

## LAMB OF GOD

a psychological, family drama

Paul Dueweke

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting my hard work.

Copyright ©2016 by Paul Dueweke

Electronically published by Smashwords

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PROLOGUE

My mother designated me the general in her struggle against Satan, a war she inherited from her mother. She trained me and prayed for me to someday lead men in this holy cause. I failed her.

My brother, Joe, was Strength. He wasn't the chosen twin, but he was the real soldier—and playing my role for me cost him his life. Our little sister, Susie, was Innocence, the glue that held our young trio together. Mother and Father played their roles exceptionally well. My father was Treachery, a crusher of wills—and bones. Mother was Comfort, the cunning confidant. Her treachery exceeded even my father's, but subtlety wove through it, softened it. Then there was Grandpa, my wonderful grandfather. He was Love. But he had neither the strength nor the resolve to save us from our parents.

I alone had no real role—except Survivor. First, Innocence was borne away in conspiracy, destroying our vital trio. Then Strength was crushed by the fears of a father and the weakness of a twin. But weakness bends and survives long after strength has broken.

* * *

One by one, glass panels of the elevator flashed by and disappeared beneath me. As I rose in Detroit's tallest skyscraper, I watched the city transform from urban decay at the ground level to a vast world of twinkling lights that seemed to merge with the real stars above. My eyes swept a cityscape they hadn't seen for half a century as it slowly mellowed below me.

When my gaze happened upon its own reflection, it halted. Had I never looked into a mirror before? How then could I have overlooked the resemblance? Grandpa stared back at me. My eyes, fogged by a lifetime of guilt, showed glimmers of Grandpa's playfulness. A life of washing windows had seasoned his face and weathered his lips that now whispered to me. I once more felt his stubble beard scratch my tender face and felt his "tangle finger" and the bronzed neck we gripped like a life ring.

My thoughts leapt back fifty years. We were here in Detroit in 1943, in an elevator—Grandpa, Susie, Joe, and I. It was Grandpa's elevator ride. As another glass panel flashed by, I heard him say, "I wouldn't have no cause to go in an elevator. They don't have windows that need cleaning, right?" The corners of my mouth briefly turned up to meet his.

Then I looked at my hands. They showed the normal burden of age, but not the furrows and canyons that Grandpa's always had. But the veins—they flowed together between the first and second knuckle just like on his hands. I remembered tracing those veins with my young fingers as we listened to his stories. He sometimes told us about pilots, although he'd never flown and had probably never been closer to an airplane than when they flew over him as he washed windows all over the city. His hero was Colonel Lindbergh, and we knew the story of that Atlantic crossing long before we could recite the alphabet.

Grandpa believed that flying was the most magical thing a person could do. If he'd lived to see astronauts, they would have been angels to him, not bound by the physics of men and ladders. He spent much of his life either on a ladder or driving his wagon behind Pal, whose reins draped over his palms as a world of motors challenged them. Daydreams probably filled his mind as he washed away a mighty city's grime. He would tell us about his days and his dreams when we converged on him, submerging him with questions and begging for stories.

* * *

It was August, 1943. My twin, Joe, and I were nine and Susie was six. It was our happiest summer. Grandpa told us once more about the famous thirty-three-hour flight that changed the world.

"Would you like to fly an airplane, Grandpa?" Susie asked.

"Oh, now, Susie, that's something I couldn't even dream of. You know I'm just an old window-washing man. Takes a whole lot of training to be one of them pilots. I don't think the good Lord meant for me to get any higher off the ground than just the top of my ladder. But sometimes I get up there to a third-story window, and I look up and see one of them airplanes going over, and, you know, I can feel myself flying. That's plenty good enough for an old joker like me."

"Grandpa," Joe said. "I saw this ad in a magazine, and it had a cartoon about a guy showing a lady how easy it is to learn how to fly this little airplane. I forget what kind, but—"

"A s-s-single engine Piper Cub," I said.

"Anyway," Joe continued, "this guy said all you need is about an hour of practice, and you could fly one yourself."

"It takes e-eight hours of ground and flying instruction before you can s-solo," I corrected.

"I'm the one that saw the ad, Mike. How do you know so darn much about something you didn't even see?"

"The ad was in _L-Life_ a couple weeks ago," I said. "You aren't the only one around h-h-h—around here who knows how to read, you know."

"Anyway," Joe said, glaring at me, "it says if you learn to fly this little plane—maybe it was a Piper Cub—but you could join the Army Air Corps. And then you'd be a Thunderbolt pilot in a month."

I shook my head but didn't try to butt in again.

"And they really need them for killing Japs." Joe stood up and blasted me with all eight .50-caliber wing-guns. "That's what I want to do, Grandpa. Think this war will still be going on when I'm old enough? Sure hope so."

Grandpa's smile faded and he looked at the floor for a minute. "You know, they make some of them big airplanes right around here somewheres. Maybe Ford."

"But Ford makes cars," Joe said.

"Not any more." I couldn't keep quiet any longer. "They used to make c-cars. Ever hear of World War Two?"

"And I hear Colonel Lindbergh hisself actually works there," Grandpa said. "Sort of makes sure they're making them planes just so."

"I think they're B-24s, Grandpa," I said.

Susie pushed away from Grandpa and flew in a circle around us with her wings out straight and her engine at full throttle. She executed a perfect landing back into Grandpa's lap. "There, you see, Grandpa? Even I can fly!"

"You sure can, Susie. But you're a right piece smarter that your Grandpa."

"Hey, Grandpa, I-I've got a great idea. You can go up almost as high as an a-a-a—"

"Grandpa!" Susie shouted. "Help me take off again!"

"Now, Susie," Grandpa said, "you just wait your turn. Mike has something to tell us. Go ahead, Mike."

"Well, Grandpa, you could go up almost as high as an airplane if you ride up an...." My eyes squinted shut as I struggled. "... elevator. It's not e-e-exactly like flying, but it gets you way up in the sky just like an airplane."

"Now that's real smart," Joe said. "Standing in a box up in a building is just like flying, huh?"

"I didn't say it was j-j-just like flying, but it's kind of like it. You can feel the elevator push you down when you take off and push you u-up when you stop, right? And if you close your eyes, you can imagine you're in an airplane doing all kinds of ma-ma-maneuvers. It's probably closer to flying than Grandpa ever did before."

"What we gonna do up there, Mike?" Susie asked. "You say manures or something?"

"Ma-maneuvers, Susie. It means tricks."

"Then why didn't you just say tricks," Joe said, "instead of making up some fancy-sounding word?"

"Because maneuvers is what the pilots say when they mean making b-banks and loops and dives and stuff. Remember when we read that story about J-Jimmy Doolittle in reading class, and he was teaching his pilots how to do maneuvers?"

"No, I don't remember, Mr. Smarty. Don't remember anything about any Doolittle guy. I think you made the whole thing up."

I wagged my head that my brother could be so stupid. "Remember the B-25s? How they bombed T-Tokyo?"

"Yeah. They took off from an aircraft carrier—"

"The _Hornet_."

"And bombed the heck out of Japan," he continued. "And then flew to China."

"Well, that was Jimmy Doolittle."

"How was I supposed to know that? Our book didn't—"

Grandpa interrupted our quarrel. "You know, maybe Mike has something with that elevator thing. Maybe an elevator ride _would_ be like an airplane, or maybe like one of them rockets! But I wouldn't have no cause to go in an elevator. They don't have windows that need cleaning, right? So I wouldn't have no cause to be there."

"But Grandpa, you don't have to just go places where you wash windows," Susie said. "They've got all these big skyscrapers downtown. And we can show you 'cause we know where they are and what bus to take and everything."

I shook my head to Susie and mouthed the word _no_ over and over. Joe interrupted me. "It's okay, Mike. Grandpa can know about our trips downtown. He won't tell anybody. You wouldn't tell Mom or Dad, would you Grandpa? We sometimes sneak on the streetcar and go downtown."

Susie threw her arms around Grandpa's neck. "Please don't tell, Grandpa! Please! Dad might lock us up or something."

"I'll say," Joe said. "After he beat us with a chain." Then Joe threw a smirking glance at me. "At least _some_ of us."

I retreated into silence.

"You mean you little kids go downtown all by yourselves? But you don't even have any money. Don't it cost to ride streetcars?"

I eagerly shook my head yes and then no and started to reply, but Susie beat me to it. "We'll show you, Grandpa," she said. "We'll show you how to do it for free!"

Joe's interest started to come alive as the adventure mounted.

The next morning, we showed Grandpa our trick of sneaking through the back door of the streetcar when the driver was busy checking fares at the crowded Grand Boulevard stop. He scolded us for our dishonesty, then grinned as we showed him how to hang on when the streetcar took off.

Before long, the four of us stood on Woodward Avenue looking up at the tallest building in Detroit. We couldn't imagine how any building anywhere could be taller.

"Okay," Joe said as we approached the front door. "All we have to do is act natural, and when the elevator guy asks, Grandpa, you just say forty-five. Got it? He won't argue with you because you're an adult."

"But what if he a-asks us where we're going? Grandpa can't just s-say he's going on an airplane ride. You thought about that?"

"Don't worry so much, Mike," said Joe. "All you got to do is get on and tell him what floor you want. That guy doesn't care why you're going there."

We walked up Fort Street with what seemed like half the population of the country. The wartime bustle of downtown Detroit was crushing and magnificent. But it did not compare to the great stone archway with the polished brass letters a foot tall reading: PENOBSCOT BUILDING. People hurried past us entering and leaving the building. Others shouted for taxis or ran to catch the Woodward Number Ten.

I was the first to spot the sign we didn't expect: US ARMY WAR MATERIEL COMMAND CENTER — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

"I wonder what that means," Grandpa said.

"It means we c-can't go in there, Grandpa, It's an Army place, probably full of secrets. They have to make sure that spies d-d-d—"

"But we aren't spies, Mike," Susie said. "Who ever heard of a third-grade spy, anyway?"

"But they don't know that," I said. "We could have been smuggled in on a U-boat right from G-Germany. Grandpa could be in the SS. They can't be too c-careful."

"Look, kids," Grandpa said. "Maybe this elevator ride thing ain't such a good idea after all. Maybe we should head back home. You know, I'm pretty happy just being up on top of my ladder. I don't need no fancy elevator ride." He tried to usher us away from the building entrance, but Joe stalled.

"No! It's just not right!" he said. "Grandpa's not a spy! He's a loyal American! And all he wants is one little ride on their elevator! I'm going to find out about this right now!"

Before anyone could stop him, he walked right up to the revolving door and marched inside. He couldn't have gone ten steps inside when we saw him dash back out through the same door.

He charged past and said, "Let's get out of here, you guys!"

We followed him as fast as we could. After about a half block, Grandpa tugged him to a stop.

"Joe! Joe!" Susie shouted. "What happened in there?"

"Jeez! You should've seen it in there." Joe looked back toward the entrance. "Is anybody coming?"

We all looked back and saw nothing unusual.

"There were all these army guys with helmets and rifles and bayonets! And this one really big guy had this rifle that was twice as big as the others, and he just looked at me when I got through the doors. I stood there and this one guy said, 'Looks like another spy, Captain.' And you saw what happened then. I about knocked over this one lady trying to get back through the door."

"Wow!" Susie shouted. "My brother's a spy!"

"Quiet, Susie! You want to get us all a-a-arrested? I knew this wasn't a good idea."

"What?" Joe said. "What the heck are you talking about? This was your idea! Did you just forget that?"

"Okay," Grandpa said. "This looks like it wasn't one of your best ideas, Mike, so I guess we just ought to go home now."

We stood in a circle, disappointment bonding us to that spot, waiting for someone to make a move. Finally, Joe broke the silence. "That was just bad luck. We picked the wrong place. That's all. There's still lots of skyscrapers around. And with elevators, too. And I bet there won't be any soldiers. Least not at all of them. They're here 'cause they made this into a fort or something. Let's just find another place."

Joe looked at me. I shifted my eyes to the sidewalk. He turned his head toward the crowds at the Penobscot Building entrance. "Grandpa won't ever get his ride if we don't do it today."

"Look, Joe," Grandpa said. "Maybe we should wait 'til after the war and then go for our ride."

"No, Grandpa. It's real important. We should do it now. Or we might never do it."

"Come on, Grandpa!" Susie said as she tugged on him. "Let's find an elevator."

I looked from Susie to Grandpa and nodded yes.

After a while of walking and regaining our courage, we stopped in front of a likely candidate. Carved in stone beside the entrance, it simply said: Dime Building. We looked up and judged it high enough for our purposes, and not a soldier in sight. We entered the marble lobby and saw an elevator open and waiting.

"Look. There's n-nobody running it like at Hudson's."

We watched a man walk in, push a button, and wait as the door jerked closed. The dial over the door reached eighteen and stopped. Another elevator door opened and several people walked out. Joe pulled Grandpa toward it. "Come on! This is our chance!" We followed. "Come on! Before somebody else comes."

"Look at all the buttons," Susie said. "What's the right one?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Well, we've got to push one," Joe said

"It's your r-ride, Grandpa," I said.

"So I should push the button, huh?" His hand reached for twenty-two at the very top, and pressed it. The doors closed halfway, hesitated, and then clunked shut. Grandpa blinked and forced a smile. "Here we go, kids. Your Grandpa's first airplane ride."

He squeezed Susie's hand. The elevator started with a lurch, and we all steadied ourselves against a handrail. Once under way, the ride was smooth. We gently swayed to the song of the cables overhead.

"What if the elevator doesn't stop at the top?" Susie said. "What if it's going so fast it just shoots right out the top? Then what?"

"It couldn't do that," Joe said. "It couldn't, could it Mike? I mean if it's going too fast, and maybe it can't stop on time at the top. What would happen then?"

"I don't think it could shoot out the top, but maybe it could b-break the stuff up there that holds it up."

Just then, a loud clank scared us and our hands grasped for something. The elevator slowed and bumped to a stop, but the doors didn't open. Grandpa's eyes opened as I said, "You know what's u-u-under us right now?"

"Don't be stupid," Joe said. "This elevator has a real strong floor."

"Maybe, but just think about what's under us—this floor and a h-h-hole twenty-two stories deep."

"Mike," said Susie. "This floor is real strong. Look!" With that, she jumped and shook the elevator.

Three voices shouted, "Susie!"

Then the elevator lurched and stopped once more, and the doors squeaked open. We stepped out, relieved at the feel of stone under foot.

Many offices lined the hallway. Each was hidden by a door, but the door windows were like those bathroom windows that only let you see shapes. One door was open, and it was a very small room with about a dozen school desks and a table in the front.

"Is this some kind of high-up school we're in?" Grandpa asked.

"Could be, Grandpa," I said. "M-Maybe we ought to get out of here."

"Well, maybe we shouldn't run off quite so quick," Grandpa said. "I don't suppose this here teacher would care if we just took a look out his window. Since we're here, anyway."

That was Joe's cue. "I think we should. We haven't been up this high before, not even at Hudson's." He led us into the room. We approached the lone window slowly. After our nerves steadied, we crowded around the window. What a spectacular view.

"I bet you can see a thousand miles," Susie said.

"Farther than that," added Joe.

"C-Can we see our house?"

"Which way is our house from here, Grandpa?" Joe asked.

"Huh? Oh, I don't know, Joe."

I noticed Grandpa looking at the window and I poked Susie.

"What you looking at, Grandpa?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing much. But I was just thinking that the feller that washed these windows done a real good job. He must of used a squeegee 'cause there ain't no lint anywhere on the glass. And he didn't leave no dirty water marks on the sill, in fact the whole sash is clean as a whistle. He's a real particular window washer. Takes a lot of pride in his work. You got to have a lot of pride. Yup, a lot of pride. When you got as many windows as in this here building, you got to have a lot of pride in your work to do this good of a job."

We kids looked at each other and then at Grandpa as he ran his hand over the clean white sill and then looked straight down to the street below. He lifted his head and inspected each corner of the window. His mouth curled upward as he shook his head and mumbled, "Pretty good job. I wonder how he did it way up here without killing hisself."

Joe's foot touched mine. I looked at him and he at me. In that look we told each other that we understood Grandpa in a way that we never had before.

Once home again, we didn't share our adventure with anyone else. It was our secret for the short time that remained for us to be together. When we later relived that day with Grandpa, he said he admired that unknown man who could keep all those windows so spotless way out of the reach of ladders. Maybe he saw that mystical window washer as somehow related to the pilots of his daydreams.

* * *

Grandpa and I were a maze of opposites. His simplicity, maybe aided by fantasies, bore him above a defective world where those defects could not overwhelm him. He daily climbed his ladder and washed life's windows with easy strokes. He did it so naturally, and he did it with pride.

I tried to climb the ladder my mother, the Old Testament zealot, erected for me to fulfill some failed mission she had inherited from her mother, Grandpa's bride. But I never made it past the first rung in spite of all the coaxing from my mother. Why did Grandpa never warn me about that? Did he even recognize the damaging force of her crusade, a force that could ultimately destroy his grandchildren? How could he not? As an adult, I see a naivety in my grandfather than I could not see as a child.

The essential thing I inherited from him was the one thing that prevented me from saving my strong twin and my innocent sister. It was his weakness. My misfortune has been that I inherited his weakness, but never acquired his vital ability to love.

