

The MouseDoor **  
**by David Xavier

To all who have always wished to write,  
a great novel burning inside them...

And to Dené, the dreamer  
who keeps my own alight

I

For Everett Townsend life stopped in place years ago, as motionless as the people who propped themselves on his studio stool, grinning as they waited to be flashed into permanence.

Long ago he sold the little house he had carried his beaming wife into as a young man and moved into the studio backroom. He had a stove put in near his cot and boiled coffee morning and night, and he installed cabinets, running water, and lived out of a mini-fridge.

Fanned on the corner table in the waiting room were old magazines. Narrow shelves staggered the wall with antique cameras, their worn edges and dented bodies concealing the luster of yesteryear. In the middle sat a vintage model car, a '53 Skylark convertible, the same make and model he used to swing wide around the tight street corners with the windows down in his full-haired youth. Same color, sky blue.

Every morning he looked these shelves over and evened the cameras out. The front door had a habit of slamming shut and jostling them on their shelves. His faded boxing gloves fell off the door each time.

He lined his medals on the windowsill, a part of the décor, out of reach of small hands. Every morning he dusted them before stepping back for a stiff salute. Sometimes he sat upright on the black leather couch and watched the sunrise fill the glass door and make shadows of his studio hours on the floor, MONDAY-FRID Y 8AM – 5PM, the missing letter peeled away years ago, carried away on the bottom of someone's shoe. Then he would unlock the door, flip the OPEN sign, and stand in the quiet street to breathe in the fresh air and let the morning breeze tickle his scalp.

His haircut had remained the same since he was eighteen. A good Army man gets a haircut every week whether he needs one or not, and usually he doesn't. There were a lot of things Everett did not need any longer.

He stretched in the sunlight, then dropped to the broken pavement and gravel for pushups. He could still do thirty full in a row before his hips began to sag and his elbows started to stiffen and shake. He gathered himself up and hitched his pants, looking around with just his eyes.

Traffic did not concern itself with Everett Townsend's street. It was nothing more than an alleyway of barely-there businesses – a laundromat, a used bookstore he'd touched every spine in, an auto mechanic with open hoods in the drive, some abandoned buildings – a random offshoot that crept away from the main roads, out of view of commuters and pedestrians, and inconveniently far from the entrepreneurial churn of downtown, tires speeding on the asphalt in the distance. Every so often a car would come close, the lost driver sitting forward over the wheel trying to make sense of the road before coming to a complete stop, shaking his head, and in a series of forwards and reverses, making his way back the way he came.

Everett placed an ad every year in the YellowBook. Every year the price went up and the return went down. Not many people blinked away the black spots of his flashbulb anymore.

Across the street was an empty building. It used to be a coffee house, but never a busy one. People like to have a large window to look out of while they sip, not the little square one that looked chipped into the wall by rebar, small as the Mona Lisa. They would have had to crowd each other behind it, mugs in hands. But the coffee house hung on for a dozen years somehow, filling the street with the scent of crushed beans until the laundromat became busy around mid-morning and in rushed a new smell.

It was a big two-storied building, brown stucco with a small door of peeling faded blue paint and a rounded doorjamb that looked smaller than it was, as if it were a hut for gnomes or an entrance for cartoon mice. The second story was where the owner had lived in the evenings, a bit of a shut-in, and too young to have owned such an establishment on his own merit. Not one of the many shaggy brown hairs on his head or chin had yet grayed, and in the evenings he used to strum a guitar. The light in his upstairs window always stayed on through the night. But one day the coffee stopped dripping and the door didn't open on time, and the light upstairs never went on again, abandoned in the night as if for some road show.

It remained dark now, and in the afternoons Everett stood in his window, behind his medals, and watched the sun disappear behind the building, and the letters of the old COFFEE SHOPPE fade on the stucco, and the dark portrait of a windowpane dim within. It was peaceful and quiet since the building went vacant. No diagonally parked cars of the regulars in the narrow street, and no long-haired college students propping their bicycles against the wall or chaining them to random posts and street signs. No coffee beans in the morning either, but he made his own and managed to drink most of it.

Duke Costello had let his own hair grow long. A photography studio shouldn't have regular visitors, but Duke came by at any hour to drink the coffee, mess up the stack of magazines, and leave an impression in the couch. After the Army he drove cattle trucks and Greyhounds and forklifts before hanging up the driving gloves for good. He liked to talk service. Every year he had a new headshot taken. He had no reason to, other than to send his wallet-sized deadpans to old Army pals across the country. He always pinned a fresh one to Everett's billboard, which Everett promptly took down.

"You know Johnson had surgery a month ago?"

"I did not," Everett said, leaning into his camera. "You're slouching. More than usual."

"He did," Duke said. He thumped a fist to his chest. "His heart liked to skip around on him. He said it would go five fast beats and then one big one. Like hitting reset. Said it made him jump when he wasn't ready for it. A sort of hiccup. He tried holding his breath but his doctor told him to take the pills he'd prescribed or start looking around for a quiet cemetery. He told him he already had a plot paid for and doc told him well take the pills or get ready to get comfy. He said, doc I'd rather climb in and shut the lid myself than count pills. Must be a nuisance for a sharpshooter to jerk around with the hiccups all day. He says he cannot spoon his coffee grounds with any accuracy these days. He shakes them all the over the counter."

Duke sat up and froze. The flash went off. Everett looked up from behind the camera. "You can smile if you want to."

Duke was already stepping off the stool and pulling his windbreaker on. "The Army cured me of that. I do my photos Geronimo style."

"What do you send these out to the fellas for?" Everett said.

"I am retired."

"They probably spend the year trying to forget you and you go and jog their memory."

"I like to be on people's minds. What are we if people forget us?"

"Peaceful."

Duke put a fifty in one of the boxing gloves on his way out. He put his head back in and jostled the gloves. "You want to take these down this evening? See if you can still throw a decent hook?"

"I am not old yet."

"You're headed in that direction."

"How's the Time Machine coming?"

"Nearly done. Just a bit more tinkering before I start my trail of pins in the map. I'll be just a memory to you too."

"I won't remember you."

Duke smiled. "See ya, Everett. Don't go swinging at shadows, and eat a banana a day."

"Go on."

"Hey, Everett."

"What?"

"Say hi to Maggie for me."

Everett dropped his eyes a moment and nodded, and when he looked up again it was in a squint to the farthest window. "I will."

Everett closed the door with a foot and Duke went by in the window throwing a couple jabs in the air followed by an inspired uppercut. He looked back and smiled, throwing a wave over his head. Everett raised his chin, though the evening sun hid him behind the window glare. Duke's whistling faded.

Everett dug the fifty out and stuck it into his shirt pocket. The gloves were cracked and pink. He turned them slightly, then took them off the hook. He went into a fighter's stance, squeezing his fists in the old leather. He grinned.

Thirty-three years ago the Army gave him a trophy with his name etched on it, division middleweight champion, and they kept giving him medals. He had knocked out Frank Bolanzo for the title. Hit him in the sixth round with a left hook that had him veering right and repeating questions for days. Everett had a left fist so heavy they moved him up divisions where the fighters were bigger but swung slower. He went through the heavier fighters, knocking them all to the right with a big grin on his face, until Jim Mackey stopped him with a fist he hadn't seen coming. Everyone in the front had winced and the guys in the back got off their seats.

Thirty years ago. Same gloves. "You know in a way you still make people see stars," Duke would tell him. "You might want to check the settings on that flash, by the way. A little bright."

Everett hit his gloves together, bounced a couple times in place, and put a jab-powerpunch combo against the door, shaking it in its frame. The Skylark rolled on the shelf.

II

On Saturdays Everett had an omelet, hashbrowns, bacon, and coffee in the same booth at the same time at Wilson's Pancake Parlor. Pete Wilson had been in the Air Force but he cooked an all right omelet, and the place always had a good egg and batter steam about it.

"The Army has an air division, the Marines do too. Throw a stick at the Navy and you'll hit twelve pilots. What'd the Air Force have to come and tag along for?"

Pete refilled Everett's mug. "You think a grunt can pitch and roll and keep all his breakfast down?"

Everett had his fork and knife in his fists on both sides of his plate. "Not your breakfast."

"You'd have omelet all over the glass."

"Well, those Navy pilots take off and land on carriers that aren't even long enough for a man to reach full speed running."

"You ever get a kite off the ground, you let me know. The Army'll give you a medal."

"It's no trick you can't teach a child to do. I just told you Navy guys do it. They'll tell ya with a serious face real aircrafts have tailhooks, as if they invented flying. You don't have to do but twenty sit-ups to get in the Air Force, I heard. And I've seen old women run the mile in under ten minutes. There's this one lady I saw on the news, eighty years old and still going around the track."

Pete leaned against the booth. "You know what Army stands for, don't ya? Ain't Ready for–"

Everett waved his fork. "–Ain't Ready for Marines Yet, yeah, you've said it a hundred times before. And you know what Air Force stands for?"

"What?"

Everett stared at his plate. "I'll tell you next week."

"How's the omelet?"

"Did you make it or did Jeannie?"

"What difference does that make?"

"So I can tell you whether I like it or not."

"Jeannie uses the same ingredients I do."

"Every chef has a different pinch. I can tell the difference with just one taste."

"Well?"

Everett took a bite and chewed a moment. "I think Jeannie made it."

"No," Pete said. "I did."

"Well, this one'll do 'til the other one gets here."

On his way back to the kitchen, Pete raised the carafe and called out, "Say hi to Maggie for me."

Everett rolled a bite and spoke in a voice only he could hear. "Sure."

That night he bought a dozen pink roses, and one large red rose that Erin, the clerk at Sunny Petals, placed in the center. And one sprig of baby's breath with two branches, just the way he always asked for it. "I hand-picked them for you, Mr Townsend."

"It's just Everett," he told her. He pointed to the gift rack behind her. "How much are those Bicycles?"

"A dollar twenty-seven for the two-pack."

"Well, I only need one."

Erin paused, her hand on the cards.

"I'm only kidding," Everett said. "You want to see a trick?"

He opened the playing-cards, discarding the jokers and the rule card. They were stiff and glossy, easy to shuffle. Erin leaned forward, chewing gum and playing with a strand of hair, watching carefully as Everett splayed the cards in a fan with a flick of his wrist.

"Go on."

She plucked a card and she straightened up, holding it against her shirt, allowing herself a quick peek.

"There are fifty-two cards in a deck, right? So, there's a one in fifty-two chance I'll guess your card, right? And a one in thirteen chance I just guess the number, a one in four chance I'll get the correct suit, and a fifty percent chance I'll get the color right."

"Right," Erin smiled, her card still pressed against her.

"So, what's the real trick here?"

Erin did not answer. She just smiled.

"Somebody made all these colors and numbers, combinations a magician can get inside a person's head with and mix around. The only trick to it on my part is a little slip of the finger and a flourish of the hand, making you believe something that just ain't true – make you see something that didn't happen atall. Magicians aren't so much full of magic as they are full of you-know-what. Well, go on and put it back in. Anywhere is fine, there you go."

He shuffled and let her split the deck, then shuffled again. "You remember your card?"

She nodded. He fanned them out on the counter, face-up. "See it?"

She leaned in close, taking her time. "No."

"What about that one there?" He indicated the one card in the line that remained facedown, opposite of the others.

She flipped it. She looked up from the cards, her face indifferent.

"That your card?" he asked.

"No."

Everett looked again, his hands flat on the counter. He studied for a bit before he shrugged and scooped up the deck. "Well."

"That's all right, Mr Townsend. It was exciting anyway."

He straightened the edges of the deck and tapped it twice. "How much do I owe you?"

"Four seventy-three." She typed in the transaction. "A discount for the entertainment."

"Thank you much." He handed her a stiff, folded five.

"Tell Maggie I said hello, Mr Townsend."

"Everett," he said on his way out. "And I will."

Erin opened the bill for the register and stepped back as her card wobbled to the floor.

It was a bright night with waves of fog creeping over the ground and splitting around light posts and parked cars. Everett took the back way, the usual shortcut, a shadowy figure with a knapsack and his hands full, darting behind corners, across the railroad tracks and along the black riverbank, his footsteps clacking over the wood planks of the pedestrian bridge. The water rolled black and stealthy beneath him, flickers of starlight spoiling its escape. He paused at the rail and pitched a stone. It plunked in and he carried on. He knelt through a low hole in a fence, the chain link peeled back, and he walked among the gray stones shrugged in the grass.

She lay in the corner there, peaceful under the curling fog.

"Hello, Maggie. You nearly made me jump, appearing so quick like that."

He set his knapsack down and pulled a battery light. He set it next to the grave and pulled the low folding campseat, a strip of canvas pulled taut by crossed metal legs, ten inches off the ground if that. He sat and flipped the light on the stone, and draped his hands about his knees.

"It's good to see you, Mags. Duke says hi, and Pete and Erin said to say hello. You'd like them. I've told you Pete is a friend at the omelet place I like, an Air Force guy but he's alright, and don't worry, Erin is just the flower store girl – well, there I go spoiling the surprise. Here, I bought these for you. See the red one there? Remember that? I'll put them here for you. They are a pungent dozen. And you know Duke. He hasn't changed much. Hair's getting long. I don't know why he does that. He's still calling up old pals, talking service. He sends them little photos of himself. Doesn't even smile. How'd you like to open a mysterious envelope only to find him glaring back at you. Anyway, business has sure slowed. Mostly just people I know now. Sometimes I forget there is a whole world of strangers moving around out there. It is when I miss you most. You never had trouble finding people to talk to. Never afraid to open up, and always looking for places to go. I bet you're doing it now. I wonder what all I'm missing. Duke keeps saying he's going to hit the road, see the world. He's been talking about it since he retired and yet I don't think he has the first clue which way he'd turn at the first stop sign. I doubt he's taken a look at a map yet."

He sat for a moment, looking around, taking in the silence. He reached into his pocket. "Hey, you want to see a card trick?"

At night he sat on the edge of his cot in the dark room, the smell of dinner fading, the dishes cleaned and put away. Just him and the cold cot that numbed his thigh behind his knee. He sat until the street was fully quiet and dark, the lamps in the windows far away clicked out for the next eight hours. Then he walked through his studio to the center of the waiting room where the moonlight squared at his feet and he listened to the faint wind stir around and scratch small branches against the walls. He stood a large step back from the window, looking out.

III

When Noah Steinberg came by, tossing his baseball and chasing under it, Everett had already done his pushups and was sitting out front of his studio watching the sunrise inch back the shadows. He was flipping cards and dropping them at his feet. Noah missed a catch and the baseball bounced along before Everett reached out and snatched it up. He hid it away in his windbreaker pocket.

"What's the score?"

Noah shrugged. "Nothin."

"Might be a long day, nobody scores."

"Babe Ruth is up next."

"Oh, Babe Ruth." Everett waved his hand and winked. "Oh, he'll score something big. What do the bases look like?"

"Bases are loaded. Roy Hobbs on third."

"Hobbs?" Everett squinted sideways. "Did he play with the Babe?"

Noah shook his head.

"All right, and Roy Hobbs on third. Who's on first?"

"What?"

"No, What's on second."

Noah blinked, his glove held up near his shoulder, his belly sagging forth. Everett laughed through his nose. "What inning?"

"It's just the fourth."

"Just the fourth. Top or bottom?"

"It's...bottom. Bottom of the fourth."

Everett sat up. He put his hand to his mouth. "Bottom of the fourth, bases low-dead! Roy Hobbs on third, What's on second, Who's on first. And up comes Baaybe Ruth."

Noah put his hands on his head and hopped. Everett pulled the ball and tossed it high. Noah ran under it, stepping around in the street, squinting up with his glove held out. The ball bounced off his glove and he gave chase along the street. When he came back, Everett had his cards fanned out.

"Pick one."

The boy did and took a quick peek at it before hiding it flat against his shirt. Everett covered his eyes and turned away and Noah took a better look at the card.

"Got it?"

"Yes."

Everett blindly held forth the deck and Noah slipped his card in. He cut it once then gave the boy the deck, and with his glove and ball set aside Noah stooped small over the ground and shuffled against the pavement until satisfied. Everett squeezed the deck and let them jump from one hand to the other. Noah laughed. Everett curved his palm and let the cards slip out so they fluttered in the boy's direction, bouncing the cards off his chest in a mess until he snapped his fingers and one remained pinched.

Noah's eyes were fixed. He reached for it, but stopped. For a moment they looked at each other. Noah closed his open mouth. Everett held the card forth and the boy took it with both hands, bigeyed, and his mouth opened again. He looked around at his feet and back to the card, flipping it over and over.

"That your card?"

The boy swallowed. "How'd you do that?"

"I can't say."

As Noah squatted over the cards, Everett looked up the road. A silver car was moving toward them, gleaming grill, a phone number in white lettering along the top of the windshield. The driver door had a logo stenciled on it. It drove almost looking lost, wandering at him from downtown, the driver and passenger looking about as they approached. But it was not lost. Everett had seen these approaches numerous times each month, a sales approach to the empty building, always with an enthusiastic passenger, who, after their visit, would climb back into the car looking much less interested.

The tires crackled over little gravel stones as it crawled into place and parked in front of the opposite building, the driver and passenger still leaning in their seats. The driver pointed out various things on the building, his mouth moving quickly. The passenger nodded but her mouth did not move.

Noah scooted up beside Everett and watched. The car doors opened on both sides and the driver waved across the street to Everett, saying hello. Noah looked up, seeing Everett nod, and looked back again. A woman stood in the open passenger door and smiled gently, looking over the building. A decaying stucco block with airholes. After a fuss with the door lock, the realtor led the way in, leaving the mousedoor half-open.

"Don't do it, lady," Everett said to himself. Noah sat quietly as Everett gave his whisper a low voice. "It's a fixer upper, but quite the opportunity. Great views of downtown. A quaint little existence. Sold as-is, but with some TLC it could be a steal."

