 
# The Buffalo Nickel

# Five Stories of Short Fiction

# Published by Lance William Allen at Smashwords

# Copyright 2012 Lance William Allen

# Smashwords Edition, License Notes

#

# Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support

#

# Table of Contents

# Brownsville

# My Last Mistake

# Yesterday

# Before I Go

# Who's to Blame

#

# Brownsville

There's this guy, he works for the president. Dr. John Hastings is his name. He wrote a book about how the world isn't big enough for all of us. It's the right size for him and his friends, but not the rest of us. He went to Harvard. That's what he learned. Read it for yourself. Maybe you don't care. And maybe it doesn't matter. But he works for the president and he went to Harvard. You didn't and neither did I.

I could have been anything. That's what I learned. They told me in their schools if I studied and worked hard I could be anything. But this shit town doesn't listen. And most of the people can't read beyond the headline. Maybe if they did, they would see what I see.

There's this girl I know, she remembers being crowned homecoming queen. Someone told her it was an honor and very important to her social well being. She still thinks she's someone. We all think we're someone. That's what we're taught. In their schools. But I know better.

Last year, the mayor, The Honorable Richard James, they say honorable. That's how they address him. The Honorable Richard James. I think he is more of a Tricky Dick. Like the one from the 70's. He has an important title, a big desk, and a car paid for by the local tax payers.

He had a habit of not sitting at that big desk very often. He preferred the 3rd house down on the right side of Maple Street. Number 21 I believe. He thought his title encouraged him to behave in a way regular folks like you and I wouldn't. He thought no one would see his car parked outside of 21 Maple Street and start asking questions. He was the Honorable Richard James. It said so on his big desk.

The story first showed up, buried at the bottom of the local news section. A place not many would see. It was put there on purpose. The story had to be told but subtly, not to arouse too many suspicions. The article was a wake up call to Richard James. He was supposed to understand he was The Honorable Richard James and stop going to 21 Maple Street. He thought better of that.

Richard James sat behind his big desk one morning and picked up his phone and began calling around. Before lunch, the story had been retracted and a liable suit had been placed in the hands of the reporter, who was not the source. But he couldn't protest. He could only write a follow-up article, suggesting the original story about the Honorable Richard James being at 21 Maple Street had been a hoax. A ploy.

He got a new car, The Honorable Richard James. It parks somewhere else now. He's still Tricky Dick if you ask me. But then again, who am I?

My name is Larry, or is it George, or Bob. Could be anyone of them I guess. I'm nobody. Just a man without a title. A man with principles and morals. Maybe not the same list of dos and don'ts as you. But I have a good idea of what it means to be a person and understand how I like to be treated. I'm not a biblical guy, although I can see where they were going with that. It makes sense. Be nice to others and trust they will reciprocate. I am on board with that. Some of the other stuff, well I wasn't alive then so who am I to say. It's just not where I am coming from.

I grew up in this town. This is where I'm from. Small town life isn't for everyone. Maybe it isn't for me either. But it's where I am from. I thought about leaving once or twice, but mostly out of spite. This is my home.

The day I was born, it snowed. Back then it used to snow a lot more than it does now. There are differing opinion's as to why it doesn't snow as much, but mostly it's just noise.

Anyway, November 24 is my birthday. The day Jack Ruby walked into the Dallas police station and shot and killed Lee Harvey Oswald in front of a stunned nation, still in mourning from the passing of JFK. I wasn't born that day. But we share the date.

My parents were good people. My father worked hard and said little. He smoked cigarettes in the garage and kept beer in the fridge. He loved my mother, but didn't say so. My mother knew her role. And she seemed content. She stayed alive long enough to see my father buried. Then she dropped dead too.

I live in the house they lived in. The one I grew up in. There are a lot of memories in that house. Some better than others. But memories all the same. A place connecting me to the only world I have ever known. Roots some people say.

My grandfather was born here too. He lived closer to downtown. He was a war hero. Back when we were allowed to have such things. He was decorated for valor while learning about the intricacies of hell in a place called The Chosin Reservoir. Read about it sometime. The men, who were there, my grandfather, would never be the same after that experience. Nor should they be. But no one remembers that, let alone cares. That was then.

Gramps didn't talk much about politics or such. He loved his country. He loved his town. He loved his family. The idea of 'who' never came to mind for him only 'why'. He was told there was a group of people that wanted to change the way he lived and harm his family. That was good enough. He didn't need to know the rest of the story. If it had been about resources, no matter. Had it been about ideology, who cares. The story went that his family and his town and his country had been threatened. His way of life was about to be compromised. So off he went.

When he came back, his right hand was missing the thumb and forefinger, his left leg was gone just below the knee. He wouldn't talk about what happened to him. Only reminisced about his friends and the good times they had. Hard to believe there was any opportunity for good times. But I wasn't there. I could never understand.

Before he died, I don't remember exactly when, he was still in decent shape for a man who had been to hell and back, Gramps was sitting out in his screen house, under the maple tree in his backyard. My brother and I had just finished mowing his lawn. He called us over and asked us to sit. He told us how he lost his fingers and his leg. I was stunned. My brother was in tears. He did it for us. And he didn't even know it.

His funeral was somber, yet upbeat. He had a military funeral, honor guard and everything. Respect he deserved. He'd been to hell. But he was a proud man and never complained. He met my grandmother in the VA hospital, where he recovered after the War. He had given more than his share but went on living after, as if nothing had happened. I loved my grandfather.

But I was resentful for what he had given. I couldn't clearly understand why. But I was angry. He loved his country and gave a part of himself, literally, and yet wasn't concerned with how things turned out. I love my country and the town I live in. But I am concerned with how things have turned out.

My younger brother was killed in the Korengal Valley, Kunar Province, Afghanistan. He loved my grandfather. He was angry too. But his anger was aggressive. He felt like my grandfather. He listened to the words, "threats to our way of life" and "we are the forces of good over evil" and "paving the way for freedom and democracy". He wasn't about to let some backward country from the other side of the world change his way of life. He was going to go over there and kill them. His words. I'm not sure if he did. No one would say. But he died a hero. That's what they told us.

The flag draped coffin arrived in Delaware. It should have been on the nightly news. They show them now, but not then. My brother is still dead. Just fewer folks know about it. The people in town know. They said so. Some cried. Some saluted. Some shook their heads. But they all knew. The town cared. They'd lost one of their own. I was still angry.

My sister got married and moved away. She didn't like the town. She didn't like thinking about our dead brother. She loved him very much. My sister had tried to reason with him, pleaded for him not to go. She talked to him about life and love and priorities. He reminded her of sacrifice and honor and patriotism. She couldn't stop him. A bullet did though.

Since my brother died, I've made a habit of visiting the broken kids at the VA hospital. They really are broken. And they really are kids. Most of the kids I've seen and talked to have been blown up in some way. Some walking. Some riding. Some standing. A few sleeping. All blown up though. Missing limbs. Missing sight. Missing hearing. Rattled brains. They still laugh though. Still appreciate life. It makes me angry.

I talked to John one day. He was from a town a few towns over. He'd been in the VA over a year. He'd been riding in a Humvee (we all know what those are) and it was blown up. Something buried in the road. The Humvee lifted off the ground and landed on its side. John's spine broke. He was paralyzed. Nothing worked from the middle of his chest down. I learned it was a C6 injury. John was 20 years old.

We played cards and talked about the fun he had before his accident. He and his buddies played tricks on each other and talked about girls. They talked about football. They shot at anything that moved. He told me how boring it was. He was deployed to a forward operating base. They looked at mountains and sky. They ate. They slept sometimes. He made it through his deployment and was rotating out. That's where he had his accident. I tried my best not to sound angry.

The last time I saw John was the week before Thanksgiving. I brought him some cookies he wanted. He said the VA didn't have a lot of stuff. He didn't want much. But he wanted cookies. So I brought them to him. I asked him about the upcoming holiday. Asked what he was doing. He said he didn't know, but figured to be right here in his bed. Not many came to visit, besides me. I tried my best not to cry.

I went to the VA the Saturday after Thanksgiving. John's bed was empty. No one seemed to know anything. I found Jake, a kid from Springfield, he said John committed suicide. He swallowed the stuffing from his pillow. They found him sometime during the night of Thanksgiving. Anderson sleeps about six feet away and he swears he heard noting.

I looked in the papers and found nothing. No obituary, no funeral arrangements, nothing. I cried. He was just a kid. He sacrificed himself for purpose unknown. He never told me why he went. I never asked. Maybe he was fighting for a cause. Maybe he wanted an adventure. Maybe, just maybe, he was lost.

Next Tuesday is Fourth of July. My town has a parade every year. A stereotypical, red, white and blue, American as apple pie, parade. The high school band will play _God Bless America_ , _Take Me out to the Ballgame_ , and the theme from _Rocky 3_. Tricky Dick, I mean, The Honorable Richard James, will walk arm in arm with his wife Millie, shaking hands and kissing babies. The usual contingent from the VFW will be there, along with the local ROTC, boy scouts, and the ever loving Shiners' in their little cars.

I usually walk downtown early with a lawn chair, a cooler of Mountain Dew and an American flag, which I put into a hole I drilled into the arm of the lawn chair. I love my town and my country. The flag ties it all together. But if that's all I do, no one will know how angry I am. No one will know that beneath my skin I seethe with rage at what has become of my town and my country. If I sit, as I always do, laughing and waving at the marchers, no one will be able to appreciate what has been lost.

My brother had so much to give but chose to operate in a war zone with very little room for error. John wanted to live and play with his friends but was left behind when he couldn't play anymore. Who knows how the town and the country would have been changed by them or others like them. And if I sit there and say nothing, then nothing changes.

Some will not like me after the parade. Some will probably threaten my life. I might even be assaulted. But if I love my town and my country do I really have a choice?

# My Last Mistake

June 15th, sometime after midnight; she's standing in the road, it's raining. Her hair is matted and wet, dripping into her face. Her skin is pale, milky white. Her gaze pierces the distance, looking at nothing, seeing only darkness.

I am driving. It is June 15th after midnight; it is raining. My mind races through the events of the passing day. I am young but drained of life. The future seems in doubt. My fears are emblematic of the headlines. I dream of things that will not be. The road spreads out in front of me, flat, dark, desolate.

My headlights capture something in the distance. A willowing figure; white against black. How could this be? I slow to a crawl and roll down my window.

Can I help you?

I'm Awake. Can you give me a ride?

She climbs in and I pull away. I offer her a blanket from the back seat. She says little.