Had I loved Joe, I could have found some way to save him when his strength was spent. Had I loved my mother, I could have forgiven her for loving me more than Joe—or for hating me less. Had I loved Susie, I would not have befriended her greatest enemies, her parents. I was blessed with intelligence, but lacked the dedication supplied by love.

In the end, you'll return to Detroit with me to help me finally conquer that weakness, a frailty that held me in chains for so long. It might seem like a small victory for most men. But if only I'd been lucky enough to face the trials of most men.

My story abounds with the adventures of kids growing up in the world's mightiest city, a city at war with half the world. But there was another war, not fought with B-29s and Sherman tanks, but with the lives of children held hostage. You'll face the rage of a father frustrated by a lifetime of failure. You'll suffer the sweet kisses and toxic lessons of a mother trying to fulfill Old Testament prophecies. But there were others crucial to those early years, others who tried to teach me love after that lonely escape from my war in Detroit. And you will know Grandpa as I knew him.

My story is sometimes funny, sometimes sad—but always as I remember it. I can promise no more than that.
PART ONE

ONE

Donnie slept in the bed behind me as I looked out the upstairs window of this old farmhouse, my new home. I rested my elbows on the low sill, which was already beginning to warm in the morning sun. The scene before me was wonderful, and frightening—so different from the first twelve years of my life. If only I could share this place with Joe.

A swallow went down hard as an image of Joe raced into my thoughts. He would help me figure this out—if he were here, if he could ever be with me again. I hugged him, then chased him out of my mind. He could never help me again. I had to forget. He wasn't real anymore.

But this place was real, and it was really me kneeling on these worn planks. Just yesterday, in another world, I had dreamed of a better place. But this new home was even beyond what I could have imagined. The window in my old world of Detroit stared out through a web of telephone wires at a rat-infested cinder alley lined with leaking, reeking garbage cans.

This morning, I missed the sound and smell of Detroit. Doves replaced diesels; crowing roosters replaced screeching streetcars. In the distance, a tiny tractor pulled slowly across an endless maze of green and brown stripes, followed by a dust cloud that couldn't quite catch up.

Uncle Johnny was already at work in the yard. He whistled and sang while he struggled one of the giant wheels off the faded red International Harvester tractor. He wasn't very tall and seemed even smaller as he rolled a giant lugged wheel toward the barn.

He was singing, and a few of the words reached my ears—something about a _June field_. Later, I learned from him that the song was about a _jeune fille_ , a young girl in a land even farther away than Detroit.

The weather vane on the roof of the barn pointed northeast. During the next two years, I would see it point every possible direction. The giant black barn doors stood open, framed against the dull red of the barn. Every other barn around was red with white doors. Uncle Johnny liked black doors. On one end of the barn, just visible by stretching to see past the maple tree in the yard, was a fading Mail Pouch Tobacco billboard.

The deep breathing behind me had now stopped, and a voice interrupted my thoughts, "What's so interesting out there?"

"Nothing," I replied, moving only my mouth.

"Well, if it's nothing, how come you can't take your eyes off it?"

"Just looking around."

"Okay. Wake me up for the Fourth of July. I don't want to miss the fireworks." Donnie yawned at me as he rolled over.

I studied the yard again, taking in one sight, then meeting the next, always comparing, never really trusting. At any minute, they could take me back to that other world, the real world. Everything here was so different. At least yesterday I understood my world.

To Donnie, burrowed in the bed, this was all ordinary. It would never be ordinary to me.

My eyes scanned the room. It could have been anywhere. But who was this new boy? My new brother. I slept with him last night, like I used to sleep with Joe.

I dressed and crossed the creaky planks to the hallway, then went down the steep steps, deeply worn from a million feet before me. Stopping at the bottom, I listened through the door between the dining room and me. There were two voices in the kitchen, but I could make out only a few words. It was Aunt Rachel and Margaret.

I pushed the door silently until it squeaked about half way open. Aunt Rae turned and looked through the dining room at me. Margo was around the corner in the kitchen out of site. She stopped in mid sentence.

"I thought maybe you two were going to spend the whole summer in bed," Aunt Rae said. "Is Donnie up? I thought I heard his voice. Did he say something about the Fourth of July?"

"Yes," I said to the floor. "He just said to make sure we wake him up for the Fourth of July."

"He's so lazy, Aunt Rae," Margo's voice rounded the corner. "Gets worse all the time, too. Why do I have to have the most worthless brother on earth?"

"Well, I don't think he has to worry about sleeping through the 4th," Aunt Rae said with a chuckle. "He's got a lot of miles of beans to hoe before then. I don't suppose he said anything to you about that."

"No," I replied.

"Probably just forgot about that," came the voice from the hidden Margo. "That boy only has a half a brain during the school year. And in the summer, his brain is...." Margo paused as Aunt Rae cut some strips of pie dough. "Mush, just mush. It embarrasses me for other kids to know we're related. Sometimes I just—"

"That's okay, Margo. You just make sure none of those cherry pits get through," Aunt Rae said. "Nobody likes to chomp down on hard-rock cherry pie." Aunt Rae walked to the door I held by the knob, pointed her head up the stairs, and said, "Donnie! Donnie!"

"Huh," came the muffled reply.

"Could we please have your presence down here this morning?"

I crossed the dining room to the bathroom and locked myself inside. When I reappeared and stepped to the kitchen doorway, Aunt Rae was just laying down the last strip of crust across the top of the second cherry pie. Margo looked on with pride and glanced at me as I entered the kitchen. Aunt Rae didn't look up from her task as I entered but asked, "Did you wash your hands, Mike?"

I looked at my hands in silence and then at her floured hands and replied, "No."

Margo turned away and looked out the window at a field of green wheat just after rolling her eyes.

"We have a rule here, Mike, that you wash your hands every time you use the bathroom," Aunt Rae said softly and with clear eye contact.

I put my hands in my pockets and looked down at my feet against the creamy linoleum floor. Aunt Rae turned back to her work and separated two strips that had gotten tangled. In the process, some flour broke loose from the edge of the pie pan and drifted toward the floor, seeming to evaporate before reaching it. Margo continued to watch the wheat field grow. I slowly turned back toward the bathroom after a long silence.

Aunt Rae followed me, wiping her hands on her apron, turning a brilliant red rose to a gentle pink. At the bathroom door she touched my shoulder and whispered, "Please use lots of soap, and don't spare the elbow grease. And comb your hair. And, Mike, do you have a toothbrush?"

I stared into the bathroom where the white sink stood on two chrome pedestals. Above the sink near the silent pansied curtain, four toothbrushes stood at attention, held in a circle by white ceramic. I shook my head.

"Don't worry about it. We'll get you one when we go into town today." Her hand left some flour on my shoulder as she returned toward her cherry pies. I looked at the faint white smudge on the blue stripe of my tee shirt. It looked like a smile. Then my eyes followed Aunt Rae back to the kitchen. She passed through a gleaming white doorway, past a white refrigerator that mirrored the morning sun toward me, and stopped at a white sink with bright red flowers behind it on the windowsill. I looked at yesterday's dirt on my hands and went back to the bathroom sink.

TWO

Burton was laid out neatly along a short stretch of Highway M-82. Its business district was bounded on the west by Short's Elevator and Fertilizer at the railroad crossing and on the other end by the new Mortensen's Mortuary with its white columns against a red-brick front. A black, iron clock marked the center of town where Boreman Road stopped for the state highway.

Catty-corner from the clock was Neil's Tavern with its old, raised boardwalk wrapping around two sides of it. Only Jack's next store to Neil's and the Sturgis Hotel and Parlor a block away, retained the nearly extinct boardwalks. The Depression and World War II had brought change even to Burton. The streets downtown had been paved, but the Sturgis kept two hitching posts, one on each side of its front steps.

Aunt Rae parked her black '46 Mercury diagonally in front of Schoensy's Market. That Mercury was the most splendid car I'd ever sat in, and it still even smelled new. The gray tweed upholstery was spotless and soft under my touch. It reminded me of the soft velvet seat I sat in on the only time I ever went to one of the big theaters downtown. Some lady, I don't even remember who, took me to the Fox Theater. That was VE Day. It was the day we buried my brother.

She bought me candy and popcorn, and I don't remember what movie we saw. But the seat was red velvet. Joe's coffin was lined in red velvet. I wanted to touch it, but I didn't. It didn't seem right to me then. Now I wished I had that touch to remember him by. All I remember is the color—and a million people singing and dancing in the streets about the end of the war in Europe.

This seat wasn't the same color and didn't feel exactly like the theater seat, but it was somehow the same. That seemed so long ago, yet it shouted at me now. Those people in my old life in Detroit were always with me. They owned me. They would always own me.

But I wanted the world of Mercuries, red barns, and flour smiles to own me. I wanted Aunt Rae and Uncle Johnny to own me—and the white kitchen with the red flowers, and this soft back seat with the new smell. But I knew that would never happen. These new owners wouldn't last. They would end up like Mom, Dad, Grandpa, and Susie—and Joe. Gone.

But I owned this back seat right now, and wasn't going to take a chance that it might disappear like everything always had before. It could happen any time. I had to keep a grip on my new owners—and this wonderful back seat. This was the decision I'd made during the drive into Burton.

The only time I'd ever even been close to such a fantastic car was when I was five years old. Someone visited us, and he had a brand new 1939 Packard. I was so thrilled by the way it gleaming in the sun that I ran up to it and put both hands on one of the chrome headlights that rose out of that sleek black fender.

My father yelled, "Get away from that car!" and knocked me into the street. I lay there for a long time, afraid to get up. Then I ran to my mother on the front porch.

Joe made an even bigger mistake. He opened the front door, climbed inside, and sat behind the wheel, gripping it with both hands and making motor noises while stretching his neck to see. My father stormed at him and wrenched him through the open window. The simple blow I had received was just a warm-up. All the while he beat Joe, he shouted about consideration for other people's property. Mom and I watched from the front porch. She held me so tight I could hardly breathe.

"That's what he gets," she whispered. "That's what he gets for his evil ways. The boy Jesus would never do that. And I know you're just like Jesus." She kissed my temple as I shut my eyes. "You're my good boy. My good boy. My holy boy."

Suddenly, a hand on my left shoulder brought me back to the present. I jerked away. Aunt Rae stood just outside the open door beside me. Margo and Donnie stood on the sidewalk in front of the car. My eyes fell to the white knuckles of my right hand gripping the armrest folded down in the middle of the back seat.

"You going to stay in there all day?" Margo said as her fingers outlined the Mercury shield on the hood.

Aunt Rae's shadow surprised me as she stooped, coming so close I could smell her last cup of coffee. She whispered to me, "Where were you, Michael? You scared me the way you...."

My gaze darted first to her eyes, then to my shoes, Joe's shoes. I always wore his after he outgrew them. I had to put a couple Wheaties-box insoles in them. Were these the ones he wore that day? Aunt Rae's moving shadow rescued me from the answer.

I desperately wanted to stay with my new owners, to make sure they couldn't leave me behind. I knew Aunt Rae would never desert this beautiful new car, so as long as I held onto this back seat, I would see her again. The velvet touch of the seat and armrest would keep me company, and torture me, until her return.

"You can stay here if you like, Mike," she said. "We'll only be a few minutes here at Schoensey's Market and then at the drug store. But you might get tired of waiting for us while we're at Thompkins' Ice Cream Parlor. Or, you might want to come with us, to Thompkins', just to help me pick out some ice cream for Uncle Johnny."

"Come on, Aunt Rae," Donnie whined. "If that creep doesn't want any ice cream, I'll be glad to eat—" He stopped suddenly as Aunt Rae's shadow threatened him.

Her shadow returned to my shoes. "We might even see something we like."

My eyes made the slightest movement toward her. My fingers slowly released the armrest, like they were saying goodbye to it—like I would say goodbye to someone I might never see again.

"Well, don't do us any—"

"Donnie!"

Margo had already left and strolled toward Burke's Dime Store to check out the window displays.

"You and your sister go to Schoensey's and get us a basket, Donnie."

"But...."

Aunt Rae's shadow turned toward him with an outstretched finger showing the way. I slipped out of the car and closed the door, but it didn't quite latch. Aunt Rae opened it a little and reclosed it with just enough force to get a proper thud.

"It takes me a while to get used to new surroundings, Mike," said Aunt Rae. "We have plenty of time, and we aren't going anywhere." She gave me a hug. At first I stiffened. Then my shoulder sank into her waist.

I followed her into the market and glanced back to check on the car. The wooden screen door slammed behind me, and the red and white Coca-Cola sign on it nudged me inside.

When we walked out with a Vernor's Ginger Ale box and two Van Kamp's Pork and Beans boxes loaded with groceries, the Mercury was still there. Its trunk accepted the boxes. We made a similar trip to the Binson's Pharmacy. A bag of half-inch nuts and bolts and a can of penetrating oil followed at Schuster's Hardware. Then we were off to Thompkins'.

"Make mine a large chocolate milk shake!" Donnie announced to Ralph Thompkins with a spin on the stool to my right. A voice from the far left stool reprimanded him. "Where are your manners, little brother? Don't you know it's ladies before gentlemen?"

Donnie leaned far enough forward to see past Aunt Rae and me. "I'll be a gentleman first time I see you being a lady."

"Ralph, would you please serve Donnie and Margo last?" Aunt Rae said. "He does need a lesson that gentlemen don't jump ahead of ladies. But I think Mike and I should go first since a real lady would never chastise her brother like that since it wasn't her place to do so." I heard a poorly muffled chuckle from my right. "Go ahead, Mike," Aunt Rae said. "This is your first time here so I think you should lead the way."

I searched the menu behind the soda fountain and then read it again. "Well, I guess a small chocolate cone would be okay."

"Great! That'll only take a couple seconds to make," Donnie said. Margo just shook her head and mouthed, "A small cone?"

"This is your chance to try to spoil your appetite," Aunt Rae said. "I have plenty to do in my garden for everybody to work off as much ice cream as you can eat. Supper is down the road a piece."

"You mean I can have anything I want?" I said. I looked at Aunt Rae and then back at the menu.

"That's the message, Retard," Donnie said.

"Okay, Mike, what'll it be for you?" Mr. Thompkins put both hands on the counter in front of me. "It's your nickel." Then his huge laugh made me jump.

"What's a banana split?" I asked.

"Jeez!" I heard from Donnie.

"Well, when I manufacture a banana split," Mr. Thompkins leaned forward and rounded up a few things, "I start off with a banana sliced right down the middle like this in a bowl like this. Then I put three scoops of any kind of ice cream you want right on top. And I have eighteen flavors to choose from. Then I spread chocolate syrup all over the top and let it run all over the ice cream and down around the banana slices, and I smother the top with crushed peanuts and smother this whipped cream all over it and make this big pile in the middle. Then I put this big red cherry right on top. And all around the edges, I put these mint chocolate wafers, all standing up at attention." He looked proudly at his make believe banana split. "Now, for a first time splitter, such as yourself, I finish off with this American flag stuck right in the cherry and surround the cherry with this honor guard of milk chocolate chips."

I stared at his hands and then smiled at his laughing face. It felt good to smile, though it took me a little off guard. My eyes fixed on the cut glass bowl before me, and an exquisite banana split rose out of its emptiness, like a dare. I wondered what even greater delight might lie a little farther down the menu. "What's that next one?" I asked, not wanting to admit that I was unsure how to pronounce it.

"Well, that's a sundae, Mike," Mr. Thompkins confided in me.

"Jeez, Mike!" said Donnie. "Don't you even know what a sundae is? Have you been living—"

My smile shrank quickly as I wondered if I was the only kid in town who had to ask what's in a sundae. Aunt Rae was now sitting between Donnie and me.

"Now, in my sundae, I start off with this kind of glass. I put two scoops into it and top it with any topping you like, and then a dab of whipped cream and a cherry." Mr. Thompkins cast a broad smile at me and then looked at Aunt Rae. He shifted his eyes back to me and asked, "Well, what do you think it'll be today, Mike?"

"A banana split," I said. "Is that okay, Aunt Rae?"

"Now there's a smart lad, Rachel," he said as he began the assembly with focused eyes and a tongue stuck between his lips. "You can have two, young man, if you think you're up to it. But they're pretty monstrous. You might need some help."

"I think I can handle it," I said as my eyes followed Mr. Thompkins' every move. "But just one, Mr. Thompkins."

Margo leaned forward and looked at me. "You weren't kidding about not knowing what a sundae is, were you? Didn't you ever go to an ice cream parlor before? Don't they have any down there in Detroit?"

"Sometimes, when Popsicle Pete would come around, we, I mean I...." I stopped in mid sentence and stared at Mr. Thompkins as he layered the crushed peanuts over the chocolate syrup. "A couple times I got a Popsicle or a drum cone. But Pete never had any banana splits or sundaes."

"Sometimes Aunt Rae and I share a banana split," continued Margo, "but my piggy brother is the only one I ever saw eat a whole one by himself. And we had to call Uncle Johnny to come and get him with the tractor and wagon because the car wouldn't hold him."

"How about the time we were over to Buzzy's," Donnie shot back, "and you stayed home and ate that whole apple pie all by yourself? And pu... and got sick out behind the barn."

"I did not eat it all! Jenny came over and was hungry and started eating it and—"

"Yeah! And she was still hungry when she left 'cause you stuffed—"

"Donnie and Margo!" said Aunt Rae above the two. "If you two don't stop right now, Mike and I will be the only ones having ice cream today!"

