on the precipice of Silver Falls on a humid August night. The moon was just breaking over a crest of trees while he remained silhouetted against a field of stars. With the conviction of flight, he held his arms out and inched forward. The tip of his toes peaked over the edge with heels precariously planted on loose soil. A few pieces of gravel were dislodged making a rattling descent until swallowed by the night. He was indifferent to this; with his arms outstretched his hands tested for lift. The cool air slid under his palms with assurance. He leaned forward. Now, it's time to take a step back. . . .

. . . Last Friday morning, Robert Brooks still had not slept in three nights and was acutely aware he had grown shorter. He could feel it in the loose fit of his pajamas, the cuffs draping over his insteps. He knew this would happen; still, it came as an early morning shock. He scuffled over to the mirror on the bureau and tilted it down. He wiggled the toes on his left foot. The surplus flannel confirmed his fear. He remained staring at this, but his thoughts traveled to Rebecca; she had caused this.

He slipped out of his pajamas and slipped on his jeans and loafers, tightening the belt by an extra notch. He went with a yellow t-shirt. Normally it would have been a snug fit but not today. Before leaving, he went to the bathroom and took several more white pills, a little something to bolster his confidence, making sure he had the energy to do everything that needed to be done.

Down the apartment steps and onto the street his walk was brisk. He was controlling his anger, holding back the vindictiveness he owed Rebecca Shear. A confrontation was in the making. He lived on Eleventh, she on Ninth, a mere five block walk down busy streets with traffic that rushed past with indifference. His morning rush would be without the traditional stop at Starbucks. His goal was simple: having it out with Becky before she escaped off to work. Crossing Tenth, a horn blared as he made the quick dash not bothering to wait for the walk sign. Skipping up to the curb, he closed in on Ninth, bringing Becky's apartment into view, its green overhang trim rippling with encouragement.

Bounding up the five cement steps he impatiently tapped the buzzer. He waited and started tapping again.

"Yes," crackled Becky's voice through the speaker.

"Beck, it's me," he said. His hand leaned on the brick wall, waiting.

"OK," she said.

The door buzzed and clicked. He opened it, went in, and rushed up a flight of steps. He turned down the hallway and stopped at _231_. The door chain rattled and the deadbolt clicked.

"Robert, I gotta get ready for work," said Becky. Standing in her bathrobe she let the door swing wide. She turned and walked through the living room of her efficiency apartment. He closed the door and followed her into the bedroom. She flung the bathrobe over the bed and stood with her back to him in her black bra and panties. The flesh along her back bulged against the restraint of her bra.

_She had gained weight_ , he thought, _while I'm dissolving_.

She didn't wait for him to spiel out his latest concern, but picked up the aerosol deodorant and sprayed her armpit.

"This is serious," he said.

"It always is," she replied with resignation, spraying her other armpit. Setting the aerosol down on the bureau, she picked up a silver bracelet and slung it over her right wrist. She fumbled with the clasp.

"This is what I mean," he challenged.

"OK, OK, what is it this time?" she asked, snapping the clasp.

"Look at me," he demanded.

"What?" she asked. Grabbing a necklace off the bureau she turned around facing him.

"This-this!" he almost shouted, pulling at his belt.

She gave a perplexed look, her eyes focusing on his belt buckle with confusion. He grew impatient until noticing the necklace of turquoise beads and tiny seashells dangling from her hand; his eyes widened. Waiting for her to register the obvious, he gave the belt an additional tug as if trying to dislodge simple understanding from her.

"So you lost a little weight," she said dismissively.

"It's not just weight I've lost."

He approached quickly, forcing her to take a half step back. She bumped into the bureau; the mirror shook and the necklace rattled. Stepping to the side avoiding the necklace, he placed his shoulder next to hers. "See," he said with certainty.

She looked at her shoulder, then his. Reluctantly, her eyes made the climb until encountering his intense stare.

"What did I tell you?" he asked.