***

The television airs in my mind telling me about picking up strangers. I'm young. It can't happen to me. The television always tells me the right things to do. In the Land of the Free, we are raised by His hand in the TV. She rests gently against the door, her head still, her breathing rhythmic, but sedate. Droplets of once fallen rain drip from the ends of autumn strands, absorbed into the weave of the once dry blanket.

The darkness of night gives way to the springing of dawn. The rain has stopped. A once full moon ducks beneath the clouds as a crimson spray builds from beneath the horizon. Spider webs glisten in the new day's light, dripping life. The cycle of thoughts, real and imagined continue to churn in my head. Who is she and from where did she come. My eyes enter her void and she moves, stirred from sleep. Could she have known I was staring? Wondering? Once closed lids open, revealing an azure blue sea as captivating as a moonless sky.

She smiles, I'm Awake.

I can see that.

No. You don't understand. I'm Awake. That's my name. Awake.

***

Brother, we are one in the same, you and me. Like a two headed boy. I couldn't have experienced this without my partner in crime.

I say nothing. My chest gurgles. This can't be happening. What the fuck?

Can you see we are the same? Remember, last summer. We stayed out late with those girls. You remember?

The windshield took the back part of your head off. Can you feel that?

The sun was really bright that day. Her hair. Jane's hair. Auburn and burning. Oh shit!

His eyes get real wide. A color, not a color, something, returns to his face and he gasps. Slowly, wavering to the right, or was it left, maybe just towards the light. He grows pale. And then, he is gone.

She was there, I knew it. Waiting to take me. She wasn't on fire.

***

When the ambulance arrived, he was gone, real gone; cold and everything. I can still feel it. You ever stick your hand in a fire and grab a glowing coal? It's cold. Real cold! But then it isn't cold anymore. It's burning. I throw the coal to the ground and shake my hand. It's red but not blistered. No burn.

They load me into my own rig, all white and sterile. The guy from down the street; sitting next to me. He's filling in a chart. I don't know him. But he probably knows who I am; at least by now. I'm a minor. They had to call my parents.

***

My mother pushed. And she pushed. And then, she pushed. They said I wasn't breached. But she didn't believe them. My mother. She said they were lying to her. It has to be breached she yelled. I wasn't budging.

Relax Mrs. Morse. They called her Mrs. Morse. And breathe.

Anyway, when I came out, my mother, she was exhausted. She fell asleep. And relaxed. I slid right out. As she came to, my dad was standing there, a real genuine look of concern on his face. He looked scared.

Are you awake he said?

My mother she was still sleeping. Again, my father says to my sleeping mother, are you awake?

Just to finish this, my mother slowly starts coming around. She's spacey though. Not quite sure of much.

Are you awake?

She can feel the burn from the baby. She remembers. She had a kid. Just here. Just now. Are you awake?

She sees her husband. My father.

Are you awake he says?

I'm not awake I'm Barbara.

So that's how I got my name.

***

I wake up in the cell. My head really fucking hurts. A thick paste arrests my mouth. I look at the toilet.

There's a beep. There it is again. The walls are not mine, where am I?

Hey there you are. You've been gone for a while

Gone?

I don't know. You tell me?

I had been somewhere but where.

***

John, he was my friend. My best friend! We did everything together. My partner in crime he used to say. We got tangled up in something pretty nasty that day. Looking back I wish I could have understood better. But that's the way it goes.

We met at Argyle's place. Shot the shit and killed a few beers.

There's no chance the Sox win it all this year. No chance.

He loved baseball. More than anything else, he loved the Red Sox. But he was critical of their every move. I think he took it too seriously. But what harm was he doing.

They should have gotten more pitching. You can never have enough pitching.

We left Argyle's and went to the Down's. Killed a few more beers there too. It was just afternoon.

Big Papi is the real deal this time. He's gonna hit 30 and 100. I love that man. He's gonna retire a member of the Red Sox and I am going to retire my jersey. Hang it on the wall of my living-room. When I get a living-room. Some day. You'll see.

John wasn't much of a student. Not much of a worker either. But he was sweet on the ears. Could sell a wafer to a nun, I'd say. He'd been working the phones of his father's insurance office the last few summer's and now meant to make a real go of it. He wanted to prove he didn't need college. I did. I told him so. But he wouldn't hear it. He was going to make something of himself on his own terms.

The shadows of the passing day grew long, stretching us out. I extended my arms and pretended to be an alligator. The kid was still inside of me. Can't say that now.

My car was nothing special, a few years past acceptable but still in the useful category. I didn't much care. I had a way to get around. And I knew anything more than that was probably going to get me into some other level of trouble. Guess that was an oversight too.

The rain had been off and on for an hour or so as we weaved through the back roads of town, passing a paper bag wrapped bottle of hooch. John was still stammering on about the Sox and how they were going to be bested by the rotation in Tampa Bay.

They have Hellickson and that other kid. And Price oh man Price. He grew up quick in '08. Now he knows who he is and is going to deliver. The Sox will be lucky to get to 90 wins. But it still won't be enough. And don't get me started with the Stanks. I hate them just as much as usual but they're old. Still good, but old. Not the collection of juiced All-Stars from ten years ago.

I remember headlights and the bottle slipping from his hand. I reached to grab the bottle before it spilled. Then I saw her.

***

I came to pick you up, I couldn't help him. For that I cry and it rains. My tears. You are important. So was he. But his importance has been signified. And his time has come to pass. A stepping stone. A friend. But a means to an end. It is the natural order of things. We all have our role to play. Yours continues. His will be repeated by someone else, somewhere else. But not now. Now you rest. And listen.

I didn't want to go back to school. Bab's told me I had to. She said the boys in this world are not worth their weight. And a girl needs to be mindful of where her next meal is coming from. What does she know? She never worked. My father always took care of her. What if I wanted someone to take care for me? Isn't that my choice?

She sees my eyes open, staring as if a ghost had appeared in a dark room. She continues.

Thanks for stopping. And thanks for the blanket.

Were you just going to stand there all night?

I didn't figure on time. It's late and raining. You would show sooner than later.

I killed my best friend

I know. I read the papers.

Are you scared I might kill you?

Not really. It wasn't your fault.

I was driving. Of course it was my fault.

Just because the Book says 18's old enough to die doesn't mean you're old enough to know better. And maybe that's the point.

***

When we were 14 he told me he wanted Home Sweet Home played at his funeral. I said that's stupid, old people don't like Motley Cru. He agreed but offered I do.

That's who he was. Anyway. I talked the preacher into letting me play Home Sweet Home after the Eulogy. Probably the worst four minutes and two seconds of my life. Vince Neill killed one of his buddies in a drunken driving accident. He got off too. I sobbed in my hands as the music played. Ashamed for what had happened, more so the handcuffs on my wrists.

When the song ended and my pity expired, I dried my eyes on the sleeve of my suit coat. I locked eyes with John's father. The eyes never lie. He wished me dead. Like his boy. Then a blink, his eyes averted. He bowed in prayer. I never saw him again.

But I see John everyday. That's why I am out here. Driving. I'm hoping I will turn a corner and see him standing there. I can pick him up and we can continue living this life, together. He was my best friend. It was my fault. But he still won't let me have the guilt.

***

After supper, I lie on the couch and fall asleep. I am standing next to him in the road. His body ejected through the windshield landing face down in the road, about twenty feet from the tree stump I hit. As I watch him bleed to death, I pull a gun from my coat pocket, place the muzzle against my temple and pull the trigger. My head explodes. I see this: my life ejecting forcibly from my mouth and left ear.

John sees it too. He stands and walks over to where I am standing. He kneels to the ground and picks up the pieces of my head and carefully puts them back: my tongue; my teeth; my eyes; my left ear. He wipes the gore from my face. Then he holds me close.

I don't blame you. You shouldn't either.

***

A sense of revulsion rises in my stomach. I pull the car to the shoulder and open the door just as the vomit pours from my mouth. But what piles are not bits of food and strands of saliva, but shards of glass. As I wretch, the spewing pieces begin to take form. The last heave hurts. My shoulders rise and spasm locked in a cramp. I scream as my stomach lurches upward but only dryness leaks out. I stare in disbelief. I am lying at my feet, opaque, still, dripping vomit.

***

Have you seen me somewhere before? Your eyes tell me so. I am sorry I do not remember. I wish I did. Their story is strange and lovely. I'd like you to tell it to me someday. Would you? I even want to hear about her and of him. You can tell me anything. I won't lie; I might have heard it before. But I want you to tell it. Someday. When you are ready.

***

It wasn't just John that died that day. Back when I was younger and more fortunate. John was taken away and I had something to do with that, I hadn't set out to kill him. It just happened. We were young. He loved baseball. I drove my car everywhere. Seems fitting I guess. But I died too. And no body is going to remember that. I will.

# Yesterday

A half empty French press stands tall upon the table. Two mugs, whose contents have grown cold and stale, hold vigil on either ends of the short dinette. Tissues, damp with sadness, lay crumpled upon the floor. Streaks, like tears shed from crying eyes, stain the far wall, a shattered vase and wilting flowers lay crushed beneath. A car horn sounds in the distance; birds chirp from tress in the yard; a new day begins in earnest.

***

I asked you to be there, she said.

I told you I wouldn't be able to, he said.

What's your excuse this time, she asked?

I have no excuses. I've already explained myself, he answered.

So that's how it goes, she questioned, adamantly?

I think you know that already, he replied.

***

He was so charming when we met. The circumstances were accidental, but impressionable. I had rushed out of my apartment that morning, running behind due to a run in my stocking. I noticed the run as I was chasing lint down the hallway with a stick vacuum. I hurried into the bedroom to retrieve a new pair, hastily pulling off the old pair, just as hastily yanking on the new pair, careful this time not to catch a nail.

I no sooner ran by the doorman that the city bus came into view. I threw a frenzied hand into the air, the one clutching a banana, and waived like a lunatic. My efforts were more for the trigger in my brain that signaled I was late and needed to overcome all odds to ensure my day started out on the right path than for the bus that would eventually be stopping for the four other people already waiting at the bus stop. I pulled into line, frazzled, winded and a bit blushed. A great start, I thought.

As I ascended the steps of the bus, I had the sickening realization the banana was not my bus pass and I was without money for the bus fare. A mumble became a stutter which turned to tears as I embarrassingly asked the driver for a break and a promise to pay later. His response was rehearsed and standard. A long arm ended with a pointing finger bringing my attention to the sign saying no fare no ride no exceptions. I lowered my head as if I had been scolded by the principle and began to turn when I heard a clinking of coins in the turnstile and calm voice say, this one is on me.