I counted the chocolate mint wafers as Mr. Thompkins carefully lined them up like sailors around the railing of a battleship. He carefully placed the mountain before me and set a long spoon and three napkins beside it. I picked up the spoon while examining each part of the mountain. Aunt Rae's chocolate milk shake, Donnie's triple-decker triple-dipped cone, and Margo's strawberry sundae were all lost in the background as I dove into my first ever ice cream parlor treat.

When Aunt Rae's shake settled in front of her, I diverted my attention just long enough to see her lips lower to the pair of straws. When Donnie's cone arrived, I had already gotten down to the banana at one end. He was impressed with my progress and cast a sneer at Margo just as Mr. Thompkins asked for her order. By the time Margo dipped into her sundae, I was undermining the red cherry on its southern flank. Donnie's final crunch of the point of his cone coincided with my cherry rolling down the north slope into the banana valley below. Only a small clump of ice cream remained in the point of Margo's sundae glass when I devoured the last of the mint chocolate wafers, and only the bright red cherry remained at the bottom.

I rolled the cherry all around the bowl to get the last of the melted ice cream. All eyes, including Mr. Thompkins', were riveted to that single cherry as it wandered under my control. Placing it on the end of my spoon, I drew it toward my mouth as I realized I was the star attraction for that historical moment. A slight grin came over my face as I looked over my audience just before popping that bit of history into my mouth and savoring its delicate juices. When I finally swallowed and placed the shiny spoon in the dish, my fans applauded, and I nodded.

When we left Thompkins' with our drug store and hardware store bags, my eyes darted a half block to the right and across the street. There was the black Mercury, still parked in front of Schoensey's. There was Aunt Rae and Margo in front of me, and Donnie pushing past me. We were all still together, and I was confident that Uncle Johnny would be there at the farm, probably working on his tractor and cultivators, and happy to see us return with his pint of maple nut ice cream.

As we drove home, I sat quietly on the back seat next to the open window. The wind forced my eyes closed, and I gulped the air down. My two hands fondled the soft seat cushion. But the banana split and the hurricane of fresh air forced every thought out of my mind.

A voice interrupted my flight. "What?" I said.

"You want to go down to the creek when we get home?" came a question flung at me against the wind from the other side of the car.

I lowered my head and let the wind carry me. "Sure." The wind swept that word from my lips and swirled it around the Mercury before delivering it to Donnie.

THREE

"I don't suppose anyone is interested in lunch now," Aunt Rae said as she turned off the engine in the oval driveway beside the house.

"I know one person who isn't," said Margo, looking over her shoulder toward me.

"Probably won't want any supper, either," Donnie completed the thought.

"Okay, kids, my garden has some weeds in it that I didn't invite there, so how about if you divide it up three ways and work off your ice cream getting rid of them?" A groan arose from Donnie followed by a comment from Margo about her brother's laziness. "I don't care when you do it so long as it's done by supper time. Margo and Donnie, you can show Mike how it's done. It'll be good practice for hoeing beans. That starts tomorrow."

This time the groan came from Margo. "We just started our summer vacation, Aunt Rae. Can't that wait a little longer?"

"Weeds don't go on vacation, Margo," said Aunt Rae.

"That's right, lazy Margo," sneered Donnie. "You ever see a weed taking a day off?"

"Sounds like you want to be our lead hoer, Donnie," said Aunt Rae. "I can fix you up with a hoe for each hand, and you can cover twice as many beans as we do."

Margo clapped in approval.

"Big joke, Margo," responded Donnie. "Big joke. Come on, Mike. I'll get a bike for you in the barn."

Donnie ran across the green yard toward the barn. I ran a short distance behind him and then stopped part way to the barn, turned around, and watched Aunt Rae and Margo walk into the house. After the screen door closed behind Margo, I continued my trip to the barn behind Donnie. He rummaged through several old bikes leaning against a wall next to the workbench. "This one's Uncle Johnny's, but he hasn't used it for a while. All we got to do is pump up the front tire. Well, maybe that's all."

I watched him work, and in a minute the bike was ready to go. "Okay, let's hit the road," he said jumping on his bike and scooting toward the door. I hesitated with one hand on the dusty handlebar before walking my bike outside behind him. Donnie pedaled over the grass toward the driveway as I left the barn and stood watching him.

As he turned onto the road, he looked back and saw me standing in the shadow of the barn with my blond head in the sunshine. He stopped and shouted back, "What's the matter?" I stood still as he road back. "What's the matter? Something wrong with your bike?"

"Where we going?" I asked.

"Down to the creek. I want to show you the bridge where we go swimming."

"How far is it?" I asked.

"Just down the road a little. Why?"

"Can we see the house from there?" I asked.

"Sure! It's right there," he said pointing down the road.

My eyes followed his finger and searched for a bridge. "I don't see any bridge."

"Well, shoot! You can't see the bridge. It's behind those trees. They're right before the creek."

I studied where he pointed. "So you can't really see the house when you're at the bridge. Right?"

"What the heck's the difference if we can see the house? You crazy, or what? We're just going down to the creek. What's your problem?"

I studied the house and the black Mercury in the driveway. Aunt Rae was somewhere inside. "I'm not going."

"What the heck! You're too weird for me. Far too weird. No wonder your mother didn't want you at home. Probably too weird for her, too."

His insult might have stung, but I was already drifting into another arena, one that his words couldn't penetrate. The white farmhouse before me transformed into a small, gray duplex; and what little paint was left on it curled like potato chips. The whole neighborhood looked about the same. My eyes slowly closed as I ascended the stairway to the upstairs flat. I had to walk on the far right side of the steps because one of them had broken through one time as I ran down.

"Mama! Mama!" I called as I walked into the kitchen. I stopped abruptly as my gaze fell on the refrigerator. Its door was standing open with its motor grinding away trying to keep up with the heat of the late May afternoon. The kitchen was no more of a mess than usual. It was my daily job to clean the kitchen when I got home from school.

I had about one hour after school before my mother had to leave for work to make the 5:00 starting time at the Plymouth plant a couple miles away. A quick glance at the wall clock told me she still had nearly an hour, but there was no sign of her. There was no sign of any men's clothes in the living room, so I tiptoed to the hallway and stood outside her bedroom listening for any sounds inside. Nothing.

My knock wasn't answered. I was both relieved and worried. Relieved because I wouldn't get knocked around by some guy for interrupting them, and worried because Mama's absence probably meant just one thing—another drinking binge.

"Mike! What's the matter?" Donnie shouted. "You gonna die or something? You sick, or what?"

I looked first at Donnie, then at the white farmhouse with the perfect back porch and the kind aunt inside.

"You okay?" asked Donnie.

"Uh huh," I nodded.

"I'm getting out of here before your weirdness rubs off on me!" Donnie spun gravel with his bike as he took off down the oval driveway and turned onto the road away from the creek. I watched him as he pedaled furiously along the road, mesmerized by the churning legs that seemed part of the machine he rode. He turned into the driveway of the next farm down the road and disappeared behind that white farmhouse. My spell was broken by a shadow that touched mine.

"Pretty stupid, isn't he?" Margo said.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"What were you thinking about before when you closed your eyes?"

I looked down and cleared away some stones from the driveway with my right foot. "Nothing," I finally replied.

"I can show you the creek, Mike. It's neat under the bridge, just watching the water. There are suckers, and sometimes you can watch them swimming around in the pool under the bridge. It's kind of a neat place to think." She cleared some gravel of her own, "Did you know Plato used to sit under a bridge and think a lot?"

I shook my head and studied her shadow. She had changed her clothes from the cream flowered dress she wore to town to the faded blue jeans she normally wore around the farm.

"Uncle Johnny says everybody needs a quiet place to go and think. And dream. Any place like that where you used to live?"

I enlarged the bare spot and cleared it down to the dirt beneath. "There aren't any quiet places in Detroit," I replied.

"Then why don't you let me show you the one down by the creek? There are lots of places like that around here."

"I... I don't want to," I said.

"We've got plenty of time before we have to be back to weed the garden."

"I know," I replied.

"Well then, why not?"

I now had a great pile of stones at each end of the spot, and my Keds were getting caked with dirt. "Will Aunt Rae... ah... be here when we get back?"

"Sure! She's fixing some stuff in the kitchen," Margo said.

"You're sure she's not going somewhere this afternoon?"

"No. She has lots to do here, Mike."

"You're sure," I persisted.

"Uh huh. I'm sure."

"I guess... okay."

"Great! Hang on right here while I get my bike!" She reappeared with her bike a moment later while I was still filling in and smoothing the ditch I'd made. She led the way down the driveway, and I tried to follow but fell off my bike. I was back on it in a flash and wobbled down the driveway behind her. By the time we got to the bridge, I was doing much better, having ridden off the road into the ditch only twice in that distance. Margo laughed each time I did and then applauded when I dragged myself and my bike back onto the road.

Under the bridge was cool and secluded. A farm truck would pass over once in a while, but otherwise the only sounds were from the local residents—the pigeons, the water trickling past on its way to Lake Huron, and a winding row of rustling trees following the stream. The concrete bridge abutment had a pair of ledges on each end of the bridge directly under the road. The ledges were perfect for sitting on. We sat in silence on the upper ledge with our feet on the lower one for a long time.

"One evening I was sitting here just before dusk," Margo said, "and the light was kind of dim in here. And I was watching the water just kind of meander by, and this family of ducks swam right in here where the pool's deep. There was this mother and her five little ducklings, and they were really little. They swam all around here, and they were diving and splashing, and they didn't even see me because I didn't move a muscle. Then they all waddled up on that sandy bank right over there, and the mother sat down next to that tall grass. She quacked a few times and all the little ones came and gathered around and started pushing at her and squeezing under her, and after a little while you couldn't even see one of them anymore. They were all under her feathers. You could hear them, but you couldn't see them.

"It was getting pretty dark by then, and I was afraid to move because it would scare them. So I just inched over toward that end real slow, like this, and in about five minutes, I was all the way over to the end of the ledge, and they still didn't know I was there. Then I had to climb up the bank in the dark, but when I stepped off the ledge, my foot slipped and I slid right into the water and made an awful splash. Well, I could hear all this quacking and peeping, and before you know it, the mother duck took off and I could see her silhouette against the sky right there where there aren't any trees. And she was gone, and those little peepers were panicking, they were so scared. So I figured I better get out of there as fast as I could so the mother could come back. I went up the road a little bit and stopped to see if the mother was coming back; but it was dark, and I couldn't tell anything. So I just went home. She probably came back as soon as I got away from the bridge."

After her story ended, we just sat there for a minute. I stared at the spot where the ducks had been and imagined the little ducklings alone in the dark.

"Next morning, I came back to see what happened, but there wasn't any sign of them. So I was sure she came back and got them."

"Maybe she didn't come back," I said in a monotone. "Maybe she just flew away. Maybe some raccoon or something, got the ducklings, and killed them." There was a long pause. "That could be what happened, you know."

"No! That's not what happened! You don't have any idea what happened! You weren't even here! I was! So how could you know? You're just a stupid _little_ boy, and you think you know everything, but you don't know anything!" She walked to the end of the ledge and climbed up the bank out of sight. I stayed where I was and just watched the sand bank and the water that trickled by it.

After a few minutes, Margo returned in silence and sat back down, further away than before. We just sat together for some time, saying nothing. "What happened to your mother?" I finally asked, not looking up?

"She died, about three years ago. That's when Donnie and I came to live with Uncle Johnny and Aunt Rae."

We both studied the creek for a while. "What about your mother?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"You don't know what happened to your mother? Didn't think that was possible. You must know if she's dead or alive."

"I said I didn't know!" I shot back.

We watched the water together for a while.

"How about your dad?"

"I don't have a father," I replied.

"Have any brothers or sisters?"

My eyes were fixed on the little sandy beach where the ducklings had either been rescued by their mother or killed by some prowler. I saw Joe lying there, crumpled and still. Thoughts trickled through my brain like the water in the creek. It would eventually get to the lake and then to the ocean no matter what the obstacles, no matter what the delay. It was as sure as gravity. My lips answered in a whisper only I could hear.

"What?" queried Margo.

"I said I don't have a father!"

Margo turned her head to examine the same sand bank. "My father got killed on the battleship _Arizona_. But it was way before the war started. Just some freak accident. Mom said some cable or something broke. He was just in the wrong place. I hardly remember anything about him."

"You're lucky," I muttered.

Margo said nothing for a long time and then turned toward me and continued. "Mom caught cancer, and after a while, she couldn't even go to work or anything. Aunt Rae came and stayed with us most of that summer. She died just before school started. Mrs. Gladstone said Mom loved us too much to even interfere with our education, and that's why she died before school started."

I felt Margo's eyes on me, but the funny thing was, it didn't make me uncomfortable. I responded, however, by speaking to the sandy bank. "What did your mom look like?"

"I'll always remember her the way she looked that spring, before she got real bad. She had long, yellow hair. I asked her once why she had long hair, because she always put it up in a bun before she went to work. They wouldn't let women wear long hair in the factory. But she told me that Daddy used to love her long hair and bought her shiny combs to hold it back, and he liked to take the combs out and let her hair fall down over her face and then smooth it back with his hands and kiss her. She said that was how she would always remember him.

"She said she would get up in the morning and sit on her bed with her mirror and brush back her hair and pretend Daddy would come up behind her and pull her hair back and kiss her neck and tell her how beautiful she was and that she should never cut that beautiful hair. Never. And then he would kiss her some more.

"When she got cancer, they gave her some drug. Said it was some experimental stuff, and in about two weeks, all her hair fell out. It would just lay in clumps on her pillow. And she'd cry, and then she'd yell at me, and then she'd squeeze me and say how sorry she was. Then later she was back to yelling at me again. Donnie just started school that year. He would stand in the doorway and run away when Mom yelled and then come back when she said she was sorry. Aunt Rae said that the drug made her kind of crazy.

"She never yelled at me before she got sick. Sometimes yelled at Donnie. He couldn't stay out of trouble. One time he brought some really dumb boy in the house while Mom was at work, and this kid dropped a quart of chocolate milk on the floor in front of the refrigerator. So instead of cleaning it up, they just pushed all the milk under the refrigerator and didn't tell anybody. Then a couple of weeks later, Mom was complaining about some awful smell. After we found the mess and cleaned it up, Mom found Donnie and had a little talk with him. I think that was the last time she got mad at him before she got sick."

We went back to staring across the creek at the empty bank. "She sounds nice," I said.

"Was your mom nice?" Margo asked.

I closed my eyes and finally said, "I don't remember."

"I bet she loved you, though."

"Uh huh," I replied.

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"A couple weeks ago."

"What happened?" she persisted.

"I don't know." I looked at the spot right next to the tall grass. It was like any other spot along the creek, but it was very different. "Well... maybe I know a little. It was just before the end of the school year, and my teacher said I was doing really well. I was happy about that, but I didn't want summer vacation to come."

"What?" exclaimed Margo. "Every kid loves summer vacation!"

I kept my head pointed toward the creek, but my eyes wandered down and to my right. Margo's bluejeaned leg paralleled my own. It didn't seem like a girl's leg, just a kid's leg. I felt I could trust her, and I hadn't trusted anyone since Joe died. I wanted to trust her. So I began my story. I told it to the sandy bank across the creek but with Margo's leg listening, too.

FOUR

Mama wouldn't let us play with any of the kids in the neighborhood. She said they were just niggers, and we should play with our own kind. But all the kids were colored on the whole street, and they just played regular games. I sometimes watched them out the window, and they'd look up at me and point, and then they'd laugh and run away.

My father came home one day with a big grin. I always expected the worst when he seemed happy.

"I think we finally got a chance to put those damn niggers in their place!" He slapped a bunch of handbills on the table.

"Cecil! Not so loud," Mama said. "Our neighbors."

But my father was too happy. "Remember when that chicken-liver mayor Jeffries handed over the Sojourner Truth Project to those black Commies? Well, today the NHA had the guts to say _no._ If Double-Dip Reading was still mayor, we wouldn't have needed the Feds to look out for us."

As he explained the news to my mother, I picked up one of the handbills and read it:

HELP THE WHITE

PEOPLE

To Keep This District WHITE

MEN

NEEDED

TO KEEP OUR LINES SOLID

COME TO NEVADA and FENLON

Sunday and Monday

WE NEED HELP

Don't BE YELLOW COME OUT

We Need Every WHITE MAN

we want our girls to walk on the street not raped

"I need some help putting these up." He handed me a hammer and tacks. "You're coming with me. Time you learn to stand up for what you believe in. We're going to the white neighborhood across Grand Boulevard."

And so I began my first political action. My teacher certainly knew what side we were on.

A couple months later, my father got us a little bike, and I started to learn how to ride it. Joe, he was my twin brother, was a natural on it. He only fell a couple of times, and in an hour, he was perfect at it. Then it was my turn, and I tried, but I always fell off. That night, somebody stole it off our front porch.

The next night, my father got mad at Joe and told him he shouldn't have left it on the front porch. "Those damn niggers will steal everything. They're moving into this neighborhood more all the time. Black bastards! They're just waiting for anything you leave around. You know what that bike cost me, you dumb kid?"

He kicked Joe in the stomach and then pushed him so hard he flew into the railing with a thud and over the top and fell into a bush.