She looked back down at her shoulder. The desperation of him was seeping in; this she resented. Lost as to what it was she was supposed to find, she feared asking, knowing it would only heighten his agitation.

He placed his index finger on his shoulder. "We're almost even," he explained.

"Yes, you've always been a little taller than me."

"No—not just a little taller, more like a solid inch."

"OK, a solid inch," she said reluctantly.

"Look at this," he tapped her shoulder with his index finger, then his, "barely a half inch difference."

She still had the perplexed look.

He was growing impatient.

"I'm shrinking," he said. His eyes took on a detached look, like a rabbit waiting for the inevitable.

She had a choice: get involved or get ready for work. Turning around she picked the hairbrush up off the bureau and began brushing.

His eyes re-engaged, and he asked, "You're not concerned about this?"

She continued brushing and said, "At eight forty-five Mr. Parish will want the minutes from yesterday's board meeting on his desk—at eight forty-five. Before lunch, he'll want three bar graphs and two pie charts for his power point presentation—before lunch, Robert." There was urgency in her voice laced with irritation, something to parry his heightened concern. She knew how to counter those moments whenever he was ready to leap into the abyss, but work was pressing. "If you're really worried about shrinking, on my way back from work, I'll stop at Owls Drugs and pick you up a pair of Doctor Scholl's inserts." She burst out laughing, a truly hideous one. Her callous attitude had always bothered him. It used to only gnaw on him. Now, it came down with a raptor's bite.

He moved into the living room and slumped down onto the sofa. He noticed his feet dangling, the toes of his loafers not quit touching the hardwood floor. _How could she not be concerned?_ he asked himself.

She rummaged from the bedroom to the kitchen, a blur preparing for work. She ignored him as she approached the hallway door. She stopped and turned to look at him. "Robert," she said softly. He looked up, his elbows on his knees, hands cradling his chin. "We can talk about this when I get back." She turned to leave but stopped, and turned back towards him.

His spirits lifted above his chin that hovered slightly over his hands in anticipation.

"Don't forget to set the lock when you leave," she concluded. Opening the door she left.

He slumped back down, contemplating his next move. It came in a flash— _Starbucks!_ Leaving her apartment he set the lock and closing the door waited to hear the click. A quick jaunt down the steps and once again he was outside setting a fast pace.

Entering Starbucks, he walked up to the counter. Reaching to his back he froze with his hand stuck to the back pocket. Towering over him was a young woman with wide hips and sturdy shoulders. She was easily a head taller than him. He viewed the Amazon's nostrils bearing down on him, two black holes filled with dark wiry hairs. They led him into their twisting tunnels where he contemplated her brain rendering an unfavorable judgment.

"Grande, vanilla latte, please," he mumbled. Slowly he pulled the wallet from his pocket and laid a bill lightly on the counter. He waited patiently while the espresso hissed it contents into a paper cup.

She slid the latte towards him while retrieving the bill. Making change she placed two dollars and fifty cents on the counter.

"What's this? he questioned with astonishment.

"Your change," she said.

"I gave you a ten," he said.

"No, it was five." She straightened her posture as if were shrinking by inches. Placing her fists on her hips she challenged him with her stern look. It did the trick.

His eyes lost their courage, becoming once again lost in her nostrils, strangled in the web of hairs. He tried to elevate them to her eyes, a last ditch effort to assert his diminished position. But it failed as they slid down to her chin. Here, they clung momentarily, concentrating on a off center mole where another wiry hair taunted. Looking down at the counter, he considered the dollar and quarters. In an instant of capitulation he swept it up with his hand, placing them in his pocket. He left while casually dropping the latte in the trashcan in protest.

By four-thirty he was back in his apartment. Thinking of Becky, he swallowed one more pill. He wasn't finished with her. Placing the cap on a small amber bottle, he placed the pills on the shelf. Closing the cabinet, his face flickered into view. For a moment he was shocked by the sharp pinpoint look of his eyes. Turning, he left the bathroom. The wall clock in the living room moved much slower than his need to get over to her apartment. But he needed to kill twenty minutes.