Noah crossed his arms. The man and boy looked similar there, squinting in the sunlight, the boy looking over every so often and adjusting his position to mirror more closely. Everett looked down.

"Shouldn't you be on your way?"

"Way to where?"

"Way to school."

"It's Sunday."

"Well, what were you on your way to school for if it's Sunday?"

"I wasn't."

"You were on your way to something."

"I was just on my way."

"Where?"

"Nowhere."

"What about Sunday school?"

"I don't go to that." He looked down. "You have church shoes on, Mr Townsend."

"Everett."

A small shadow rippled across the street, and Noah's attention went to the bird overhead until he couldn't see it any longer. He began to drum his hands and swing his legs. He hoped down and heaped dirt into a small mound with the side of his shoe, then he crouched and staked sticks in the dirt and drew a long line from it, a line that Everett decided must be the road to the little dirt mountain. Soon Noah pushed pebbles up this line and began to make small noises, like a miniature car crash and a mumbled conversation between the two crash victims. He looked up and stood from his crouch, dusted his hands and trampled his kid's games, sliding back next to Everett with his arms crossed.

Inside the open door the realtor was in a muffled sales pitch. Oh, it's just a quick jaunt from downtown, close to all the action, see, but without the price tag. The perfect little place for a gal like yourself and the – and the business you have planned for it. With just a little touch here and there, maybe a little elbow grease in a couple spots, why people are going to be flocking to your, uh – well, to your business.

Noah chuckled as Everett went into a high-voiced imitation again – Why I can just see it now, you and your whatchamacallit business that I wasn't listening to when you told me about and that I don't care a lick about anyway so long as we close this deal today.

A face filled the little windowframe, a face looking straight at him.

Though Everett's head was bobbing left and right as he mimicked, his eyes wandered to fall on the window. He froze. The scowl in the window hardened, and Everett and the boy stood and scattered in a hiss of whispers.

IV

Everett Townsend bought a used punching bag. It was worn and stiff, and swung with a terrible croak. It seemed to be missing a pound or two of stuffing, for it sagged at the top. But he bought it for next to nothing, and when he hung it in the little patio behind his studio, he was thankful for the missing weight. He struggled with it in his arms, teetering left and right on his toes, trying to hook the chain, thrusting for the extra inch or so he needed. He sat propped against one arm for a moment catching his breath. That was round one.

Moments later he stood shirtless in the privacy of his patio, inspecting the pinched folds of skin that seemed to melt from his torso. Then he pulled on his gloves and took a few warm up shots. That old feel of the bag. That flat packing sound. His strikes came quicker, following one after the other, and he moved around the bag, ducking his shoulders, bobbing his head. Punches shot straight out like snakebites, and he put a few combos together. It brought back the years. His fists could still fly. He was Everett Townsend, a hundred and seventy-three pounds, middleweight champion. A bell rang somewhere far off from the past, followed by hysterical shouts from the crowd, screams from his corner, Duke Costello pounding the mat, telling him to watch that left. He put together a four-punch combo, two jabs, a cross, and a hook. It was Jim Mackey swinging in front of him. Watch that left, watch that left. Weave. Bob. Strike. Again. Don't let up. Watch your footwork. Check your breathing. Hiss them out. Again. Here he comes. Give em a show.

Soon all he heard was the chop-chop of his punches, one after another, pounding a steady rhythm, and he heard the distant shouts of fans looking for a knockout.

Everyone on base went to see his fights back then. All except Maggie. One look at her and it was him seeing stars. With her, he didn't even hear the man count ten.

"The fights are too violent," she had told him. "I don't want to see two men bashing each other's faces around."

"But I'm the one doing the bashing, baby."

"I don't like it. Some girls can handle that sort of thing, but I don't want to see it."

He had met her in the hospital. Maggie was the nurse on duty the night he took Steve McCarrie in the third round. Hit him so hard they had to shake the salts under McCarrie's bashed nose. It was that left hook of Everett's that ended the fight, but he had also sprained a bone in his hand with the same shot. Maggie held his hand on her lap and wrapped it while he tried not to wince.

"You don't watch the fights, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"So, you've never seen me fight, have you?"

"No, I haven't. Hold still, please."

He looked away. "So, you don't know that I've won them all, do you?" His eyes went back to her at the corners.

"Turn your hand over, please."

"Middleweight champion. That's me. They're giving me medals for it. I've beat everyone they put in front – ow."

"Hold still. You keep moving and it'll hurt a lot more."

"I can't hold still. A fighter's got to move, see." He sat up, his eyes moving all over her face. A soft face in peaceful expression, eyes that would silence him if raised. "You look seriously beautiful."

"Just a few more turns here," she said. He lowered his head closer and sought her eyes with his but she did not look up.

"Do you keep track of how many times you wrap it or do you just go until the bandage runs out?"

"It's just a sprain, but no fighting for at least a month. Should be two."

"I've got a weekend pass coming up. I was looking at going into town. There's a nice steakhouse, you know."

"There," she said, holding his hand in a testing manner. "How does that feel? Too tight?"

"I don't know. I couldn't feel it when I came in here."

She took his hand in her lap again and undid the last three wraps, wrapping it again with more slack.

"You must get asked out quite a bit, huh? Why, a hundred guys must come in here with every little scratch and bump and ask specifically for you. I'd cut my foot off."

"Mm."

"Right there. Below the ankle, so they could nail a block on there and I could get back to walking in time for our date. You ever been to the steakhouse downtown?"

"Two months," she said.

Outside, he stood flexing his splinted fingers as the crickets chirped. A jeep passed by with lights on and one of the soldiers leaned far out, "Get a date?"

"No," Everett said low, standing with the one hand in the other.

The soldier called out as the jeep disappeared into the dark, "You only live once, chicken little. The sky is falling."

Maggie Novak was putting things away in the nurses' station when the door swung open and her overconfident young patient with the broken knuckles came marching back in with a grin.

"Is everything all right?"

"I forgot something."

"What?"

"This."

And he kissed her there with one hand around her waist in front of the other nurses in the hall and the patients in the seats against the wall and a doctor looking up from his clipboard. She threw a roll of gauze. Everett ducked and came back up.

"You're not married are you?"

She chased him out the door in a fit all the way to the back of the parking lot under the last light, where he turned.

"You wanna get something to eat sometime? See a show?"

"Who do you think you are?"

"I'm Everett Townsend, Private Second Class, but they know me better in the boxing rings."

"I don't care where they know you."

"And you're the pretty nurse who's heard a thousand different proposals from a hundred different soldiers."

"And how many nurses have you proposed to?"

"None."

"Go get out of here."

"I'm going. If I come back on a wooden block, it's all your fault."

"Get out of here before I call for someone."

"I'll fight him right here if you do. They'll throw me out, you'll ruin my career."

"Don't go using that fist for two months."

"Let me take you to dinner and I'll keep it wrapped for a month."

"You'll break it."

"Dinner and a show and I'll do two months."

"I don't care what you do."

"I'll get back to fighting tomorrow. Or you can go out with me next Saturday."

She put her hands on her hips and tried to hold a scowl.

"I can come by around seven, pick you up. I won't be late, one foot and all."

After a moment her scowl broke and her face softened to amusement. She looked off in the distance and shook her head.

"There's a great show next week," Everett said. "I promise to have you home no sooner than midnight. Pick you up at seven."

She tried to hide her smile but she lowered her hand. "Six."

That old bell rang again. He stood there seeing spots. The bag swung in front of him, creaking on its chain, its shadow at his feet. Sweat ran down his face as though he were made of water and he reached out with both arms and hung on the bag, breathing in and out until his heart stopped punching in his ears.

Somewhere far off glass shattered.

He was pulling his shirt on over his sweaty skin as he walked out front, looking around. His windows were still up. He adjusted his sleeves. A reflection pulled his eye to the ground below the small windowframe on the coffee shoppe. Small pieces lay shattered in the dirt. He stood with his hands on his hips and looked about. Noah emerged from the corner, his head low.

"I threw my baseball too hard."

"They don't hire pitchers who can't break a pane of glass."

Noah looked around and fiddled with his glove. "I think it's inside. My ball is."

Everett lifted a finger and whispered. "In there?"

Noah nodded. Everett mouthed a silent response, nodding a serious face and putting a finger to his lips. After a moment he said, "You know a way in?"

"Door's locked."

"Well, I'd say that ball's over the fence. You ever hit a ball over a fence before?"

"Yeah."

"And what happened?"

"Are you sick, Mr Townsend? You're sweaty."

"And what happened to the ball?"

"It came back over. After a day or so."

"All right then. We'll just have to wait a day or so."

Everett straightened and faced the window, his hand on the boy's shoulder. They stood for a while. Far off a train blew.

"How long you want to wait?"

Noah looked up. "I have school tomorrow."

"Yeah. And I have to work."

He took out his wallet and held the boy a five. "You get yourself another baseball. I'll sit around until your old one comes flying back out."

Noah looked at the broken window. "There's no one inside."

"That we know of."

He looked up at the man. Everett held a straight face and poked the bill at him. Noah took the money and ran home. Everett sniffed and stepped toward the broken glass. His knee crackled as he knelt and gathered the big shards. A piece slid from his palm and sliced the crease where the thumb branches away. The pieces dropped and he swore.

V

"Bless me Father for I have done it all over again."

"Everett?"

There was a shifting of weight. "No."

A deep sigh came through the screen. "You know Everett the point of confessing, putting your sins into words, is so you can reflect upon your wrongdoings and improve."

"I know it."

"If you come in here and say you've done it all over again one more time I'll put your name in the bulletin as a hopeless sinner for all to see on Sunday."

"I'll find a new church to go to."

"No you won't."

"I'll sit in the back and leave early."

"You never leave early. You sing every word of How Great Thou Art."

Everett cleared his throat. His words were quiet. "It's one of my favorites."

"One of Maggie's favorites."

"Well, what do you want me to say? Bless me Father for I have sinned? Does anyone ever come in here and surprise you otherwise? Anyway, the script does not change much. I do the same sins over again. I have since high school."

"You should have those ones under control by now."

"It would be awfully quiet in here if I did. I figured out long ago which ones I liked best and stuck with it. I have never killed anyone nor have I ever taken what wasn't mine."

"Perhaps it is time to try out some new ones."

A moment passed and his voice came questioning. "Is it still my priest in there?"

"What good is God's life if you live the same things over?"

"Says the man who wears the same collar day in and day out."

"What are your sins?"

"I said the Lord's name in vain on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and yesterday. I didn't say it this morning."

"And Sunday?"

"On Sunday I rested."

"Why did you say it yesterday?"

"I cut my thumb on a piece of glass."

"And the day before?"

"I spilled my coffee."

"You should try to save it for the big things."

"What do you mean, save it?"

"If you say it for every little thing you should try to find a less offensive word."

"It seemed big at the time. I hadn't even had a sip yet. On Thursday I kicked my toe into the wall, and Wednesday I forgot what I was looking for–"

"What other sins have you committed?"

"I said all the other swear words too, but mostly to myself and mostly quiet."

"And what else?"

"I thought badly of this little cheat of a fella who comes by the building once in awhile in a car with his name and face on the side. Has a squirrelly smile I don't like."

"We are all made in God's image. What else?"

"I questioned God's existence."

The priest sat forward so his face was against the screen. "You what?"

"I told Him to strike me where I stood if He was up there."

"What happened?"

"I'm still around."

"What happened that you questioned Him?"

"I don't know. Bored. I've done it before."

"Do you have hesitations? Disbelief?"

"I'm here in a church confessing my sins. I believe. I said I was bored."

"It's not wise to taunt. One of these days you'll regret it."

"I know that too."

"What would Maggie think if she heard you?"

"She wouldn't be happy. She probably does hear me."

After a moment the priest said, "And are you truly sorry for your sins and ask of God's forgiveness?"

"I have more. I'd like to get them all in."

"What else have you done?"

"I have wallowed in despair."

"Wallowed in – you what?"

"I was feeling nostalgic for the old days. It came over me as despair. And on Wednesday I was lazy. There, that's all."

There was silence. Everett leaned forward and squinted through the screen. "Father?"

"Three Our Father's and ten Hail Mary's, now say your Act of Contrition."

VI

Have you ever questioned? No, you never did, nor would you in a thousand years. You're good, Maggie. You're good. I wonder from time to time if you're proud of me up there. I haven't written any great novel nor have I found any great cure for anything. I have never saved a life. I produce nothing. I let other people sit on a stool and I photograph them. I'm sure some days you're just shaking your head up there at me, but what's a fella gonna do down here on his own without you? I didn't mean it anyway. It was a moment of anger. I know He's up there, some nights I'm sure of it. If He isn't then I've lost you for good and all, and I still feel you around here sometimes. Like when I fall asleep with my rosary in hand and wake up with my fingers on the last bead. Like you finished it for me. Sometimes I close a cupboard and see you behind it. Just a glimpse there in the corner and you're gone, but it's a glimpse nonetheless, so I know He's up there.

I do miss you, and I hope I don't spend too long standing in line for everything I've done. I could not stand the waiting. I haven't been too awful, I wouldn't say, there are certainly worse men around, but after an entire life on earth the sins probably mount up so high it'd shock anyone to see the pile. You probably had a tiny little mound that was swept away. They don't send pretty girls to you-know-where. Anyway, if good deeds erase the bad ones, I'll start over again tomorrow. It's starting to rain. Here, I brought you some roses. The red one's in the center there. Duke says hi and so do all the rest. I'm getting wet. Goodnight, Mags.

VII

He was leaning off the ladder in a series of mumbles, flakes scattering from the frame in tiny bursts, when she passed behind him, a flower vase under one arm and a weave basket under the other.

"Are you breaking in or taking the whole place down chip by chip?"

Everett looked around, the chisel in one hand, hammer halted in the other. She had a basket propped on her hip and a key turning in the door. Good-humored creases crept up her cheek. It was the woman who'd come to see the place the other day, now with a silk scarf pushed off the back of her hair and knotted under her chin. She left him with a smile and disappeared through the mousedoor.

Everett spoke to the wall. "I didn't know anyone was coming by."

"So you're breaking in then?" she called from inside.

"I'm putting in a new window here is what I'm doing."

"Ah."

He lowered his head to look through the little window just as she vanished up the stairwell. Her skirt flapped the wall as she went. Everett straightened and stared at the framework for a moment. He reached down, about to make his way down the rungs, but straightened again and continued chipping. When he'd chipped enough he brought the new windowpane up, tested it for a fitting, set it back against the wall and continued chipping, glancing through the open frame from time to time. He made a few trips up and down the ladder and he paused several times to little noises that came from inside, little movings-around, things being set in place. When he had the pane fit in place and stabilized, she made him drop his hammer.

"I bought the place."

He had to grab the ladder with both hands as the hammer hit the ground. He steadied himself and looked over. She stood at the bottom of the ladder.

"I wouldn't think they'd give you the key if you didn't."

Her fists were on her hips and she stepped slowly backward with inspired eyes, taking in her new building. "I know there's not much traffic here and all but I always wanted an old-fashioned place. I think it's gorgeous, don't you?"

Propped on the ladder still, Everett looked up at the wall. "It's old-fashioned."

He came down and she met him at the bottom with a hand held out, the other behind her. But she pulled back and her smile turned to alarm. "What happened to your hand?"

Everett hid the bandaged hand. "Oh, I was picking up the pieces and one slipped. Tried to take my thumb off."

She took a hold of it, he pulled it back.

"It's bleeding."

"Just a bit. Just when I put it to work. What was your name?"

"Claire Gioccaccio."

"Joe-catchy-what?"

"Gioccaccio."

"How many letters in that?"

"I write it with ten."

"I'd have used twenty."

"It's not hard once you figure out which one is the silent one."

Everett went back to work. "I knew a guy once had a silent last name." He stooped and came back up with the caulking. "We just called him Jeff."

"Let me take a look at that thumb."

"I'll take care of it when I'm through here. It is not my first time bandaging my hands."

"Let me see it." She watched as he picked a hole in the caulking tube. "You have the place across the street there? How long have you had it?"

"Oh." One foot on the ladder, he stopped and cocked his head in thought. "Long time."

"I saw you that day. Sitting outside making faces with that boy. And I saw you exercising this morning, doing pushups in the street, and I saw you put your flag out and salute it."

"What are you watching me for?"

"Just watching my new neighborhood. Getting used to it."

"Are you sleeping on newspapers in a corner up there? I never saw a moving truck."

"The big stuff is coming later. I'll come knocking for your help."

He climbed the ladder one-handed. "I've been here thirty years." He drew a line of sealant at the window edges and thumbed it in with the good thumb. He paused. "More than that. You're looking to make a million, I bet."

"I just want to make enough."

"Antique store?"

"No."

"Art store?"

"Nope."

"Have you ever done something like this before? Own your own place, do your own thing?"

"Not yet."

"Well, that doesn't mean you can't. Plenty of smart people do it. Plenty of dumb ones too." He winked.

Claire smiled and swung her toe around in front of her, an inch off the ground. One hand stayed behind her back, her shoulders turned back and forth as she swung.

Everett's head went to a tilt and he squinted with a slight grin. "How old are you?"

"You're not supposed to ask a woman that."

He went to working the window edges. "Whatever it is, you look younger."

"Thank you."

"Except for that shawl."

"I know it's a bit out of style. It was my mother's."

"No, no, it fits you."

"She gave it to me when I was still in school."

Everett continued with the caulking.

"What kind of photography do you do?"

He fixed her with a look. "You snoop."

"I see the flash in your window. Magazine covers? Advertising?"

"Portraits."

"How perfect. I'll need mine done."