***

She always talks about the time on the bus when she got on with a banana and no money. It was cute, but I was just being nice. Okay I was trying to impress a beautiful woman suggesting that nice guys do exist. I wasn't but I could demonstrate some empathy and help out in time of need. That's what she remembers about us meeting and thinking was pretty special. Maybe it was and maybe it was just an easy way to talk about a meeting that was more by chance than a deliberate act. The girl meets boy story goes over well with just about everyone. And yeah sure I could go along with it. I guess but for me it was just the beginning not the foundation, not the reason I kept coming back.

I'm sure no one ever asked before, how or why exactly I found myself in a relationship with her, probably no one really cared. And if I had given the usual stumbling bumbling moment that would bring about a laugh and a smile I could have gone on with my day. But that never happened. So I share the day I felt she was more than just the girl from the bus; more than just the woman in the photograph. She was the equal and opposite of my chaos; the raft in my ocean. Or at least she was.

A moment frozen in time, paints a picture of a girl curled up in bed sick with the flu. She was a real mess: fever, sweats the whole nasty deal. Yet as I sat on her bedside and swept the matted hair from her face I saw the fragility behind her glossy eyes, full of exhaustion and discomfort. She tried to smile in her way, flashing a sign of appeasement, but a cough over took her and she almost gagged. I pulled the covers up to her chin, stared into those lost empty eyes and gently kissed her forehead. I was in love.

***

At Autumnfest that year, when I excused myself to the bathroom, leaving him sitting comfortably on a park bench, our tale begins to unfold. I've gone over this moment countless times in my head and cannot begin to imagine what happened to so drastically change him but I swear things were never the same after that moment. His eyes were red and his cheeks blushed. I thought it odd at first but after I sat next to him he remained staring off into the crowd neither looking at me nor saying anything. After a moment of awkward silence I asked him if everything was okay. He shrugged.

Do you feel all right?

Yes I am fine. Just tired is all.

What should we do now?

Go home I guess.

We walked back to the car in absolute silence; he strode a pace or two in front of me. We had always held hands. Well almost always. But in that situation it would not have been strange if we had been. But we weren't. I chide myself sometimes for not asking more, probing, but I didn't. Something happened. He instantly became a stranger to me. And I didn't know why.

***

I saw my father and a little kid they were walking hand in hand. The kid's eyes were wide and full of excitement. A big puff of cotton candy was in his other hand. My dad looked overjoyed, full of pride. The way a father should look. Not distracted by business deals, or taxes or football. An admiration only a father and son can feel. But it wasn't my father; it didn't even look like him.

Son, Daddy has to go away for a while.

When will you be back? Tomorrow?

Not tomorrow son. I hope you can forgive me.

Daddy I don't understand.

I hope you never do.

I'd seen him before, in a crowd. He usually walked with other kids. My father was a good man, I say he was. It makes it easier. I'm not sure why that day at Autumnfest took me down so far. And I'm not sure why I chose to isolate myself from her. I should have just said something. But I didn't. And now she's gone.

***

I think of him often, I wonder what became of those sad eyes I last saw, vacant and alone. There was this speckle of light, a gleam in his eye. He would smile wide and cascade a flow of emotion; I was smitten. But in the end he just radiated melancholy. I couldn't reach him. But I barely tried. And for that I'm sorry.

How are you?

I'm well.

Have you been on vacation?

No, mostly I work. Keep busy. It's for the best.

I went to the beach. The sun was warm and the sea was cool. I walked in the water and thought about how things ended. I began to cry.

I'm sorry.

When I think of him I think of all the things I would say, but couldn't, didn't. I think of what could have been if I had just pressed the issue some. Those deep seeded aspects of who we are can be fearsome and daunting. We can all relate. I wish I had done something to show him I understood what real feelings are. Show him a side of me. Why didn't I? I just didn't.

***

I don't ride the bus anymore. The fear of seeing her is too great. I walked away from something that had been real; something true. I honestly believe she cared for me; could have cared for me. I pulled away when I should have been pulling close. I wish I hadn't done that. I should have told her my father walked out on me. I should have told her I hated flowers. I should have told her why I don't drink coffee.

When I was a kid, I would sit under the small table in the kitchen while my parents sat and drank coffee together. I would listen to them share things about their lives, things I didn't understand. I guess I didn't need to know what they were talking about just that they were talking. Their voices were comforting. I played with small cars under that table while they shared their time together.

What happened?

I'm not sure. They just stopped sitting together. They would stand at opposite ends of the room and talk in low voices. My father would look out the window while he spoke. My mother would answer, staring at the floor. She almost always had a tissue in her hand.

Why was she crying?

I don't remember what they spoke about. I just remember sitting under the table wishing they would sit back down and talk like they used to talk. I wished they would sit and drink coffee and talk in warm soft voices the way they did before.

When did they stop talking?

My father brought home flowers. They were all kinds: yellows and reds and oranges. There were leafy greens and buds of white. The arrangement was in a large glass vase. My mother cried when he placed them on the table. I guess she didn't want them. She threw them across the room and the vase exploded. I was under the table. It was the last time my mother and father spoke to each other together. The last time I sat under the small table playing with my small cars.

***

I saw him the other day. He was walking down the sidewalk. I was riding on the bus. I hadn't ridden the bus in a while because I wasn't sure if I wanted to run into him. But then I did. I did want to run into him. I wanted to see him. I care for him; even if he doesn't care for me. I care about him and wanted to see him. But I didn't signal the driver to stop. I was scared. Then I had a dream.

I saw you on the sidewalk.

Why didn't you stop?

I was nervous you would disregard me.

I wouldn't do that.

You want to see me again?

I do.

That was a week ago Sunday. I've ridden the bus every day since and have not seen him. When I do, I will signal the driver to stop. I will get off and run to him. I will walk along side of him, casually, so as not to arouse any suspicions. I will glance at him as if unable to recognize a familiar face. His reaction will be the same. I will grab his hand and stop him. I will tell him I want to listen if he wants to talk.

***

I'm standing in line at the coffee shop. I'm about to order a large regular coffee and a cinnamon stick. Suddenly, a wave of nostalgia crushes me. That smell! That perfume! Where's it coming from? I close my eyes and breathe deep. She smelled like that; like flowers in a field of flowers after a fragrant rain of spring water. My heart begins to race. I open my eyes, expecting to order my coffee and cinnamon stick. She is there, holding my hand.

What are you doing here?

I had to see you.

I'm glad you did.

You don't mind?

I don't mind.

I want to listen.

We ordered coffee and cinnamon sticks. We sat at a small table near the window. The sun lit the coffee shop with a comforting glow. My face was warm from her presence. People passed by and the shadows grew long. We talked, openly, for the first time. I heard her voice. I shared my story. We drank coffee and talked. The knot in my stomach untied and slackened. I exhaled. Comfortable. Calm. Serene. That was yesterday.

# Before I Go

The light in the room was low, not dark but shallow and easy on the eyes. A warm glow seemed to hum along the fringe, adding calm and serenity to the sterility of everything else. An intermittent beep resonated like a smoke detector on a low battery.

The cognizant recognition of the intruding noise waned after a few minutes but could be noticed when attention shifted or eyes reverted to the small monitor.

A clear cylinder with an accordion type structure within rose and fell at regular intervals; an IV distribution box loomed above all signaling periodically to attend to the empty bags hanging further above.

Ginger Capshaw stood staring out the window, St. Gregory's cathedral to the left, whose spire towered higher than anything in the immediate area. As a little girl she had taken her first communion there, dressed in white, her hair in ribbons. Father John who rarely smiled had presented her with her offering and let slip a half grin as the little parishioner accepted the body of Christ.

Further on down Main Street, past the A&P, the Clothesline Laundromat, and Hendricks Diner, was an empty theater where Harold had taken her on their first date. She couldn't recall the picture they saw but she did remember how handsome he was and the gentlemanly way he acted that evening.

She knew before she ever said yes to his first advance that she would someday marry him, but never in her wildest imagination did she think she would still be standing by his side almost 70 years later.

The sun was beginning to set beyond the foothills, the last rays of light shifting upwards, brushing the sky with hues of red and yellow and orange. The leaves reached full color of autumn earlier in the week and their contrast to the sky was stunning, like a master painter mixing colors to seamlessly blend sky and earth.

The evening star was just coming up, a brilliant pinprick upon an opal backdrop. The twinkle in the night sky reminded Ginger of just how fleeting these moments are, how precious. How many of us take the time to stop and appreciate the wonders spinning in front of our eyes, free to anyone who cares to stop long enough and glimpse what is out there.

Harold was fond of saying it's not the man in the moment it's the moment in the man. She heard him say it countless times over the years, to their children, to men at church, to anyone who may not have ever heard him say it.

She heard it so often she forgot what he meant. Not forgot so much as disregarded. Like a comedian who tells the same joke city after city, before long the laughter inside ceases. It isn't until meaning or context is restored that the original idea takes shape and the joke becomes funny again, even to the teller.

Ginger remembered asking him one time what he meant by the saying and the first time he shook her off and said something about he had read a story in Reader's Digest one time and some man had made reference to that phrase in some form or another, he wasn't sure.

This explanation seemed not to hit home for Ginger mostly because Harold had a tendency to over explain thing's, often repeatedly hammering home the point more times than seemed necessary. She let Harold's response go for the moment, but told herself the next opportunity she had to ask him the statement's true meaning she would.

They attended a church potluck dinner one Saturday night shortly before the birth of their first child, Michael, was born. Seated over helpings of spaghetti and meatballs and glasses of iced tea, Harold was recounting the Red Sox game from earlier in the day, focusing on the exploits of his favorite player, Ted Williams. One of the other men at the table was not a Sox fan, but of the other team, down the way a piece, a team of pinstriped poster boys, namely the New York Yankees. This one fellow was debating Harold over the prowess of Mickey Mantle, a younger more charismatic fellow at the time. George said Harold, referring to Mickey Mantle, it isn't the man in the moment it's the moment in the man.

Well that just about put an end to the dinner conversation; everyone at the table sensing a sour tone developing quickly changed the subject back to the matters of the church and the leaking roof in the parsonage. Harold collected a measure of pride from his defending of his hero and wasn't ashamed to say so. On the drive home Ginger inquired as to the true meaning behind Harold's favorite phrase.

When you were speaking to George, that thing you say came up again. What ever does it mean? And please don't go back to that tired story of the Reader's Digest article.

Ginger my dear, back in 43 when I was training to go off to fight the Nazi's, I had this drill sergeant, real tough SOB. His name was Wainright. He was as thick as an oak tree and as solid as a brick wall. His chin was so square you could have leveled a beam on it.