He took a shower, dried himself off, got dressed, and slipped into his loafers. Walking across the living room, his loafers slapped against his heels. Nearly walking out of one, he angrily kicked it off. This was serious. He wondered how much time he had left: _a day, an hour. What was the rate?_ He took another step walking out of the other loafer. Staring at his bare feet he wondered how much height he had been lost since his shower. No matter; he was Becky bound with a vengeance.

Relentlessly, he pressed the buzzer on Becky's apartment until the door clicked. Back up the stairs and down the hall he rushed. After a moment of impatience, he was in her apartment. He began his rant.

"Robert, you're always doing this," she interrupted.

"Doing what?" he defended. It was a weak defense, offering little in the way of protection. Her necklace still clearly dominated the pale skin of her thick neck.

"You _do not_ always behave like an adult." Her words were terse: tight little bundles held in check by her constricted throat. "You behave like a little man." A flicker of shame filled her eyes, challenging her words. But then, overcome with frustration, she blurted out, "You are becoming a little, little man."

"Exactly!" he exclaimed. "You're the one who brought this on."

"What?" she questioned incredulously.

"Those beads of yours." He stared at her neck.

"Robert, they're just beads." Reaching behind her neck she undid the clasp and took them off. Stretching her arm out, she held them in front of his face. "They're just beads." They dangled six inches from him, threatening. The tiny shells rattled as if a coiled snake ready to strike. He could almost see the dark skinned Caribbean she had gotten them from. Bristling with sweat and muscles, he had assembled them deep within the rain forest, bead by bead, each shell threaded with an evil incantation. Robert knew this for a fact, just as he knew her remark was not just a random insult. She had power over him, this he was well aware of. It had taken him awhile to catch on, but now it was obvious. It started shortly after she had come back from the Caribbean with those coral blue beads and tiny seashells. Robert had picked her up at the airport, watching Michael Conrad walking down the concord, one of her ex-boyfriends of two years past. Tall and athletic, he had a fresh Caribbean tan and a full stride— _a coincidence?_

It started at their evening get-together at Becky's sister's apartment. Things went well until playing charades. Robert stumbled with the clue that Becky gave him. Frustrated, she took off the necklace and shook it fiercely at Robert evoking a spell. "You are cursed!" she laughed. Everyone laughed but Robert. In between the clinking of wine glasses and the gurgling bong pipe the laughter became vicious. And now in Beck's bedroom she was doing it again, shaking those hideous beads and shells in his face. He slapped at her hand. The beads flew across the bed.

"What the hell, Robert," she scolded.

"Look at me." He stared down at his feet.

"You're barefoot," she said truly surprised.

"That's right. I walked right out of them. They wouldn't stay on."

"You've always had small feet," she said, playing the innocent. "You're not wearing socks—no wonder they wouldn't stay on.

"That necklace was from Michael, wasn't it?"

She laughed, not a hideous one this time, but one that was thick and impenetrable.

He raced from the apartment and down the steps and up the sidewalk until breathless. Exhaustion had come quicker than he had ever known. _My lungs_ , he assumed, _are shrinking_. Walking to the town limits and into the night, he took the gravel road up to Silver Falls. His feet had grown tender on the rough surface. Knowing he was now shrinking at an exponential rate, the pebbles were like jagged golf balls.

So, on the edge he stood, his bare feet inching over the falls. Leaning forward the breeze held him in the balance. He leaned a bit more. The breeze picked up, brushing his hair back. His shirt billowed as if setting sail. Taking his right foot, he lifted it. And just like that, the breeze held him as if so much dandelion fluff. He smiled knowing he was about to escape the effects of gravity; all the weight of his torment would be lifted. The breeze left and his shirt deflated.

His descent followed the pebbles that preceded him. However, where the pebbles skimmed under a briar bush, he careened through it. On balance, this was a good thing; it slowed his descent. So when he found himself at the bottom he wasn't nearly as broken as he could have been. Lying on his back in a bed of gravel, his heel pushed against the loose rocks, an aimless gesture to his bleeding misery. Above him Silver Falls was blanketed by a field of stars. Even with his aching ribs and a bruised back he could feel every molecule of his body thinning. The occasional headlights above peered over the crest and then blinked off. He studied the stars for long minutes. In the distance a siren wailed.