Mama came running out the door and yelled at my father, "The whole neighborhood can hear you, Cecil! Will you shut your damn mouth and get in here?"

My father was so mad he just pushed Mama aside and stormed toward the door. He saw me standing in the corner of the porch and stopped in front of me. I just froze. I couldn't move, I was so scared.

"What the hell you looking at, you little stupid kid? Was it you that left the bike on the porch?" Then he took a step toward me. "I'll teach you both a lesson! You won't leave bikes laying around again as long as I'm in charge here!" He grabbed my arm, and I started crying.

Then Mama rushed over and jumped in between us. She grabbed his arm and dug her fingernails in until he let go. "You hurt Michael and so help me, I'll use the butcher knife on you in your sleep!"

He hit her, and she fell back against me and knocked me down. "Kids and broads. Kids and broads. That's what's wrong with my life. I don't know why I stick around here. I'm the only one got any sense in the whole damn family. Ought to get out of here and let you all just.... Worthless...." He stormed into the house and slammed the door.

Mama hugged me. "My little Michael. Don't you worry," she whispered. "He won't ever hurt you again. I promise you!" But I knew it was a promise she couldn't keep. She knew it, too.

"Will you always love me, Michael? Tell me you'll always be my little boy, no matter what."

I kept thinking about Joe, lying on the ground on the other side of the porch. He might be dead for all I knew. The last I saw of him was his feet disappearing into the bushes after he flipped over the railing. "But w-what about Joe," I asked her. "He's your little boy, too."

"No!" she answered. "He's not like you! Not my real little boy! Not like you. Tell me you'll always love me, Michael. I promise you'll always be safe. And I'll always love you the best. Tell me, Michael."

I paused, thinking about Joe and little Susie. "I p-promise, Mama."

"And promise you'll never be anything, anything like your father. Promise me that, Michael."

"I promise, Mama."

"This is very important, Michael, so say it. Say you'll never be anything like your father. And say you'll love me the best, no matter what happens."

"I promise you, Mama. I promise I'll never be a-anything like Father. And I p-promise I'll always love you the best, always, Mama."

"And tell me you don't love anybody but me. Tell me you don't love Joseph or Susan or your father. Tell me, Michael."

"I just love you, Mama. I d-don't love Joe or Susie or my father."

"That's good, Michael. You know God listens to everything we say. You know that, Michael."

"Yes, Mama."

"And you know that promises between a mother and her son are especially important to God. Remember about how Jesus was growing up in Nazareth, and He always obeyed His mother. And He wants every boy to always love and obey His mother. The most important thing. The most important thing to remember in your whole life, Michael."

"Yes, Mama."

She hugged me and sobbed for a long time. She squeezed me so tight I could hardly breathe. When she finally stopped crying, my shirt was soaked with her tears and stuck to me. "We better check on Joe," I said. "He m-might be hurt or something."

"Don't worry about Joseph. He's okay. Huh. His father's son. Can't hurt anybody like that, you know." She looked over to the railing that Joe had gone over. "He's the one that left the bike out last night, isn't he?" she asked as she looked back into my face.

I studied one of my shoes and said, "Uh huh."

"Probably did it on purpose because he couldn't ride it good like you. You finally show him how to get off without falling over?"

"Uh huh," I replied.

"What, Michael?"

"Yes, Mama, I showed him," I said.

She smiled and pushed the hair back out of my eyes. "You're the one, you know, Michael. You're the one who has to make something of yourself. Joseph can't do it because he's lazy like his father, and Susie is just a girl. She'll never be any better than me. She just thinks she will. I'm counting on you to make me proud. Your father had such big ideas when we got married, but he's just no good. That's all, just plain no good, and lazy, and mean. I can see that now. He's held me back all these years. Could've been really something with the right man. You can make some lucky girl the right man, Michael. Then I'll be proud."

She hugged me some more, rocked us back and forth, and hummed some tune I'd heard from her before. "I want you to love me and nobody else. You promise me that, Michael? For always, Michael. Promise me, Michael. Just me and nobody else."

"Yes, Mama." I closed my eyes and wished she would stop. I wondered if Jesus ever wanted to get away from His mother. Of course not. Jesus loved His mother. I wanted to be more like Jesus. He always did the right thing. He helped His father in the carpenter shop. He helped His mother carry water from the well. I saw pictures of Him doing those good things. He wouldn't have left His bicycle on the front porch for niggers to steal.

"Alice!" came a bellow from in the house. "Get in here! I can't find a damn thing around here the way you keep this place!"

Mama kissed my head, stood up, straightened her hair and her dress, and walked inside. I listened to my father shouting and heard something fall over followed by a "Jesus Christ, Alice! You're as clumsy as those damn kids of yours!"

I crawled to the door and looked inside. Only moving shadows disturbed the stillness. Only sobbing filled the air. I ran down the front steps and to the other side of the porch where I had seen Joe disappear. The bush was broken, but Joe was gone. I called his name quietly but heard nothing. I crawled through some broken boards in the siding and into the darkness under the porch. "Joe? Joe?" I whispered. No response. I crawled farther, using my hand as a blind man uses a cane.

This was a place where all three of us took refuge, and we knew its every detail. "Joe! You back here?" I whispered louder as I crawled. I had nearly reached the end of the porch where Mama and I had just had our talk. I went just a little farther when my hand fell upon something soft but hard beneath. I pulled back my hand in shock. I reached out again, this time timidly. "Joe? Is that you, Joe?"

My hand came to rest on a leg. I touched the pant leg and reached down to the ankle where I could touch the skin. "Joe! You okay, Joe?" Still there was no answer as the sensation of cold skin reached my brain. The darkness smothered everything in this crypt. My hand followed up his leg to his waist and then to his chest. He was propped up against the wall in a sitting position. There was no movement, no sensation of the living brother I shared my life with just a few minutes ago. I gulped as I traced up to his face. My hand found something wet on the side of his face.

"Ow! What you doing, Mike?"

My heart missed couple beats. "Joe! I-I thought... Jeez! You okay?"

"Uh huh," came Joe's reply.

"God, Joe! I was so scared. How come you d-didn't answer me? You should've said something. You know if Susie's okay?" I asked. "I w-wonder if she's in the house."

"I'm right here—Michael," came the soft reply from the darkness beside Joe.

I reached over and could feel little Susie cuddled against Joe. I paused to think about where we were. This spot was almost directly under where my mother and I had just been on the porch. "You been here very long?"

"Uh huh. Came in here right after Dad... right after I fell off the porch."

"How about Susie?" I asked.

"She was watching over the edge of the porch. Helped me get out of the bushes."

"Did you hear w-what Mama said up there?"

"Uh huh," came Joe's reply.

I swallowed my next question but then found it again. "You hear what I said?"

"Uh huh."

I silently reviewed what Mama had said—what we had said. I sat back against the wall next to Joe. Three small bodies sat in silence, in darkness.

I never talked about that again to either Joe or Susie, but I thought about it often. I had betrayed my brother and my sister, the only people on earth I could trust, the only people I loved. But I had promised to love only my mother, and that promise had all the sacred seals that Jesus himself could cast it in.

What seemed stranger than that silence, however, was the silence between my mother and me after that incident. I took those vows so seriously, and I agonized over them and worked to force them into some sensible, and Christian, relationship with Joe and Susie. I finally convinced myself that the love I knew for Joe and Susie was a different kind of love than the one mandated by my mother for herself, that it was inferior to my mother's love, that it didn't really count when the love accounts would be tallied in heaven. That way, I was able to keep my sacred promises and still love Joe and Susie. That scheme satisfied my childhood guilt, my promises, and my longing to be Christlike.

But it wouldn't be enough to save Susie and Joe, and it was that guilt that I would struggle with for the rest of my life. I failed them. And I failed my mother, too.

FIVE

Margo and I sat side by side for a while, in silence. "Gee," she finally said. "That's a terrible story."

I swallowed hard and pushed a tiny pebble over the edge into the water. "That's nothing," I whispered in a sigh.

"When did that happen?"

"Three years ago."

"And your mother never mentioned that again?"

"Uh uh."

"And Joe and Susie never said anything either?"

I just shook my head. A tractor passed overhead, putting its two cylinders loudly.

"That's Karley's John Deere." As the sound faded, she said, "What happened to your mother, Mike? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Just thought maybe..."

I looked at her blue jeans next to mine. It was almost like Joe and me sitting on the curb. "It was a couple weeks ago. Nine days ago. The last week of school in the sixth grade."

And so I began the story of how my mother disappeared. I decided to tell Margo the whole thing, not just pieces of it forced out of me by well-meaning adults.

* * *

We lived in the same upstairs flat, but the landlord gave it to us cheaper after Susie, Joe, and my father were gone. He said he was looking for storage space and he could use the second bedroom to store stuff he needed for his rentals. He kept that door locked. I had to switch from St. John's Catholic School to Millikan Public School. My mother said she needed a bigger budget. I guess she did, all right.

My bedroom was the living room sofa. I kept two cardboard boxes behind the sofa for my clothes. When she entertained a boyfriend, I'd stay in the kitchen until it got quiet in the living room. That usually meant they had moved to her bedroom, although it sometimes meant they were just being quiet on the sofa.

I had to be pretty careful about that. She'd get mad if I intruded on them in the living room. And my mother wasn't the only one to get mad. I got hit a couple times by her friends who accused me of spying on them when I surprised them on the sofa. I got to be an expert at using the kitchen sink for a bathroom when I wasn't sure it was safe to pass through the living room.

But that afternoon when I got home from school, I found her gone. I checked every corner of our flat to make sure she hadn't just passed out somewhere. It wasn't that unusual for her to be gone at that time of the day, but she almost always came home before going to work. And she was always back, either from work or from an evening out, before I was ready to leave for school the next morning.

But this time was different. She didn't come home the next morning. I stayed home from school that day. I was still waiting when school got out. That night and the next day were the same, and the same the following night and day.

We didn't have a telephone, but I didn't have anybody to call anyway, so I just waited. I rummaged through my father's old magazine rack. It hadn't been touched since the night he left. There was a newspaper over a year old dated April 13, 1945. "ROOSEVELT'S DEATH SHOCKS NATION – Entire Country in Mourning; Helm Taken Over by Truman."

A much smaller headline said: "End of War in Germany Draws Near – Goebbels admits final defeat looms." Farther down was a picture of Ernie Pyle: "More about first night in Okinawa." I played with the front page for a while before getting bored and turning to an issue of _Life Magazine_ , April 30, 1945. On the cover was a Life artist sitting in a pile of rubble that used to be Cologne, Germany. He had a sketchpad on his lap and seemed not to know what to draw. Everything looked the same, just piles of bricks and charred wood.

_This is the magazine he was reading that night. Right here in this chair_. I closed my eyes and saw him. I opened the magazine and then my eyes. There were some gray specks in the crease. "Ashes," I said. "Chesterfield ashes."

There was a photo of four bodies hanging by their ankles.

"On April 28, Benito Mussolini and Claretta Petacci were captured and executed by communist partisans. Devoted and fearless, Claretta stepped in front of her lover and took the first bullet. Their bodies, strung up in front of a gas station in downtown Milan, were stoned by a populace that had once adored Il Duce."

I read again the part about Claretta taking the first bullet but couldn't tell which one was Claretta, which one had taken Mussolini's bullet. _Why would she do that?_ I thought. _Why did Joe?_

I stared at those mutilated bodies until my fingers finally took control and flipped the page. A line of boys, soldier boys, some of them my age, stood at attention. Hitler was before them, smiling, seducing, reaching out to touch the face of a boy whose blond hair just showed beneath his army cap. It was a tender touch, a caress. Boy and fuehrer were locked together in that touch beyond the lifetime of either, for as long as paper would last.

"On April 20, Hitler reviewed a combat unit composed of orphan boys, and with psychopathic indifference, sent them out to battle the Russian Army."

_Orphan boys_. I touched them with the same tenderness that Hitler did. But my touch would last only a minute. Their uniforms were fresh, brass buttons polished, belts and medals straight and sharp. They had a look of pride, ready to do their best in the Third Reich's final hour.

One boy was different, though. He looked like the others, but there was something different. It was his eyes. He was terrified. I focused on him, brought my finger to his face.

"Everyone in this picture but this one boy is dead now," I whispered. "Ashes, rotting flesh. Only one of you still lives. And remembers the war."

I fell asleep in my father's chair, surrounded by his papers and magazines, and the memories that sleep often rescued me from.

Finally, on the fourth day, which happened to be the last day of school, I was reading a comic book that I knew by heart when I heard the buzzer at the front door. I looked down the steep stairway but couldn't see anybody through the window at the top of the door. I went down the stairs absolutely silently, careful to avoid the broken step. As I stood behind the door wondering whether to open it, the buzzer rang again and made me jump. Then it got me again three more times.

I decided not to answer the door. It could have been one of my mother's friends. No telling what he might want. I stooped to look through the keyhole but wasn't careful enough because I bumped my head on the doorknob. I put my hand to my head and straightened up, knocking the chain off its hook.

The screen door squeaked open, then there was a loud knock on the door. Then the voice came: "It's important that I talk to whoever is there. I'm from the school."

I swallowed twice and opened the door just as the buzzer started again. A sort of fat guy stood there, and he didn't look like he belonged in this neighborhood because he was dressed in a gray suit and fedora and held a single sheet of yellow paper and a white envelope in his left hand. I could easily tell he wasn't one of my mother's friends. And from his smile, he was probably wasn't going to hurt me. I glanced at the paper in his left hand and then back at his face. He noticed that and folded his hands behind his back.

"Good afternoon," he began. "Is this the home of Mrs. Cecil Tether?"

"Yes, sir."

He smiled. It looked genuine. I hadn't seen a real smile in this house for a long time. It surprised me.

"Are you Michael Tether?"

"Yes, sir."

"My name is Mr. Compton. I'm with the Millikan Grade School." He smiled at me again and removed his hat. "May I speak with your mother, please?"

"No, sir. I mean, she isn't here."

"I see. Do you expect her back shortly?

"I don't know," I replied. "She's usually here about now, but I don't know when she'll be home."

"When was she here last, Michael?"

My eyes dodged back and forth between his shiny wingtips. "Ah... yesterday. Ah... I mean a couple days ago... or so."

"I see, Michael. Can I call you Mike?"

"Okay."

"Well, Mike, is there anyone else living here with you?"

"No, sir."

"So you've been by yourself here for three or four days?"

"Uh huh," I said to my own shoes and quickly corrected myself, "Yes, sir."

"Could I come in, Mike? Maybe I can help you."

"Ah, I guess so." I couldn't really say no, and, who knows, maybe he could help.

"Watch out for that step, mister. It's broken."

We sat in the living room, and he told me about my teacher and others at school being concerned about my absence. I told him everything I could about my mother's schedule and her job. He said he would call her employer and come back tomorrow. He went down the stairs and stopped at the bottom. "Is there any other place I might find her? Maybe some... ah... restaurant, or someplace like that?" he asked. "Maybe someplace in the neighborhood?"

"No, sir," I replied. "There's no place around here anymore. She used to go to that place right over on the corner of John R, but she won't go there anymore. She says there's too many... She doesn't like it there. So she goes to a place right by where she works. It's the one where all those railroad tracks go across the road. And it's got those funny glasses with the long necks that flash on and off, and... Anyway, sometimes she might go there. Oh yeah, Dottie's. That's the name of it."

"Okay, Mike. I'll see you tomorrow."

The next day, Mr. Compton returned. It was a very warm Saturday afternoon, and the street was speckled with small black and brown bodies, all yelling at each other the way kids always do. The boys were shirtless and barefoot, and the girls wore dirty play dresses with bare feet. He walked around several fenderless bikes and through a hopscotch game on his way to my house. I was watching from the front window.

"Hi, Mike! How are you today?"

"Okay... sir. Did you find anything?"

"Well, Mike, I checked with her supervisor at the Plymouth Plant on Mount Elliott, and they haven't seen your mother since Monday. Then I checked at Dottie's, and they haven't seen her all this week. I called the police just to make sure they didn't know where she was, and they didn't."

I studied my dirty toes during this whole thing. Mr. Compton studied my studying. "I forgot to ask you what kind of car your mother drives. The police asked me, but I couldn't tell them."

I looked into the kitchen and watched a cockroach searching for its lunch above the stove. "She has just a... Well, right now, she doesn't have a car because she walks to work. And she has friends to take her other places."

"Can you tell me about her friends?"

I wished I could just slip into a crack, like that cockroach. Then I wouldn't have to answer those questions. Mr. Compton would find me disgusting, and I liked him a little.

"They're just guys, and I don't know who they are."

"You don't know any of their names?"

"Well, there's one guy she calls Dickey and another one is Jack. They work with her at the factory, and they talk about how to make cars and stuff. They used to make anti-aircraft guns. Dickey showed me a real antiaircraft shell once. Said it didn't have any gunpowder or anything in it. But they just started making Plymouths again. I guess it's..." I thought about who I was talking to. I didn't really know him. "They talk about it a lot."

The cockroach was gone now. I recalled the time my father found a cockroach in his underpants and hit my mother in the face and called her some filthy names. Then one time she killed a cockroach and put it in something she was scrambling for him. Mom, Joe, and I stood there and watched him eat the stuff. My eyes squinted in disgust, but I loved the moment. We all did.

"What's so funny, Mike? Was one of those men funny?"