Back on the ground Everett pointed off somewhere with the caulking. "That boy runs through here, always with a baseball over his head. This one got away from him."

"You mean this one?" Claire pulled her hand from behind her back and up popped the baseball. Everett caught it against his chest. He held it up for inspection.

"That's the one."

"I called about the window yesterday. I'll have to cancel the appointment."

Everett looked at her. "I knew I should have waited." He put the ball in his toolbox and gathered his tools and put the ladder under one arm.

"Where are you going?"

He spoke without turning. "Across the street."

"Let me pay you for the window at least."

"Nope. It'll turn the good deed into a paid job. I need to start collecting."

"Good deeds? For what?"

"Nobody lives forever."

"Take care of that hand."

"I will."

Claire called out. "And thank you."

"You're welcome." Everett added as his door shut, "Welcome to the neighborhood."

VIII

He drank his coffee in the first sunrays that hit the street. Nothing in the old coffee shoppe moved. No footsteps upon those old boards inside. The morning was silent but for the birds, dropping from the shoppe to hop the pavement and peck the spreading cracks. Vines dry and dormant clung to the walls. Slim shadows hid in small indentions. Already the place looked different. In new light it looked not unlike a fairytale cottage.

Everett turned back to his studio, but halted. An envelope was taped to his door. Turning it over he snuck a look across the street at the second-story windows. He sucked his teeth and slung the coffee dregs. Later he worked the envelope under the mousedoor without peeking at its contents and hurried away.

IX

"I've been here every Saturday at the same time for I don't know how long, I order the same thing in the same booth, and still you always come up and ask me what I want."

"We have a pretty big breakfast menu now."

"Only one thing worth a damn. I wish you'd just get started with the usual and let me read the paper."

"Hey, I meant to tell you – you remember that guy Jordy with that old hat bent down the center, runs the eighteen-wheeler through here from time to time?"

"From Abilene? I do. Comes off the highway thirteen minutes off his route he says just to breakfast here."

"Orders the same thing you do."

"See, only thing worth a damn." Everett looked around the diner. "He come through early this year?"

"No. No, but last week a trucker down from St Paul came off the highway the same. He came in and said someone on his route recommended he stop here. I said, who? He said some guy with a hat that looks like you'd have to snip it out of his hair. I said, Jordy? He said, that's the guy. I might turn into a truck stop this keeps up."

Everett picked up the newspaper. "Your reputation is spreading fast."

"Well, small world, ain't it?"

"Nope," Everett said. "Huge." He set the paper down. He stared ahead. "I have a new neighbor."

"A new neighbor?"

"Yeah. A girl. Or a woman, I guess."

"How old?"

"She has a few smile lines."

"She a pretty one?"

"I guess, in a way. I don't know."

"How long has that building been empty?"

"A while. I'd grown used to the quiet."

"You live near a laundromat and an auto mechanic. What's she setting up?"

"I don't know. Flower shop. I don't know."

"Might be coffee again. Might be a bookstore."

"Might be a meeting room for freemasons."

"You made up your mind yet?" Pete hefted his pen and notepad. Everett looked sideways at him with one eyebrow raised.

"Your memory fading?"

Pete stood there smiling. Everett reached without looking and took a menu from the stand. He made a show of scanning the center pages up close, then slapped it down.

"I'll have the same thing I always have."

X

It really is a small world though, Maggie. How else can I explain finding you? Small enough to put us in the same country and the same Army base and the same hospital room on the same day I clobbered Steve McCarrie senseless in front of a dozen other gals who wanted to know my name and what kinda car I drove. Okay, no gals, but the same year too. Small world. What if you had lived a thousand years earlier and dressed in itchy rags and crouched by a fire each night? And nothing changed about you except that. You still smiled out the one side and you still could never get all your hair up without falling loose no matter how many times you tried. You were still you and I was still me, except a millennia kept us apart. Or what if I was born in Switzerland and spoke funny? I was me, you were you, same year and everything, but we were on different sides of the earth and I laid down and closed my eyes while you opened yours and walked around. What if you lived the next town over and we were only a mile apart and never knew it?

There could have been a million small things to keep us apart, but there we were and here we are. How far do some people walk to find love? I bet most don't walk atall, most just find it along their normal path. Just as they get despaired from looking for it, here it comes.

Small world.

XI

It was late and he still hadn't come home. A small lamp glowed in a back room somewhere, but Claire had knocked several times to no answer. She brought her wrist close, angled for light. The taverns would be open for several hours more. She paced and stood at the window again. The small lamp still glowed deep within. No shadows had crossed it. A person living alone could fall and no one would hear for days. He was an early riser. He would be an early sleeper as well. A heavy sleeper at that, she had used the meat of her fist and had lost count on the door.

Claire was about to drop the embroidered curtain and go to bed when a figure emerged from the brush at the side of the road, its shadow moonsprawled and broken on the street between the buildings. She ducked and the curtain fell closed. She put her back to the wall and held still. The footsteps came along but did not fade away. They stopped. When she allowed herself to inch up for a peek she saw the black figure hunched at the studio door across the street, the small lamp still on inside. The curtain floated on the wind of her leaving as she plucked the envelope from her tabletop and hurried downstairs into the street.

"I was starting to worry."

The key jingled on the pavement.

"Stop sneaking up on me." Everett stepped back and searched where his feet had been. He spoke bent over in search. "I might turn and swing."

"I knocked a hundred times."

He was trying to move his own shadow from the search area. "If I don't answer on the first knock, I'm not home."

"I thought maybe you'd fallen or something."

Everett straightened and blinked several times. "How old do you think I am?"

Claire pushed her hair aside and squinted at this dark figure, this half-shrouded face. She raised her chin and cleared her throat. "Well, you might have an old war injury."

"I never told you I was in the service."

"It was a guess. The way you salute the flag every morning and fold it up every night like it was a ceremony."

He pointed. "Every American should fly the flag. Army or otherwise."

"So, it was the Army then?"

Everett was back to searching the ground. He bobbed his head around and bent, trying to find a spark of reflected moonlight.

"How's your thumb?"

"I put ointment on it." He stooped and scraped his key up.

"Wait."

He paused with the key in the door. He did not turn.

"Where do you go every night?"

He put his face in the light at his shoulder. His eyebrow was up.

"I mean, it's none of my business, but it's a terrible thing for a man to waste his life in bars."

"I don't go to bars."

"I don't want anyone to be lonely."

"I have friends." He took a step in.

"Hold on."

"It's late."

"I gave you an envelope for the window. It seems it slipped away and slid back under my door." She held the envelope at him.

"I can't take it."

"I can't let you do that. I'm not here to take favors."

"You didn't take anything."

"And I won't let you treat me like a kid who doesn't know what she's doing."

"What are you getting mad for?"

She thrust the envelope against his chest and let it go. It landed at his feet.

"Easy," he said.

"It's yours. Pick it up."

"No."

They stood a moment before both went for the envelope but Claire came up with it first, holding it at him while pressing her other palm into one cheek and then the other.

"Are you crying?"

"No." She steadied her voice. "I don't take money from people and I pay my debts."

"You don't owe me any debt. I fixed a window is all. I didn't even know anyone bought the place. I was just–"

"Take it. Take it, please."

He dropped his eyes to the envelope. He half turned away but came back and took it.

"I'll drop it in the basket on Sunday."

She smiled and stood as though there was more to say, then she turned huddled across the street. At her door she looked back and her words, quiet as she spoke them, carried across the silent street. "You never told me your name."

"Everett Townsend."

She smiled and nodded. "Good night."

XII

Clarissa Gioccaccio became an American at age four. Her father could not say good morning without drawing a look questioning where such a pronunciation came from, but he put an American flag sticker on the apartment mailbox and one under the number by the door, one on the light switch inside and three all over the icebox. The citizenship office had a basket full of them by the door and he still had a few left to stick elsewhere.

He smiled at everyone he passed in the building and on the sidewalks, and he waved and called out to those too far for a handshake. He ran to hold doors. He asked people about themselves. He remembered everyone by name. He stopped strangers for directions just to start a conversation. He began to speak the phrases, the slang. His pockets rattled with candy. Children followed him. Before long he began to hold out his hand to neighborhood kids and say, down low too slow. When the candy ran out he took off at once with one hand on his hat and the children gave chase, splitting up and down alleys but laughing too hard to keep up.

The last half-mile to home always went the fastest. After a long day digging trenches he came in fast, spinning the front door shut behind him, arms wide and a dandelion in one fist. He could have been a first-rate clown. He'd smother the hooks with his hat and coat and kiss his wife, then bend near with one hand on his knee and slip the dandelion behind Claire's ear.

"Of all the colors I have seen today, yellow is the prettiest on you, so I searched all day and I did not stop until I found the perfect flower."

The next day it would be a star-shaped violet aster he found in the fields where he and the other men jumped from the truck with shovels in hand, and he had carried it in his matchbox since that morning, and he would tell her he had to climb the highest mountain to find a single stem.

"There aren't any mountains near here."

"That's how far I had to go," he'd say.

As he tucked her in at night he would tell her sweet dreams, little one, and that one day they will wake up rich.

He saved every paycheck, took out only what they needed. He walked everywhere he needed to go, even in the winter when he left the apartment so early the sidewalks had not yet been shoveled and his toes stung in the tips of his shoes and there was nothing to smell but the cold.

Claire wore homemade clothing. Her mother sewed the holes in her pants. She cut fabric from sheets and stitched them into skirts. She made pretty things from beads and wire for her to wear in her hair. They ate rice and beans with every meal, and they each had a thin slice of ham for dinner. Against his wife's wishes, Geoffrey Gioccaccio cut his slice in half so Claire would not go to bed with a growling stomach and a pain in her throat.

"No, you eat it, Geoffrey. You need the energy."

"Take it back, papa."

"It won't be like this forever, little pumpkinfoot. America is where dreams come true."

By the time Claire was in the second grade her father balanced the books and found he was still short. If he waited any longer he'd never make anything happen. He sold his favorite books from his own shelves for nickels. He sold the entire collection for a few dollars. He sold his only pair of dress shoes, custom-made leather from Roma, a gift his greatest friend gave to him the day he left Italy. He sold his watch, an antique from Genoa his grandfather wore. They turned down the heat at night and wore sweaters to bed.

Claire stayed up one night and watched from the door as her parents sat at the kitchen table, writing numbers by candlelight. They spoke in the old language, words she had forgotten. She watched from her hiding spot as her father became quiet. Her mother put one hand atop his and took his attention from his thoughts. He smiled and spoke, something encouraging, for they both smiled.

The next day Geoffrey Gioccaccio started out early and stood with hat in hand before every banker in town. As the day wore on he told of his plans more desperately – a grocery store, the shelves filled with every modern convenience, a deli in the back where the meat was never sliced too thin, and a dairy section where the milk was always fresh and the eggs were never cracked. Time and time again he was told he had no assets, no pattern of growth that could be counted on, not a good enough plan, no way in hell, not in this lifetime, pal. His eyes began to fill and his words began to catch at bad times. Several times he would not take no for an answer and had to be dragged out.

Sitting on the curb as traffic went by he peeled his gloves off and put his fingers in his mouth, first his right hand then his left, and he rubbed his hands flat together. His breath came out like smoke. In the stinging cold he searched his pockets and unwrapped the crumbled brownie pieces his wife had folded in a napkin for him. He ate them there and dusted his fingers and watched the traffic, the cars, the people shrunken in their coats. With a deep breath he fixed his hat tight and spoke a confident word, but when he finally stood he sank back to the curb and wept with his face in his hands.

That's when the man from the bank came to him without a coat or hat, a man in a collared shirt and suspenders, hurrying with a white strip held forth. Geoffrey Gioccaccio read the name and address. He looked at the man, no expression. Read it again, damnit man, don't you see what it is? Geoffrey broke into a smile, standing there in a sort of widelegged dance with the paper held between his hands.

"Just be careful. Don't borrow too much, for chrissakes," the banker warned.

Geoffrey shook the man's hand and embraced him. The banker had to unhand himself, and Geoffrey called out one last time as the banker hurried back inside. Geoffrey whirled, a hand to his hat.

It was late then and the snow was beginning to swirl. His wife would be worried at this hour, and would ask their little Clarissa to sit with her by the dying fire and hum every tune they knew, but Geoffrey Gioccaccio, new to America, where a man could work hard at anything he wished, anything at all so long as he was good at it and he did his honest best, and could keep his money and his property, took the last bus to the outskirts of town.

At the last stop the driver questioned if he knew where he was going and Gioccaccio looked at the strip of paper again and shook his head. Tell me the crossroads, the driver told him in the rearview, but Gioccaccio could only give him the name of the man he was supposed to meet, the name above the address. The driver turned in his seat. Oh yeah, the driver nodded, the loan shark. You don't want to get mixed up with them, he told him, but Geoffrey insisted. Well, you'll freeze to death if I let you walk from here. And I believe you'll walk no matter how much talking I do against it.

He got his loan, he got his lease, a hollow slot in a low building with boards on some of the windows, and he filled every shelf with nonperishables and amenities no person could go without. He painted the walls and fixed the glass and shoveled his sidewalks when snow piled up, and he swept his floors three times a day. Every customer he greeted personally and he pointed to the things they asked about. He took products off the shelves in demonstrations and made his best recommendations. In those short weeks of prosperity he left home early and came back late, but he wore a smile on both sides of the door as if he'd never stopped grinning, not even for lunch.

Little Clarissa watched from her hiding spot when papa was rubbing his eyes in the candlelight and making notes. He looked at the numbers he added and subtracted and set the pen aside with a sigh and gripped his hair. It was not much, he was behind by only a little, but they took his small payments and they listened to his promises that he would catch up next time, just give me one more time, I've paid you what I borrowed, it's the interest, you make it impossible.

Next time came and he had to promise again. They seized his profits and he could not restock. They reached in again and he could not pay bills. They robbed him. Without a gun or rope or a strip of tape across his mouth, they robbed him just the same. In a matter of months they emptied his registers and emptied his shelves. They pulled from all his pockets and still they said he owed them more. They emptied his store and they emptied his heart, and he had to pick up the shovel again and jump back into the roadside ditches. His pockets no longer rattled with candy, and children stopped following him; instead they threw stones and called him a dago, and he did not look at the faces he passed for a smile and a hello.

And though he stopped plucking weeds from the ditches to try to pass off as flowers with tales of mountaintop journeys, and though he sat on the apartment steps and stared off in dusk silence, leaning to one side when people passed, he still patted and rubbed his thumb across the red white and blue stickers on the mailbox and all the odd places he had found for them inside.

But his heart had cracked for himself, his dream could find no flicker. And in those days he stopped reading books in English, he slipped back into the language of his youth. His words came less and less, in fact he stopped speaking entirely, except to utter a sad rule, standing over his daughter with a pointed finger and an expression that would never be fixed, "Never borrow money."

XIV

There wasn't much one could see through that little portrait window. It was a small square in a great faded wall that flaked and gave little hint to what went on inside. By the door, under an angled low-watt bulb, swung a new wooden sign on squeaky chains, the kind wine shops on tiny cobbled streets in Italy might have. The sign in fact said VINO, freshly chiseled by hand.

All night and day the hammering went on inside, though Everett could never catch any movement in the window, just a faint shadow against the wall here and there. Just when he had had enough and shoved his work aside the hammering would stop, long enough for him to take his things up again, only to start again moments later.

He went out back and fought his punching bag. He did pushups and he fought the bag again. Back inside he picked up his pen again but the hammering continued. He turned up his music. He turned it louder. He tied a loose shirt around his ears and knotted it atop.

When Duke Costello tapped him on the shoulder he jumped within himself and thumped the desk from underneath.

"I'm gonna kill you one of these days, sneaking up like that."

"Wasn't any sneaking to it."

"I mean it, I'll flat out kill you."

"Then I'll just have to get you first."

Everett turned down the music. "What?"

"I said it's a little noisy next door," Duke eased into a chair and patted the armrests, "but it's a damn looney bin in here. You get stuck getting dressed?"

Everett unwound the shirt and wadded it from one hand to the other and set it aside. "I'm trying to concentrate on paperwork."

"You always do it like this?"

Everett leaned back. "The sign on the door says closed."

"Door was unlocked." He sat up. "Is that a punching bag out back?"

"I threw a few punches is all."

"Who won?"

"Age."

"You remember the fella that one night you hit over and over again and he would not go down? What was his name?"

"I don't recall."

"You gave him your best. A wrecking ball could not knock this guy down. He just kept taking them left and right, straight out and up from underneath. He'd just teeter a little and come at you swinging again. He came out of the hospital that night and never took up a rifle again. Said he couldn't sight-in down range after that. Staff Sergeant sent him to mess and he spent the rest of his time in the Army peeling potatoes."

"Jorgenson?"

"No. Jorgenson always peeled potatoes. He wasn't a fighter either." He stared a moment. "What was his name?"

The hammering had not let up. Everett rubbed his eyes. Duke shuffled through the magazines at the side table, reading the cover headlines. "She building an ark?"

"I don't know."

The hammering stopped. Then started again. Duke dropped the magazines. "Well, let's go see."

Duke knocked once and the two entered, ducking their heads. The door was at fire code height, though its width made it seem shorter. There were boards piled all over the floor. Shelves terraced the walls, each one level and lined up, and a stale sawdust hung about.

She had her hair tied up messy and she looked small in a loose tshirt that was just a little too short, the sleeves rolled on her shoulders. She held a measuring tape high against the wall, a hammer holstered in a tool belt too big for her hips. Their entrance disturbed the room light and she looked back, her arms still up. Everett stood just inside the door and looked all around while Duke stepped in and talked.

"Thought you could use a little help."

"I'm okay. I know I'm making some noise, but I have to get these up. Can you hand me the pencil there?"

Duke jumped at the chance, searching the floor.