One day while he was putting us through the paces, we came to this obstacle, a large wooden wall with ropes dangling from one side. He made for us to grab hold of those ropes and clamor up the side pulling ourselves up and over. He said it was to symbolize us scaling the outer walls of Hitler's castle as if we were a band of Hun's.

Anyway, we gets to this obstacle and the first fella grabs the rope and pulls himself up about eight feet and then his feet start slippin and he looks like a dog on a frozen pound. Eventually he slips totally and falls square on his back. Sergeant Wainright hollers at the poor guy and chases him off. The next few come along and they fair no better.

At this point, Sergeant Wainright's pride is smarting. His recruits have come to the first major obstacle and none of them is able to best it. I remember it like it was yesterday. His face was beet red, and not on account of the heat, and he's got this vein sticking out of his forehead and it seems to be beating, throbbing. Anyway, I get to the base of the obstacle and ready myself to go over it. At this point I want no part of the throbbing vein on his forehead so I muster all the strength I can and start to pull myself up. Hand over hand I go, gripping the thick heavy braid of the rope, higher and higher. I can hear the boys under me shouting for me to get up to the top, cheering me on, giving me the extra kick I needed to conquer the wall.

After what seemed like an eternity, I reached the top of the wall, my arms burning, my hands shredded from the coarseness of the rope. I pulled myself to the top and sat a moment with my legs dangling over the opposite side. From down below I heard Sergeant Wainright addressing the men. The first part of what he said I could not hear because I was breathing so hard but when I recovered and leaned over slightly to get a better angle on his voice I heard him say:

It isn't the man in the moment; it's the moment in the man. Private Capshaw just discovered how right I am. When given a particular task he dug deep and discovered he possessed something he didn't know before he had. And when he did he made it up my wall. Didn't you Private Capshaw?

Sir yes sir.

Well don't just sit there. This isn't happy time at the seashore, get down off my obstacle.

Harold told that story that day with a gleam in his eye and a heavy heart in his chest. The next few years would go to show just how right Sgt Wainright had been and what a skilled leader he was. Harold saw plenty of action in the European theater and lost many friends. Sgt Wainright was one them, shot dead somewhere in Italy leading his men against an enemy position.

The war had left many scars, mental and physical, and Harold did his best to carry on as best he could. And it seemed, the words of Sgt Wainright helped him through the darkest times and would now serve as his gift to the world as to how someone might choose to be successful in the face of adversity.

Ginger understood her husband had endured more than a man should ever be subject to and often left him alone when he got reminiscent about his time overseas. Harold wasn't mean about things or hostile. He didn't explode when tensions got tight or run for cover when things got hairy. He was simply a reflective man with an insight like few others. If he said he was fine she would believe him and let him be. If he said he was hurting she would come to his side and wait with him until the feeling passed. She loved him and was glad God saw fit to return him to her after the war was over.

Standing now looking out the window, replaying the memories spanning decades, she could not believe their time together was almost up. A lifetime is only so long when you look back upon it and realize how wonderful it was. Like a child at the zoo who is suddenly told it is time to leave, she felt cheated almost. How could it be over? How could their time in the sun be done? She believed in Jesus and felt the power He had over her but she still couldn't shake the weight of sadness building up inside of her. Any day now he would be gone and she would be left to see the sun rise with out him. She began to cry.

What's the matter my dear?

I'm being selfish.

It's okay.

No it's not. I don't want you to go.

I know.

It's not fair. We haven't had enough time.

But we have shared the greatest lifetime I could ever have wished for. You are the light in my sky and with you there I will never be alone.

I don't want you to go.

That's not up to me. He has the last word.

I know I am mad at Him too.

But you can't be mad. It doesn't work that way.

Are you scared?

I am not. I am in love. With you. That by it self keeps me strong.

Oh Harold.

In 1944 when the Allies stormed the beaches, Harold was waiting on a ship and his turn to hit the beach and the liberation of Europe. As luck would have it his departure didn't happen until late on that fateful day and by the time he reached the beach, the heavy fighting was over. As he landed and witnessed the indescribable devastation that lay strewn in every direction, his mind went quickly to Ginger and her fair skin, green eyes and auburn hair. Like a bounty at the table of God he knew he had to survive this action and get back to her and resume the life they so quickly began prior to his shipping out.

When he returned after the war and took a reckoning of his experiences he thanked God he had put Ginger in his life when he did because her memory forced him through the toughest stretch of hell any man should have to endure and lived to tell about it. And from then on not a single day passed without Harold embracing Ginger and thanking her for being in his life and sharing the love that burned in his belly.

Together they settled down into post World War II America and began living the life every man should wish for. He got a good job with a great company, bought a beautiful home and raised three wonderful children. His career played out better than he could have ever expected and he was able to put his kids through college. If there was an embodiment of the American dream it was Harold and Ginger Capshaw.

Their life, however, wasn't all roses and sunshine; they too experienced adversity and hardship, but weathered the storms as any dedicated and determined couple might, finding in each other the strength and willingness to lean on one another to see through to the other side. No experience better exemplified this unity than the illness which befell their youngest daughter, Sydney.

Sydney Marie was a quiet, little angel with blue eyes, blonde hair and a pair of dimples to swoon over. Her smile captured the heart of anyone who spied its infectious curve, unable to shy away from the formidable innocence behind the idyllic placard. She spoke deliberately, but politely, not condescending or rude. Her age was marked in years but her ability to communicate with anyone made her seem wiser than the calendar suggested.

Her older brothers seemed not to notice that she had been born differently from them and involved her in many a game of a boy's making, seeing only that she was not hurt by the obvious size difference. She could run, bat, tackle, and cast a line with the best of them. Sydney baited her own hook, dug her own holes and hammered her own nails. The pigtails she wore in her hair were the only indicator she might be out of place.

One fall afternoon, as the boys were tussling in the backyard, Sydney was laid out in bed with a terrible headache and neck pain. The day before she had participated in a game of flag football with the boys down at the park but seemed to come away from the game unscathed. At some point during the night she had become ill, making it to the bathroom just in time. She vomited a few more times and then just lay listlessly in bed. Ginger checked on her daughter periodically but sensed nothing was totally a miss.

As one day turned into two, the family started to worry about Sydney but seemed powerless to help her in her current state. On the morning of the third day, Doctor Jennings paid the house a visit and gave her a thorough exam. Sydney was running a fever and had small blemishes on her arms. Dr. Jennings had his suspicions but wanted to make sure she was in the proper place if what he feared were true. He called Chief Pearson and asked that the ambulance come to the house and transport Sydney to Mercy Hospital.

Dr. Jennings' initial fears were met once Sydney got to the hospital and not a moment had been spared. Sydney had contracted meningitis and the illness was shaking her to her core. The medical staff went to work on her but it was a long battle. The options at the time were few and the somewhat rural setting made it all the more difficult.

Initially Ginger had blamed the boys for their rough play and the absentminded attention they paid to Sydney and her slight stature. The boys' cried foul and Harold came to their defense. In what had become their first true marital disagreement, it came with a heavy price and an unsuspecting target. Neither Ginger nor Harold was prepared for the long days and nights of waiting and praying their little girl would pull through.

One night over an unusually quiet dinner at home, a noticeably empty chair to the right of Harold, the head of the family, the patriarch, put his fork down and began to weep. The tears fell quietly into his plate, seasoning his mashed potatoes with shame and guilt. He reached for his napkin and blotted his eyes, wiped his nose. Clearing his throat he said:

These past few weeks have been draining on us all. We miss Sydney and only want what is best for her. I am saddened by our lack of effort as part of a family to get past all the small insignificant self imposed distractions and focus our attention, our love and understanding, on the one person who needs it more than ever. So until the time we all rejoice in the return home of Sydney, I ask each of you to dig deep and deliver all the hope you can muster so our little girl can get better.

When Harold was done speaking he locked eyes with Ginger and they shared an unspoken moment of clarity and peace. In their eyes each saw the desire and compassion for the other and screamed from the highest peak their loyalty to the other. The darkest hour was upon them and Harold rose to the occasion, embracing his family, his responsibility, his duty, and held them to his chest and reminded them they are stronger together than they could ever hope to be apart.

Dinner ended in lighthearted conversation, stories about Sydney over the years and some of her most memorable moments. The time last summer when she had landed a hefty bass out on the lake and while Harold had reached for the fish, somehow managed to fall head over heals out of the canoe, dislodging the fish in the process. Or when during a spirited game of badminton in the back yard Sydney had scored 10 consecutive points to humiliate a dumbfounded Johnny.

Each day following, the family would gather at the dinner table and take time to be thankful for what they had and were able to accomplish during the day. The focus wasn't totally on Sydney but she was nevertheless a driving factor behind the connection. Taking the time as a family to reflect on the blessings of the day and in each other came to forge a bond between each of them that would never be broken.

And so it would be that on her 17th night in the hospital she regained an appreciable level on consciousness. The family had not yet settled into dinner and all raced to the hospital to see Sydney and offer their own stories of her ordeal. They were a family and when one was sick they all came together to help the others heal. This lesson learned on the back of a little girl would set the stage for a harmonious life and many, many ways to be thankful.

The vista unfolding out the window narrowly painted serenity across a tumultuous day, blue mixing with red, shades of yellow and orange, an eruption of pink. The chaotic color spectrum faded across a clearly darkening sky lightening some wisps in the air. The whole arrangement shored up the theory of order through chaos, the blending of the many into the sheerness of one, colors from the spectrum thrown together to create an altogether fleeting portrait of God's true wonder.

Harold lay supine in his adjustable hospital bed, clad in button down flannel pajamas, blue and green, soft socks, thick and white, covered his distended feet. A few strands of white hair lay quietly to one side of his nearly bald head, adding fullness to the barren expanse that was his scalp. His hands were folded and lay across his emaciated frame; his eyes, dull grey and yellowed, aimlessly wandered the room, identifying images in his mind, recalling his life and the fullness of it all.

To his right he saw himself, white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie blowing in the breeze, a yellow hard hat on his head. He was holding a shovel with a silver handle and gold spade. He was breaking ground on a new manufacturing facility he had been instrumental in creating. The new building was one of the greatest achievements of his professional career. Instead of forging ahead with a single minded approach to conquering the land, he incorporated all the players and successfully secured a jobs magnet for this sparsely populated part of the country. Generations of young men and women remained employed in the area thanks to his efforts.