"No!" I said, quickly removing all traces of my grin. "It was nothing."

"Well," he continued after a pause, "school is out now for the summer, you know."

I gulped and closed my eyes, waiting for the feared words to follow. "Are they going to make me repeat the sixth grade because I missed the last week?"

"Oh, don't you worry about that, son! Your teacher is quite pleased with the progress you made this year and is sure you'll have no problems with the seventh grade. Even though you did miss the last week of school." He grinned and continued, "The most important week in the whole year."

I looked up at him apologetically.

"At least for the kids, anyway!" he finished with a chuckle. "But now we've got this other problem to deal with."

"You mean about where my mother is?"

"Well, that too. But I'm wondering what to do about you, Mike."

"Oh, I'm okay," I assured him.

"I know, but you can't stay here alone," Mr. Compton said looking into my blank face for some help. He placed his elbows on his knees and folded his hands in front of him. Finally, he broke the silence. "Do you have any other family?"

"No."

"I know you don't have any brothers or sisters, but maybe an aunt or an uncle or someone."

I turned my head away from him and stared at the large, grimy overstuffed chair in the corner. Joe sat on top of it, claiming to be the king of the castle. I grabbed at his leg and pulled him down while Susie reached up from behind and pushed his butt toward me. We were all giggling and screaming as he fell down on top of me. Then as Joe and I struggled with each other for the top, Susie used us as stepping-stones and crowned herself queen. Joe and I marched around the chair at her command and finally agreed to give her horsy rides if she would spare our heads. Then Joe and I again began our fight to the finish for the kingdom.

"Mike? An aunt or an uncle?" he repeated the question. "Doesn't your mother have any brothers or sisters? How about her parents?"

"Well, Grandpa is probably living in his wagon somewhere, and I never saw my Grumpy. That's what he used to call my grandmother."

"So you don't have any relatives, not even on your father's side of the family?"

"Well, my father had a sister. I think her name is Rachel. I only remember seeing her two times."

I stopped and just looked at Mr. Compton.

"Do you know your aunt's last name?"

I stared right through his tie as my mother's voice shattered my ears.

"You knew Cecil was a bum! You knew!" It was right after Joe died and Aunt Rachel came to ask my mother if I could come and stay with her for a while. "Why didn't you warn me before we got married? You knew! You knew everything about him!" Aunt Rachel just stood there and cried. Mom yelled, "It was your fault! You killed Joseph!" Aunt Rachel cried and cried and kept saying how sorry she was. Then she said I should come to stay with her. Mom hit her and yelled, 'What kind of mother do you think I am? You want me to give up my little boy? To a murderer?' And then my aunt ran out, and I never saw her again.

Mr. Compton looked down for a moment and rubbed his chin. Then he looked up at me. "Can't remember her name, huh?"

"Uh uh. I just know she lives on a farm up north somewhere."

"I have an idea, Mike. How about if you come and stay with me for a couple days until we can find your mother? I have a nice house, and it's just my wife and me since our boy got married and took a job in Battle Creek.

"Uh uh. I can stay here just fine," I said.

"And there's a swimming pool just a block away and a lot of kids in the neighborhood your age."

"I don't think so. This is okay."

"You could have Jeff's room. And he even left his record player behind with a bunch of records. He decided to get a new one when he left."

"Well... I better not. My mother might come back. She'd get worried if I wasn't here."

"I could leave an official looking note for her so she would know where to come for you. And Mary makes so many pies and cakes and things that she has to give most of them away. Look at this big belly I've grown just since Jeff left!"

"I really should stay here."

"Jeff even left his old bike in the garage."

"Well... I don't know. The pool have a diving board?"

"Two."

"And you have a bike?"

"Yeah, Jeff painted it himself."

"What color is it?"

"You know, that's a heck of a question. Let's see, I think it was blue, but then after he painted it, he put these flames shooting out along the fender. Why don't you come along with me and I can help you dust it off and see if it still works?"

"I'll have to get some clothes and things. Can you wait a minute?"

We climbed into his green Hudson and headed away from my home. I thought of it more like a prison, but it was still my home. It locked up so many memories, some of them happy.

I stared out the window as we drove away. I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it. All the colored kids I would never know watched us. The front porch covering our once-secret cave beneath it, sloped downward warning anyone daring to stand on it that they would be rejected. Some kids had ripped the boards off the side of the porch, exposing that cave; but I still knew its secrets. My last image of home was the screen hanging from one hinge in front of the kitchen window. That worn out duplex, overdue for a paint job before I was born, finally disappeared.

That was the first time I ever stayed away from home. Mr. and Mrs. Compton were the nicest people, but I stayed there only for a few days. And as for the bicycle, it was a beauty—a twenty-six inch Schwinn with a sheepskin seat and a chrome headlight mounted on chrome handlebars. The top part of the frame had a pod running the length of the frame that bulged out in front and then swept back as sleek as the wingtip pods on those F-86 Saber jet fighters I saw in Life. On the left side of this pod was a chrome button, and when I pushed it, a horn blasted, like a Cadillac.

Jeff had repainted the bike a bright red that would make a fire engine jealous. Along each side of the horn pod and on both fenders, he put these flame decals; and I could just see myself flaming down the sidewalk on it. And on the vertical part of the frame under the seat, he carefully lettered _Demon_ in shiny black paint. Demon was dusty from several years of neglect in their garage, but I was sure he would not be neglected any longer. I would see to that.

I took Demon, with two flat tires, into the yard and hosed him down and wiped him dry. I rubbed and polished until he shone like the Great Nizabad Ruby that Bomba the Jungle Boy had recovered from a ring of international tiger poachers. The red, black, and chrome framed those flames and harnessed them for my use alone. I inflated the tires with an old tire pump and was ready for my second bike encounter.

I fought away visions of the past that tried to trample the present—a past clogged with laughter and tears. I ran the bike across the lawn to the sidewalk, tears streaming back like rain on a windshield. I could never outrun my own demons.

Then one simple action slammed the door on those ghosts. I jumped on one pedal, swung my leg over the seat, and bore down on the opposite pedal. I crashed sideways right into the sidewalk, pulling Demon over on top of me rather than risk scratching him. As I lay there under the bike with my right elbow shredded and the pedal poking into my crotch, those taunting images totally vanished. Pain can bring such relief.

I stood up and looked around. No one was watching. I grimaced. But even the pain defocused when I realized what caused the crash. I stared first at the front sprocket and then at the back sprocket. Because of the red flaming chain guard, I hadn't noticed until now that there was no chain. Fortunately, Demon didn't suffer a single scratch.

But I'd been wrong about not being watched. Mrs. Compton or any other mother would have rushed out of her house to comfort my bloodied body. Mr. Compton, however, must have been watching because he appeared at the side door as soon as I started to limp toward the house with Demon at my side.

I parked Demon on the driveway near the door and stood looking at the partial bike as Mr. Compton walked toward me. "How you doing with your Demon?" he asked.

"Well, not too good," I replied. "I think the chain..." I tilted Demon so he could see.

"Hmm," he said as he stooped over and moved the pedal back and forth. "Hmm. Now how the heck did that happen? I wonder why Jeff would take the chain off. Let's take a look in the garage and see if it's around."

We searched all over the garage and couldn't find the chain.

"It looks like we'll have to get a new one. But the stores aren't open on Sunday, so we just have to wait 'til tomorrow. Sorry about that, Mike. I guess Demon won't do you much good without a chain. By the way, that elbow of yours doesn't look too good. Suppose we go inside, and I'll bet between Mary's band aids and my ice cream scoop, we can make that elbow a whole lot better."

Mr. Compton was right about the band-aids and the ice cream scoop, but he was dead wrong about Demon. For the rest of the afternoon, I nearly wore Demon out riding him around the neighborhood. My style was a little strange, but we covered a lot of ground. After some weaving around, I mastered the technique of riding it like a scooter, one foot on a pedal and my other foot on the ground. I was in heaven, scooting around the streets, the summer air whistling past me just like I was really riding. And tomorrow the grins of those kids would turn to awe when I'd actually mount Demon and show them what a bike with flames could really do.

The next day, Mr. Compton came home from work at lunchtime so we could visit Jim's Bike Shop. Jim was a great barrel-chested man who wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up even though the day was hot and humid. Mr. Compton had bought the bike there when Jeff was eight, and he was now twenty-four. He brought along the owner's manual so Jim would know exactly what chain we needed. Jim told us that bike used an unusual chain because Schwinn tried a different sprocket tooth spacing for a while but then went back to the old design. The bottom line was that he didn't have that chain in stock but could get one in a few days from the regional distributor.

My smile turned to a frown at that news. My mother would be back by then, and that would be the end of Demon.

It wasn't my mother, though, who cut my stay at the Comptons short. Mr. Compton came home from work on Wednesday and told me, "We located your Aunt Rachel. Her last name is Payant, and she lives with her husband, John, and two youngsters about your age. I think they're John's sister's children. They live on a farm up in the Thumb."

I watched his eyes knowing rejection would follow. I didn't have long to wait.

"I talked to her today," he continued, "and she said she would love to have you come and stay there for as long as you'd like. A week or a year, it's okay with her. She remembers you from when you were just a little shaver and always wanted you to come live with them." He studied my face for a while, but I knew I could keep him out.

"Herb and I have loved having you here," Mrs. Compton said. "It's been so refreshing having such a nice youngster like you with us. Before you came here, Mike, it seemed like forever since Jeff was your age, but now it's just like yesterday. We'd love for you to stay, but..."

"You see," continued Mr. Compton, "We're just not kin. A young fellow like you needs family, and your Aunt Rachel says she and John are really anxious to have you come there. I bet you're really excited about going to live in the country. Most city kids never get a chance to do that."

The two Comptons stared at me, maybe hoping for a burst of joy. All I could do was forgive them with an attempted smile. After all, I was just a responsibility.

"Your aunt is coming down for you tomorrow," he said.

Demon stood at attention in the yard, awaiting orders from his master. He had served me well for three days. He didn't once complain of being poorly equipped. He wasn't embarrassed by a clumsy master. He was a perfect partner, and so beautiful. Demon's breeding had been exceptional.

"I'll check with Jim first thing in the morning," Mr. Compton said.

"That's okay," I replied. "It doesn't matter now."

I spent the next hour before supper with Demon. I shined his flames and wiped the day's dust from the chrome headlight. I sponged his sweat off like Grandpa had taught us when taking care of Pal.

"I'll miss you, Demon. You're the best. I'm sorry I rode you all over before you were ready. Those kids in the next block probably don't even know what a great bike you are because they just saw me riding you. Next time I'll bring Joe. Nobody rides like Joe. He could..." My hand paused on the hottest part of the flame. "You need somebody to really show you off. He'll ride you hard, but I know that's what you want. I'd never be able to ride you that way. Joe will make the wind whip by you like crazy."

I spun a pedal, then it stopped. I spun it harder and harder until it cut my hand. When the pedal stopped, I saw blood on it. "My blood and Joe's blood are the same—well almost the same. We were twins. But he got the brave blood." I smeared more blood on the pedal. "Now we're blood brothers, Demon. You and me and Joe.

"You'll like Joe. He'll make you proud of being a Demon. Won't just scoot around, either. He'll ride you. He'll ride the hell out of you. And you won't ever forget him. He'll put his own blood on you, and then you'll be invincible."

I stared at that pedal with my brother's blood. No images, only a pedal. I just sat there with Demon, the world blurring through my tears. Every person, every thing, beyond Demon faded away. It was just the three of us. I hugged Demon and whispered, "I'm so sorry. To both of you. Why can't I do it right? Just once? Why?"

* * *

The sound of Karley's John Deere brought us back to a cool spot under a bridge over a small creek in Michigan—a confessional that had somehow snared truth from my fortress memory.

"Huh," Margo said. "Just like that. Didn't even say goodbye. Gone."

I stiffened at the word _gone_ and thought of a defense but then stopped. We sat still, staring into the water until the tractor passed.

"And now you're here. Sort of like when Donnie and I came here."

I turned my head slowly to look at that bluejeaned leg with water reflections dancing around it. When I saw her head turn toward me, I jerked my gaze back to the safety of a gravel bank.

SIX

"Who lives in that little house back there?" I pointed to a low one-story house nearly hidden by bushes growing around it.

"Oh, that's just Lily," Donnie replied.

"She live all alone?" I asked.

"Lily isn't a she. He's a man. Just an old guy that lives alone."

"Lily is a man?" I questioned. "What's a man doing with a girl's name?"

"I don't know. I'm not his mother. How would I know why she called him that?"

"Ever ask him?" I asked.

"You don't ask people stuff like that. He'd probably think you were a really rude kid if you asked him why he's got a girl's name."

I looked at the little place that was so run down. It didn't seem to fit in with all the nice farm houses around. "So what's Lily like?"

"Just an old guy," Donnie said. "Kind of weird, but not as weird as you, just weird like old people get."

I noticed there wasn't a barn by his house. "He a farmer?"

"I don't know. Doesn't have a tractor. Want to meet him?"

"Is he mean?" I asked.

"Lily, mean? That's a good one. When a mosquito gets on his arm, know what he does?"

"Smashes it, I guess."

"No, Mike, he doesn't smash it. Ready for this? He lets it bite him and then fly away. I seen him do it. Says that's what mosquitoes are supposed to do, and you shouldn't try to change what's supposed to be."

I watched the house sitting by itself at the end of a long driveway. "Sure it's okay?"

"Come on, Mike-eee," he said with a jeer as he pointed his bike in that direction. "Want Margo to come along and hold your hand?"

Lily's house was hardly visible from the front as we approached down his long lane at our usual batmobile speed. The two wheel tracks were covered with smooth black dirt that was frequently soaked by the summer rains. Two low spots were still muddy from the last rain. At the first of these, Donnie raced ahead and cut in front of me where we had to detour off the tracks onto the higher center part. Dirt splattered me from his tires before he swerved back over to his side after we passed the muddy spot. As we headed for the second muddy spot, I was determined to make Donnie eat my dirt. Donnie saw me coming up beside him and poured on the coal.

As we approached the mud, I was moving ahead. He swerved up onto the median before we reached the mud and forced me behind. That was risky because he couldn't see any rocks or holes in the weeds. A crash here would probably be a disaster for both of us. My only chance was to get my front wheel ahead of his and force him over. We were heading for the mud at max speed, and I pulled slightly ahead and tried to ride up on the middle and force him to slow down. His determination was matched by mine.

As I edged up in front of him, my arm pushed against his handlebar. At that point, his experience and intuition outmatched my determination. The collision spooked me, and I wobbled trying to recover. As I did so, Donnie surged forward pushing me down into the muddy track.

Clumps of slop flew in every direction. Unable to control my bike in the mud, I angled across it toward the tall weeds on the other side. I slammed on my brake, which made things worse. Donnie didn't even see me cartwheel through the weeds as he sped away in victory. I ended up burrowed into a row of beans about a dozen feet ahead of my bike.

Donnie rode back with a huge grin, picked up my bike, and knocked as much of the mud off as he could, paying no attention to me as I struggled toward him.

"Got to watch that mud," he said. "It could cause a pretty serious accident. If you're not careful." He looked at me and shook his head. "Glad your bike didn't get as muddied up as you did. Let's go on to Lily's, and I'll hose you both down."

I didn't have much choice. My experience at second best made it easier.

Lily's front door hadn't been used for years and was completely grown over with brush. Even Bomba the Jungle Boy would have a tough time hacking his way to it. If the house had ever been painted, it wasn't within the last half century. In the few places where you could see through the undergrowth, the bottom boards were rotting and falling off.

The top of the brick chimney had fallen over years before, and heaps of bricks were scattered on the ground. Fortunately, it hadn't fallen the other direction or they would have gone through the roof. At least someone had kicked the bricks out of the driveway. Over the top of the roof shingles were layers of tarpaper held down by quite a few bricks.

There seemed at first to be no back door, but then I saw it behind an enormous bush covered with pink flowers and brown ones covering the ground around it. A small roof stuck out over the door, but the bush had knocked over one of its posts. Wires connected that corner of the little roof to the remains of the chimney above it.

More bricks lay in front of the door filling a mud hole. The back yard was strewn with a lifetime collection of junk cars and trucks, many propped up with bricks.

Donnie led me to a hand pump among the junkers and tried to pump some water up, but the handle was rusted tight. "He has a pump in his kitchen, so he doesn't uses this one much." He picked up a brick from beside the pump. "Sometimes you have to give it a whack like this."

The pump whined and shrieked as it gave in to his grunts. Slowly the clanking changed to dull thuds as the water made its way to the top. It started filling a steel tub, but half the water missed it and much of what went in the tub leaked out rust holes around the bottom. This might have made quite a swamp had it not been for the bricks we stood on.

When the tub was nearly full, he said, "Okay, now let's drag this thing over to the grass under the tree. Just grab your handle." I obeyed in silence. With a half bucket for a scoop, he started to throw water on my pants.

"Come on, Donnie! Just on the mud!"

"Quit belly-aching and start scrubbing!" he said. "This water won't last forever."

"Okay! Okay! But I don't need water on my shirt! Just my pants and my arms!"

While I scrubbed on my arms, Donnie emptied the tub into the scoop and walked behind me. Before I knew it, the water was pouring down on my head. I gasped and spun around to find Donnie laughing out the few words he could. "Just thought I'd save you the trouble of taking a shower later."