Silver Falls, though just a dry creek bed now, was still a popular stopping point for young lovers; Robert had been quickly spotted. Raising his hand the webbing between his fingers appeared almost translucent against the bright eye of the moon.

As they laid him on the stretcher the ambulance's red light danced off his forehead. He smiled knowing he was right all along. He knew eventually Rebecca would find him, discovering his diminished size. Then, she'd see. _What if I kept shrinking?_ he thought. It reverberated through him until concluding she might be staring down at an empty pile of clothes— _then she'd know_ : bruised, broken, and smiling, _then she'd know_.

.

**Robert had found the ER too well lit** , but not intensive care. Its bed was reasonably comfortable, except for the pressure against his right shoulder blade. The male nurse on duty said Robert's shoulder had been dislocated; that explained it.

The patient, two beds over behind a screen, was moaning. Low and unsettling, it only added to Robert's discomfort. The laceration over Robert's forehead had already been stitched up and his ribs tightly wrapped. His feet tingled. The toxicological report would test positive for amphetamines. The cops would be paying him a visit. He wondered if they'd be able to get a warrant for his apartment before he could get back. Surprisingly, none of this overly concerned him. Looking up he noticed what must be a morphine drip. He attributed it to his indifference. Becky never showed. _How could she? What was I thinking?_ _I don't have health insurance,_ were the thoughts he cycled continuously _, p_ articularly, the lack of health insurance. Even the morphine drip couldn't suspend this worry.

He hatched a plan, the lack of ID, his coconspirator. If he left right then, just got up and walked out, no identity, no bills. However, the morphine drip kept saying stay . . . stay . . . stay.

.

**In the early morning** the moaner two beds over was silent. Robert hoped he was just asleep. When he was nine, his father made him bury his pet dog in the backyard after it had been hit by a car. Handling anything dead, a mouse, bird, or anything at all was something to be avoided. Being in the proximity of a dead man was eerie. Robert's need to leave reignited.

Peeling off the IV tape, he removed the needle with one smooth tug. He sat up with a serious ache in his shoulder. Getting out would be a problem in the hospital gown. The cold linoleum felt good against the raw soles of his feet. The room was dark. The morning light barely defined half a dozen beds with screens. The only other occupant was the moaner. Robert would have a peek.

His knee was painful as he moved with a limp to the end of the screen. The end of the moaner's bed revealed tented feet as white ridges where the bed sheet stretched up to his neck. Here, his shadowed face appeared as a gray spent mask.

Robert moved next to the side of the bed. He studied the face, checking for the slightest breath. Only the quiet shadow of repose, eyes shut, nose pointing towards the dark ceiling. Robert wanted to give the man's shoulder a little shake. He had no tubes, no monitor, or anything to indicate life or the lack of it. Robert's hand made it within an inch of his shoulder. The latent memory of his dog seeped in; his hand withdrew. _It could have been me_ , he thought. _Shouldn't someone come for him?_

There was a green lab coat draped over the chair next to the bed. Robert put it on. Pulling his hair over his forehead he tried to cover the stitches with one obstinate curl. The nicks and bruises on his chin he ignored.

Opening the door the hallway light stung his eyes. If he could make it to the elevator and down to the parking lot it would save thousands of dollars as well as the chat with the cops. He felt for the stitches. His hair didn't quite cover the last two, sticking out like two rigid hairs.

Someone at the far end of the hall was pushing a cart, a cleaning lady. The elevator could be down by the cleaning lady or at the other end the hall where it split into a T. He guessed the T.

The sterile linoleum was starting to chill his feet; they felt brittle and chapped. His big toe was bruised and swollen. The other foot limped under the weight of a swollen knee. Passing four closed doors he neared a counter that was next to the T.