"It's there by the nails," she said, her hands still holding the measure. "Right there. I'm looking at it right now."

"Here, I got one on me." Duke went through his own pockets, clicking a pen. "Don't move, I'll mark it for you."

"Ten and three quarters." Claire held steady while Duke took his time.

"Measure twice, cut once," Duke said. "Better make another tick."

But Claire dropped her arms and moved out from under him, the measuring tape rolling itself. "Everything is already cut." She stepped about the boards, her feet wide over the stacks.

Duke stepped back from the wall. "It's a wine stand."

"A wine rack." She straddled and sat a short stack of boards and caught her breath, her jeans rolled at the ankles. She pouted her lip and blew hair from her face. "I'm sorry about all the noise. I'm trying to get it all done during the day. I don't want to keep anyone awake."

"Everett likes to drink a milk and take an afternoon nap," Duke said. "But I don't mind a bit."

Everett gave a slow blink and shook his head.

"I won't go past dark, I promise." She looked at Everett. "Not the hammering."

He tossed a hand. "You do what you need to."

She stuck a few nails in her lips and picked a board off the top, one that stood taller than both men, and walked it to the wall where she swung it into place. Using a measured block to prop one end atop the previous shelf she lined up the other side with a close eye at several angles and tapped a nail in the bracket before hitting it hard. She took wide swings, her grip high up on the hammer. With every swing a sliver of skin showed between her shirt and jeans and more and more strands kept falling loose round her face. Her hips swiveled with each strike. The two men watched motionless.

"I wish I had something to offer you," she said when the shelf was up. She dropped the hammer in its holster and dusted her hands and set them on her hips and took a breath. "Something to drink, I mean. I'm not really set up for guests yet."

"That's okay," Duke said. "We came to help."

Duke kept picking up boards and swinging them around. Everett stood clear and quietly measured things. Duke didn't stop talking. After tripping over the boards several times, making tickmarks that Claire had to measure again, and asking questions that he answered with his own anecdotes, Duke got them politely kicked out.

"I think she wants me."

"Something's wrong with you."

"I just can't shut up around a pretty girl." Duke raised his hands. "I can't help it. All the blab comes out."

"She's the independent type."

"I don't care what she marches for. I'd be happy to hold her purse and let her drive."

Everett wiped his shoes at the studio door and went in. "Have time for a beer?"

"I have more time than that."

They sat in lawn chairs on the back patio, the heavy bag floating between them. Cinderblocks enclosed the yard and they had no view, but the sun was out and the wind could not reach them. They clinked bottlenecks and tipped them back. Duke started peeling the label.

"The Time Machine needs paint," he said.

"Again?"

"I'd like to add stripes down the sides. What kind of rookie hits the road without racing stripes?"

Everett wet his lips and raised his bottle for the next sip. "I do not know."

"I am ready to take retirement to the next level. Nothing's holding me back. I got five pairs of sunglasses on the dash, laid out dark to light. I got an updated road atlas, some binocs in the glovebox, and a tiger in my tank."

Everett took another sip and touched his wrist to his lips. "Where to first?"

"I have not decided."

"What do you want to see? Scenery? Landmarks? History? The Grand Canyon?"

"I don't know," Duke shrugged. "All of it."

XV

Well I don't suppose you've missed anything exciting, though you always enjoyed seeing Duke get dumb around girls. He just can't keep a button on it. I don't think he even knows what's going to come out, just keeps his mouth moving to keep up. Remember we went double to dinner and a show and he talked so much his date up and left in the middle? He kept right on talking and didn't notice she was gone until the lights came back on.

You wore red lipstick and a black dress. Form-fitting, they call it. You had to take these tiny steps, I thought the show'd be over by the time we got to the door. I don't remember what was playing that night. No, I don't. I don't remember the show, I don't remember who was in it. I don't remember a thing I said that night, but I remember you.

It rained that night on the way home and you said no, leave the top down. Duke didn't care how wet he got, his date was long gone. We drove all town over like that, baby, Duke howling around the turns and you and me holding tight in the back. No place in mind, just go to the end of the street, you said, and see what's around the corner.

Oh, you are something else, Maggie. I knew it the day I first saw you and I knew it every time I saw you after. The seats didn't dry out for a week and everywhere I got out I had to stand with my tail drying in the wind a few minutes before going inside, but I didn't care.

Lord, I miss you.

The way you smiled that night. Every night. I wish I could do it again. Take it one more time around the block, I'd tell Duke. Take it to the end and see what's around the corner. Don't stop until we're swimming.

I sold him the car. It had been sitting under the tree for too long. He swept the leaves off the seats and floorboards, filled the tires, and got that little clock in the dashboard ticking again. If he ever gets through restoring it he might put all those miles he's been talking about behind him. He calls it his Time Machine, going to see the world. I still see your hair blowing in the passenger seat, I still feel you touching my cheek and humming to me, my head cradled on your lap on those starry nights parked on the hill. She still runs like a dream. I get butterflies when she starts up.

XVI

At a quarter to nine on Sunday Everett stood shaved and combed by the coffeepot, a mug in his hand, a necktie hanging from his throat. Between sips he'd check his watch. Eight-forty-seven. Eight-fifty.

One minute he was leaning his hip into the counter, his arms crossed with the mug in hand, the next his back was flat against the far wall, the coffee mug left on the counter. At six minutes to nine he was bent over the counter, both hands gripping it in a slight sweat, the coffee mug in a new spot. He watched as the minute hand clicked into the new hour.

He exhaled and wiped his brow. He loosened his tie and eased his windbreaker off.

At nine-o-one he was running out his door into the morning light, his necktie back up against his throat and his arms swinging into his windbreaker above him.

XVII

Claire Gioccaccio knocked on his door early one morning. She held a wine bottle with a ribbon on it. She knocked again, then went to snooping on her toes with her face in the window corner. That's when the door opened and startled her.

"Morning," Everett said.

"Good morning. I'm sorry. I wasn't peeping or anything, I just didn't know if you were here or not and I–"

"You thought I fell again?"

Claire blushed and smiled back. She raised the wine bottle. "I brought you this. A gift."

"A gift. Thank you." Everett took the bottle and held it out, squinting at the label.

"It's a Lumbrusco, a sweet wine," Claire said, her fingers entwined and twisting. "A vineyard classic made from a Tuscany winery."

"Sounds good."

"You'll love it. Everyone does."

Everett looked past her – the silent building, the creaking sign, the little door. "Who does?"

Claire exhaled in a smile and released her hands into a sort of brief shrug. "I know. I'll admit you're my first customer, but it's a popular wine in Italy. It always has been. I know it will do well here."

"Your first customer. It is an honor. Thank you very much."

"Thank you very much. For all your help."

"If we can call it that."

"I mean the window too. And I do appreciate the help the other day."

"Sorry about Duke. He does the same type of helping over here. He gets in even if I lock the door."

Claire rubbernecked to the open door. "I didn't interrupt your work, did I? Nobody's inside waiting?"

"Not at the moment, no." Everett stepped to one in the door and looked in, and as he turned back Claire stepped in past him.

"I'd love to see the place."

"Come on in. The studio is through the next door."

She went with her hands behind her, looking from one thing to the next. Everett watched as she stood in the center of the room and brought her hands together in front of her.

"I like it."

On the wall were a dozen frames, examples of his work, and she went from one to the next like they were museum paintings. He followed in, the wine bottle in his hands.

"How many people have you photographed?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Thirty years, a couple faces a day. Over ten thousand, I guess."

"Ten thousand smiles," she continued along the wall in long, slow steps.

"They don't all smile." He set the wine on the table.

She leaned in close to one frame. It was a photo of a suited man leaning on an enormous key as a cane. Everett passed behind her.

"That is Bill Hyple," he said. "He was the mayor here. Twenty years ago. City named a park after him."

"I bet you've photographed all the famous people in town."

"There's nobody famous in this town."

"I mean the people everyone knows. Every town has people like that."

She continued along the wall, frame to frame, her lips softly together, her eyes searching. A smorgasbord of characters – a firefighter with a defeated face covered in ash save for where his goggles went, smoldering ruins in the background; a woman in her Sunday's best beneath a steeple, a huge blue hat tilted by the wind and shading her on one side; a child with an ice cream smile and a messy cone in one hand.

She came to a photograph of a farmer standing slumped with his hands in his pockets, cut like paper against a cloudless sky. He held a deadpan gaze beyond the lens, deep lines in his face. Claire turned, her finger to the photo. "What about this one?"

Everett came forward. "He was a man had a farm a few miles south."

She watched his hands. He was fiddling with an old camera that had a dented lens cylinder and a film ratchet on top.

"You must be the only photographer on earth who still uses film."

"The best photographers never give it up." He nodded to the farmer. "During Halloween, after the crop season, he'd sit on a riding mower for a day driving circles through the stalks so people could go and spend hours getting lost in the maze."

"There is kindness in his eyes."

"There's a whole lot more than that."

"I like your photos." She cocked her head. "But they are all outdoors. None of them are in the studio."

"I have taken plenty in the studio. I like these best. People wear different faces when they're out in the world. When they are living. The trick is to capture each emotion at its peak."

"How do you know when that will happen?"

"By watching. Anyone can do it. You've done it before. Oh, sure."

"Like what?"

"Like joy. What was something your daddy did that always made you laugh?"

Claire turned to the frames on the wall again. She held a serious face for a moment, then her eyes fell shut and a smile erupted. One hand went to cover her face and Everett's flash went off – the memory of childhood joy, childhood happiness, so real and sudden her instinct was to hide it away, leaving only a glimpse of her profile to the lens, curtained by hair and fingers.

"How did you do that?"

"What was it your father used to do?"

"He used to–" she smiled and her hand went to hide it again before she stopped and crossed her arms. "Whenever the house smelled like burned food he would come to the table wearing a brown bag over his head with a clothespin at his nose. He'd put the first bite through a hole cut at the mouth."

"Funny man."

"He was," she said, touching the corner of one eye. "When he was happy."

Everett pulled a stool with his ankle and took a seat. Claire straightened and uncrossed her arms.

"I'm going to need my photo taken," she said. "For the store."

"A portrait?"

"I don't know." She turned and continued her tour, looking at the remaining frames. "Something that says I'm a business owner, and I know what I'm doing, and I'm friendly and trustworthy."

He eyed his camera. "I'll put some thought into it. You'll want to use your store in the photo, I suppose."

"It's so charming. I think it is."

"I'll put some thought into it."

She came to a separate room in the corner with the door cracked. It was dark inside but for a red glow. A bitter chemical smell. She turned with a smile.

"Is this a darkroom?"

Everett straightened on his stool and took a breath, but Claire had already turned back. She peered in, trays lined the wall, photos hung clipped to strings like sheets on a wire. Everything inside was void of color but for red, and as she pushed the door open Everett stepped between and pulled it shut so she had to back out. He stood in place with his grip on the door. Up close his eyes were lighter than they had seemed, his chest wider.

"Sorry. You probably have film inside. How thoughtless of me." She backed away further. "I'm very sorry."

He stood at the door for a moment, not taking his eyes from her, then he crossed with slow steps to the center of the room and put his attention through the window with a big breath taken. Claire took several backward steps, glanced to the studio door behind her, then turned and made for the exit. His voice stopped her.

"Thank you."

Claire looked back.

"For the wine," Everett said. "Thank you."

He was standing in the same spot, but a softened look now covered his face.

She nodded and smiled. "Not at all."

XIX

"Don't go breakin another window. Someone has a store in there now with rows of wine bottles."

"Who?"

Everett extended his legs on the bench and folded his hands between his thighs. "A wine lady."

Noah looked at the rounded door. He tossed his ball and caught it in the same hand. He held it out with a stiff arm and sighted down his sleeve with one eye. Then his arm dropped to his side. "Is she pretty?"

Everett twisted the boy a look. "Why do people ask that?"

"My teacher in the third grade was pretty. But now I have Ms Warner."

"Hey, you want to earn a dollar?"

Noah stopped his twirling and stood before Everett.

"Go sneak up there and knock and run home before she answers."

Noah looked at the door again. He put his hands atop his head and rolled the ball across his crown. He arched into a thoughtful stretch and snapped back into posture.

"Okay."

When Claire put her head out Noah was sprinting up the road so fast he could hardly keep control.

She stepped out and looked left and right and all over. Everett was in his usual place in front of his studio, sitting on the flat stone bench beneath the tree where he inched along with the shade on Saturday mornings with a cup of coffee in his hand, blowing on it. His camera sat beside him.

"Kids," he shrugged.

Her hair was up again, the sleeves of her buttonup rolled to her elbows. "What are you doing with that?"

"You said you needed your photo taken."

"I can't right now," she said. "I look like a warehouse worker. I'm still putting the store together."

"I didn't hear a hammer."

"The hammering is done. For now."

Everett grabbed the camera and came off the seat.

"No, really. I look more like I put the roof on this place. I don't look like the owner."

"This is the best time. Here you are, the sweat and blood of the place. It'll show how hardworking you are."

"It'll show how awful I look."

The shelves were all up. Hundreds of wine bottles tilted forward aside each other, ready for selection. Claire walked in and turned under the archway where the last guy used to hang coffee mugs, and she hit a switch against the wall. A panel buzzed and went bright behind the bottles, filling the dark glass with translucent light.

"You put that in yourself?"

"I did." She went with a proud grin to a few open boxes in the corner and started pulling things out, looking at labels.

"I can help, you know. I know a few things."

"I had to read a manual, but I figured it out. You know how many volts a t-socket can handle?"

He held his eyes in the corners at her for a moment. He pointed to several boxes in the corner.

"You can do all the wiring. I can move heavy things."

"Get moving," she smiled.

"You can pay me all you want and I'll put the money in the basket on Sunday. They give it to the poor, or so I've always thought it that way since I was this high."

She looked up from the boxes then went back to work sitting on her ankles with her legs folded under her, clinking more bottles as she filled more shelves.

Everett shifted his weight. "How long have you been in town?"

"Four weeks."

"And you bought the place three and a half weeks ago. You don't waste time."

She spoke without taking her attention from her work. "Should I waste time?"

Everett was standing in the center of the room looking over the inventory. Names and labels all different, colors slightly different, in bottles of various shapes. He was a man in a new world. He made a thoughtful noise, his jaw frozen slightly to the side.

Claire looked and laughed quietly to herself. "How many wines have you had in your life?"

"I don't know," he said. "The church kind. How did they decide what flavor, I wonder."

"Long ago. The house blend." She stood and came toward him grinning with bottles in her hands. "Let's try some."

She took sips and handed him a bottle. Her eyes were closed to savor while Everett looked at the bottle opening.

Claire opened her eyes and licked her lips. "It's sweet. Take a sip, I don't have germs."

"Maybe I do."

He took a sip.

"If the disciples had chosen a Tuscany wine, they'd have had no trouble baptizing new faithful."

She sat at the counter and watched him move, camera in hand, searching for good light. He found an angle he could work with across the room and raised his camera. One hand went to twist the lens.

"I'm just sitting here," Claire said. She hoisted a bottle. "Shouldn't I do some acting? Some posing?"

"No," he said with one eye squeezed shut. "No. Just set there for a moment. Set the bottle beside you."

The camera clicked. He then went to work with the lights, shutting some off and flicking others on. Claire had a profile made for photographing and eyes that held and wouldn't let you go. She could put you at ease and make your heart feel light with a simple twist of her lips and a lift of her eyes. Everett put her acting skills to the test and had her pose in various spots. She held a wine bottle out in overwhelming pride. She leaned back against her counter with her elbows back and one foot up. She sat up and piled her hair on her head so her neck and earrings showed, then let the gentle waves fall. She stood looking serious into the lens, the bottles alight in the background, her hammer propped under her chin. Everett eased the camera in closer and closer, then eased a hand toward her and plucked her collar to stand on its own. She broke into a shy laugh and he took the last photo.

"It'll take me a week or two to see what we have here," Everett said, dismantling his camera lens. "But I'll let you know."

"I've never done anything like that before." She spun. "I felt like a magazine model."

She ran her hands along her neck and clutched them behind her head. Everett gave a small laugh.

"You did good. Excitement shows up well in photos."

The sun was out and not a cloud in the sky. As he was ducking through the door, Claire said, "You know, you have a real talent for it."

He looked back, slightly stooped in the bright arch. "We haven't seen what we got yet."

Holding the door she rested her head against it. "I just know they'll be great."

XX

In the dark the narrow lane did not have much in the way of charm. In daylight the nooks and doorways couldn't hide, but in the night every shadow held its secrets close, and distant headlights shifted new shadows among the old.

Claire Gioccaccio stood to the side of her window with a finger to the curtain. Finally the figure emerged from the roadside.

"Where do you go at night?"

She stood shaped in the door, the light casting her silhouette atop Everett. He looked at her while he fished his pocket, then turned to his door with the key. "Nowhere to be concerned."

"Everett, are you all right?"

He paused in the door. "All right?"

"I mean, where do you go?"

"Not anywhere. Don't leave it to your imagination to figure out."

"I can't help it."

"You have nothing to worry about. It's getting cold."

As he was closing the door she raised her voice. "Are you going to tell me or do I have to follow you one night?"

His door opened back slightly, a dim strip of distant light across one eye. Claire was closer, standing in the street with her arms folded. Closing the door would not ease her fears. Everett bowed his head and exhaled through his nose. The door opened and he locked it behind him. "You can follow me now."

Through the brush and shadows, over the bridge that seemed to make too much noise beneath them, and through the peeled back chainlink, Claire followed in a thin shawl she held with one hand. Everett moved quickly, his wide back moving into darkness, and Claire had to keep up.

They went into a field of neat moonlit stones spaced apart in the cloudless night, down one row, and when Everett clicked his flashlight to shroud one of the stones Claire held her breath. Several rose bouquets were against the gravestone, a fresh one in a white vase at the foot.