On his left, his grandchildren played on the beach, splashing in the water, digging in the sand, running and giggling. He'd been fortunate enough to raise his children to the point they too created life and love and willingly shared with him their bounty. A man is measured in feats and bounds but Harold was content to know he had raised proud God fearing people who knew right from wrong and were willing to stand up for the country they loved.

Front and center, looming large above all else, was the larger question, the elephant in the room, the deafening silence screaming to be heard. He was approaching the end of his life and Death was staring him in the face.

He could see a ripple in time, a slowly moving void in the ceiling through which he guessed he would soon ascend. But to where? He was sure he could see it, a subtle wavering of energy, like heat rising from a radiator beneath a cold window. The more he looked away and saw other parts of his life pass before him the more he was drawn back to this one spot. He was intrigued by what it might be.

He noticed the energy mass at first a few days ago, but had dismissed it as the side effects of his pain meds, the low dose of morphine he had been supplied with. The wrinkle seemed an annoyance, a troubling effect of old age, yet the more he thought about his life and reconciled some things long forgotten, he sensed the void was not a troubling aspect of his final moments. The more he became acquainted with himself and his life's journey and found peace with his achievements, the larger the ripples became.

With his focus now intently on the spot over his head, he concentrated on his wife, who sat passively staring out the window. He couldn't imagine the pain she was feeling, the troubles which lay ahead for her. She had been the rock in his life, the force of one who could make all things right.

Harold knew with his passing she would be alone to think of a life fulfilled and wait for her time to come when she too would pass on. He wanted to comfort her but knew there were no words to truly relate the impact one person can have on another when a time apart is as foreign as another language. A few more moments passed in contemplation and then he spoke:

For the last few days I have noticed a strange sight in the ceiling over my bed. Do you see anything?

Where?

Right there! The third ceiling tile over from the edge.

I don't see anything.

I didn't think so.

What do you see?

It's almost like the ceiling tile has liquefied; I see tiny ripples like on a pond after a rock has been thrown into it.

Do you feel okay?

I think it's the end Ging. I think I am going there.

Going where?

Into that rippling ceiling tile. I think He means for me to come home and that is the way.

Are you in pain do you want me to call the doctor?

No I'm fine. But I really think the time has come.

How can you be sure?

I just have a feeling. Hard to explain. I feel light, not happy but euphoric. Remember when we took the kids to Disney World, the light in their eyes, the color in their faces, that's what I feel like. I am confused but have a measure of clarity.

Should I call the kids?

I don't think there's time. Come sit with me.

Okay.

You know I love you.

I do.

Without question?

Yes

You are as beautiful today as the day I first set eyes on you. The Lord saw fit to bless me in many ways but none greater than you. The only regret I have is leaving you first. I wish it were you saying good by that way I could carry the mantle. I am sorry for that.

Don't be silly. I'll be okay.

I know you will.

Are you okay?

Just tired. Will you sit with me a moment longer?

You know I will never leave.

Ginger put her right hand on his and slowly with her left, lovingly caressed the remaining strands of hair on his head. For a moment she closed her eyes and saw them as teenagers lying on a blanket under a tree out in the middle of Travis's Farm pasture. The day was stretching into early evening and the cows had long since returned to the barn. Harold was scheduled to ship out to basic training in the morning and it was their last chance to be together. At the time neither knew if this would be their final tender moment together so they lingered longer than they may have. Neither said much to the other, both in deep contemplation, thinking about a life that might be or a memory to recall about a life cut short.

Harold lay comfortably and cherished Ginger's slender fingers carefully sliding between strands of hair, the slightest scratch from her carefully groomed nails. The subtle sensation of loves first caress lulled him into a soft sleep and she chuckled to herself when the first minor eruptions of snoring were heard. At the time she couldn't place the feelings she had for Harold, she was so young and naïve.

But today, some decades later, as he lay dying beside her, she realized why she had been given to this man, and he to her. From each was born a life which separately would not have come to pass. On the eve of the day before he was to leave her she was apprehensive not knowing if he would ever return. But now she sat and was no longer pensive, her purpose had been fulfilled and now she too was ready to wish him well and see him off with the same love and understanding.

A lifetime together has shown her the meaning of true love and the rewards from trusting yourself to the bonds of another. Ginger felt blessed with the gifts she had been presented and knew her remaining days would be spent joyously recounting her time with the greatest love of her life. She would miss Harold but she knew someday they would be reunited.

Ginger opened her eyes and looked down at her husband. His eyes were closed, his brow unfurrowed, his lips were pursed but not tightly. All color had drained from his face, leaving him a complexion of soft putty. His breathing became labored but he didn't struggle. The aura that had been about him just moments before was gone; although the machines said he was still alive, Ginger knew he was gone. She leaned in and kissed him on the forehead.

A heavy heart knows the joy of love. I may cry but they are tears of joy. Until we meet again, I'll be forever in your wake.

# Who's to Blame

JC Montero was born early one morning in late October. In the mountains above town snow fell, dusting the pines and black walnuts, scattering the distant stretches of brown lingering beneath. Soon the landscape would be blanketed with the first snowfall of the season, restoring a peaceful calm to the surrounding area, chasing off, for the moment, the resurgent heat of a late Indian summer, ushering in the captive moments of winters grip and the solitude carried in its wake.

The first child of Wesley and Janet Montero, Justin Christopher, or JC, arrived in the family trailer 3 days after delivery. Wesley Montero had little in the way of an education. He had graduated from high school but that had more to do with his prowess on the football field than in the classroom. He wasn't able to make it through any of the standardized placement tests which might have brought him a low level scholarship and a chance at some success. His struggles with reading also kept him out of any junior college programs. His athletic skills had earned him a flashy childhood but any reward as a result of those skills vanished before they were fully realized.

Janet Montero had fallen in love with Wesley the moment she arrived on campus as a wide eyed freshman. She was more developed than most of the other girls her age which made her stick out from the rest. It wasn't long before she was seated with Wesley at lunch in the cafeteria or hanging out alongside his locker in between classes. Janet possessed some intellect but the boy crazy in her allowed her scholarly achievements to erode to the point she was nearly expelled for cutting classes once Wesley had graduated.

Not long after the start of her junior year, she felt a pain in her side while she was trying not to fall asleep in English class. The pain grew and grew and before she knew what happened, she had vomited all over the floor. The other kids in her area, repulsed by the smell scattered as if she were on fire. The teacher, Mrs. Glassman, assisted her to the nurse's office. At some point she had fainted. When she came to, the nurse, a younger woman by the name of Jane Harper, was standing over her and smiling, wiping her brow with a damp towel.

When was your last period sweetheart?

Janet couldn't remember. And she wasn't sure why she needed to remember. What an odd thing to ask. And then the panic set in.

Why do you want to know about my period?

I am not a doctor but if I were I would say there is a good possibility, likelihood, you are pregnant.

Impossible! How could that have happened? She had sex with Wesley sure but he always said he didn't do that inside of her. He promised her he hadn't ever done that.

How can I be sure?

You can take a test. They sell them at the drug store. Just pee on the stick and see what color the stick changes. The instructions will tell you what to look for. Do you have any one you can take with you?

Wesley had gotten a job after high school with a local construction company. He mostly did labor type work, digging holes, moving trash, carrying lumber. All the grunt work was left up to him and his 20 year old shoulders. He didn't earn much but he had been able to rent a two-bedroom trailer in the trailer park on the edge of town. Of course all the stereo-types about the place were true but he was 20 and fit in just fine.

He rose early in the morning, usually before sunrise and was home late afternoon, just before the roads became clogged with the 9-5pm gang. Wesley was sure he could do better but given the circumstances, he made due. His girl was prettier than any of his friends' girls, he had a truck, beat up or not it was still his, and he had a place to call his own.

There hadn't been a particular thought in Wesley's head all that day. He had just gone on with his business and never minded the world around him. The foreman had him humping bundles of shingles up a ladder most of the day and his back was killing him. There were a few left over beers in the fridge and he was looking forward to kicking back putting his feet up and watching the game on his little Motorola.

Life has a way of changing things and today was one of those days.

Wesley pulled into the drive-way beside his trailer and parked the truck. Clouds flew by overhead in no set pattern or discernable shape; a row of sparrows squawked at one another along the power-lines which crisscrossed the neighborhood; a dog was announcing he had heard Wesley come home and to remind him not to come into his yard. The grass was beginning to creep up the side of the trailer; he would get out the trimmer later, maybe, and fix that. For now he wanted one of those cold beers.

Hey babe I'm home

Janet was seated on the edge of the couch, forearms pressed tightly to her thighs, her hands cradled the top of her head and she was slowly rocking back and forth sobbing. The sight of her so upset instantly lit a fire in Wesley and he rushed to her side and caressed the back of her neck.

Babe what's the matter?

There hadn't been a single occasion prior to this day that had prepared him for the words she was about to speak. They had been together for almost three years now, without so much as a day in between they had not seen each other. Janet may have been the one who sought him out but his affection for her had grown over time to the point he couldn't see himself without her. She was the love of his life and he meant to do right by her no matter what.

I'm pregnant!

Although they didn't have much in the way of material possessions, JC and his young parents had love and a connection to each other that drew the unhappiness out of the situation and made each day a wonderful experience. Wesley worked hard everyday and brought home a steady paycheck. Janet did her best to keep up with the energetic little boy. She had dropped out of high school but hadn't decided anything about going back. Her world had been turned on end when JC was born and she didn't seem interested in any of the things she had left behind in school.

Over time, JC grew from an active toddler to a rambunctious and precocious little boy. He had a sharp wit, a dazzling smile and a tenderness unlike any found in a boy his age. He would be outside playing in the yard and come across dandelions and think how nice it would be to collect them and give the would-be flowers to his mother. And that's what he did. And when the little boy would rush inside and hold out his little bouquet and say these are for you mommy, Janet would burst into tears to which JC would inquire as to why and she would simply say:

Darlin you are sweeter than pie, softer than silk and sharper than an arrow. You are mine and I love you.

When JC was 8 his father signed him up for little league. At first he was hesitant to go but he knew there would be other boys from his school there and soon discovered baseball was a wonderful game. It didn't take long for JC to shine in his new favorite activity. He was able to hit the ball further than the rest of the boys and his feet carried him faster than theirs did too. Wesley stood back and watched smiling because of the gift he had given to his son. He may not have a great job or a big house but he had given his son his athletic ability and for that he was proud.

In the summer of his 12th year of life, JC was the clean up hitter and short stop for the 12 year old All-start team representing his county. The team had already won many games, thanks in no small part to the heroics of JC. In one game he had single handedly turned a triple play on a ball that would have scored the winning run. Another game saw JC hit a three run home run in the bottom of the last inning to achieve a walk-off victory that sealed the county championship.