I thought about using a brick for one final job. Then I started laughing, though not so hard I couldn't land a solid kick. We were pushing each other and laughing when an unexpected voice stopped me cold. Donnie turned toward the voice, still laughing. But I heard the familiar sound of menace.

"Can't a man have any peace and quiet without neighbors coming to take a bath in his back yard? What's the matter, Donald, you run out of water at home?"

"No, Lily! We got plenty of water. But Mike liked your mud out front so much, he decided to roll around in it. I'm just trying to help him clean up before Aunt Rae sees him."

I took a step backwards and faced the voice.

"If Aunt Rae seen Mike the way he was," Donnie continued, "she would of made him sleep out in the barn tonight."

"Now, Donald," the voice rose with some passion, "don't go saying anything like that about Rachel. She's one of the finest women I've ever met. And you know that includes queens and first ladies, and princesses, too. I've met them all, and Rachel is as good as the best of them, and a lot better than most."

He turned his attention to me, although I was a couple steps farther away and hidden in the shadow. "Now, who's this Michael person hiding back there?"

He stepped into my shadow. His face softened as he left direct sun. His voice followed. "My name is Lily Portage. Everybody just calls me Lily." He didn't pronounce Portage the way we normally would, but with the accent on the second syllable and the g soft and drawn out like a string of taffy. White teeth appeared when the corners of his mouth turned up into his gray beard.

He extended his huge hand to me, a muscular hand, a weapon. I studied the bronze knuckles, the hair on his fingers, the scarred forearm. More teeth now showed as we considered each other. I expected his teeth to match the grime of his house, but they didn't. His beard, though bushy, was neat. And he didn't smell like whiskey.

His hand asked for trust, maybe more than asked. His eyes reinforced that message. But he was still an adult, a powerful adult. One of my mother's friends had a beard like Lily's. He seemed okay when he was sober, but after a few drinks, I was just an obstacle between him and my mother.

"What's the matter, Mike?" chided Donnie. "He just wants to shake your hand! You getting weird again?"

I gave Lily my hand.

"I'm your friend, Michael." The words were quiet and even. I listened. "I'm your friend." I explored his eyes, and he mine. Our hands parted.

"I'd say you two could use a Faygo," he said. "What do you think?"

"I'd say you're absolutely right, Lily," Donnie parroted his voice.

"Then why don't you come inside? I may even be able to find the makings of a float."

I felt encouraged by the word _float_. "Except I'm all wet, Mr. Lily."

"Just call me plain old Lily. That's my name. I'll bet you think that's a funny name for a man, and you probably think I'm a strange old geezer. Well, you're right on both counts. And a little water here and there never bothered me either. But if it'll make you feel better, just take your pants off and hang them right over there in the sun and then come on in. And don't you worry. There hasn't been a woman in my house since Ester."

I felt a little strange walking into his house in my underpants, but that disappeared fast when I saw the Faygo floats in process. The inside of Lily's house was as unusual as the outside, but it looked like it might be at the opposite pole of the earth from the outside.

A round table sat at the center of a large kitchen. A blue and white checked tablecloth covered it with perfect pleats dropping around the edge. A large window with matching curtains stood over the sink and looked out on a field of green oats, their long beards still pointed up in praise of the summer sun. The floor was a cream-colored linoleum with a blue flowers that matched the blue in the tablecloth. Gleaming white cabinets with pink rose decals lined two walls over counters covered with the same linoleum as the floor.

A cuckoo clock on the far wall sprang to life. A wood cook stove was connected to the brick chimney by a black pipe. How could this chimney be the one I saw outside? It was painted a pure white to match the wood trim. The walls matched the dusty rose on the cabinets. This kitchen was not possibly in this house.

A sparkling white Frigidaire stood in one corner with its circles of coils on top. I noticed several half gallons of ice cream and nothing else in the freezer when he opened it.

We slurped and spooned the three Faygo root beer floats while sitting around the kitchen table. About halfway through the float, Lily asked me, "How are you getting along with Rachel and John?"

I swallowed my last spoonful and answered, "Just fine—Lily. They're real nice."

"They certainly are, Michael. They certainly are. How about Donald and Margaret? Are they treating you good?"

"Well, except for the bath I just got from Donnie, they seem pretty nice, too." I glanced over at Donnie who pretended to be more interested in his Faygo float than in my opinion. A grin gave him away.

"You have to watch out for Donald. He's a pretty tricky fellow." He looked straight at Donnie and said, "But I think Margaret is even trickier. She can find out more about a person faster than anybody I know."

"Uh huh," I answered as I noticed Donnie's grin fade.

"How long will you be staying here, Michael?"

I paused, wrestling with the question. "I guess 'til my mother comes. 'til she gets back."

"I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself, how ever long you're here. And you know you're welcome here anytime you feel like taking a bath."

He and Donnie both chuckled. Finally, I gave in and smiled a little. Lily got up to take the empty glasses to the sink. As he passed behind me, he put his hand on my shoulder. "All kidding aside, Michael, I like having company. Donald can tell you that, right Donald?"

"That's right," Donnie said. "I especially like your stories. I bet Mike would like to hear one. You said you would tell me one about you and the Greeks."

"Now there's that pesky fly again," muttered Lily.

"Where's your flyswatter, Lily?" asked Donnie. "I'm an expert at flies."

"No!" said Lily gruffly. The sound seemed unnatural to him and had to be pried from his mouth. He walked behind the fly, which was preening itself on the table between Donnie and me, lowered his hand carefully to the table, and laid it flat just inches from the fly. "Come on, baby. This is no place for you in the house. You're an outdoor creature, and I'm an indoor creature. So it's time for you to go back where you belong."

The fly walked around his hand, then right up onto it. When it got to his palm, Lily placed his other hand over it. He walked to the screen door, opened it with his foot, and released the fly outside. "Now you stay outside where you belong, baby."

"You know, Lily," Donnie said, "I remember once the mosquitoes were really biting, and I was smacking them as fast as I could. But when one would come to bite you, you'd just let it finish biting and fly away. I couldn't figure it out. I mean, you just letting them bite you and all. And you didn't even think anything about it, like they had your permission or something."

"Do you know why mosquito bites itch, Donnie?" Lily asked.

"Sure! They have real sharp little teeth, and some of them come out when they bite you, and then they itch a lot."

Lily caught me rolling my eyes and turned to me with a grin. His eyes twinkled with a little mischief as he said, "It appears that Michael may have a different view of mosquito bites. Is that right, Michael?"

Since he asked me, there was nothing to do but set the record straight about mosquito bites. "Well," I started out, "mosquitoes don't really have any teeth—at least not like we think of teeth. They have this sharp puncture tool that has a sucker tube inside of it so they can suck out some of your blood because that's what they live on."

Lily replaced his look of mischief with an intensity I'd rarely seen in any adult except for Mr. Stepaniak, my teacher. He was a great kidder in class, but when it came time to learn something important, which was everything, he would make this change right in front of the whole class. We all got the message that playtime was behind us, and something very important was about to happen. It might have been a discussion of atoms or bacteria or mosquitoes. There might be some clever pun or joke woven into the lesson, but we knew it was something to learn and not just for fun.

Mr. Stepaniak's signal came from his eyes. They somehow changed from a twinkle and a grin to a mystery and a challenge. His eyes told us, "If anyone cares to experience the excitement of our universe, listen up! If you miss it, the entire remainder of your life will suffer a little." This same change had just occurred in Lily's kitchen, but only I saw the signal. Lily wanted me to continue.

"But this puncture thing injects some poison. It's just the tiniest drop, but it causes the pain and the itching afterward for a while until the poison goes away. And not all mosquitoes can do that. Only the females bite you because the males don't have that tube thing."

"That's a very fine lesson in mosquito biting, Michael." Lily ruffled Donnie's shoulder and got an involuntary smile in return. "And what's more, it credits my observations. What I have experienced is that, if you make yourself a part of the mosquito's world, and there isn't any feeling of threatening coming out of your body, then the mosquito bite doesn't sting or itch. I bet that mosquitoes only inject that poison stuff when they feel threatened. So if you are relaxed and give off a feeling of friendship, somehow the mosquitoes sense that, and they alter their action by just taking a spot of your blood and not putting any poison in you. I never understood that so clearly before, but now with Michael's explanation, it all makes sense. Doesn't it, Donnie?"

"Right."

"Thank you, Michael. If I have any more questions about mosquitoes, I'll just direct them to you."

The twinkle now returned to his eyes as he asked, "Anything else you boys would like to drink before I start my story about the Greeks?"

We both nodded a polite no.

"Michael, I'll bet your pants are dry by now, so you might want to get them. There's a herd of pesky sparrows around here, and they really enjoy decorating my clothes if I leave them hanging out too long."

I retrieved my mostly dry blue jeans before any sparrows decorated them. Damp blue jeans were not easy to put on but were extremely comfortable in the still, warm air of that wonderful afternoon. I went into the house nearly tripping over a brick that Lily used to keep the door from blowing shut. The kitchen was empty, but the white enameled door that was closed earlier now stood open.

The kitchen was more bright and pleasant than any I could ever remember, even more cheery than Aunt Rae's kitchen. I stopped halfway through it and thought back across that wide chasm to our kitchen in Detroit. Its one window had half a curtain which had once been white. The other half of the curtain was missing, and the curtain rod was suspended on that end by a wire stretched over to a nail in the wall near the ceiling. A crack descended from that nail to the corner of the window opening where it flowed into a river of cracks.

When my mother finally came home, I'd go back there. I resolved to pray for her return at my next opportunity. The boy Jesus would have been praying every day for such a happy reunion. My first prayer should be for help to be more like Him.

I closed my eyes for a moment and then continued across the kitchen. My vision of Jesus asking his father to show His holy mother the way home faded as I approached the open doorway. As fast as it faded, a new image arose, a real one. The next room must have been the living room; for it held a sofa, an overstuffed chair, and two lamps.

It was everything else that made it seem not like a living room. Heavy drapes covered each window and allowed only a few slivers of sun to stream in where they were quickly smothered by the dark decor. To my right stood an immense figure. I first saw the thing, which had a human shape, out of the corner of my eye, and it scared me so much I sucked in my breath and jumped back. Turning toward it, my eyes blinked, trying to see through the gloom. I suddenly stopped, realizing what this thing was and trying to figure out why it was in a farmhouse in Michigan. I stared directly into the business end of a broad ax. Clenching it, a hand meshed in steel led to an arm encased in steel plates. The remainder of the body rose above me as I stood in awe, captured by the steel-framed knight. I reached out and touched the edge of the ax. It was ready for battle.

A gasp stuck in my throat as I watched the armored knight take a step toward me. I blinked again and shook my head. The suit of armor stood still on a pedestal where it probably had for years. A purple plume rose straight from its helmet. I looked closely into that visor for some sign of life, like a pair of eyes staring back at me. There were none.

A voice behind me said, "I see you've met Sir Gowdarth."

Jumping at the unexpected sound, I said, "Uh huh," without turning around. "Is this really what Sir... What a knight guy would wear in the olden days?"

"It's not only what he _would_ wear. It's what he _did_ wear."

"You mean..."

"See these dents here in the left arm?" Lily asked.

My fingers automatically went to one of those dents. It was cold and sharp at the bottom.

"They're from a broadsword."

"A broadsword. Wow!" I investigated each of the dents. "But how do you know it wasn't an ax, or maybe he just got kicked by a horse or... I don't know. It could've been anything."

"I fought beside Sir Gowdarth the day that happened. We were defending the castle from a small invasion force from Wales."

I looked at Lily and then turned my attention back to Sir Gowdarth. "You have any more like him?"

"Sir Gowdarth is the only one that is the real armor, so he's full size. But I have a five eighths scale armor-over-wax of The Knight of the Rueful Figure right over there." I looked over toward the corner, and there on a table was a figure as different from what I expected a knight to look like as the kitchen was from the living room. This other knight didn't seem at all menacing. In fact, he looked humorous, though proud. His air of dignity even shone through the indoor twilight, which I was now becoming accustomed to.

"Of course, I never met him," Lily said with a grin.

"Isn't this a neat place, Mike?" another voice said. "I knew you'd like it soon as you seen it!"

The initial shock of the room had faded, so I could begin to appreciate all the wonders. But it was still a little scary. A museum wouldn't have been so startling because you expect this in a museum, but this place just shouldn't have been here.

Every square inch of wall and floor space echoed the valor and the noble deeds of brave men. The carpet told the story of the British surrendering to General Washington. The furniture was carefully arranged around the scene like a centerpiece.

"That's George Washington," Donnie said. "And there's General Cornwell."

I nodded to him and said, "Cornwallis." But Donnie had already moved on.

The room's only lamp had a huge umbrella of stained glass over it and sat on a dark oak table near the far wall in front of a camouflage drape covering most of the wall. It left just enough room for a pair of crossed swords under a shield at one end and a group of photographs of World War II British and American tanks at the other end.

The table was the only clearly lit place in the room and drew me to it. Lily stood beside me as I examined the object on the table, not daring to touch it.

"Look at this old musket, Mike! Lily says he carried it at the Battle of Bunker Hill!"

The muzzleloader looked just like ones in my history book. I could see a young Lily with a three-cornered hat crouched behind a stone wall, taking aim at a marching Redcoat on a dusty road. A leather pouch lay beside the musket and had a dark stain on it. I touched the pouch and felt marble-sized objects inside.

"Isn't that neat? Lily says you put the prime right here, and when this hammer comes down, it blows up the powder, and it fires the ball right out the end of the barrel. He says they call it a muscle. And he has this real modern rifle here that he used in World War II to kill Germans." Donnie looked at me with the pride of a teacher and seemed not to be disappointed in my controlled reaction. But inside me was anything but controlled. This was a magnificent place. More than magnificent.

"He says you can shoot this one as fast as you can pull the trigger, 'cause it's a semi-automatic, but this muscle one takes about a half minute to reload. And it doesn't shoot near as straight, or as far!"

I touched the breach of the musket and ran my hand down the barrel of the rifle. I nodded my head and said, "Gee."

Lily stood beside the table in silence. "What's this map of?" I asked.

"Come over here, Donald, so I can tell both of you about Malta." He stood straight up and took a pair of glasses out of his pocket. "This is a map of the Mediterranean. See? Here is Spain and Portugal, and here is Turkey and Greece way over here. Right here in between is Italy. And just below Italy is this island called Malta.

"Malta has been fought over for centuries. See where it is? Right between Italy and North Africa. The Maltese have been invaded a hundred times by whoever was trying to conquer Europe that year."

"How about in World War Two?" I asked. "I bet the Germans invaded it."

"That's the odd thing, Michael. Hitler decided he didn't need Malta. He just drove his ships and airplanes right past it.... And look what happened to him."

"Yeah," Donnie said. "He got his guts spread all over Germany."

I ignored Donnie and said, "You mean, if Hitler had taken over Malta, he would have won the war?"

"Who can say? All I know for sure is that we used it as staging area for a lot of our troops when we invaded Sicily on July 9, 1943. I think Hitler underestimated Malta's value."

"Wow," I whispered. "Just think if Hitler had invaded Malta. And then won the war."

"No way!" Donnie said. "You ever hear of atom bombs? We would have creamed him with a couple of those. Right down his throat." He made an explosion sound as he flew over Hitler.

"Have you ever been to Malta, Lily?" I asked.

"Are you crazy? Tell him, Lily."

"The first time was when I served under England's greatest sea captain on board the _HMS Atropos_. Napoleon had overrun Europe, but we commanded the seas."

He turned his attention to the map, but not like the teacher he'd just been. He was now a warrior. My only surprise was that this transition seemed so natural, so right. My eyes automatically followed his. I felt my pulse keep pace.

"We captured this galley. She was powered by a hundred slaves, but we had the luck of a crosswind bearing and heavy seas that favored a ship of the line. Her captain was a most interesting fellow who hated the French as much as he loved privateering. He also had a wholesome disdain for British prisons. We persuaded him to help us..."

I studied Lily and the map he now bent over as he relived that long ago campaign. He pointed to ports with magical names and islands cut off by crashing seas and mighty ships. I tensed every muscle as I ran out a twenty-four pounder, then awaited the deafening roar of a man-o'-war broadside against an outgunned Spanish frigate. I felt the rope dig into my hands as we hauled a carronade to the top of a dusty hill overlooking a French-occupied fort with the _Atropos_ hiding just out of sight, ready to attack from the other direction as soon as we drew fire.

Our passions grew as I joined his cause; and, together, we waged a righteous war. I tracked his course across a deadly sea to the battlements of our enemy. We showed no mercy, and expected none in return. Lily was the most gentle man I'd ever met, and I the meekest boy. But together on the battlefield, we were hell.

SEVEN

Donnie and I rode toward home, replaying Lily's adventures. Their glories shone as brightly now as they had in Lily's strategy room—that's what Lily called it—lighting up those shadowed walls with brilliant deeds.

"Wonder if he really did all that stuff he said," I thought out loud.

"Of course he did, Mike! You saw those guns, didn't you? And the swords! That's the stuff he actually used in battles."

"He could have bought that stuff from antique shops," I replied.

"You kidding me? Remember the blood on that sword. Turkish blood. And it turned black on the blade from all the years. And remember? He said Middle Eastern blood turns real black 'cause they're so sweaty."

"I think he said swarthy," I said.