"I'm so stupid."

Everett swept his hat from his head. "Maggie, this is Claire. She is our new neighbor. She thinks I look like the type to go sneaking around at night up to no good."

"I'm sorry, I didn't say you were up to no good, I didn't know. I feel so stupid."

"Well," Everett said. "I suppose it does look a little mysterious creeping around after dark."

They stood in silence. Claire cleared her throat. "Hi, Maggie." Her eyes glanced briefly Everett's way. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Her gravestone says Margaret, but she was Maggie to me and everyone else who loved her. And a whole lot of people loved her."

"She was your wife?"

Everett nodded. "It took me a long while to fool her into thinking I was good enough, and a whole lot of effort to keep the charade up after that."

"I'm sure she knew exactly who you were."

"I always told myself, if she ever finds out about me..."

Everett knelt and inched the flower vase. As he did his beam fixed the stone etchings in light.

"My God."

"What?" Everett swung the light about, catching a dozen other graves on either side in brief existence.

"The year."

Everett put the light on Maggie again.

"Everett, that was thirty years ago," Claire said. "She was so young." She touched her lips. "You were both so young."

XXI

Everyone's a photographer these days.

Young people hold their cameras out and take a dozen shots of themselves, without any change in their expression. It used to be people looked for an experienced photographer for these. Professionals know about lighting and exposure and filters, but those things are built right into cameras these days. A photo taken in a winter storm can be doctored in a matter of seconds to look like it was taken on a beach that required heavy sunscreen. There are no limits. Keep clicking until you get the photo you want. No waiting around for film to be used up, no running it to the chemist at the drugstore for development, no one-hour-photo. No, not even shaking a polaroid to quicken the process, which is an odd idea and strange to see in practice.

Everett always had an interest outside his studio doors. He needed to develop the portraits he'd taken during the week, but he had a few shots left on the filmroll, so he took the camera out for a stroll and ended up photographing at a distance an old woman at church doors with a shawl over her head, touching her finger to the water on the wall and crossing herself. He caught her in a rapid clicking of the moment, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, his finger worked on its own. He watched her, the small stooped woman pulling the big doors and disappearing inside. The moment was done and over. But on that film roll of portraits, a week's worth of clients, that old woman was the most interesting subject Everett had taken, and with the roll developed and hanging in the darkroom Everett spent most of his time looking at her, going back to her, studying her ways, watching her move in the four photos from her forehead to her breast and to each shoulder. She had a story that could only be guessed at.

So he began taking strolls in his spare time, and soon his filmstrips were mostly journalistic-type shots you'd find in magazines of people and places, animals and antiques, anything but someone sitting on a stool against the white backdrop in the studio. He'd seen what the National Geographic printed and it would be something for him to walk among the people of this world who have nothing to carry but the looks on their faces, and him with his camera and a lens so big he'd have to prop it over his shoulder and swing it around to take a photo.

And that's not to say he had not had his share of interesting subjects come through his door. Sit in a town long enough and you're bound to take a photo of someone who goes on to become famous in some respect and they'll use your photo on the cable channel exposé to show that they too started as a regular person like everyone else.

Everett took a photo at a basketball game for the local division-three college up the road. The team went on against all odds to win the national championship. The photo he'd taken of their star player floating to the basket from the free-throw line with one second left on the background clock somehow made it to an executive at Kellogg's who put it on the Wheaties box years later when that young farmhand went on to become the leading scorer and the most valuable player in the finals at the pro level. They sent Everett a thousand dollar check for the photo, and when the cereal box came out he went to the supermarket and filled a cart to the brim. Cleaned the shelves out. There is a box or two still around at the back of his cupboards somewhere.

The relief pitcher on the Cincinnati Reds ten-eleven years ago grew up not six blocks from the very spot Everett does his morning pushups. The pitcher didn't last long in the Majors before his fastball fizzled and was easy to hit over the walls, but he made it to the big show nonetheless which is more than anyone else within the driving distance of a half tank can say. That pitcher came back with a pocketful of dollars and opened his own restaurant downtown. Memorabilia covers the walls, his old jersey is up in some dark corner. Everett has never had a bad meal there, not once, though he has had better margaritas in his own kitchen despite rarely having a lime around.

That is not all.

One kid he photographed from birth to high school was among the first boots on the ground overseas and received a medal of bravery for rescuing three other Marines from a firefight in the dead of night, helicopters roaring overhead. Carried them over his shoulder one by one as the darkness flashed behind him. Everett knew him when he was shooting popguns and wearing cowboy hats.

Another kid born and raised nearby went on to write for TIME among others and became a syndicated columnist. You can hear him on the radio any given night, though the channel is a distant one and the weather must be clear. He came in and had headshots done way back when he was applying for the internship at the local paper. He was thin and didn't know how to comb his hair.

Another young gal here went on to write a novel that didn't hit the New York Times Bestsellers list, but it almost did, and went on to sell in a handful of other countries too. Everett didn't take the photo of her on the back of the dust jacket, but he did take her grade school photos, k through eight. And the translator for the United States Ambassador to Columbia sat right there in the studio when she was just a tot and could hardly speak her own language.

Sounds like a pretty loaded group, but don't be fooled. It's only a handful of hardworking individuals in thirty years, and yet Everett has taken pictures of all, professional and otherwise, that this town has had to offer. Yes, even Bill Hyple, the mayor. Some people are impressed by that. Everett did not like his politics and found him arrogant.

Everett has gone on to photograph all kinds of people, people who have a real story to tell and tell it all with one look into the camera. Athletes, professors, writers, musicians, mathematicians, accountants, plumbers, singers, inventors, philosophers and outright bums – he has taken pictures of them all these past thirty years. His only regret is that he had not learned to wield his lens out there sooner. You never know what you might catch when you focus in on a single face. There are so many smiles and sorrowful eyes in this world. How many have been missed?

If he was young again he could see it all, his photos slowly zooming on the Discovery Channel late at night, or taking a center layout in The World Traveler, or on CBS News with a ticker at the bottom.

Yes, Maggie, I could see a life living out of a suitcase, the top down across deserts with my one and only, stopping at hole-in-the-wall places and sleeping close under the stars. I see snapshots of a missed life out there as clearly as the photos framed on my wall. If I was a young man I could picture all that and more.

The only thing I could not picture was a life without you.

XXII

Back when Duke and Everett were young and handsome and marching across the base in step with fifty other soldiers, swinging their arms and repeating vulgar verses the sergeant thought up on the spot, they used to count the hours to their nights off so they could hit the showers and dress in their loose-flowing Hawaiian shirts and head to the barber's chair for a haircut and shave and a dab of the good-smelling stuff before hitting the nightlife and walking under the lights. By the time they had themselves slick and smooth they had to race to catch the bus, chase after it hollering and waving, mere figures in the dust, jump aboard, slap a nickel in the changebox and shove each other around on the way to the open window seat.

They usually found dates at Margot's, a smoky bar downtown where the ladies went to act shy around the soldiers and the soldiers went around asking every girl for a dance and fell in love with the one who said yes.

Everett waved the waitress with the beer tray away. "No more for me tonight."

"I'll have another." Duke plucked a bottle from the tray and put coins in its place. "You sick?"

"I'm not thirsty."

"You fall in love?"

"I might have at that."

"I did too," Duke said. "A love that has hit me hard." He pointed across the room, then he leaned close with the bottle hiding his lips on one side and spoke low. "But I can't figure out if it's with the blond or the brunette. What's yours like?"

"She's the nurse who wrapped my hand."

"You still hung up on her? How come you don't bring her around?"

"Bars and late nights aren't really her thing."

"I'm beginning to think she doesn't exist. You're afraid to introduce her."

"I'm afraid to introduce you."

"She's ugly, isn't she?"

"She's beautiful."

"I've seen some of the one's you've danced with in the past."

"I'm tellin you I felt my heart in my ears. She is quite a honey. Thing is, I don't know if she likes me."

"Well, you are difficult to enjoy." Duke put his bottle up.

"See I took her to a show and we took a walk around the lake and we were talking just fine and all. I was doing everything right, talking about the moon and the world and showing I had feelings and what an introspective fellow I am. I even skipped a few rocks and stared out at the water a moment. She didn't take my arm or put her head on my shoulder or any of that, and when I walked her up her steps she didn't hug me goodnight at her door or nothing."

"Always kiss em right off the bat. Then you know good or bad how the night'll go and you won't sweat it."

"I did that. The first time I met her, after she wrapped my hand."

"What'd she do?"

"She tried to slap me and threw her nurse's cap at me and chased me. I thought I'd have to get into the trees to lose her, she wouldn't stop."

"Yeah, sometimes it doesn't work."

"But I got her to laugh, and I got the date, only now I can't tell what she's waiting for."

"Sometimes they start out fire and sparks and end up duds. Cut your losses and look to the dancefloor."

"I can't. This girl, Duke. If you only – you know when a girl walks by and smells so good you swear you'd marry her on the spot? I don't know. I've been thinking about her since."

"Jesus." Duke put his bottle down. "You are in love."

"I think I am."

"I have never seen the real thing before."

"What? What's it look like?"

"Here, look your face that way. Chin up."

Everett did as he was told, his eyes stayed on Duke.

"Well, there is only one thing to do."

"What?"

"Do what I do when I fall in love."

"What?"

"The only thing that gets true, instant results."

"What is it?"

"Kiss her again and see what happens."

Everett exhaled and shook his head. The music played on. Duke stood.

"Hey cutie, I like this song."

A passing girl looked back. She stopped and pursed an amused smirk. Duke pointed.

"I mean, legs like yours ought to be dancing."

"Why is it you Army guys can never just ask a girl in a nice way?"

"I thought I just did."

She looked to Everett who turned away and began picking peanuts from the basket.

"What do you say, sweetface?" Duke asked.

"I say not in a hundred years."

Duke sat half on the stool again and took a drink. "Her legs weren't all as good as I let on anyway."

"I'm surprised you don't walk around with a dozen slap marks on your face."

"You really like this nurse of yours?"

"I do."

"Then get the hell out of here and get the hell on over to her."

Everett looked at him.

"Go on," Duke said. "You wait another day and someone else will have kissed her by then. Someone like me. Go on, I'll pay for the drinks. Go on, what are you waiting..."

Out in the night Everett got away from the noise and followed the sidewalk. Reflected light moved under him on the wet pavement as he hurried. His breath held together in vanishing plumes behind him. He went from a quick marching pace to a hurried jog to an all-out sprint under the streetlamps. He ran and began to grin, hopping from curbs and crossing silent black streets. He followed the signs left and right and caught his breath at the corner with his hands on his knees until the ache in his ribs subsided, then he sprinted again. Somewhere along the way his smile fell apart and he went faster. Some other bastard with just a little more sense than him would be standing at her steps knocking right now. He sprinted harder, his teeth showing, footsteps in the dark, a flash past alleyways, a steady run beneath the quiet yellow lamps.

He held himself against the last mailbox, breathing hard. Her porch was empty, no one was there, the lights were out, yet he gave the final run-up to her door all he had left, glancing left and right to the shadowed places where some guy smarter than him might come running out with a ring in his pocket.

At her door he hooked an arm at the rail and hung until the ground stopped spinning. His heart made him deaf in beats. He swallowed and lifted his shirt and wiped his face. He pushed his hair to one side and took several deep breaths, swallowing one final big one that set him right. Then the porch light came on and the door opened. He took a step backward and Maggie Novak came running out of the dark with a big smile. She flung her arms round Everett's neck and he kissed her there.

"Why didn't you come sooner?"

"I came as soon as I knew," he said as she held his face. "I came as soon as I knew. I never ran so fast in all my life."

XXIII

It was Maggie who enjoyed captured moments. After lunch at a sunny outdoor cafe was spoiled by a roving cloudburst one day, they dashed across the wet street to get under an awning. Something stuck to the pavement caught her eye and she went back in the downpour.

"What are you doing?" Everett called out to her.

She was crouched and holding her hair clumped wet on one side, the other hand reaching out as the street around her turned to bright water, her face a look of wonder. It was a photo of a couple, a tintype, all sepia tone and washed out, the faces smudged to blurs, but figures posed and intact otherwise.

"What were you doing? Look at you, you're soaked."

"Look, Rett."

"What is it, someone's popsicle wrapper? We'll have to dry you out somewhere."

"No, look. It's beautiful."

"You can't even see their faces. I bet we can borrow a towel there at the station."

But she stood there staring at the photo, her hair dripping and her clothes thin and stuck to her, her skin chilled under droplets. Rain gathered on her lips and she spoke in a whisper. "I wonder who they are."

She stuck that photo in her mirror, where it dried out and yellowed, the faces ghostly and open to imagination.

"Why don't you get rid of that thing? It gives me the creeps."

"I bet they're smiling. They were happy."

"They could be scowling for all we know."

"No, look at their hands. They have happy hands."

Everett bent closer with squinty eyes and a scrunched up face. He straightened. "They do, don't they."

After that they used their days off to hop around estate sales, junk shops, collector sales, flea markets – anywhere where hoarders of odd manner sat around swatting flies and had boxes and boxes of black-and-whites to sift through. Strange photos, bent and creased, ancient and ruined. It was the thrill of the faces, the oldtime looks. Why were these moments captured? What were the stories here? They kept very few, paying pennies for the keepers and racing back to the Skylark to hit the gas with the top down and a basket of sandwiches and fruit in the back, on their way to the next listing in the back of the newspaper.

Everett ran up the front steps early one afternoon to find Maggie fiddling around in the backyard with her legs folded under her on the grass and a new camera, the flashbulb going off.

"What is that? I thought you wanted to save for a house with a nursery."

"It was a throwaway at the hospital. They bought new cameras and were pitching the old ones. It still has film in it. Rett, we can make our own photos and someone a hundred years from now will flip through an old box and find us."

"Good. The world would be far happier if more photos of you were passed around. What were you taking pictures of just now, anyway?"

"Myself."

"Who does such a silly thing? Here, allow me." He sat beside her and put his cheek to hers, holding the camera out. "On three, ready? One, two..."

He slipped a kiss to her cheek as the shutter clicked, her eyes lighting up and her smile going wide for all time.

XXIV

It was a quarter to nine and Duke Costello had already worn an impression in the couch and messed the magazines out of order. He held two up and glanced from one to the other.

"These are the same ones you had last week."

"Why don't you take a walk," Everett said from the other room, picking things off his desk and putting them down again. "I have an early appointment."

"I always stay out of your way."

"Hey."

"Hey what?"

"You know where I'd drive if I was in your position?"

"Where?"

"I'd put on a pair of goggles and take that Time Machine as far as it could go and start there."

Duke exhaled and settled in his spot, staring out the window in front of him, his belly sinking as he deflated. He called out.

"I think she needs a new battery."

"I'd go down the east coast and see where the tans start. I'd eat at every roadside barbeque place, hungry or not, and I'd see all the battlefields as I went south. I'd talk to every face I came across and I'd make sure I could see the sun set wherever I was each evening."

"No you wouldn't. You wouldn't go a mile from here and you know it. You're not that brave. She was. Maggie was. But you are not."

Everett popped his head in the room. Duke saw the movement in the corner of his eye and looked over.

"Why don't you take a walk?"

Duke lifted his hands. "I walked here."

"Go see if a donut place has sprung up down the road."

"Hey," Duke pulled a powercord and some kind of device from his pocket. "Where's the plugs at?"

When the little bell jingled above the door at precisely nine o'clock, Duke was on his hands and knees with his cheek against the wall, looking behind the bookshelf. He looked over his shoulder then scrambled to his feet.

"I was – I was looking for something."

"I saw," Claire said.

"Everett has everything in this place in all the wrong spots."

She smiled.

"Hey, have a seat," Duke said. He motioned a chair. "I didn't know it was you coming in. Everett does not tell me these things."

She was in the door with the morning behind her, touching off her figure and lighting her hair. She was a vintage sight, a simpler time, when men ran ahead and opened doors. When men slapped their newly engaged pals on the back and shouted that the drinks were on him. A time when men passed out cigars when their babies were born, and all the world was young and they were surrounded by friends.

"Mornin, Claire," Everett said in the doorway. "Your photos are up on the screen back here. Duke was just leaving."

"I'd like to stay," Duke said.

"Just pretend he's not here. Sometimes he goes away."

"Did you two meet in the Army?"

"Childhood," Duke said. "Wearing helmets and sneaking around with sticks."

"You're kidding. Childhood?"

Everett nodded. "He looked up to me."

"It is the truth. I didn't know any better at the time. But I turned out to be the better soldier and then it was him did the looking up."

Everett put his shoulder against the doorway.

"I bet the Army brought you close," Claire said. "I mean, the danger and all of that, it must make friendships stronger."

"There wasn't any danger to it, really," Duke said. "We never fired our rifles at anything except paper. We never had anything to fire at if we wanted to. Not much for heroes to do in peacetime. We mostly sat around and cleaned our rifles and told dirty jokes."

"Oh."

They were quiet.

"A priest, a dwarf and a prostitute walk into a bar–"

"Go on take a walk now."

"I am comfortable."

"But what are the medals for?" Claire asked. She pointed to the wall. "If not for bravery."

"Boxing," Everett said.

"He was the champ," Duke said. He floated a thumb toward Everett. "If they'd have ever turned Everett loose, he'd have taken out any professional in the ring. Any, you name em."

Duke Costello once outtalked a street preacher. By the time Duke had finished giving his view of things the preacher set aside his sign and bell with an unsettled look and went home to rethink a few things.

Duke did not take a walk, and an hour later they were still sitting around the studio with coffees in their hands. Though he'd never tell him, Everett enjoyed hearing him talk about the past.