A heavy set nurse sat at a desk. Bulging in white, her thick fingers busily plunked away at a keyboard. The glow of the monitor illuminated the pallor of her face revealing that late night shift look.

Trying to pick up the pace, his bum knee forced him to bend. His hand rested on it offering support. She picked up his jagged movement in her peripheral vision as he passed. But he slipped around the corner with only her disinterested glance.

The two elevators were a heavenly sight. _Escape hatches_ , he thought. He tapped repeatedly on the control panel. The light over the doors dinged. Straightening up, he prepared to look official in the lab coat, straightening the lapels. The door slid open revealing two male nurses in their late thirties and green scrubs. They look at him as he stepped in. Robert avoided limping, not wanting to draw attention to his bare feet. He gave eye contact that was attached to a polite if not confident smile. Turning around, he pressed the button marked _lobby_. The door slid shut and the elevator started its descent. The two in scrubs whispered behind his back as they passed the second floor. Before arriving at the lobby one of them said," Excuse me."

Robert ignored him as if not hearing. The elevator stopped at the main floor.

"Excuse me, sir," repeated the nurse.

Turning around Robert faced a stoic face of a stocky man in need of a shave. The nurse had seen much of what the ER and the hospital hallways had to offer. His eyes carried questions. Next to him, the thinner one checked Robert out with a serious look that also carried questions.

"Yes?" Robert asked vaguely.

"Can we help you?" asked the stocky nurse.

"No, thank you, I'm fine." Robert smiled again. It did nothing to alleviate their looks. Robert worried about his bare feet and the wrinkled hospital gown hanging below the green lab coat.

They stared at the two black threads. Robert held his smile, trying to force their eyes away from his forehead. The stocky nurse gave Robert eye contact, but the thin guy stayed with the stitches.

"Where are you coming from?" asked the stocky nurse.

"From the third floor," was the obvious answer. Robert extinguished his smile realizing it no longer served a purpose.

"The third floor?" he questioned.

"Yes, the third floor." Robert's eyes shifted up indicating its location. The obstinate curl also shifted up.

The thin nurse looked up but not the stocky one. The door slid open. Turning around Robert prepared to step out into the lobby. It would take serious discipline to avoid a deep knee bend. Leading with his good foot he stepped out, but as the other one followed the pain was excruciating. Robert stopped, knowing an inch further would force an unbearable dip.

"May I see some ID?" asked the stocky nurse, moving in front of Robert. His partner followed. They stood blocking Robert's way.

Robert checked the pockets of the lab coat. "I'm afraid I left it in my car," he said, still checking the pockets. He caught the telltale nod of the husky nurse to the thin one. The thin one peeled off towards the main counter. Robert pretended not to notice, appearing truly perplexed as to the whereabouts of the driver's license, still checking the pockets. He started to step around the stocky nurse, unable to control a facial grimace. The big nurse placed his hand gently on Robert's shoulder. The pressure of it went right to Robert's knee, forcing him to catch his breath.

"Yes?" questioned Robert with a forced smile. It was a ' _yes_ ' that bore down on the swollen knee.

"If you could wait here for a minute until we sort this out," encouraged the nurse.

The thin guy was returning with a doctor. A few more questions followed and a few more unsatisfactory answers given. The thin guy rolled up a wheelchair behind Robert. Robert settled obediently into it. Actually, it felt good to get off his feet. Surrendering to the inevitable was a relief. Only lying down would have felt better. They wheeled him back into the elevator and up to the third floor.

They gave Robert a pill and a cup of water. No thoughts came, except the oozing need to rest. The IV was reattached. Lying in bed gave him time to let the morphine do its work. He counted the drips. Five was the highest number that could be remembered before having to start over. He gave it maybe an hour before wondering how much trouble he was in. _Most likely they'd stationed a cop outside_. _Or did they?_

Again, a plot. Sitting up in bed, his knee took on a life of its own. This time he didn't pull out the IV. It was on a long aluminum stem with wheels. It rolled easily with very little prompting, following him like a trained dog. Cracking the door, he peeked out: no one at either end of the hall. He made for the T with the morphine drip in tow, nosily creaking. An aide approached him from around the corner of the T. She smiled, and he smiled back. Passing him, she continued on her way.