Presently, the team was on the road playing last years state champs. The game had gone back and forth, each team scoring and then playing loose defense, allowing the other team to come right back. With the score tied and the top of the last inning coming up, the coach came to JC and said, what do you think kid, can you pitch the bottom half of the inning?

Sure thing coach! And just to make sure nothing goes wrong, I'm gonna hit a homerun too.

Without as much as a nervous laugh, JC walked to the plate with one man on and two outs and drove the third pitch he saw to left center and a two run lead. His father, not knowing the prediction his son had made, screamed in triumph and pumped his fist in the air, that's my boy!

The boy's legend was just beginning to grow when he stepped out on the mound. He wasn't the tallest kid out there or the strongest. But what he lacked in size he made up for in tenacity and spunk. The characteristics he displayed while up there on the mound were skills no coach could teach. There wasn't a video in existence which could explain how to turn your kid into a player of this ilk. JC was in a league of his own and those who were in attendance that day knew it.

Without as much as a bead of sweat on his head or a speck of dust on his jersey, JC Montero looked deep inside and pulled out a story for the ages. See, before this moment JC had never pitched in a game before, not even warm up throws during batting practice. Anyone who knew him, or of him, understood his game to be that of a power-hitting infielder with a knack for stealing bases and running down short fly balls. There was no scouting report out there which said this kid knew how to pitch. The world was about to find out.

With a look of determination, the first hitter settled into the batters box, digging in his left foot and steadying his right leg. The bat hung just above his shoulders and circled ever so slightly in anticipation of the first pitch. He never saw it coming. Thwap!

Strike one

The kid at the plate couldn't believe what just happened. When the ball snapped in the glove chills raced down his spine and all color left his face. His hands began to tremble. The catcher fired the ball back to JC who gripped the ball in his glove and rubbed it into his palm. The batter looked nervously down to the third base coach praying he didn't see the bunt sign. He breathed a momentary sigh of relief when the coach signaled to hit away. It hardly mattered; he didn't see that one coming either. Thwap!

Strike two

The catcher stood and soft tossed the ball back to JC, quickly clapping his free hand to his glove in consideration of what he had just caught. The hitter turned to the catcher with a look of confusion mixed with fear. The catcher just smiled and wished the batter luck. The kid at the plate swallowed hard and dug in, chocking up a little on the bat. Maybe he could get the head of the bat through the zone quick enough to make some kind of contact and hope for an error. That wasn't going to happen.

JC looked long into the mitt of the catcher. He shook off the first sign, one finger straight down and wiggled to the left. He shook off the second sign, one finger straight down and wiggled to the right. He shook off the third sign, one finger straight down and wiggled in place. Finally the catcher flashed two fingers, dangling, and JC nodded. The batter was ready, feet dug in, hands in position, eyes on the pitcher. JC came set, went into his windup and then uncurled, his arm arcing over his head his hand opening slightly before his extension reached full.

The batter had only a second to react before he found himself diving to the ground in a dusty heap, knowing full well if he hadn't bailed out he would have been wearing a shiner for a week.

As he rolled over and came to a stop in a dusty cloud he barely heard the umpire yell strike three. In disbelief he craned his neck towards the catcher as he squeezed the ball and saw exactly what the ump had seen. A perfect pitch! A 12 to 6 curve ball which buckled his knees. The hitter, now a strike out victim, picked himself up off the ground and dusted himself off.

Walking back to the dugout, he looked out towards the mound and was surprised to see a kid who looked like he was being forced to wear a suit and go to confession. Not a hint of excitement; not a sign of joy. He was all business and for that, he was scared for his teammates who had to follow them.

The next two hitters fared no better, with the exception of the last kid who managed to foul off two of the offerings. But in the end neither of them were any match for JC and his teammates.

When the final out was recorded everyone rushed the mound and triumphantly surrounded the kid who had just pitched a perfect inning on route to winning the town's first ever state championship. In the stands Wesley and Janet hugged as they jumped up and down joyfully celebrating their son's accomplishment. Two prouder parents did not exist on that day.

After the game, the family went out for pizza and milkshakes at JC's favorite place. Everyone who had heard of what happened that day came over to congratulate him on a great game and a tremendous season. JC was happy that he and his team had won the game. He was excited he had been a part of something so special. But what pleased him the most was the look in his father's eyes any time he glanced over at him.

JC may have only been 12 but he could see the ever expanding admiration this man had for his son. He sensed they were connected in a way many fathers and sons are not. They shared a bond in sports, a birth-rite for some, a burden for others. JC was glad he had done right by his father and wished for nothing but more of the same.

That night as he crawled into bed, weary from the days emotionally charged events, he looked one last time at the trophy he and his teammates had been presented. There was a golden baseball player perched on top in the final motions of swinging a bat. On the bottom, etched in gold letters were the words State Champions. He beamed from ear to ear at the sight of it. Before he reached over to turn out his light he called out for his father.

Yeah JC

Did I do good today Dad

Did you do good? My boy you did great. Your mother and me are real proud of you.

You like my trophy?

Very much. You earned it out there. Now I want you to enjoy it. This is a memory no one can take away from you. I'm proud of you JC. Now get some sleep.

Good night Dad

Good night buddy.

Hey Dad

Yeah

I love you

I love you too son

The following few years carried with them additional successful little league tournaments, different teams scattered across the state. He took his games on the road with traveling teams compiling wins and life experiences which were second to none. Most times his mom and dad would make the trips to watch their son excel on the baseball diamond, all the while growing into a model son and all around good kid. His confidence level was not only high on the field of play but also in the classroom. He seemed to have the drive to succeed in no matter what he did.

By his sophomore year in high school, JC had already made an appearance on the varsity team, mostly as a relief pitcher. His dogged determination and powerful arm earned him second team all league honors as a freshman, which for the time had been unprecedented. All cylinders were clicking and the sky seemed to be the limit. The coaches had discussed working him into the starting rotation in only his second season. This accomplishment carried with it praise and worthy accolades. But, as with anything, there existed a level of discontent among a few who were determined to be heard.

Zachary Everman grew up in the shadow of JC from the time they both stepped foot on the baseball field. Zack was a few weeks younger and seemingly a step slower in almost every regard. In the beginning, Zack was indifferent to the talents of his teammate and part time friend. Other team members were in awe of JC's talents and treated him as if he were a living breathing major leaguer. When JC had hit the walk-off homer in the game leading up to the state championship game, Zack was in the group who hoisted JC up on their shoulders and paraded him off the field in well deserved hero fashion.

But when the state championships rolled around and Zack was on the mound late in the deciding game, he was crushed to learn JC and not he would be given the opportunity to close out the biggest game of their young lives. And when the moment happened and JC became local lore, Zack brooded and sulked at being cheated out of the moment himself. And since that time he remained the almost polished kid who could just never get out of the shadow of the boy everyone called The Kid.

JC's nickname started shortly after the first state championship. Other boys or parents familiar with local little league baseball would see him and say Hey look there's the kid or He's the kid that won the game. Although no one in town or close to the boys on JC's team ever called him anything other than JC, word spread and his nickname was heard all over.

Zack was jealous of just about every aspect of JC's life, with the exception of where JC lived and the circumstances surrounding his upbringing. Zack came from the other side of town; he lived in a modest home. His father was an engineer of some kind and worked in the city. His father drove a black SUV with chrome wheels and tinted windows. Zack was able to afford the finest equipment and always had the newest and best clothes. Why he could not best this other boy on the field attacked him ferociously. He was determined to beat him, now it was just a matter of how.

The evening following the game in which JC first pitched for the varsity team in a relief role, Zack got wind of his rival's outing: 2/3 inning, one hit two strike outs. The news was almost too much for him to bear; a rage set in and he seethed with unkind thoughts and began scheming a way to unseat this boy so he could capture the glory for himself. Cunning had been building in him over the years; the time had come to spring some of his illicit thoughts into action.

In the beginning, the attacks were subtle and random. Something sexually derogatory was scrawled on the wall of one of the boys' bathroom stalls. Then a cartoon depicting JC fornicating with a dog was found drawn on a table inside the auditorium. Occasionally, whispers were heard about JC being seen after hours in conspicuous places with various classmates. Most stories were without basis and so farfetched they were hard to believe.

One afternoon, JC was in the school's gymnasium stretching on a matt prior to a pitching session, doing his best to keep in top shape during the off season when he thought he overheard someone in the bleachers above where he was stretching mention his name and then look in his direction and laugh. Owning more confidence than most of the teachers in the building, he rose from the matt and headed towards the individuals he thought had directed something towards him.

What's up guys?

Nothin.

Looked like you were trying to say something to me but I couldn't quite hear what you were saying.

It was nothing JC honest.

JC knew something was up and he was determined to get to the bottom of what had been going on at school and mostly at his expense.

Listen guys, I know something is going on and I want to know what you heard. You ain't gotta say anything else just tell me what you were laughing about.

There's a picture in the back hallway, it's been there all day.

JC climbed down from the bleachers and walked the length of the gym floor to the rear entrance, where the visitors' locker room was. When he reached the double set of wooden doors he paused, and took a deep breathe. Following a brief moment he pushed open the door and entered the small area just outside the locker room. At first he noticed nothing peculiar, but then he saw it.

Immediately his stomach balled into a tight knot, his hands began trembling; a light sweat broke out on his brow. Taped to the wall next to the soda machine was a familiar picture; one he had seen countless times before, except this time something had been added to the picture, a slight alteration that caused JC to fly into a rage. He quickly closed on the poster and with a vengeful grasp tore it from the wall and crumpled it into a wad. He turned and stormed back out to the gymnasium.

Who's the coward that hung this piece of trash on the wall out there? Who did it? I want to know now!

Of the dozen or so kids milling around in he gym, no one so much as made a peep. JC stood close to center court, the poster clenched in one fist, the other shaking from a confined rage. His eyes scanned the space but none met his; the cowards he thought, they'll not say who has done this.

Finally he spied the slight stature of a boy he knew from geometry class, Andrew Gorman. He quickly walked to where Andrew was standing and did his best impression of a bully

Andrew I know you know who did this and you are going to tell me or so help me God I will beat the ever loving snot out of you right here, right now.

I'm sorry JC I can't. If I do, they'll know and they will come get me. There are more of them than you. I wouldn't stand a chance in either case but I will take my chances with one instead of 4.