"When we were kids we were good in church. We sat on our hands and spoke the responses automatically like toys, like someone pushed a button on our heads. I used to look across the aisle and see Everett sitting there just the same and we'd smirk at some secret joke neither of us knew. We made up signs with our fingers. My father was a lefty but he was good with his right hand. He'd give me a knuckle and I'd face forward again, but Everett and I cared about only one thing – the donut at the end of Mass. So we were silent and knelt and stood when we had to."

"Not every time," Everett said.

"One Sunday Everett and I snuck out early while the communion line was still going. That was the best time to do it, everyone is up and walking, they don't notice. All we did was go around back and throw stones in the pond while the hymns played out. But to set us straight my father took the both of us on a silent drive in the forest to some stone building made of concrete blocks, each one as tall as a grown man. It was a seminary, this big place where they cranked out priests. The road to it wouldn't end. Looked like a castle sitting there far back from the trees. It even had a bell tower. I thought we were going to see God. Dad left us there for the day and the priest – brother, monk, whatever he was – took us around to kneel in a dozen different rooms. He was always praying in silence. I don't think I heard a single voice that whole day. Anyway, lot of good it did, right, Everett?"

"We snuck out again the next week."

"Though I did stop offending the Lord as soon as I figured out what a selfish ass I was. I was a fullgrown man before I saw it for what it was. Hit me like a lightning bolt. I used to tell the priest all the things I'd done in the past. I'd sit in the confessional for hours. I'd rack my brain trying to remember. The priest slid the screen open and put his face full in the window and said don't dwell on the past, idiot. That one hit me hard too. Don't try and think up every which way you've broken a commandment, just look ahead to how you're not going to do it again."

"Was he right?" Claire said.

"Sure, but it haunts a bad man. If you only knew the things I had crossed off my bad list." Duke stared at the floor. "I hope I didn't forget anything."

Duke looked at Everett. "All the blab comes out," he said, slapping his thigh and making it out the door.

"Pay no attention to him. He's just some kid who started following me around one day and never stopped."

"I think he's charming."

"He's something," Everett said, pushing off the door and turning in. "Come on back and take a look."

He pulled the chair back at the desk and Claire sat. Everett tapped a key and the screen came on.

"Oh, look at these. Everett, these are beautiful. How did you...? Well, look at me."

"Scroll through."

Claire put a hand to her chest and leaned in as she scrolled. "The place looks so nice. This is the stuff you see in magazines."

"You did a good job."

"I did – you. You did a good job." She spun around. He was sitting in a leather couch against the wall with his arms spread across the back.

"How do you do it?" she asked.

He brought a hand in line with his eyes, fingers stiff to the ceiling, and drew it away along an imaginary line. "You just look through the lens to what's on the other side."

"You could tell me it's magic and I would believe it."

Everett pointed. "See that box on the sill? Take a look inside."

"What's in it?"

He shrugged. Claire left the chair in a slow spin and crossed the room. She lifted the lid.

"What did you find?"

"Are these flashbulbs?"

"You bet, flashbulbs. Have you ever had a camera with flashbulbs?"

"When I was a child."

"They are still the best piece of equipment in a photographer's arsenal."

She faced him. "They're so old fashioned."

"Fire is still the best way to get heat."

She lowered the box. "I don't believe you."

"With a flashbulb you have one shot and it's over. The bulb dies. You capture life as it plays, as it is, no retries. It never comes out clean, never perfect, but it is the pure truth. In life we each get one flashbulb. You get one shot, and it's going to be messy."

"Tell me about your wife."

"Oh," he looked away, "well now."

"Do you visit her every day?"

"What are you–" He crossed his arms. "Yes, I do."

"She must have meant a lot to you."

"She does. Of course she does."

"What was she like?"

He leaned forward. "Which of those photos do you like best? You choose your six favorites and I'll print them here and have them for you tomorrow."

"What did you love most about her?"

"Everything."

"Pick your favorite thing. I want to hear about her."

"Pick your photos and I'll print them."

"I'm curious."

He stood. "Hell, I'll print them all."

"Everett."

"Why do you always say my name like that? Like you've known me forever."

"I thought you'd be happy to talk about her."

"I am." His throat became hard. He turned and stepped a few paces, not facing her, his hands on his hips.

Claire cleared her throat. "They're wonderful photos, Everett."

He put a hand up. "I'll bring them by tomorrow."

XXV

Maggie Novak's life did not last long enough to get in all the fights she and Everett Townsend deserved together. Forgiveness brings out the sweetest moments between man and wife. The hesitant peeks around the corners, the prideless returns with roses, the sudden rushes to each other's arms, like a homecoming after a long absence.

"All I want is to be able to talk to you."

"Well that's what we've been doing here for the past ten minutes."

"You asked about my day."

"Because you've told me before how nice it is to talk about your day. I thought I'd take the initiative and ask before you told."

"But you don't say anything. You just stand there."

"I thought that's what I was supposed to do, just stand here and listen, with my undivided attention."

"You were looking around the whole time."

"I was listening."

"Then what did I say?"

"Which part? You said a whole lot."

"You didn't hear a word I said." She threw one of his combs and he ducked.

"What are you always throwing things for?"

She threw another.

"I heard every word. Jess threw you under the bus today for the patient entries, so Doctor Kilpatrick told you you need to bring the charts up to date quicker than you did yesterday, even though that's not one of your duties, nor has it ever been, and nurse Kelly is coming down with a cold and keeps sitting in your chair and coughing and sneezing all over everything and you hope you don't get sick because of her. See? Every last detail. I said it a lot quicker than you did too."

"It would be nice if you gave me some advice."

"What do you want me to say? What sort of advice can I possibly – okay, wash your hands so you don't get sick. And give Jess a good one in the nose. I can show you how."

"You don't have to be so mean about it."

"I'm not doing anything."

"No, you're not doing anything. You never do anything."

She went into the kitchen and undid the apron knot behind her and wadded it up on the counter. She dabbed her eyes and held in a sniffle. Across the house the screen door opened on a noisy spring. Maggie held still. The door clapped shut. She turned and marched out pulling at her finger.

Everett was standing in the grass with his face to the sky getting deep breaths when something small flew past.

"Why do you let it slam every time, you lump?"

"What was that?" He stepped forward. "Maggie, was that your ring?"

She slammed the door shut behind her and put her face to the screen. "No. It was your ring. You can find someone else to wear it."

"I will. If I can find it, I will."

"Good. Maybe Theresa would like it."

"Who?"

"Oh, who, he says. Who, like I don't know he looks at the other girls."

"What are you – Maggie, you know, sometimes..."

"Sometimes what?"

"Nothing."

She cracked the screendoor and took a step. "Sometimes what?"

"Leave me alone."

"I will leave you alone. I – no, you leave me alone."

She slammed the door and put the hook in the loop and gave him a final bold look through the screen before she turned and her dress twirled. Everett bent over the grass, scanning, taking small steps. He looked like a drunk who didn't want to mess his shoes. He lowered to a squat, then went to his hands and knees and started inching along the ground. Moments later, Maggie rushed out and joined him on hands and knees, their heads inches apart.

"I'm sorry, Everett. I shouldn't have done that."

"We'll find it. It's here, somewhere."

"I can't believe I did something like that. Oh, Everett, I'm so sorry."

"It can't be far. You don't throw as hard you think."

"See if you can see the sun reflect off it."

The sun was already low. His cheek was an inch off the ground. "I'm trying."

"You're not mad?"

"No."

"Everett, I'm sorry. It probably cost you a fortune."

"Don't worry about it."

"I've probably ruined us. I've probably put us in the poorhouse. I shouldn't be allowed–"

He took her hands. Her eyes were worried and wet. "I don't care about the ring," he said. "As long as I can give the girl another one."

And when they were through kissing in the grass on their knees they were still searching the spot hours later with flashlights. They stayed up well past dark, until finally he walked on his knees to where she'd fallen asleep in the grass with an arm folded under her head.

"Maggie," he said.

"What? Did you find it?"

"Maggie..."

"Did you...? What?"

He laughed. "I'm as nervous as the first time I asked." He took a breath and held out the ring. "Will you?"

She fell asleep that night with the ring on her finger. He fell asleep with a smile on his face and a stifled laugh in his chest.

XXVI

Everett checked the contents of the manila envelope again. He swung into his windbreaker and locked the studio door behind him. He crossed the street and knocked on the door with one knuckle and held still. He left the envelope leaning against the door.

It was Saturday morning and Pete Wilson and Duke Costello were sitting in Everett's booth when he came in. They were smiling and laughing, and someone else was there too. When her head turned, Everett stopped.

"Everett," Claire smiled. "Here, I've taken your seat." She moved over.

"Quite the darling you have here, Everett," Pete said.

Everett's eyes went to Pete. "You serving breakfast today?"

"I am a jealous man."

"You be whatever you want. I'm hungry."

"Smart, pretty, brave, and filled with dreams."

Claire smiled and looked down. "I wouldn't say I'm brave. You all were in the military."

"Pete was only in the Air Force," Duke said.

"You are brave," Pete told her with his finger in the air. "I for one am glad you're around. A wine shoppe is such a lovely idea, and it fits you so well."

"Thank you."

"Everett thought you were opening a cult."

"I didn't."

"And your name, Gioccaccio – like music. I say Duke's name and I feel like I'm calling a dog."

"Your name is Pete Wilson," Duke said. "Must have been a real strain on your parents coming up with that one. You say Pete in a barbershop and three guys'll turn their heads."

Everett looked from face to face and stayed on Pete's. He jerked his head toward the kitchen. "Whenever you get to switching on the heatlamps back there, I'll have what I always have."

"Take a look at the board. I have salmon-egg-bagels cooking this morning. Breakfast special."

"The usual for me."

"Comes with a slice of tomato too."

"They're delicious, Everett," Claire said. "I recommend it."

"I like what I always get."

"You know, Pete," Duke said, "you oughta make a menu with just pictures, no reading, so I can just look and point to what I want."

Pete plucked a mug from the next table. He poured from the hot carafe, then he smiled and raised the pot in a sort of toast, then went about the other tables.

"Many thanks," Everett said, still standing. Pete went around the corner and Everett turned to Duke, then Claire. "You all eat already?"

Duke put his hands on the table. "We ate, we drank, we talked. You missed the action."

"Have a coffee."

"Actually, I should go," Claire said, checking her watch and bouncing out of the booth. "I'm sorry, but I have to get a few things in order at the shoppe."

"You are a hardworking gal," Duke said.

"First generation American," she said, plucking her sweater from the back of the booth and giving Everett a smile as she passed. They watched her go, pushing through the door backwards and fixing her sweater. Everett sat.

"You know, Everett," Duke cleared his throat, "I was thinking just now..."

"What?"

"Well, when Claire came into the studio yesterday – you know who she..." He sat unblinking across the table, then raised a hand. "Ah."

Everett lowered his mug. "I have never seen you think before the words tumble out. What?"

Duke folded his arms on the table and leaned over them. He smiled with his lips together and inhaled through his nose. "Nothing."

Everett stared a bit, then spread the newspaper and went down the headlines. "You put as much thought into anything as you do into nothing and you will go places."

Everett caught her working an envelope under the studio door when he returned. She turned just as he came up behind her.

"Oh," she clutched her chest. Her eyes shut and she exhaled in relief. "You scared me."

"We keep slipping notes under each other's doors and people will talk."

"You printed too many photos. I wanted to pay for the rest."

"It wasn't a mistake. You don't have to."

"I want to. I don't take–"

"You don't take favors from people. I know. But I don't mind giving favors, Claire. Especially to a neighbor who just opened her doors and might be able to put a favor to use. Sometimes a man likes to do a nice thing for a woman. You don't let him and it can be a rough thing for him to take."

She squinted at him. Finally she tilted her head. "You are difficult to figure out."

"I'm as easy as it gets."

She smiled and looked down, her hands busy. Then she nodded and took a breath. "I'm sorry I asked too many questions yesterday."

Everett waved a hand with a smile and went to searching his pockets for his key.

"I was trying to be friendly. I didn't mean to upset you."

"Well." He withdrew his hands and let them fall still. They were quiet together until he looked up, measuring the sky. "It will get warm again. Soon."

Claire looked up, her arms crossed. Gray clouds coasted by, too thin for warmth. Some of them passed low as kites, drifting fast like the string got away. A limitless silence circling over strangers. She was about to speak when the door clicked shut and she found herself alone.

Many nights he came in late with the campseat under his arm and her light would still be on, spilling over the street. He often caught the curtain falling shut and her shadow easing away.

He did his pushups at night once, for the privacy, but the late exertion kept him up, turning over and again in bed. Upon getting out of bed just to move around before trying to sleep again, he found her window upstairs still well-lit, and noises like she was stacking things. She worked late and rose early, out for errands first thing. In the mornings her door would bang shut and wake him. She had to slam it to get it closed right.

He nearly swallowed his coffee too hard when he saw her photo in the newspaper one Sunday morning. It was one of the photos he took of her, an advertisement for a wine tasting. She was leaning on an elbow, her hair in her hand and smiling, playing a sort of spin-the-bottle all alone on the counter.

He left his studio, pulling his windbreaker on as he went. He and Maggie used to sit together under the stainglass and he used to steal looks of her singing over the open hymnbook, wearing a gold necklace so thin it looked invisible upon her skin at times. She wore it only on Sundays, but she wore it on a whim the day she crossed in front of a speeding car and the front wheel of her bicycle went rolling down the gutter by itself in sudden silence. That was a Wednesday. Though many Sundays now Everett considered skipping Mass up to the minute, he kept the habit up. She still sang beneath those rafters.

XXVII

When Claire was fifteen her father had given up all hope. He worked with a shovel in his hands and ruined his back into a permanent curve. It was always late when he came through the door, and Claire never saw him before she went to bed. There weren't enough hours in the day to earn his way out of debt. He was the smartest man with a shovel in the trenches. He had come to the country with a dream in his eyes and heart, and when that dream fell apart he never put the pieces together again. All dreams end in a poof at some point. It's the human gift to be able to lay down and smile in sleep again. Some people dream anew each night, some people get only one.

Claire watched her father work himself old. By the time Geoffrey Gioccaccio was forty-five any signs of a smile had faded and he no longer carried conversation at the table. He stared ahead and chewed slowly. His shoulders ached at night. There was very little he could feel through his callused hands. He became trapped beneath the stone of hopelessness, too terrified to dream again. The impossibilities piled on to one side of the scale. It had set in such a reality for him that he didn't even struggle falling asleep under such worry. His eyes closed in tired acceptance.

On weekends his wife and daughter sat to either side of him as he smoked a pipe in his recliner, the footrest of which popped upon its crooked metal joints and often fell away beneath weight at bad times, offering little in the way of relaxation. Claire tried to drum up her father's attention by reading him the baseball scores, the American pastime he'd tried hard to understand but lost interest in long ago. The Yankees ballcap he wore often when they first arrived hung dusty upon its hook.

Claire's mother sat quietly with busy fingers, her eyes remained fixed, immune to distraction. A tiny spark burned within, ready to ignite. Claire used to watch from behind the baseball scores, pretending not to see the few trinkets her mother worked with each night, different colors, different sizes. Whenever Geoffrey Gioccaccio lowered his pipe and asked what she was doing, she always replied in a quiet voice that it was just a little project and nothing to get worked up about.

One day Claire found a shoebox full of the trinkets under her mother's side of the bed. They were hairclips – playful things for little girls, ornamented with painted buttons to look like ladybugs and beetles with twisted paperclip legs, staring blankly out of the box with wiggling ballbearing eyes painted white, the black pupils dotted off-center. Her mother, her quiet little mother who never went to school and spoke in a soft voice, still dreamed at night. Whether it was her own or whether she'd found the pieces of an old one, used up and swept beneath a rug, maybe even she didn't know herself.

Whenever she went out for milk and eggs she brought a few of the hairclips with her and sold them for five cents apiece to little girls in the grocery store who begged their mothers for the nickels. They showed them off at school, sometimes leaving their hats at home even on cold days just so they could be seen with bugs in their hair.

Soon little girls recognized the little Italian immigrant in the aisles and on the sidewalks and ran to her. They began their collections and asked for different colors of the same bug, some with bigger buttons, some with polka dots, do you have any with wings? Mrs Gioccaccio had to hurry whenever she went out. Girls trailed her like ants. They rang the apartment bell and held out their coins. When Geoffrey Gioccaccio answered one Saturday morning he shooed the girls away. When he asked his wife about it she quietly offered that they must have had the wrong address.

He stared at her for a moment, then tore through the rooms, pulling boxes out from the closet, yanking clothes off the hangers, emptying every drawer. First he found the socks filled with nickels. The drawer was unexpectedly heavy when he ripped it from its place, and the nickels shattered at his feet. Then he found the shoebox full of bugs, their eyes filled with the dreams he could not recapture, looking at him with begging eyes. They scattered upon the kitchen tiles, a crawling infestation, and he stomped them to pieces.

She stopped making them. He forbade it. Her fingers no longer worked at night. The trail of girls fell away one by one and in time so too did their hopeful glances. Claire's mother remained silent at the table and at Geoffrey's side as pipe smoke filled the room, but deep down that spark remained, it never left her eyes nor did it vacate the corners of her mouth where every so often a daydream caused a hopeful grin. All it needed was another spark to rub against to find its flame, a spark that could not be found again in Geoffrey Gioccaccio, because when he stood and extinguished his pipe he'd say on his way to bed that the American Dream, pretty as it sounds, does not always mean making a living doing what you are gifted at; sometimes, goddamn it, it means working at what others are gifted at, breaking your back and being content just to be under the same good flag. And now, he'd say in a stretch, keep it down out here because tomorrow I will dig for the boss the most beautiful trench he's ever seen.

But Claire's mother would look to Claire and whisper to not blame him, he can dream again, he just sleeps in the wrong position, and she'd smile and bring her hidden hands out upon her lap, fingers busy with some new trinket.