He realized the rolling IV made him look legit. In the hallway with his hospital gown he was just part of the flow. He rolled by the counter nurse. She barely acknowledged his presence as she stayed with the monitor on the verge of winning at solitaire.

The elevator dropped him off at the main lobby. The doors slid open, and he limped out holding onto the IV's aluminum pole for support. The glass exit doors were thirty feet in front. Two male nurses were over by the counter. Robert moved away from them and detoured towards the coffee and candy machine. Leaning heavily on the candy machine with his hand, he waited for the pain to pass. For authenticity, he pressed buttons that wouldn't respond, waiting for candy that wouldn't drop while his concentration remained on the nurses. They seem well occupied with a clipboard.

Gripping the IV stand for support, Robert rattled towards the exit. Halfway there the nurse with the clipboard looked up. It was the burly guy from earlier. He approached Robert with a confused look. Robert pushed on the door with all his might.

"Jesus Christ!" said Becky. She was standing directly in front of him on the outside of the door.

"Is your car here?" asked Robert desperately. He was struggling with the IV that couldn't quite make it over the door's aluminum threshold. It rattled noisily, refusing to make the climb.

"Look at you!" she stated with shock.

She was using up valuable time. He leaned on the IV with painful frustration. His knee was unbearable. Becky was unbearable. His life was unbearable. "We gotta go right now," he urged.

"What on earth are you doing out here?" she asked. "And your forehead!"

He placed his hand on his forehead, feeling the thick threads.

"Sir," said the nurse, placing his hand on Robert's shoulder, "What do you think you're doing?"

Briefly, Robert's thoughts skimmed over the parking lot, almost tasting the lost opportunity. "Do you know what you've done?" he asked. His voice was solemn, resigned.

"And with your glucose," concluded the nurse.

"Glucose?" questioned Robert feebly. He looked pathetically up at the IV bottle. He needed to sit down. A new found lethargy had found him.

The nurse looked over his shoulder; the thin one was bringing the wheelchair.

.

**The thin nurse wheeled Robert to the elevator** with the burly one and Becky flanking. The heavyset nurse carefully managed the IV stand, pushing it carefully as they entered the elevator. For Robert it was a foolish useless defeat. They wheeled him off the elevator and onto the third floor. No one said a word, not even the slightest comment about his second failed attempt. It made his ride all the worse; too pathetic to be ridiculed.

The husky nurse held open the door to the intensive care unit while the thin one waited patiently. Becky also waited. Robert looked up at her who stood stoically by his side, asking the nurses if she could just spend a few minutes with Robert alone. The two nurses looked at one another. The thin one looked up and down the hall, wondering if such a late hour violation would be noticed. The husky one waited to catch his colleague's eye; finally, they nodded in agreement. "OK," said the thin nurse to Becky.

Robert could do nothing but watch the silent bargain being struck. He resented having to be so much trouble for a woman he was sure the two nurses admired. _Admiration_ , the thought refused to dissolve; it lodged in his throat. There it sat as he was wheeled back up to his bed. Adding to his humiliation they refused to let him get into bed unassisted. Two pairs of hands at first and finally Becky joined in. Lifting, jostling, and pushing, he was arranged into bed. Pillows placed, covers tucked, and his old friend the IV stood, a disapproving sentinel, looking down with its glassy eye stare, offering nothing but sweet dripping insolence.

"Well," said the husky nurse to Becky, "you're on for two minutes." He smiled at his chivalrous offer, a nurse with wide shoulders willing to violate hospital regulations for the sake of a loyal woman he was developing an attraction to.