With that, JC knew who was behind the poster prank. The four kids Andrew was so concerned about happened to be the four kids JC should have suspected in the first place. Well maybe not four but at the very least one. Zack Everman had never gone out of his way to hide the fact he hated JC and JC knew this. No matter how hard he tried to show Zack there was no ill will between them, the angrier and more distant Zack became. It didn't matter they had played baseball on the same team for a few years now, Zack hated JC for all he was worth and now it appeared he had taken his hostilities to a new level.

JC strode to the doors, which were the entrance to the school proper and exited the gym, tossing the crumpled poster in the trashcan by the door. There was no telling where Zack might be at this point during the day but there seemed no point in hanging around the school anymore today, he would go home and think about how to work out the problem and tomorrow come back with a plan.

He crossed the lobby outside the entrance to the gym and entered the main boys' locker room to shower and change. The boys locker room smelled as if a large animal had defecated somewhere on the floor and then died. Combined with the ever present humidity from the showers the resulting nasal sensation wasn't pleasant. Even after countless moments spent getting ready to play or go home he still couldn't get used to the awful smell.

The locker room was broken up into six horseshoe shaped spaces each containing approximately 50 lockers. There was no set use of the space just wherever a kid felt comfortable getting dressed. JC kept his things in locker #27 in the first alcove to the left as he walked in.

The walk to the showers was further from here but the number meant he was closer to home and the comfort that brought him was immeasurable. He began to undress and place his clothes in the locker as he removed them. As he unzipped his pants he heard the door open behind him and several footfalls, then all went white.

Next he remembers feeling the side of his head with his hand and touching a sizable lump. Thoughts whirled in his mind as to what had just happened when he caught sight of something, something unexpected. With one eye closed and the other merely a slit, he recognized the sullen scowl of Zack. Behind him were his cronies, Bud, Slacker, and Richie Boyle. JC couldn't remember why they were standing there, but he was about to find out.

So I heard you were talking some shit about me JC.

I don't know what your talking bout Zack

His temple throbbed and his stomach was still woozy. Slowly he was getting his wits back along with his vision. From the deep red circle on the back of Zack's hand he could only guess it was used to sucker punch him in the head. Things were happening fast and JC new this time he was in trouble.

Someone told me you think I was the one who put the picture of your old lady with the cock in her mouth out by the back door. Is that what you been sayin?

Zack I just found out about that myself and hadn't had time to say anything to anybody. But I am guessing it was you and this is all you wanted in the first place. You want to fight let's fight, but tell your boys to back off.

Those would prove to be the last words JC Montero would speak for two weeks.

When he woke from his drug induced coma, he learned he had three fractured ribs, a fractured orbital bone, a fractured jaw, a ruptured spleen, a dislocated shoulder, and a concussion severe enough to require 24 hour intensive care for 11 days.

Three days after getting his own room, the doctor unwired his jaw and he was able to talk. He didn't say much but he did say who was behind his brutal beating. The detective who took his statement turned out to be the uncle of a kid who played against JC in last years little league state tournament. The officer remembered the type of player he was and told his nephew JC was one of the good ones and he might just learn a thing or two from watching him play. He promised to do everything in his power to make sure the boys responsible paid for their mistakes. Turns out the law can't trump money.

With no prior record or history of trouble, Zack and his friends were allowed back to school after serving a 10-day suspension. Family court attached a three-month probationary bit to their records but after three months if they stayed out of trouble their records would be wiped clean. The same could not be said for JC.

For weeks JC suffered from debilitating migraine headaches, one such side effect from the traumatic injury caused from the repeated kicks to his head. Structurally there was nothing wrong with his brain but the sustained impacts had jarred it so that the after effects lingered much longer than might have been the case.

He spent his days isolated in the complete dark; any strain of light would send a piercing wedge of enflamed ice deep behind his eyes. The pain had reached a pinnacle on two such occasions where the agony was too much to bear and he lost consciousness.

The diet he sustained was meager at best but caloric enough to keep his sustained body mass. His broken jaw healed rather quickly but still remained tender leaving most of his favorite foods, crunchy and chewy, off the menu. His other injuries took their time healing and he with them. His anticipated off-season workout program was shelved; in its place was general rehab. He slowly began to put the pieces back together, recuperating his body and finding ways to heal his mind. The beating he had sustained at the hands of a bitter rival was certainly food for thought and he had had plenty of time to think.

But after months of quiet reflection JC was still unable to grasp the depth of personal misery Zack had to have mined to bring to bear the type of attack he did. Something was missing, a hint of despair, a slight of fancy, a piece of misfortune. Zack had always been sullen and shallow with regards to their baseball kinship, but he had never so much as raised a voice in JC's direction; just the opposite really. Zack seemed hell bent on being as distant and aloof from someone in such close proximity. JC didn't need to be told of Zack's dislike for him, it was quietly demonstrated on a near daily basis.

Nearly two months to the day from the savage beating JC took in the boys' locker room at the hands of one of his own teammates, he returned to school and the possibility of normal days. Light still bothered his eyes so he was allowed to wear special sunglasses to avoid the crippling effects of the all too often migraine headaches.

From almost the first minute upon being back in what had been a home away from home JC began feeling the cold shoulder from many who had been his friends and just classmates who knew of him from his exploits on the baseball field. He had been confident his presence had been missed in his time away and that he would have been welcomed back with open arms.

Instead, what JC found upon his return to school was the cold shoulder when he walked up to friends between classes to talk about what had been going on while he was away. Even his baseball teammates seemed to be running on empty when it came to a welcome back. Everyone seemed to be on edge and steered clear of JC's every attempt at reconnecting. He was puzzled, hurt, and thoroughly dismayed by the treatment he was receiving. Towards late morning, after several failed attempts at hello, he went to the nurse's office and asked to be excused saying his head hurt terribly and he needed to rest.

He was allowed to walk to the transit stop and the public bus would take him to the trailer park. One advantage to living under the median is public resources are not far away. When he got home and crawled into bed he began to cry tears of a small hurt little boy who was just told by the bigger kids to scram. His heart felt as if it might break. There wasn't anything in his mind he could find which might suggest he had done something wrong. In the end he decided he would allow today to feel sorry for himself but tomorrow he would go back at it and learn the true cause of the cold reception he had received today.

In the morning, he showered, dressed, ate a quick breakfast and left the trailer without even saying goodbye to his parents. He decided it would be best to take the transit bus instead of the school bus, figuring he would go directly to the source this morning and find out what was behind yesterday's deliberate attempt at shunning. If anyone knew what was going on, Cheryl would and she couldn't lie if it meant the life of her cat.

Cheryl had had a crush on JC from the time they were old enough to play in the same sandbox. Not a lusty drooling unremarkable fancy seen on some after school special. Cheryl didn't think of JC as some poster pin up boy from the most relevant boy band of the day. Cheryl admired JC for his kindness, his loyalty and above all his friendship. She was in love with him but the innocence painted it in many colors not one of which was red.

First thing in the morning Cheryl could usually be found in the science lab, checking on experiments in the senior research lab. Whenever she wasn't running experiments she was tutoring other students before school, helping them with lab reports or homework or just hanging out and talking all things science. She was technically gifted and possessed a knack for all things complicated. Her brilliant mind and intangible skills earned a scholarship to the University to continue her experiments and her love for learning.

Before entering the lab he peeked in through the small glass window in the door to see if Cheryl was there. She was, so he entered. The room was full of workstations, each one with black Formica top and a deep sink, a gas line to light a Bunsen burner and a medium sized microscope. Each station was outfitted with Petri dishes, glass slides, solutions, chemicals, etc.

The materials had been donated to the school via a grant set up by a locally famous person who had set aside money to be donated to the school every year. When other schools may have had budgetary shortfalls that would require cuts to such places like this lab, that risk was never run since the money was earmarked only for the lab, and could not be drawn if not for the purpose of funding this space. JC saw she was leaning over one of the microscopes in the back intently looking through the eyepiece. She hadn't noticed his entrance.

Hi Cheryl

Startled, she let out a gasp and a half twitch, almost losing her goggles with the sudden turning of her neck. When she realized who had called out her name her hands immediately went to her mouth and her eyes welled with tears.

She hadn't seen JC since two days after the incident when he was at his worst in the ICU. She had spent 15 lonely minutes holding his hand in the darkness illuminated only by pumps and machines. She had held his limp hand, which had become swollen with the drugs coursing through his body. Then she had wept for the poor soul who may have been snuffed too early. Now she wept for the second chance she had been given to embrace a friend.

Oh my god JC. I heard you were back but before I found you, you had left for the day.

With that she navigated the maze of equipment and came to stand just before JC, who was a good three inches shorter than she. She grabbed his face, kissed his forehead longingly, lovingly and then they embraced, as if they had been separated by years and an ocean and only now had they been given the chance to breathe the same breathe, share the same space.

I thought you were going to die. I came to see you. One of the first days you were in there. Oh it was awful. You were so still, so quiet. They had your arms stretched out in front of you, resting on a pillow. It was almost like you were laid out for a wake. It was just horrible. I am so sorry my brother did this to you.

Cheryl Everman was a senior in high school, an older woman of sorts, and Zack's older sister. JC and Cheryl had hid their fondness for one another do in large part to the animosity Zack harbored for JC. Prowess on the ball field was one thing, loving the enemy was something else entirely. JC and Cheryl had talked about the repercussions of their involvement and decided it was best to keep things on the low side to prevent a total meltdown in the Everman household, which in these times would have been counterproductive. Cheryl had her science and JC was making his name on the field. Each other's maturity kept the other going and made their relationship under duress work much better.

I've thought about the things that have happened and I couldn't make heads or tails of them, but then I came to school yesterday and I was ignored by all of my friends. Even the kids I just used to horse around with wouldn't even look at me. I'm not sure what is going on. I thought maybe something happened while I was out and you might know about it.

Before Cheryl could get the words out, the door to the room opened and Zack walked in followed closely by Bud and Slacker. The three boys had roughly the same haircut, short and to the scalp, similar black tee shirts, and jeans. Bud wore a black ball cap, turned backwards, Slacker had on a pair of eyeglasses he must have fancied were like Marshall Mathers.

What are you doing here JC? I thought you and I had an understanding. You're supposed to stay away from my sister. I'm pretty sure I made that clear the last time I saw you.

Get out of here Zack. You might be my brother but I won't forgive you again. You and your dirt bag friends leave him alone.

Shut the fuck up Cheryl. This ain't your beef. This here is between me and boy wonder over there. How are you feeling anyway? I heard you are still pretty sick.

I'm making do, thanks. I would prefer if you just left me alone. I think you made your point before. I can't say as if I will actually take it to heart but I'll consider it anyway.