She kept them a secret, she found a new box, covered it in a plastic bag that could withstand the rain, and she hid the box out on the gutter in a spot she could only reach by standing on the firestep rails three-stories high. People would sometimes gather below and point from the street, this little woman so high and so daring.

Claire did the selling, out on the busy curbs, exchanging bugs for nickels. She'd whisper to her mother, I enjoy making the bugs and I like selling them, I'm good at it, I wish there was more daylight – how can this be called work? Her mother leaned in close and said, that's when you know you're doing it right.

The dream came to Claire each night. Soon she knelt by the road thistles and studied the things crawling on the thorns and flowers. After her father went to bed, her mother would pull out the beads and glue, and Claire would tell her the color of the wings, the crook of the legs, the size of the eyeballs. She lay in bed with her hands behind her head and ran her mind through the city streets, finding new corners to take her hair-crawling insects. After school she'd take her new route home, pockets heavy on both sides, and come home jingling through the door.

Geoffrey Gioccaccio left the trenches early one day. He stopped by the flower shop and was there on the doorstep with a rose in hand in time to see Claire skipping home.

"Papa, did you lose your job?"

Geoffrey pulled the rose from behind his back. "Happy birthday, flying squirrel. You thought I forgot."

"Papa, go inside."

"What do you have in your coat? I could hear you three streets away. You know how dangerous that is?"

"It is nothing."

"Show me what you have."

When he saw what was going on, Geoffrey Gioccaccio went to his daughter on his knees. He lifted her face with a finger under her chin.

"How many did you sell today?"

"You're not mad?"

The spark returned to his eyes, the dream was still there. He'd left enough of it around to be picked up again. It gave his shovel-heavy hands purpose again.

"Mad? No, no. No, I am happy you are able to dream so big. I want you to tell me all about it. I want you to keep at it."

"It's not a big dream. Just little hairclips."

He held her with both hands on her arms and looked into her face. "Claire, my child, it is the small dreams that bring the biggest joys."

XXVIII

Everett Townsend answered his door later that week. He had a towel round his neck and shaving cream still on his face. Noah stood there with a sort of scowl.

"Did you break another window?"

Noah held his hand palm up. "You owe me a dollar."

"A what? What for?"

"For knocking on the wine lady's door and running off."

Everett leaned against the doorjamb. "You did do that, didn't you?"

"I did it and you didn't pay me."

"You ran off before I could."

Everett gave him money. He was walking back to the shaving mirror when the knocking came again. Everett opened the door a crack, then wider.

"What?"

His voice was calm. "You gave me a five."

"You earned it."

Noah looked at the bill and back to Everett. "It's too much."

"Well, it's the interest. It built up more each day."

The door knocked again and Everett jerked it open this time. Claire was there holding an envelope out.

"I didn't want to slip it under your door. Open it."

It was an invitation to the wine tasting. He held it at a distance and looked it over. The photo on the invitation was another he had taken. She had told him she felt ridiculous looking away while the camera was on her, catching her in a thoughtful pose. The results were anything but ridiculous.

"These came out nice."

"You are an artist."

"I just look through the lens."

"Will you come?"

Everett slid the invitation back in the envelope and held it back. "Thank you, I mean it, but you should give it to someone more exciting. Someone more..."

"I am asking, as a neighbor. This is my grand opening. Please?"

"You don't want me there, you'll do great."

"As a neighbor. As a friend."

"I get claustrophobic in crowds."

"It'll be a small turnout, I'm sure." She was looking down.

"I don't know. I saw your ad in the paper."

Her eyes opened wide. "You did?"

"You are exactly what this place needs. A wine shoppe. I bet they come out in droves."

"If you're there it won't feel so empty."

"In droves, I said."

"Please."

"I go to bed early."

"It starts at six."

Everett picked at the wall. His eyes went back to her. "I will get drunk and act foolish."

"No you won't." Claire folded her hands to her chin and spoke softly. "Please. I could use some support. It's a week away and I'm already nervous."

"How big is a small turnout?"

"A handful of people. I don't know."

"I have a lot to do."

"Just come for a little while. Please. It will help my nerves and you can leave early. Please."

"Ten minutes."

"Please."

He exhaled. "All right."

She took his hand and kissed his knuckle. "Thank you."

On the back of his hand was left a small pair of lips where the light glistened. As she walked away she turned one last time, "Six o'clock, Saturday, don't forget." She turned again and tapped her lips, "You have a little shaving cream."

XXIX

It was an old habit of his to never let the sun catch him sleeping, and earlier and earlier he stood by the stove and waited for the kettle to whistle. Outside he'd drink and warm himself in the light, turning to get each side. Then he'd get his flag.

He was at his desk pinching a pencil over paperwork when he brought his head up from his hand and held still. A distant tremor. He removed his glasses and was stiller yet. Outside the old sound rumbled closer, a familiar thunder that used to rattle in his hands, now it rattled the frames on his walls. He pushed back his chair, hurried to the waiting area and stuck a finger in the blinds.

"Great God."

Duke Costello was hanging an arm out the driver's door and peering over his sunglasses at the wide studio windows. He was now inching in reverse, looking for attention, the Time Machine growling from the past, sounding not unlike a speedboat engine gurgling under water.

"Hell's bells."

Duke killed the engine and swept a hand. "How does she look?"

Everett looked closer. "Where are the racing stripes?"

Duke hung over the door, getting a view of the side, setting his sunglasses atop his head, holding all the hair back. "I couldn't do it. It wouldn't be her."

"It's her. I could hear her across the earth on a calm day. You hitting the road?"

"Taking her in for a look. I think the steering is loose. A little."

"Sure."

"Hey, I mean it. She's all over the road."

Everett put his hands up. Duke kept his eyes on him.

"It would be irresponsible to put such a liability out on the highways."

Everett's eyes moved over the car. He pointed. "Those knobs still work? Pick up a song or two?"

"Yeah, they work." Duke fiddled with the radio. "Wherever there's a station strong enough."

Everett crouched and closed one eye down the length, the glare on the door. Not a scratch or dent on her. He stood.

"Sammy Corsentino."

"What?"

"That was the guy's name."

"Who's name?"

"That guy who wouldn't go down."

Duke stared off through the windshield, both hands on the wheel. "Sammy Corsentino. Corsentino. Sammy Corsen– nope, never heard of him."

"He did go down, by the way."

Duke shook his head. "Never knew him."

Everett circled the Skylark with his hands in his pockets. "She looks good, Duke. She looks good."

Duke stepped out and eased the door shut with a hand on the handle giving it a final push closed, his thumb pressing in the button. They stood together in silence. Clouds crawled across the polished hood.

"Coffee on?"

"Always."

Duke picked through the fruit bowl in the waiting room while Everett clinked the mugs in the back. He eyed the frames on the wall, the sunlight sneaking through the windows sideways.

"You know, Everett, when I'm gone you're going to be mighty lonely the way you are around here."

Everett called out. "What's the way I am around here?"

Duke was peeling a banana and when he went to take a bite the top half fell off. He lifted his arms to see under, then knelt and picked the banana half up, brushed it, and took it in one bite. He peeled down further. "You know. Just the way you are."

"What way is that?" he called out.

"Well, you like to keep, you know, a schedule."

Everett came out with two coffees. He held one out by the rim and Duke took it. Everett took a sip. "I don't have a schedule."

"Not written down or anything, but you have a routine."

"What are you talking about?"

"You do things, the same things – church, breakfast at Pete's, sit in the barber's chair, salute your flag – you do these every week. Every day."

"How do you know I do pushups?"

"You do pushups?"

"I do them before I salute the flag."

"See, Everett, this is what I mean. I don't see you do these things, but I know you do them every day at the same time because I know how you are."

"It ain't a sin to go to church on Sundays."

"Everett, damnit, you need to get out. Try something you've never done before. You might smile more. You used to smile a whole lot more when you were younger."

"Well I don't go around grinning all day like a fool if that's what you mean."

"Ah hell."

"Hell yourself."

"You know you did things with a lot more pep when you were twenty."

"I think anybody can say that."

"If I wasn't around to check in now and then who'd even know you existed?"

"Pete would. A lot of other people. I have appointments, clients. I have a whole book of them."

"Yeah, how many friends do you have?"

Everett shrugged. "I like having just one or two close friends. A lot of people are like that."

"How close are you and Pete? You even know his birthday? Pete's friendly with everyone. You're probably way down on his list."

"All right, so what?"

"You weren't always so closed off. You used to be the loudest son of a bitch I knew. You're still in there somewhere, buried. My old friend. The guy who used to shove his fist through county fair watermelons. The guy I knew wasn't so...old."

"I'm old as you."

"And look at you now, scared once again to go running out in the night and get what he wants."

"What are you talking about?"

"The guy I knew would've moved on."

"Moved on from what? You watch it here."

"She ruined you. When she died you never mounted no comeback. She ruined you. You let her. Why'd you let her?"

"You go on."

"She'd be ashamed of you."

"You go on and shut your mouth."

"Maggie ruined you. And you ruined Maggie."

Everett set his mug on the table and shoved a palm in Duke's shoulder. Duke reached past Everett, setting his mug beside the other, and shoved back. They stared for a moment before each one clutched the other and wrestled for balance.

A brother from the old days is a man you can swing at but cannot hit, a man who's got it right in his own way even when he's got it wrong, and you hit him anyway. A brother, sometimes blood has nothing to do with it.

They never heard the knock at the door, they'd been scuffling on the floor, and when Claire came in she found them heaving in breaths, one clawing the other back by a leg. She stood at the entrance.

"Everett, I made some bread."

A pair of hands clutched the table leg and up popped Duke's face. He spoke between breaths. "Hey, mornin."

Everett popped up next and sat back, both men struggling. Duke kicked his leg free and sat up. Claire set the tray on the coffee table.

"It's banana chocolate. I was hoping you'd smell it across the way. I just wanted to thank you for the photos."

Breathing hard, Everett gave a wave, his arm propped about his knee. Claire looked from one to the other.

"What's going on?"

"I was teaching Everett a lesson he'd never forget."

Nobody spoke. Duke gestured at Everett's lip.

"You're bleeding."

"Everett, your lip," Claire said.

Everett brushed the back of his hand against it and looked at what came off.

"I'll get some ice," Claire went quickly. "Do you have any ointment?"

"In the back room there."

The two men sat, swallowing to catch their lungs up. They looked at each other from hooded eyes. A brotherhood of years no fist could break, no blood between could dampen. They broke into smiles.

"You ain't as hard to beat as you used to be," Duke said.

Everett put his head back and just smiled, running his tongue along his bloody lip. Duke gathered himself.

"Well. I can't fumble around with you all day." He limped to the door tucking in his shirt. "I have a busy schedule."

He came back and stole a slice from the tray, taking a bite on the way back out, strolling with an arm bent scratching up his back.

"Everett," he said. He paused at the door and shoved the rest in his mouth. He waved a hand. "I didn't mean it." And out he went.

With the ice and cloth in hand, Claire searched for ointment. She went through drawers and cabinets. She opened the darkroom mistakenly, then pulled it back and took her hand off the knob. She stood a moment then eased the door open again. A bulb hummed on the back wall through a red filter, setting a dozen chemical jars on a shelf to glow. Trays with developing faces in them lined the counter, like beds in a hospital. Photos hung on wires. She glanced back, the noise of the old Skylark firing up outside, then she stepped through the door.

Faces peered from hanging moments, decades old, ticks in time seized and squared, set in single dimension. A hunter crouched between wide-spread antlers, a smile fought from his lips but high in his eyes. A dancer with toes pointed in stride, her face painted in dramatics. A bronc rider grimaced in midbuck, one hand flung high.

Against the darkest wall a string was stretched to length and held a set of photos facing away, the glossy scenes hidden, dim figures traced through the white backside. The cast of characters curtained.

Claire stepped along. A man in a bow tie and metal-rimmed glasses, chalk in hand, leaning against an equation scribbled blackboard. A woman in a windbeaten sundress gathered in one fist at her knees, walking away into a tilted field, her free hand skimming the tall stalks with fingertips.

She looked again to the photos against the wall. The images on the other side were still faint but the shapes now gave hints. Claire swallowed and tilted her head, these secrets so close at hand, hidden away in darkness these thirty years.

Duke had told her over breakfast the story of Everett's wife. How she was the single best thing in Everett's life, how she used to play and race off ahead of Everett on their bicycles, how the accident seemed to put a lasting pause on Everett's life and God how Everett dare not unclutch from her now. If only, Duke suggested, someone could open him up.

She had tried getting the story in Everett's words, but whenever she touched on the subject he had been quick to cover it over. He'd not given out a single clue, such little evidence that a stranger might scratch Maggie off as make-believe, a figment. Yet here she was in full tone and color, all Claire had to do was peek.

She turned away. It wasn't her business, and she wasn't the type to snoop. But no sooner did she take three steps away did she pause, take a brave breath, and come back to reach out and take one photo carefully from its clip.

The paper was stiff, as if waterlogged and dried in the sun. The faces were grainy, smiling in lowlight, the gloss mirrored red. Claire covered her mouth and her eyes welled. The woman was young, leaning against the Skylark, her ankles crossed and her hands hidden behind her. She was smiling in a sidelong glance, as if carrying a secret best told through a lens.

Claire took another one down. This one made her laugh through her fingers.

"That was a Saturday."

"Oh." She turned. Everett stood there half-crossed in red light.

"You remember the day?" she said.

"I remember all those days."

"Everett." Claire lowered the photos. "Everett, she is beautiful."

He sat against the edge of a table, his hands on his thighs. "She is that."

She looked again, shuffling the top one to the back. "You look so young here."

"I was so young there."

"You're both so happy." She held the photo up. It was the one of them sitting with their heads together, the one where he'd snuck a kiss as the shutter clicked. It was an often borrowed gesture, a move all young men seem to find and use when falling in love, and yet here, the face, the reaction, it was as if he'd invented it there on the spot. She held out the photos and Everett looked away.

"Why don't you look?"

He did not answer. Claire looked again at the photos.

"You make a nice couple."

"She gets the credit for that."

"No, I think it's a handsome photo of you." She lost herself in the photo again before holding them up in one hand. "Why are these facing the wall?"

He adjusted, one arm cocked, the fist on his hip. He was about to speak but he pulled his lips in and exhaled through his nose.

"Duke told me about her."

"He does talk a lot."

"He said you have your good and bad days."

He looked away and tossed a hand. "Well."

"He said sometimes she's gone from you and you get quiet and withdrawn. And sometimes she's there, alive in your eyes and you're as happy as the day you met her. Duke said that. He said you smile and laugh more on those days. But they don't come around much anymore, those days."

"Well."

She took another look at the photo. "I like the way you are here. You're carefree. You're happy."

He didn't look. She put the photos back up, clipping them in place facing the wall, and stood back. "You should turn them around."

"That was an old roll I found. She put the film away in some box and forgot it was there. I found it after. Long after. As soon as I saw it I knew what it was. I couldn't believe it, and I put them in trays as soon as I could. I held the negatives against the light all night, but the next day, when the photos were developed, I couldn't look at them. I couldn't. I wanted to. I still want to."

"Then look."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because they are the only thing I have left of her. Of my Maggie. I take a look and they're done. I'll have nothing new of hers. Nothing fresh. She'll be gone. So there they hang, where I know where they are, where I know I can see them when I want to. And there they'll hang until..."

"When?"

"Until I'm ready."

XXX

"I want to collect a few creek stones. I was wondering if you'd like to join me."

Everett opened the door further. His reading glasses were propped at the end of his nose. "Creek stones?"

"Just a few for decoration. For my grand opening. Creek stones and wine bottles are a natural compliment."

He pointed with his glasses in hand. "Are you tricking me into a picnic?"

She hefted her basket. "To hold the stones."

"I suppose you'll ask me to carry it when it's heavy."

"Naturally."

She waited in slow circles out front, a rough blanket draped round her shoulders, her arms crossed through the basket handle, looking like a girl waiting in the shadows away from the dancefloor. Everett came back out pulling a sweater down in the front and a crooked wooden staff in one hand.

"A walking stick?"

"All the best walkers use one."

They spoke of the forecast, her on one side of the road, arms still crossed, and him the other, hands in his pockets, the walking stick stuck high under one arm, his collar caught lumped under his sweater. Instead of crossing the bridge with loud echoing footsteps, they went off on a faint trail that led down the embankment to the creek beneath it, a shortcut worn in by boys ditching school to muddy their shoes and catch frogs. Everett led the way.

"Watch your feet here."

"It's like being a kid. You know, when you'd go anywhere, get into anything–"

Her feet went out from under her and she threw one hand wide. Everett looked back, his legs staggered on the slope. Claire was sitting in the dirt, her feet straight out in front of her, the basket secure on her lap. She was covering her face and laughing.

He grinned and tucked the walking stick under again and held his fingers and thumbs up to shape an imaginary camera, flexing his index to snap the moment. Claire waved the setup away, hiding behind her hand in new laughter.

"No, don't–"

"Give me your hand."

They sat on flat rocks by the creek's edge. Tall maples floating with buds moved all around them, and the water ran silent over smooth stones. Everett had to reach far when Claire opened the basket and offered a sandwich.

"I knew you were hiding a picnic in there."

She brought out two glasses and a bottle of wine and held them up.

"Why not?" Everett said.

She twisted the cork, and when the sun was in a new spot and the clouds were all new overhead and moving fast, nearly half the wine was gone.

"Do you ever come walking around out here?"

"Not in awhile."

"Maggie never came looking for decorative stones?"

"Oh, I used to take her here and tell her what a hell of a guy I'd turn out to be."

"You convinced her."