"What's that mean?"

"I don't remember, but we had it in geography last year. A lot of Italians and Greeks and stuff are swarthy. Has something to do with garlic."

I dropped back and pedaled behind Donnie until the once-green Chevy pickup passed us. All it left behind was a cloud of dust and a stone in the rolled-up cuff of my left leg.

"And besides, he could've used cow blood or something," I continued.

"No way! That wasn't cow blood! You forget, I live on a farm, and you're just a city boy. I know cow blood when I see it."

"You don't even have cows," I said.

"Well, we used to have some. And besides, I've been down to Hinkly's lots a-times. Boy, do they have the cows. All I know is, that wasn't cow blood."

"I didn't mean it had to be cow blood!" I answered. "It could have been any kind of blood, or maybe not even blood. Maybe paint or ink or something."

"Boy, you are so crazy! You seen it just like I did. That was real Turkey blood! Where do you come up with this weird stuff?"

Donnie sped ahead and bounced over an old, unused driveway hidden by tall grass that led into the orchard next to the house. I didn't take the short cut as I wondered about the strange man, and the strange world he lived in. I'd never met anyone like him before. Yet, it seemed that he knew me. And maybe I even knew him.

Lily was full of contradictions, and that seemed to make him more believable, to me anyway. But that didn't really make much sense. All I knew for sure was, I would see him again. And it couldn't be too soon.

I turned left into the gravel driveway that circled through the yard beside the house. Uncle Johnny was working on his red Farmall tractor, the H, we called it, in the shade beside the barn. I rode over to him and watched him tighten a bolt on a new cultivator blade he just installed. It was a dull gray with its boring factory paint job. All the other blades were old and shone like polished silver even in the shade. Miles of rich soil had scoured them into pointy mirrors.

After the last grunt, Uncle Johnny looked up and saw me there propped up against my bike. "How is Mike doing today?" He spoke with a slight accent. His family had immigrated to Quebec and then to Michigan from Libourne, France when he was young.

"Fine, Uncle Johnny."

"Any adventures today?"

"Donnie and I were at Lily's."

"How is Lily? Haven't seen him around for a while."

"He's fine," I replied.

"Quite a guy, isn't he?" Uncle Johnny said as he stood up and stretched his back, swaying his hips with his hands behind him.

"Yes."

He knelt down and sighted along the cultivator blades to make sure the new one was the right height. "That looks pretty good to me. How do your young eyes see it?"

"It looks fine."

"Does it line up with the old blades?"

I got down on my hands and knees and sighted across the tractor. "Well, it looks like it might be just a little bit farther forward than the others."

"The tip of the blade or the shaft?"

"The pointy part, right at the front end."

"That's okay then. It's new so the point hasn't worn back yet. There's the old one. Broke half the blade off on a rock."

"Uh huh."

"They tell me those rocks rolled all the way down here from Canada under some glacier. That's how they got so smooth, just rolling along with a million tons of ice on top of them. But I guess that was a few years before I was born. You ever hear of such a thing, Mike?"

I nodded my head. "We read about the glaciers in school. It was way before you were born. Unless you're really old." I rubbed the old broken cultivator in the palm of my hand. It felt like the flat of a sword I'd used in battle.

"Well, guess I'm not as old as these rocks, even though I feel like it some times."

My thumb ran along the dull edge of the blade. The broken edge was rough where a rock had hit it, breaking that hard steel. I imagined a sword breaking on the helmet of an armored knight. "How old do you think Lily is?" I asked.

"Lily, huh. Well, that's hard to say. There's how old his mother would say, and then there's how old he thinks he is. But, you know, I just can't figure it out. You have any idea?"

"Uh uh. He can't be as old as his stories, can he? I mean, he told us about him fighting with some Turks, and it sounded like a thousand years ago. But that couldn't be, could it? I mean, a man can't really be a thousand years old, can he?"

"Look at that, Mike!" Uncle Johnny pointed across a field. "There goes a dust devil! Isn't that something? You ever see those down there in Detroit?"

"No. Looks kind of like a tornado, but real small."

"Well that's exactly what it is, a tiny tornado. I think they're real pretty to watch, dancing across the field, just like Madame Duvé, twirling across the stage." We watched it for a few seconds as it leaped across a ditch and then just evaporated. "But they sure can do some damage when they get into a field of ripe grain. This time of year, the stalks are still green and sturdy, but in a couple of weeks, a little twister like that could mow down a few bushel of wheat real fast."

"Do you think Lily is just lying about those stories?" I said after Uncle Johnny had turned his attention back to the H.

"Does he sound like a liar to you?"

"Uh uh. He sounds like he was really there."

Uncle Johnny put his wrenches in the toolbox he kept on the tractor. "Come on, Mike! Let's take this joker for a test drive."

I jumped aboard and clung to the fender, which kept me from being ground into the earth by the huge lugged wheels as we drove around the barn and into the headland of a bean field. He lined up the tractor on the outside four rows of the headland, lowered the cultivators, and drove off down the rows, carefully watching each side to keep the rows of beans between the cultivator blades. "The whole idea is to get the weeds and still have some beans left for Van Kamp."

He suddenly pressed the clutch pedal down and the tractor lurched to a halt. He jumped down to the ground and kicked at something in front of a pair of culti-covers, which were steel paddles that straddle each row and throw a little mound of dirt around the bean plants to bury the small weeds growing close to the beans. A rock had become lodged between a pair of culti-covers and ripped out about six feet of one row of beans before he saw it. Picking up the rock, he pitched it into a box he had strapped to the tractor.

"Here's one of our famous glacial rocks. It just cost me a nickel's worth of beans. But that's a small price to pay for an encounter with such an archaeological treasure." He chuckled as he remounted his tractor seat.

We finished one round of the headland and returned to the barn where he parked in the long shadows of the afternoon sun. "Drives just like a new car!" he said as he jumped down. "These new culti-cover gizmos will save you guys a lot of hoeing. This is the first year I've used them, and they're pretty slick."

"So how old do you really think Lily is, Uncle Johnny?"

"I knew you were going to ask me that, Mike. And I don't have any better answer than before, except..." He continued cleaning his tools as we walked into the barn to put them away.

"Except what?" I finally asked, handing him a box-end wrench and a pry bar.

"Well, I really shouldn't be telling you this because your Aunt Rachel doesn't think much of this stuff."

He pulled open a drawer under his workbench and rearranged some tools that already looked perfectly neat to me. I watched every movement of his hands, then took a step closer.

"Have you ever—"

Just then, we were interrupted by a familiar voice from behind us. "Mike! Mike! Are you in here?"

We both turned to see the silhouette of Aunt Rae in the doorway. The late afternoon sun bathed her from behind, turning her brunette hair a sparkling gold, just for that moment. Her shadow preceded her toward us.

"He's here with me, Goosey," Uncle Johnny said.

"I saw your bike out there, so I figured you might just be in here, getting a lesson on how to fix a tractor or something." She flashed a smile and a wink at Uncle Johnny.

"We were just talking about..." Uncle Johnny paused.

"Culti-covers," I added. "Uncle Johnny says they'll cut down on the hoeing we have to do."

"We're all for that, aren't we, Mike?" she replied. "By the way, some people drove up from the city to see you this afternoon."

A knot formed in my throat and tightened as it slowly descended into my stomach. I pictured my mother and Ralph, her latest boyfriend, pulling into the driveway in his Studebaker with the left rear fender missing. I knew eventually my mother would come back for me, and I'd cherished that dream.

I had held it between my hands, pointing heavenward in a prayer of petition for the deliverance of my lost mother. I had pictured myself standing beside the well with a bucket of water looking longingly to the horizon, as I knew the boy Jesus would have done if His blessed mother were missing. I had pictured my halo bouncing with delight as I ran toward my own blessed mother, my robe swishing before my impatient legs like a stallion carrying an armored knight toward his lady. Ever since her disappearance, I had fantasized my joy at her return. I should long for nothing more than to be reunited with my mother and resume my life as her favored, and now only, child. It would be my mission, my joy, my salvation.

But now that reunion was at hand. They had probably gone into Burton because Uncle Johnny never kept any spirits in the house except for a bottle of La Foret Merlot that he saved for special occasions. They would soon return, laughing with sedated graciousness, and sweep me away—rescue me.

But with that rescue at hand, I didn't feel the joy I'd fantasized. I told myself this was the opportunity that very few boys would ever get. I would experience the love of being reunited, of being Christlike. I steeled myself for the cross.

"It was Herb and Mary Compton," said Aunt Rae. "They could only stay for a little minute and—"

"Did they find my mother?" I blurted out.

"No, I'm sorry, Mike. They have no news of her."

I exhaled relief. I prayed it would be interpreted as disappointment. Her next comment showed my lie had been successful. "Don't worry, Mike. We love you, and we want you to stay right here with us." I felt a large hand come to rest on my shoulder.

If they knew I really wasn't sad about my mother not coming back, they probably wouldn't love me so much then.

"They were really sorry they missed you, Mike," continued Aunt Rae. "But they had to get back. In fact, they'd love you to visit them any time. Mary said you could stay as long as you liked, and she'd have an excuse to bake your favorite cakes. How does that sound to you?"

"That sounds fine, Aunt Rae," I said to her shoes.

"They said they wanted to bring you something you forgot when you came here. Mr. Compton put it in the garage for you."

My eyes flew from her shoes to her face. A second later, I found myself running toward the garage with the two of them hurrying along behind me. I hit the driveway at full speed and turned right toward the open garage door. Unfortunately, the gravel in the driveway gave way under my turn, and my feet flew out from under me. I tumbled across the driveway into the grass. I caught a few stones in my right arm, but my only other injuries were a stained pride and pants. I propped myself up on one perfect and one bleeding elbow and stared through the same doorway the sun glared through from behind me. The red brilliance caught a streak of flames.

"Demon," I whispered.

EIGHT

The next day was a bean-hoeing day. We accepted it like Uncle Johnny accepted cultivator blades broken by prehistoric rocks. Aunt Rae, Margo, Donnie, and I were the designated hoers. Uncle Johnny was busy cultivating and getting the machinery ready for harvest, so he was exempt from this grunt work. We grunts agreed that it is less painful to hoe in the cool of the early morning. That meant getting into the field by six and working until about noon.

I was on Demon by five thirty, running him through his paces around the yard and down the road. His speed and stamina were way beyond what I could have wrung out of just a bike. Aunt Rae warned me we had a lot of walking to do that morning, so it wouldn't be wise to "wear yourself out on your bike" before we even got started.

"What do you mean, bike! That's not a bike, it's Demon! Look at those flames! You don't have flames on just a bike!"

Our appointment with beans arrived on schedule. This was my third sortie into the fields armed with a freshly sharpened hoe. But today would be different. Demon awaited me. My duty as a foot soldier would end when I'd swing my leg over the saddle of my steed at the end of the day. I pitied the poor grunts who had only a glass of Cool Aid waiting for them.

Thanks to my exceptional effort, we finished the field almost an hour early. Margo and Aunt Rae were impressed with my speed, though not always my accuracy. A few beans were murdered that morning that might have survived if I hadn't had been so driven. Donnie soon figured out that my speed would allow him to slacken, and I would help him finish his rows each time we reached the end of the field.

I was back on Demon as soon as we finished lunch. Demon responded to my every command as if we'd been tempered together in the furnace of my past. We made several flights around the farmyard with practice bombing and strafing runs on the chicken coop and the ice age stone pile. My last strafing run was on the body of Donnie lying in the shade of the maple tree. I slammed on the brakes and slid to a halt just inches from him, my twin machine guns rippling destruction before me.

"Are you crazy, Mike? You could of killed me with that stupid bike of yours!"

"If Demon and I wanted to, we could have run you over a dozen times by now. We already bombed you twice and filled you with so many bullets that you probably weigh a ton by now. And besides, Demon doesn't like being called a stupid bike. You ought to have more respect for your superiors."

"What do you mean, superiors?" He lifted himself up on his elbows and shot me a glare.

"Want to have another run at Lily's lane?" I challenged.

"Ha!" Donnie responded. "After all that hoeing? You got to have rocks in your head!"

"A few miles of beans is nothing if you've got a good machine under you! Demon doesn't slow down for anything unless I tell him to!" I patted the flames scorching backward along Demon's ammunition pod.

"Demon! Ha!" Donnie replied full of sarcasm. "You think that bike's something special just 'cause it's got those fake flames shooting out."

"I can see Demon and I are going to have to teach you some respect." I bumped Donnie's leg with Demon's front tire until he scooted away and scowled at me.

"Ha! That'll be the day!" he scoffed.

"Want to go over to Lily's?" I bumped him twice more.

"We were just there yesterday. Besides, I got to rest. I got all the dirty beans this morning. There weren't hardly any weeds in your rows. I did most of the work, so I need extra rest." With that, he flopped over on his stomach and turned off my world. I bumped him harder a couple more times with Demon, but he ignored the attack.

I got tired of this game and turned my steed away. The wind whistled as I blasted down the road, swerving from one side to the other, skillfully avoiding the pull of the ditches. I roared down Lily's lane, hearing only the click of weeds as I bypassed the mud holes.

Lily was working on his '23 Hudson in the back yard. He had the right front wheel propped up with bricks in case his bumper jack gave out. He had just finished packing the wheel bearing and was about to lower the car to the ground when I skidded to a halt a dozen feet away.

"Sounds like Donald and Michael back for another float," he said without turning around. He picked up a brick and used it to flip the rusty reverse lever on the jack.

"No, Lily, it's just me, Michael. Donald's passed out under a tree. I think he's all beaned out this afternoon."

"Well, I'm all greased out. Haven't driven this old clunker for quite a while because one of the front wheels just about froze up the last time I had her out." He began jacking the car down as he spoke. "But today I've got to drive up to Harbor City." He spoke in time with the clicking jack. "Her odometer broke about fifteen years ago, so it's hard to say how many miles she has on her, but I'd guess it's a bunch."

After finishing with the jack, he lifted it off the two bricks beneath it, straightened up, and looked at me. I stood beside Demon, cradling his sparkling handlebars lovingly, but with enough resolve to keep him under control so he wouldn't take off without his master.

"That's quite a stallion you're holding onto there, Michael. What's his name?"

I just stepped aside, showing off the large black letters climbing upward from the sprocket, my face beaming with pride.

"Demon. Demon." Lily's eyes twinkled. "It'll be tough for him to live up to a name like that." He stepped closer and examined Demon with a critical eye. "How does he handle?"

"Demon runs like a race horse. There's not a tougher stallion in the world, or a more loyal friend."

"Loyal, is he?" said Lily. "Loyalty pretty important to you?"

"Yes."

Lily rubbed his hand over Demon's seat. "It's pretty important to know that someone is loyal to you. Demon looks like a loyal partner."

He put his hand on my shoulder for a moment, then squatted next to Demon, gently stroking the flames along the tank. He paused at the silver horn button. A gusty sound answered his finger. Two grins answered the blast.

But when we glanced at each other, I saw more than just a grin. His eyes closed, and there was a look of peace, or maybe longing. I couldn't figure out exactly what was happening, but Demon took him somewhere, somewhere he'd been before. I wondered if it was a place I'd been, or was I going there?

I suddenly realized that my hand had joined his. It rested on his powerful fingers—fingers that had killed, ageless fingers. These same fingers now drew strength from Demon, and I from them. I secretly prayed that Demon could live up to the expectations that I, and now Lily, had placed on him.

"I think Demon will be your most loyal and your most steadfast friend, Michael. You can't overestimate the value of loyalty."

Now his other hand found the top of mine, and I could feel the heat from Demon's flames as we gained energy from the union of man, boy, and comrade. I knelt there motionless, thinking about loyalty, about Joe and Susie, about my mother and promises—about Jesus and Mary. I felt the depth of Jesus' loyalty to his Blessed Mother and her loyalty to Him.

I knew I must be strong and defend my loyalty to my mother, just as she defended hers toward me, even at this moment. Somewhere, my mother was trying desperately to overcome great dangers to rejoin me. Somewhere, I occupied her every thought, and she would not rest until we were together again. My disloyalty to Joe had cost him his life. I'd been disloyal to Susie too. They should be beside me now—laughing, sharing, fearing—just like before.

The only way to make up for that was to be strong for my mother, to give my life for her if necessary, like Jesus did. I must somehow keep my sacred promise and still be loyal to Joe and Susie. Demon would help me, and now I knew Lily would help me, too. When I opened my eyes, I didn't know how long I'd been motionless, absorbed by a past I loathed, ashamed of the boy who had survived.

I stood up, and Lily nodded to me. He motioned toward his '23 Hudson, then removed bricks from behind both rear tires.

"Well, Michael, I think she'll get me to Harbor City now. You want to come along for the ride?"

The question surprised me. "Uh, I don't know, Lily. I mean, I don't know if I should."

"You know what your Aunt Rachel told you better than I," Lily said as he looked over the engine.

"Well." I stared at my right foot as it shoved a brick from the tire track. "You see, Aunt Rae just said that we shouldn't go too far on our bikes. And I didn't. So I guess it's okay."

"Then climb aboard, Michael! And by the way, throw a few of those bricks behind the front seat. Just in case."

NINE

There she is, Lily," the man with the purple tie exclaimed. "Isn't she beautiful, just like I said?"