Listen here buddy boy. My hands are tied as far as my probation goes, but I got this school in my back pocket. You so much as shit and I will be all over you. You got my meaning.

I hear you Zack. But I can't do what I can't do. Hey Slacker, you thinking of cutting an album or something?

What did you say?

Ah nothing lighten up. Listen I get it. You are tough guys and I got to pay attention. Consider the message delivered. You stay away from me and I will stay away from you.

Stay away from my sister motherfucker.

Zack, I will do what I want.

Cheryl you shut the fuck up too. You know what Dad would say. I warned you kid. You do right by what I say. Next time might not be in your best interest. If you get my meaning.

I heard you. And I ain't scared of you. None of you. Just stay out of my way and I will do you the same courtesy. Till then from now.

The ice breaking in the science lab that day served as a hiatus from any further hostilities. JC had not regained any measure of his previous popularity but his days in school were by no means miserable. He had the occasional migraine but the effects were by no means as severe as before. He often sought refuge in the broom closet of the nurse's office during his lunch break, allowing the medicine the nurse dispensed time to react to his symptoms.

Trouble seemed to be waning in the faint light of winters thaw. Spring was about to hatch and with it the promise of a new season on the diamond and a resurgence of old abilities and feelings of past glory. JC had begun training for baseball all be it later than he had wanted but starting training all the same. He found his legs weren't as fresh and his arm not as limber. His dislocated shoulder had healed but a popping sensation every so often told him everything was not right, even if it was healed.

When he stood in the batters box at the local indoor batting facility, he could not quite get his bat threw the ball like he once did. There was something with his follow through that wasn't true to his original form. He watched old game tape of him from the prior year and tried to emulate what he saw. He needed things to be right, he needed to be in shape, he needed his 'A' game. He wasn't guaranteed a roster spot on the Varsity club. He was going to need to earn it just like everyone else. Just like Zack Everman.

Varsity baseball tryouts were scheduled for 8am on Saturday morning. There was room inside the gymnasium in the event of rain but the forecast predicted sun and temps in the low 50's. The type of weather expected was the worst possible kind for JC due to the perfect storm it would take to warm his joints and muscles up and keep them active and engaged for the entire time.

Although he put his game face on and showed flashes of brilliance, the hardship he had endured during the fall exacted too much of a toll on his body and it was simply not able to deliver the performance required to get to that level. The coach apologized profusely, suggesting he could play junior varsity ball and hope to make enough improvements to perhaps be called up in the event of an injury.

The coach's words rang hollow. JC understood and wasn't the least bit upset with the coaching staff or their choices for the team. He had been outplayed and out hustled by the other boys at the tryout. It didn't even seem to matter that a caricature with a painted smile and shining face stood exalting his triumph, beaming from paper ear to paper ear. As Zack high fived his father, JC had a sickening feeling growing in his stomach at the prospect of telling his own father he had not made the team. The one thing, which had brought them together, was the one thing JC feared would tear them apart.

If JC no longer had a sport to excel at, no longer was going to be the shinning star on the dusty diamond, what did they have left to share.

Wesley Montero was a simple hardworking man, who loved telling stories of the past. He still lived in the moment when he scored the winning touchdown in four straight games and led his team to the finals. He loved reminiscing about scrimmages in the park when he was a boy and he would run circles around the older boys and beat them at their own game. He lived to watch his own son do the same things in the present that he had accomplished in the past. As long as JC was running, throwing and hitting, he could sit back and take it all in because a part of him was out there too. A part of Wesley Montero was 12 or 14 and hitting tape measure shots and striking out the side in the 8th inning. JC now feared with the sun setting on this day, he too would see the peak of his relationship with his father and the inevitable darkness that followed.

Dad, I didn't make the team. Well I made JV, but not varsity.

What happened?

I don't know. I just didn't have enough in the tank. I got one out of there, but in the end it just wasn't enough.

What did coach say?

He said if I try real hard and stick with it...

You just might make it in the end. Something like that?

Yeah. How did you know?

Cause that's what they say to all the kids that don't make it. Hardly your fault though. Those kids who kicked your ass. They got most of what's doing. How'd that little shit head make out anyway?

He made it.

Course he did. Little gutless shitbag! He needs to get his and by right!

I'm sorry dad.

Don't be sorry son. Ain't your fault. In the end, we ain't supposed to be successful. I didn't have the test scores and you ain't got the chin. We all gots to fall JC. We all gots to fall.

Exhausted and distraught, JC went off to shower and then to bed. Before turning in, he signed into his e-mail to see if there was a message from Cheryl.

JC, I heard about today. I am so very sorry. That shithead brother of mine won't shut up about it. I really do hate him. I can't wait for the fall and my grand exit from this place. They are all so insufferable. That's not to say I won't miss you greatly, but today I realize I can't live here happily. If you could take me away I would go. I love you. Ttys,C.

The baseball season came and went. By all accounts it was a successful season. The team managed to squeeze into the state tournament but exited early after just three games. In the end, they lacked the pitching depth JC would have been able to provide. The starters were shaky and the bullpen lacked any punch. When the team got behind they were never able to stop the bleeding.

Zack ended with respectable numbers, nothing great, but enough to earn second team all conference honors, a decent award. But that is where the decency ended. Zack continued his off the field deriding of his former rival. Even in these days of unimpeded success, Zack felt obligated to chide and degrade JC in any forum possible.

One day in gym class during a game of three on three, shirts versus skins, Zack had set a moving screen and knocked JC to the floor, then stood over him and glared daring him to fight. His probation was long in the books and as long as he didn't start any trouble he was free to do what ever he wanted. JC just picked himself up off the floor and asked for a sub. To him it wasn't worth the effort. He was still trying to work back to the Varsity team and any more run-ins like the last could mean an end to that plan.

What puzzled JC the most since the first incident was the lack of response from any of the teachers or other kids in the school. It seemed to him that every one around him was siding with his antagonizer. Never once did he hear a teacher tell Zack to knock it off. Not once did he hear a fellow student come to his aid. Had he been a stranger in a strange town he might have anticipated the lack of input but he was one of them. He was from here, born and raised. Yet he had somehow become a social outcast. He tried to stay focused but every day got harder and harder.

In the fall of his senior year, the headaches that had subsided returned. The headaches were the kind which sent him into hiding from the pain and the fear. There were times he was afraid he might claw his own eyes out to make the pressure go away. He was convinced there were days where a red hot poker of iron was being seared into the back of his eyes and left there with a bellows to brand a new meaning of pain into his already fragile system.

After the third such visit to the nurse's office, she recommended he see an eye doctor and have his vision tested. The ophthalmologist returned with only marginal suitable advice, glasses for reading and not to watch television in the dark.

JC didn't have money for real glasses so he went to the drugstore and picked a pair off the rack, which closely matched the numbers the eye doctor suggested he needed. When he tried them on he felt humiliated. He looked like an old guy at a coffee shop dying over a stale cup of coffee and a full ashtray. JC wanted to cry but knew it would only make matters worse if a classmate saw him in public buying old man glasses and crying. He quickly paid for them and went home. That night he cried himself to sleep.

Cheryl, I miss you already. I hope you are settling in and getting to know lots of cool people. I had to buy a pair of glasses today. They make me look like old man Phelps down at Donut World. I hate them but the eye doctor thinks they will help with the bad headaches I get. Maybe I can come see you some time. Ttys. JC

Throughout the winter months, JC kept a low profile at school, only staying as long as he had to and then taking the transit bus home. Even at home he had to stay out of the limelight. His father had been laid off periodically for the better part of the last 6 months. He would work two weeks collect for two weeks and then work another week and collect another two weeks.

With his free time at home he started drinking and watching any video he could find on the Internet. Didn't really matter what he watched so much as he could click on it and while away the hours. Every so often he would invite JC to watch some kid or another he had found on the internet who could hit a long home run or steal home plate or some other such modern marvel. The video was always followed up by a personal remark about JC and his inability to get well enough to go back out and play. JC would try and explain that he was doing all he could do to get himself in shape to play but Wesley would just scoff and open another beer and go back to the Internet.

A week before the tryouts, JC got a migraine so bad that while he was standing in the dark of the nurse's closet he passed out and in the process fell out of the closet and banged his head on the floor. The nurse had trouble reviving him so she called for an ambulance and JC was rushed to the hospital.

While there, he was given a cat scan which revealed a small amount of bleeding on the inside of his head near where he hit it on the floor of the nurse's office. When JC came to and he was given the news, he openly cried and didn't stop for almost 24 hours. The doctor told him he would be unable to participate in any strenuous activities for 4-6 weeks while the injury to his head healed. The bleeding was considered minor as long as he took the advice of the doctor and took it easy.

Missing the tryouts and requiring so much time to recuperate was definitely resonating with him now. He wasn't just missing another season of baseball; a game, which he so enjoyed and found success at, was not just being taken from him; a piece of his life had been stolen from him and not just some insignificant parcel.

The relationship he had forged with his father had been reduced to ashes. The driving force behind his engine of success had been seized. If he no longer had a father's love, real or imagined, and if he stood directionless in a field mired in obscurity, where would he go and how would he find his way there? It had been brewing for far too long. The top was about to spout off.

Cheryl, I miss you most of all. Through everything I have been through, you have been the one constant beacon in my night sky. My dad hates me. My mom forgot who I was a long time ago. I am 17 years old and have sunk to the bottom of a lake from which I cannot surface. I have not the arms to swim or the feet to kick. This contentment should not be shared. I have realized for too long now, my flame burned the brightest at the worst possible time. I needed the light to find my way in life yet I used it to play a silly game. I wanted so much to succeed not for myself but for what it meant to my Dad. I loved him and he me. When the crowd cheered so did he. But when the cheers stopped and the people went home and the cameras were put away, he left too. I can see him right now, drinking a beer and watching some other guy's kid on the Internet and wishing it was him and me. But it can't be. Not anymore. Any way. I had hoped to save this for another time and another place but here and now will have to do. I love you. Ttys, JC.

The newspapers and television crew who covered it could never get it right, no matter how they tried. They could look at it from every angle and could dig up every clue, but they would never be able to say with any certainty why a boy would go to school, a place of supposed safety, a building full of knowledge teaming with unbridled minds passionately waiting to absorb the thoughts and ideas contained within and bring with him a loaded weapon and discharge that weapon in a room full of students and in the end turn it on himself. No one can ever know what plan existed in that boy to cross that line and do that thing. But he did. And it had to mean something to someone. In the end though, the victim had a different name.