"I had some new plan every year, a new path to becoming rich and famous and free. She was too smart to believe all the things I promised her but she smiled anyway and held my arm whenever I told her how bright our future looked. She was fully in the present. She believed what took me a long time to understand. That there is only the present. Yesterday and tomorrow don't exist."

Claire looked off squinting against the breeze, crossing her arms on her knees. Her hair lifted from her collar and neck. She had little silver-colored loops in her ears. After awhile she breathed deep. "I've never thought of that."

"Isn't that something?" Everett said. "I understand it, but I don't believe it. Yesterday exists. I have the photos to prove it."

"Tomorrow exists. For me. I have all my dreams to prove it."

Everett held still for some time. He finally came back with a raise of his eyebrows. "Well," he said. "It worked for her. I always envied the notion."

"It's a pretty way to look at things." She placed their things aside and stood to tiptoe over them, gathering the blanket around her with a little smile as Everett watched. She nudged next to him on his flat stone and sat with her arms around her knees. "But if tomorrow doesn't exist, then why do people set their alarms each night?"

"Habit."

"Then why do they buy groceries for the month? Why do they fill their gas tanks all the way, or put letters in the mailbox?"

"Now it sounds unreasonable."

"Is it trust? How many windows are there to view the world through? Is it hope?"

"Well, whatever it is it's got me all turned around, little mouse."

She looked at him. Strands of hair caught across her face, a sudden struggle in her brow. Neither spoke. She could hear him say it again and he'd said too much. Everett turned his attention to the wine glass, looking at the remaining sip as if it was responsible. He upended the glass and let it drip into the waters at his ankles, finally taking a large breath and letting his forearms rest upon his knees.

Claire freed a hand and cleared her face of windblown strands. She reached out and adjusted Everett's collar with delicate fingers and rested her head on his shoulder. Everett adjusted, unprepared, but did not withdraw.

They sat for some time as the creek carried on. Dark clouds had built upon themselves beyond the trees, and the branches still with sun on them played upon the background like cutouts. The wind turned cold and sent waves through the grass.

"We had better gather your creek stones."

XXXI

The storm came and darkened every shadow, the depths of which remained unreachable by even the brightest of flashes. The rain came in a heavy cold wave, bits of ice clung to things momentarily, and tiny rivers rushed where moments before lay the dry work of the sun.

Claire placed her stones in glass vases on her mantles and counters, and worked them into place with tiny movements. The storm blew on her walls and swept her swinging sign. Rain rushed at her windows in turns. She dimmed her lights and watched the clouds flare with her curtains pulled aside.

Everett knelt graveside, unsheltered and hunched, the engravings on the stone returning with each flash, his drawn face appearing mournful and streaked before being hooded again by darkness. The standards of painful memories streaked above him, there in fleeting splendor, her hair on the pillow when her eyes opened and she gave the day's first smile, as if she woke from some windy venture and was glad to be home, her prayerful face in stained light, clear as if he could reach out and touch her, and her with her hands on his tie on Sundays and him breathing in her scent. Then gone to nothing and no chance of striking the same way again. He went home with rain running down his neck, no warmth to be found.

He stood in the red glow a long time with a puddle spreading beneath him. Everything he'd ever had and wanted, and everything that would restore his heart if he could only recapture it, faced the wall on these hanging lines.

He took them down one at a time, these memories awaiting rebirth, just as they had struck the first time, and with each one he could not help but to smile at her smiling back from so long ago. He slept against the wall with the photos on his chest.

Another photo lay in one of his processing trays, the chemicals still working the contrasts. Everett had forgotten what was on the roll when he'd submerged it. He had checked on it several times, the mysterious image still emerging. He would see it in the morning.

It was the photo he'd taken of Claire at the peak of happiness, remembering a childhood joy with her hand over her laugh.

Days went by and Claire did not see Everett. She knocked on his door and peered in his windows. Only a faint glow of light within.

She walked the gravel road alone and stood at her window at night. In daylight she kept busy. She prepared her wine bottles to all face the same way, labels out in their spots. She set out glasses and name tags and swept the floors one last time. She straightened the wine shoppe sign that hung on its chain and she swept the steps and stood with the broom a moment. The air was clear and pure. The studio door remained closed.

Claire left the broom behind and shouted from the middle of the street.

"You can't hide from life, Everett. Life is not an eight by five photo for you to capture and frame. You can't stop time."

No answer came, no reaction inside. "Life does not stand still for anyone."

And far off where voices could not reach, Everett sat speaking to a familiar stone as the grass dried out around him. In his hands he turned a relic of his past. He'd left the middle shelf on his studio wall newly empty, a clean print in the dust.

"Remember this one?" he said aloud and showed off the old camera with a cracked viewfinder and a lever film ratchet, the silver polished dull by thumbs thirty years younger. "I think you had the entire world documented in these lens. I only wish I could see things the same way you did."

In the distance a train went by in a whisper. Everett turned and held still a moment before clearing his throat and turning the camera over and back in his hands.

"I put new film in it. We'll see if it's any good." He lowered his head. A breeze moved about in the grass at his feet. "I am sorry."

The words came choked. "I'm asking for something. I'm not asking God, I'm not asking the Virgin, I'm not asking any saint no matter how good he is at finding lost things. Maggie, I'm asking you. Give me something clear."

The breeze had quieted to nothing and the faint sound of rails came again. Everett turned toward it again and stood. He glanced once to Maggie with one eye bigger than the other, then went up the gentle slope. The train went along, a silent intruder from out there, carrying across the distant hillside.

Everett ratcheted the film and raised his camera a brief moment. He moved among the stones, following along, never taking his eyes from the distance. Any sound from afar was lost to the breeze. He hurried.

The engine disappeared, a streak of yellow diving out of sight where folds in the earth came together, and the end of the train came following after, its red tail moving across the slope, headed toward that cut in the hills.

Everett was running hard, gravestones moving past like slow highway dashes. He cut between the lanes and ran another row, his eyes now going between his footing and the train headed out. Atop the small hill where the stones rounded the rise, Everett stood and squinted against the breeze, breathing heavy, his steps slowing. He glanced back, the slope now dimmed in evening, patterned with carved stones, and he could not distinguish one from the other.

He put the camera to one eye, but the train had escaped.

He stood looking out.

The world spread rounded before him, where towns hid in the blurred curve of the earth. In the distance it lay clear and reflecting where roads streaked the flats and ribboned the rises.

XXXII

The narrow alley was packed. People were parking in the gravel on both sides and walking far. The wine shoppe was lit up and the door propped open. Smiling faces moved by in the opening.

Claire went around between customers, climbing atop a stepstool for the bottles on the top shelves. Her hair was done up in tangles that fell as the night went on and her blouse waved as she hurried about.

Each customer through the door she greeted and took their coats, offered them a sweet white wine to start the night, before sending them along to sign the guestbook and sample the fresa, the barbera, and the dry capri.

Throughout the night her eyes kept going to the door, and every time it filled she'd look twice at the faces that brightened in the winecolored lights. She stepped out for air when she could. The alley remained busy, people walked to and from their cars, but there was no movement behind the studio windows and that door remained shut.

"Where does someone start with wines?"

Claire turned. He was young man with a big voice. One hand he had going from one bottle to the next on the rack. He looked at Claire and smiled, revealing creases in his cheek and maturing crow's feet.

"I mean, how does someone choose one from another?"

"What sort of wines do you prefer?"

He covered his chin in thought, then shrugged. "That's what I mean. I have no idea. I'm afraid I'm a beginner."

"Well, that's all right. It's my job to steer you in the right direction."

She asked him why he wanted to try wines, what type of occasions he'd be popping the corks for, what seasons, what sort of flavors he was looking to try. She pulled a few wines to try, some from the lower racks and one from up high, and when she couldn't quite reach the man stepped in over her. They both held the bottle an instant before Claire let go.

"You're name is Claire."

"Yes, that's me."

"Congratulations. On all of this, I mean. Your grand opening. I saw your picture in the paper."

"Thank you very much. It's a lot more people than I thought."

"No, I knew it'd be crowded." His eyes remained fixed and did not flinch. "I knew I'd have to work to get your attention."

Someone interrupted with a question. When Claire finished helping, she saw the basket of display wines at the front was getting low. She took the missing flavors from a corner shelf and reassembled them in the basket. The man was right there again.

"When people are buying up your displays you know you're doing something right."

"I didn't see you there. Yes, I can't complain. How about you? Did you decide on a wine? I have more to sample."

"I was wondering if you'd be open to dinner sometime."

"Oh."

"I'd let you choose the wine, of course."

"That's so nice of you."

"All right, who am I kidding? I'd rely on you for the wine. You could teach me a few things."

"It is nice, but I'm just so busy right now. With the business and tonight and everything."

"It'll be good for you. A break from the stress."

As the night carried on, the man watched silently from across the room, leaning on a pillar with his glass in hand. When his drink got low he refilled it himself. He came back to her repeatedly. Before she could excuse herself the man would pick up with another question, and Claire had to smile and carry on where they had left off, glancing all the while at the door.

The only way Claire could break away was by calling the attention of the room, something she had not planned and made her blush, standing on a stepstool and thanking everyone for coming out, and popping another cork for samples. She then busied herself filling as many glasses as she could, and by the time she finished the man must have grown weary of waiting and left.

She glanced around, searching about the room, cautious not to catch eye contact if he was still there. At last she exhaled and carried about her customers with a relieved smile. Her laugh returned as she became comfortable again, and from time to time she looked to the door, but it remained empty.

It was late when the room cleared out and Claire said goodnight to her final guest. Headlights dragged through the window. Flyers and random napkins littered the floor, wet rings on the tabletops, empty glasses scattered about.

She stood among the leavings. A clock ticked from another room. Claire smiled and whirled. Paper napkins lifted and fell at her feet.

"Is the party over?"

Claire turned to face the door. Her smile fell and she took a step back. A figure stood there, his voice had roughened since the party, and the man's face was hard.

XXXIII

Everett came back along that broken pavement later that night, moonlit and gravelstrewn. The campseat was tucked under his arm and his hands were in his pockets, his head was down, bobbing with his steps. He stopped. The lights in the wine shoppe were on and the door was open. Claire always had a light on upstairs late, the girl did not know how to end a workday on time, but the downstairs was always dark at this hour, and her door was always closed.

In the little window a shadow moved against the wall. A bigger shadow followed and a glass shattered inside.

Everett tossed the campseat aside and went into a run. He jumped the three stairs under the shoppe sign and put his shoulder into the door. The two faces inside turned to him.

"Everett," Claire said. She looked ready to cry. She was holding the man at bay with a broomstick. Broken glass littered the floor. "Everett, please."

The man now had the red angry face of a drinker, but his eyes were steady and he moved easily, fluidly. He turned his shoulders square to Everett.

"It's not what you think."

"Everett." She had marks on her wrist and her sleeve was torn.

Everett went in with fists raised. The man grabbed a wine bottle by the neck and swung it head level. Everett ducked with a movement so slight and controlled the bottle missed by less than an inch. He hit the man twice with barely time to blink between the right and the left, and the man flailed a hold of the counter, his arm clearing the empty wineglasses to the floor in one sweep, the bottle shattering and wetting his feet. Claire backed against the wall, her hand at her chest.

The man gathered himself and put his hand across his mouth, gripping his jaw. He stood a moment studying the situation and his opponent, then he reached for another bottle and his eyes went wide and his teeth showed and Everett went in again.

His fists went without him directing them, as if on their own. His body moved under instinct. All there was to see was over quickly, finished before it could start. A flash of knuckles and hard packing sounds. It was the left hook that put the man to sleep, the same one Everett discovered in his first fight as an enlisted man, fresh in the barracks and with little training, but a natural way with his hands. Everett sent the man heels over the table, where he didn't move from where he'd landed, a heap on the tile.

Everett gathered Claire up before the man even hit the ground. As he carried her across the street cradled against him, Claire told him with tears on her face, "You might have killed him."

"Stay here," Everett wrapped her in a blanket all the way in the back room on his cot and started dialing the phone. "He'll live, I just hit his switch. Are you hurt?"

She held the blanket together. "Just scared."

"He's not walking anywhere anytime soon. Do you know him?"

"Just met him tonight."

Soon the red and blue lights filled the alley, and Everett gave them the story. They had the man in arms, his feet dragging and his face already swollen. They had to help the man into the back of the cruiser, as he didn't know if he was getting in or getting out.

Claire was still in the same spot when Everett came hurrying back, though her eyes were cleared and she was looking around.

"You sure you're okay?" He sat beside her and held her with one arm around. "I'll put some tea on."

They sat the night on the couch and she fell asleep with her head resting on his shoulder and her knees drawn up. Everett stayed up with his arms around her.

XXXIV

She had him check all the rooms in the daylight and they stood together in the wine room among the things that were left out.

"Quite a night, I take it."

"My God, yes," Claire said.

"I'm sorry I missed it."

"Don't worry about it."

"It wasn't that I..."

"Everett."

He looked at her.

"You came at exactly the right time," she said. "Thank you."

She sat at the table, Everett's blanket still on her shoulders. She flipped through her guestbook. "I don't know how many people it was. I have pages and pages of new customers."

"Big turnout?"

Claire looked up from the signatures. Her expression was one of relief. She exhaled in a smile. "I have a business."

"What did I say? In droves, I told you."

She dropped her arms. "Thank you."

He began gathering glasses.

"Don't clean up." She walked exhausted to the table with the guestbook, one hand at her forehead. "I'm not touching anything until tomorrow." She stared. "I can't believe how many people came."

Everett collected the glasses into one area of the table, watching her, exhausted with her head in one hand. "I'm proud of you."

Claire looked up. "What?"

He cleared his throat. "You should be proud of yourself."

In the silence he looked away, then patted his pockets like he'd forgotten something. "Well," he said. "I'll come back later and sweep the floor and...you should get some sleep. If you need anything..."

He pointed through the door. As he passed she reached out. "I mean it, Everett. Thank you."

Looking across his shoulder at her, he gave a grin. "I mean it too," he said. "I'm proud of you."

XXXV

It took a few days for Claire to sleep soundly and not sit up at every creak in her windows and floors. The stress wore her down and gave her a cold and all the aches along with it.

Cars came down the gravel alley at regular intervals. They no longer hesitated and drivers no longer searched in the windshield. Everett stood at his window as cars took turns parked in front of the wine shoppe and the people entered the rounded door slowly, blinking around as if walking through some enchanted looking-glass.

Claire saw each customer to the door as they left, and she walked the elderly to their cars carrying their wines. She stood in the street and waved with one arm crossed and her head in her mother's shawl. She sent little glances to the studio as she made her way back inside. Everett watched from deep behind his window. Claire had her arms folded against a chill, though the weather was warming. The door moved shut behind her. She had to open and close it again to get it to shut right.

The days were longer, the birds began to sing early again, and along the cracks in the road and from between the stones on the walls crawled secret flowers.

Everett crossed the alley carrying a rattling saucer and bowl of soup.

XXXVI

Everett turned from his coffee. The rumble from the street grew louder, clear chugs from an old engine. Everett stood in his studio doorway, listening from inside, and sipped his mug as the rumble idled a moment outside, then cut out entirely. Creaky hinges sounded then a solid metal door closed. The bell above the studio door dinged and Duke came in.

"Mornin," Everett said. "How's the Time Machine?"

Duke tossed the key and Everett caught it against his chest. He set his coffee down. It was still the same key, the one he'd turned a thousand times before. The key that cranked his own sense of adventure and freedom. He looked up.

"Here, take it," Duke said, waving his hand. He grinned. "We both know I'm not goin nowhere."

It sat in the gravel with the sun on it, this chromed vintage rider with memories ticked off in miles.

Everett sat in the driver's seat and eased the door closed. The leather was cool and creaked beneath him. He put both hands on the steering wheel, the air crisp on his scalp with the top pulled back and windows down.

"They don't make seats as comfortable anymore," Duke said at the window. He pointed. "I have some driving goggles in the glovebox."

Everett adjusted the mirrors.

"Never worn," Duke said.

"They might stay that way."

"Where you goin to first?"

"I don't know. I might take it to the end of the street and see what's around the corner."

"With all that pavement to cover and strangers to see. No, Everett," Duke said. "You take it as far as it'll go and start there."

He gave the top of the door a final pat, and put his lips to the hood, leaving a fog drying on the gloss. Duke went off down the gravel, his dark figure waving in the sunrise.

Everett sat awhile, pressing in old buttons and spinning knobs that did not stop. He turned the key. That old classic trembled full of mischief beneath him, a time-machine with a full tank, and he gripped the steering. He touched the gas a couple times and a great smile emerged from deep within.

"Where are you going?"

The engine idled down and Everett glanced around. Claire was in the mousedoor, arms crossed against the morning. She called again. "Where are you going, driver?"

He pointed through the windshield. "That way."

Claire came off the doorjamb. "That car fits you. You look like you belong behind the wheel."

Everett leaned away over the passenger side and pulled the lever for the door and gave it a shove open. She stood at the driver's door, and when her voice came it was soft.

"Where are you going, Everett?"

"Wherever you want."

"I want it here. I'm still chasing my dream."

He gestured past her with a thumb. She smiled as though she could read his mind. As if all they needed was the winding road and the different colored sunglasses on the dash, a bottle of wine and an old camera in a basket between them.

"You found yours," Everett said. "It unlocks at eight every morning. Put a sign on the door and come help an old man dream again."

Thank you for reading,  
If you've ever wanted to write fiction...  
If you have always wished to write stories...

I would like to show you how to write your Great Novel

### "This was what I needed...this was what I've been looking for - literally for years. You've given answers to questions I didn't even know existed (and I am a published author). Thank you so very much. This course will be my launch pad to producing meaningful literature. I am thrilled to death." ~ Pamela Hill

### It's never too late. Go here to get started:  
https://gumroad.com/l/storyrocket