She brought her hand to the side of her neck, and then casually swept her hair back. Robert wanted to find this pretense intolerable, but how could he? She was here, by his side. He felt the tears of humiliation building. He brushed his hair back, revealing the six stitches binding the angry red laceration. Becky looked down, shocked by the stitches. Turning his head to the side, he blotted one eye. He wanted everyone to leave before further degrading himself. The two nurses stepped out into the hall.

Beck gently took his hand. You're going to be OK," she said, patting it gently. "You've had a bad fall, but you're in good hands now."

He couldn't speak; his throat was too dry. He forced himself to look up at her. She was looking down at him. He wanted to swallow but couldn't.

"It's OK," she reassured. Bending down she started to kiss his forehead, but her lips were poked by a thick thread. "They want to keep you for a while longer. When you're ready, maybe by Tuesday, I'll come by and pick you up." She straightened up with a look that danced between empathy and pathetic. Letting go of his hand she added, "No more of these late night excursions. OK?"

He nodded in agreement; the pillow pressed into the back of his neck letting him know it was also sprained. She left, and he stared at the ceiling until remembering the moaner.

Turning his head he took in the shadowed screen. He kept his eyes on it for long serious minutes. His eyes dried as if the tear ducts had sucked up every bit of self pity, replaced by something far worse. The morning light had thrown the silhouette of the moaner against the screen. Concentrating on the shape, the long dark stillness brought his deadly repose into focus.

Robert could not look away. In a moment's horror the dark shape rose and fell ever so slightly. The morning light was breathing life into the corpse, taunting Robert's imagination.

"Dear God!" moaned Robert.

His eyes remained fixed to the screen, from behind came the low painful reply. Robert's pupils became perfect receptacles for the stranger's pain filled plea. He moaned again, long, deep, and solemn. Robert's eyes widened as if turning up the volume of the once lifeless corpse. A third one rose on a thick wave of torture that washed up on the shore of Robert's bed.

_He's alive_!

As the moaner's agony ebbed, it rolled back on itself until all was quiet.

Robert sighed; it had been days since he had felt so alive.

# XIV

A Cold Touch

Jimmy sat on a grassy knoll over-looking the grave site, barely five. Leaning into the old man's bent legs Jimmy wrapped his arms around one of the man's knees, more for warmth than support. The man placed a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. The old man glanced down at his hand, wondering how he ever got that old; the specks he had once told himself were freckles, time had convinced him otherwise. They were like sun spots drifting over a galaxy of flesh. He accepted this the way he accepted the uncomfortable breeze disrupting their evening ritual, its touch disturbing with its chilled fingers.

The grave mound's fresh earth sat in stark contrast to its surroundings: grass in need of mowing, the discarded petals of Icelandic poppies leaving gaps like smiles no longer complete. The wooden gate leading up to it protested against the breeze on complaining aching hinges. And beyond all this was a meandering path that was guarded by tufts of grass too stubborn to die like their surroundings, unlike the body resting in the gravesite.

"Grandpa," said Jimmy. "Will he be cold in there?"

"Not really."

He squeezed his hand on Jimmy's shoulder reassuring him the cold never touched the body once its warmth had left. But he knew he lacked conviction, the way Jimmy's eyes remained fixed to the fresh earth. Jimmy's vision dug into the soil, quickly at first, and then more slowly, carefully approaching the deceased. He wanted to look into its eyes, as if this very act would revive the spirit into full blown life. But it lay there in his mind the way it had alongside the road, just another hit and run, just another canine, victim to a careless step that proved fatal. But Jimmy knew he had left the gate open, and the closer his thoughts came to thoughts of the lifeless dog the quicker his heart beat. It crashed against his chest in an ancient rhythm until his eyes widened with the uncertainty of fear and guilt. He wished he could give his life to Caller. Jimmy felt this would be fair; this could let his spirit run through Caller's four legs, a canine happy to be alive, dashing out through the gate, and into traffic.

_The car never stopped_ , thought Jimmy. This disturbed him as much as Caller's new home. He tried to imagine why a car had kept going. Didn't the driver feel the thump against the front bumper? He couldn't imagine the driver or anyone caring so little as not to stop. Caller was big, strong; too big to leave so suddenly.

"Grandpa, the car never stopped."

"I know."

His grandfather tried to think of some way to explain this: a man in a hurry to get home, to dinner, to call it a day, not truths a five-year old would grasp. There had to be something better than truth, but not quite a lie. A lie would feel too much like a sacrilege.

"He wasn't sleeping," asked Jimmy.

"No, Caller wasn't sleeping."

"I checked."

He had checked with his small pale hand that gently touched the dog's still warm head, a quiet head that never woke; eyes that never opened. He only touched it once. A fear over came him, mysterious and unexplainable, something too far away to touch a second time. He ran to get his grandfather. He never said a word, didn't have to. The look in Jimmy's eyes told his grandfather he needed to slip on his thongs, not to worry about their fit, and follow Jimmy to the place of the disaster.

"It was time for Caller to leave," said his grandfather.

"I left the gate open."

"Wouldn't have made any difference; it was time for Caller to leave."

Caller had grown up with promise and strength. He had kind of life that carried a sense of pride in its stride and leap. What he had not experienced was no longer of consequence. His consequence was no longer part of a dog that would forever remain young in the eyes of a boy. Caller had become frozen in the moment of a speeding car sent down the road where life waited to be touched by the permanence of death. And as its body slung sideways to the road, it felt nothing, remembered nothing, cared for nothing. All remembering had been transferred into the mind of a boy who had harvested the image of his dog. The speck of this experience buried itself and would only surface as vagueness, the way life lacked completion when looking out on the landscape and wishing for things that could barely be recalled.

Caller faded, the way Jimmy's grandfather would fade until Jimmy became Jim and his distant memories were sensed as nothing more than the shifting air around him.

~

The breeze moved a bit more hurriedly as if it wanted to get past Jim. The breeze had places to go, other clumps of grass and bushes to comb before spending itself over whatever laid before it. And no matter how quickly it rode out its life, it returned the next evening, and the next. It did this with such regularity, Jim barely noticed the freckles on his hand had grown coarser and were no longer reminiscent of freckles. He sat there wishing he had something or someone to lean into, more for warmth than support. He zipped up his jacket and turned up the collar. Tucking his hands into his pockets he removed the aging reminders from his sight. The breeze swept over his lips dissolving them into two thin stoic lines. He could never quite explain the feeling the breeze gave him. He sat there, his knees bent, the tall beach grass bending into submission, a kind of reverence for the incoming breeze. It chilled his body in a disturbing way he could never quite explain.

# About the Author

**Bio:** I was born in St. Louis, Missouri and attended the kindergarten, grade school, and high school of Saint John's. In high school, I was placed in the third track. The first track was for college bound kids, the second for the blue collar types, and the third for juvenile delinquents and slow learners; with dyslexia I easily fell into the third. Subsequently, punctuation and spelling still strike me as something of a divine mystery.

My college education started at Forest Park Community College in St. Louis and continued on at South East Missouri University of Cape Girardeau.

A short break in college was provided by the draft board in 1969. It was then, in the army, I became 63A-10 truck mechanic. I have no idea what those numbers stand for and still have zero mechanical aptitude. Discharged, I continued my education, receiving my B.S. and M.A. in 1974, 1975 respectively. What I took away from Cape Girardeau was an appreciation for small towns.

Always curious about the ocean, I started working my way West. Stopping off in Colorado for a few years, I earned a living as a teacher's aid in Denver, before becoming a permanent transplant to the Northwest. I soon realized that the ocean sounded too much like the interstate. Subsequently, I have avoided Oregon's natural beauty wherever it's touched by the Pacific. In Oregon I became curious about writing, which I've been perusing for the past fifteen years. My writings frequently reflect Oregon's distinctly wet climate, a brooding temperament. Now that I am a retired public high school teacher, I have more time to spend on two of my two favorite past-times, writing and drawing.

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If interested, watch for my novel, _Along the Way_ , by Dale J. Flowers, soon to be released. . . .