Lily stood still, his eyes moving with pleasure over every inch of this beauty. I was torn between Lily's ecstatic eyes and this wonderful machine. I stepped toward it, my mouth gaping open. There, in the rear fender... Could it be? I stooped down and put one finger into it and turned my face back to Lily who was talking to the man with the purple tie.

"Bullet hole." I mouthed the words, but no sound came out. There could be no doubt about it, though. A single hole punched through the rear of the olive green fender, and there was no doubt that it had been made by an enemy gun in some far off land across an ocean.

I stopped suddenly as I remembered the 1939 Packard. It's shining chrome headlights flashed before me. I saw my father hitting Joe as he tried to escape across the brown patch of dirt we called the front lawn. All the while, I watched from the safety of our porch with my mother's arms around me. Joe would never cry. He was a real soldier. My mother never interfered when Joe was getting a beating. She always came to my rescue, though. The only comfort I could give was to shut out the scene with my eyelids.

"Cecil!" my mother shouted. "Cut it out or these niggers will have the cops out here again!"

I looked up at Lily with terror in my eyes. He stopped talking to the man and walked toward me. I took two small steps backward as he approached. His hand came to rest on my shoulder. "It's ours, Michael. You can do whatever you like." He squeezed the back of my neck.

His squeeze implored me to trust him. I looked first at Lily and then at the beautiful Army jeep, and the tension began to drain from me.

The man with the purple tie said, "There's something... Well, you come on over here, and I'll show you. Now I ordered ten army surplus jeeps, so you don't know exactly what you're going to get 'til you get it. Now look at this here." He pointed to a spot on the steel support behind the front seat. It was a tiny _F_. "And looky here." He pointed to a spot on the steering column. Another tiny _F_.

"These _F_ s," he looked at both of us to make sure we were paying proper attention. "These _F_ s mean this is a Ford, not a Willys or a Bantam. Now here's the important thing." He pointed to a spot on the valve cover. "Now this _F_ is the most important. It says the engine is a Ford. You see?"

We both nodded.

"The reason that's important is that most of the Ford jeeps had to use the Willys engine, which was bigger but not as good. Ford started out using their own tractor engine, so we know that sucker is going to run forever, don't we. This is a real early jeep, probably 1941, a GP, not a GPW.

"But I quoted you a price, and I'll stick with it." He held his hands up like we had the drop on him. "Even though this baby is a real collector's item."

Lily looked at me and winked. I returned my attention to the jeep—the Ford GP jeep. On the other side, two more bullet holes in the front fender jumped out at me. But these weren't the same as the other hole. They were punched down at a steep angle. I looked up at where they must have come from. "Holy smoke," I whispered.

We roared out of the war surplus lot, all four wheels spitting gravel as they one by one bit into the asphalt of the highway. I sat in the gunner's seat in back where a part of a machine gun with the firing mechanism welded shut still sat on its swivel mount. As we sped away, I raked the '23 Hudson with a burst of bullets. Lily shouted something to me as he climbed through the gears, but his words were swept away by the blast of air and lost for all time as they merged with the wind.

My soul was lost in that wind as we raced down the highway with Lake Huron waves breaking on my right and farms flashing by on my left. Not a seagull was left alive along that stretch of beach after we passed. No twelve-year-old boy anywhere on earth had ever flown so high. I aimed my gun at a Japanese aircraft carrier far out in the lake. As my bullets riddled it with holes, a wing of Zeros tried to launch. "Kamikazes," I yelled. I picked each one off as it struggled from the flight deck. But one made it through my curtain of bullets, banked left and headed toward us. I pumped a thousand shells into it as we dueled. Only one of us could survive. It crashed in a fountain of spray just short of the beach. Then I turned my attention on the carrier as its stern rose, slipping into the silent water before my brutal eyes. I pumped another thousand bullets into that hull as it disappeared. I cheered as the bullet-riddled hull slipped into the darkness, never again to see a ray of sunlight. I heard the screams of sailors as the water crushed them. Finally, water filled the engine room and a great explosion ripped the surface of the lake. I screamed a blood-curdling primal yell, a Tarzan yell, a warning.

I aimed over the top of Lily at an oncoming Panzer column and fired until the hot barrel seared my arms, and my face stung from gunsmoke. The tanks all lay in flaming rubble along the highway. I swung around and fired into the flames until they were lost around a curve. My ears rang with victory.

We zipped past a sign that read "Port Wine - 1 mile." It was full of bullet holes and lying in wreckage in an instant. I looked back at the carnage and embraced my newfound powers. I could destroy every person, every thing for this timeless moment. I was a force to be reckoned with.

As we slowed to make a left turn, the world began to come back into focus. I didn't want focus just then, but my emotions slowed as we slowed. Reason started to return—cruel reason. I looked at the back of Lily as he cruised toward the turnoff. Who was he? How did he touch me as no one else could? What was Uncle Johnny going to tell me about Lily when Aunt Rae interrupted us yesterday?

Lily brought a new kind of light into my life. Not the light of how the world works like Mr. Stepaniak had, but a light from within. I could see Jesus driving a war surplus jeep. He was sent to teach me, to lead me to my mother. And to test me. I had to be pure enough to receive my mother. I must not fail her. Even Jesus couldn't forgive such a sin.

The jeep lurched to the left with a whoop from Lily. Dust billowed up around me and stones battered the jeep, trying to beat their way in like waves slamming against the bow of a ship. I steadied myself against my gun, as any soldier would. I must be ready, for I wouldn't know when the test would start. But I had to trust Lily. Unless...

My mother had taught me that Satan can take on so many forms. We must always be on the lookout. I was the chosen one, like Michael the Archangel. Chosen to lead, to defeat Satan. But how could I know? How could I ever be sure? I couldn't fail again. Like I failed Joe that awful night.

"No! Not Lily." I whispered to my gun.

I cleared dust from my eyes as a small group of buildings came into view—a house, a barn, a store, and maybe another house. None of them looked any better than my house in Detroit. Then a little sign appeared leaning against a fencepost, or maybe the fencepost leaning against it, which. said, "PORT WINE \- POP. 27 - ELEV. 591"

"Just wanted to stop here so you can meet some of my friends," Lily shouted above the roar of the engine as the jeep stopped just inches short of a wooden post. The post might have once been painted but now was peppered with knife tracks. My eyes ran up the slender sticks to the roof they supported. The remnants of some sign hung from one corner above them. It probably once advertised whatever this place was.

Two pairs of eyes appeared as the dust swept away with the fresh breeze off the lake. They were smiling eyes, and they rose together over two slender bodies.

"Hey, Lily! Ain't seen you around in a coon's age," came a crackling voice from the tall, skinny one. "Hey! I like the heck out of your buggy! It's a real zinger!"

The short, skinny man wore a broad grin and nodded loudly at whatever the first man said, but didn't make a sound. They sipped together out of their bottles of Sebewaing Beer as they made one step toward us. The short, quiet one smiled and bobbed his head, and then he smiled and bobbed some more.

Their names were Chaff and Mute. Mute was not really mute. He sometimes said, "Uh huh'" or "yeah," but mostly nodded. They both wore overalls that had streaks of old blue in them, but now the most colorful parts were the shiny brass rivets that gleamed as they stepped from the shadow. Chaff's bib was only half buttoned, the other strap missing its metal loop.

Mute's shirt had begun life with long sleeves, but they were shorter now, just above his wrist. Chaff's shirt was neat by Mute's standards, but you couldn't tell what color it was anymore. Both men were clean-shaven, like my father always was. In the Midwest, whiskers were a sign of poor upbringing and an insult to women.

"Is this machine really yours, Lily?" asked Chaff, putting his hand on the front fender and working it over the camouflage pattern.

"Yes, sir, Chaff. We just now picked it up at that war surplus place down in Harbor City.

"Oh, I'd like you two gentlemen to meet my friend, Michael. He's the gunner on this rig." Lily looked up at me and invited me with a smile.

"I'm real glad to meet you, Michael," said Chaff extending his hand to me. "And welcome to Port Wine. If you're a friend of Lily's, you won't find nothing but welcome around here."

"Uh huh," said Mute with a smile that overwhelmed his voice.

I reached the ground and reluctantly put out my hand to each in turn. Even the comic face of Mute with a smile that would make Joe E. Brown jealous did not spark much of a smile in me. These were strangers, and they were adults. They would have to earn my trust. Even Lily had needed to earn it, though I merged with him in a spiritual way that had never happened before. Even adults I trusted worked for that trust, and I wrote their names in pencil—even Grandpa. Lily was the only adult written in ink. And I couldn't figure out why.

I wrote his name in ink just a few minutes earlier. It was when he slowed for the left turn off the highway, and I looked at the back of his head while my heart throbbed with the excitement of that drive. Somehow, when he down shifted and began to turn the steering wheel, I saw him in a different way. We struggled together.

"Come in with me, Michael," Lily said to me like a request, "and I'll introduce you to my other friends."

"What kind of place is this, Lily?" I asked.

"We are standing before the Port Wine Yacht Club and Inn," Lily said solemnly. "It sports the finest grog and the most delicious hamburgers and French fries in Port Wine."

I looked around. Across the street was a barn with sunlight pouring through it, a gas station that had been converted into a house a long time ago, and another house that resembled Aunt Rae's chicken coup where I gather eggs every day. Except the chicken coop was painted. Next to the Port Wine Yacht Club and Inn was a driveway leading back to a barn that wore a screen door in front and a flower box full of daisies hanging beneath an upstairs window. Just beyond the driveway was the basement of a building that was never built. It had a tarpaper roof over the basement walls with rocks holding down the paper.

"Is this like a hotel or something?" I asked Lily.

"Well, I don't think Doc has rented a room for at least ten years, but the Yacht Club is a really fine saloon."

"A saloon is like a bar, isn't it, Lily?"

"Yes it is, Michael. A saloon is about exactly like a bar."

I looked toward the swinging doors of the Yacht Club. Dottie's Bar and Grill loomed in my memory. My mother and a few of her boyfriends used to take me to Dottie's. Dottie's smelled of used whiskey and was lit by bare bulbs at the ends of exhausted wires hanging from a crumbling ceiling. A bowling machine filled one end of the room and clattered with the sound of the wooden ball battering metal pins that disappeared up into the machine with a bang if the ball hit in just the right way. Curses, whoops, and laughs flooded from the bowlers and spectators. My last trip to Dottie's came into focus as I stood before the Port Wine Yacht Club and Inn with my hand on an Army jeep to steady me.

* * *

"Christ, Gordy! All you got to do is just kick the damn thing like this to get your ball back. How long you been playing you don't know that by now? For Christ's sake!"

"Shut up, you asshole! You ought to hope I don't get my ball back 'cause I'm beating the hell out of you as usual! Only way you ever gonna win is if this thing gives you two balls to my one!"

Goldy used the scoreboard for support while she and the front of her dress consumed her 7&7 with delicate sips. I sat on the front windowsill where there was just enough light from the flashing neon sign to read my comic book in one-second bursts. It was one of only three comic books I had, and I knew it by heart anyway. Every few minutes I would have to move or get stepped on by some foul-smelling work shoes or get smashed into the window by a stomach that came between me and its owner's belt buckle. I would glance over at my mother where she leaned on one elbow smiling at her boyfriend who talked smoky words accompanied by yellowed fingers waiving through the gray swirls.

Every so often, my mother would come over to me to see if I'd like another Coke. "How you doing, Michael?"

"Okay."

"How's your Coke holding out?"

"Okay."

"We'll only be a few more minutes, Michael. You okay?"

"Uh huh."

"Jack is such a wit! Don't you just love him?"

"Uh huh."

"You really enjoy getting out of the house like this once in a while, don't you?"

"Uh huh."

"Well, I'll be back in a few minutes, and then we'll go home."

"Okay."

"Sure there's nothing else you need?"

"Uh uh."

She gave me a squeeze and a smile and started to return to her table.

"Mama," I said as she started to leave.

"Yes, Honey, what is it?"

"Mama, how come there aren't any other kids here?"

"You know, Michael, there are a lot of kids like you at home right now—all alone. And that's because their mothers don't love them enough to take them places. But I want us to be a happy and holy family, so I believe we should be together and do things together. Just like Jesus and Mary were together. You understand that, don't you, Honey?"

"Uh huh."

"I knew you would, Michael. I know you understand these things. I'm so proud. You're not like those other kids, you know. You're just like Jesus was, and that's why I love you so much."

"Alice! Alice!" Mom and I both looked in the direction of the voice. "Who the hell's buying your drinks? Me? Or that kid of yours?"

"I have to go now. Jack is so considerate to let me come over here like this. I shouldn't keep him waiting. But I'll be back real quick, and then we'll go home."

She applied a kiss to my forehead as she rose and steadied herself. But we didn't leave in a few minutes. It was another long evening at Dottie's. And the place got more crowded and more hostile as the evening wore on.

"Look out, kid! Is this the only place you can read that Mickey Mouse crap? Make way for a paying customer, would you?"

One time I didn't move fast enough when a man came by with a drink in each hand, and he stepped on my foot. He lost his balance and spilled one of his drinks on me and the other on his pants. He smacked the comic out of my hands and grabbed me, digging his muscular fingers into the flesh below my shoulder. He told me to shut up or it would be a lot worse for me. He made me lead him to my mother's table and demanded a dollar for the two drinks he dropped. Mom just sat there and stared, her head weaving back and forth gently. Her boyfriend just said, "Ain't my kid."

Then the man got mad and pushed me into my mother's lap. He grabbed her boyfriend by the shoulder and told him it was going to cost him two dollars, one for the drinks and one for the trouble. Her boyfriend quickly coughed up two dollars. The next thing I knew, we were on our way out the front door. Her boyfriend had me by the right ear and her by the left arm. He cursed. Mom was silent.

The ride home in his Nash was terrifying. He was so mad and so drunk. He dragged her up the stairs vowing that he'd at least going to get something for his money. He kicked me into the kitchen and warned me I better still be there when he was through with my mother if I knew what was good for me. He dragged Mom into the bedroom and slammed the door. I could hear him cursing at her for a couple of minutes, and then he stopped, and it was quiet for a while. I sat on the kitchen floor with my head on my knees wondering what he was going to do to me when he was through with her. Every part of me ached, but the pain in my shoulder was the worst.

I thought about running downstairs and hiding under the front porch. I would probably be safe there. But then I imagined him crawling under the porch and killing me right where I had found Joe and burying me there so no one would ever discover my body. I decided I should obey him and take my chances there in the kitchen. Maybe he wouldn't be too hard on me if he saw that I did what he told me to.

The bedroom door opened, and footsteps approached the kitchen. I buried my head in my arms and waited. The next thing I heard was his footsteps going down the stairs. He slipped on the broken step and fell to the bottom in a hail of curses. I smiled inside. The front door slammed, and he was gone.

I crawled under the kitchen table with my comic book that I had picked up as I was jerked out of Dottie's. I looked at the cover by the dim light of the streetlight. There was Daredevil—The Man Without Fear. I wondered why I couldn't be like him, and rescue my mother from Jack. There was The Jester leering at Daredevil with the most evil smile, saying, "Not even Spider Man can save you now!" He had Daredevil wrapped in steal chains, and I almost gasped with horror because I knew the evil plan The Jester had for his foe. But I also knew how The Man Without Fear escaped on page seven so he could once more save those less intrepid than himself from the forces of darkness. And I knew that The Jester would also escape Daredevil and Wonder Woman and even Spider Man. The Jester—he was at this very moment driving home in his Nash.

If Joe had been here, the Jester's days of terror might be over. But Joe was not here. The wrong twin had died, and now my mother would never be safe.

The two center pages were missing, and though I knew every picture and every threat and agony on them, I mourned their passing. I pictured those torn pages being trampled by all the Jesters of the world and finally being swept up by some faceless man in a deserted, wretched bar. He wouldn't know and couldn't understand the magic he was dumping in the trash.

I rolled over on my back and tried to think of something pleasant as I stared at the chrome table legs disappearing into the shadows above me. I thought about having read my Daredevil comic by the light of the flashing neon sign. But I didn't really need any light. There was Goldy who fell on the bowling machine and made some guys mad. Their balls kept going into the right gutter after that. But when she threw up in the right gutter, they got really mad. One of them threw a ball into the scoreboard and smashed the number wheels under Mighty Mike. Big John's score wheels still worked just fine, though. This made the bartender really mad, and he chased the guy out the back door. He yelled after the fleeing man, "I know who you are, Tommy, and you gonna pay for fixing this machine!"

I recalled the two comical characters who sat at the table nearest my little reading room beneath the flashing sign. I could hear them clearly because I was the invisible member of this trio. They sounded like a pair of preschoolers. One of Susie's little friends had sounded just like them, but she grew out of her baby talk.

The man's name was Marty. He hadn't shaved in a couple days, and he had a patch of hair sticking out of his nose. His bony shoulders stuck out of a striped sleeveless shirt that hung over him like a flag. If he hadn't been right next to me, I would never have been able to hear his mousy voice. He had smoked his last cigarette, but was afraid to ask his girlfriend for one of her Luckies, and he kept rolling the crumpled red package on the tabletop and batting it between his hands. When he tried to excuse himself to go to the cigarette machine, his bony arm was caught by a mass of flesh with five stubby fingers sticking out like a first grader would draw.

"Sidown, Mawdy," came her gruff response.

I was glad she sat on the other side of the table from me because she would have blocked my entire view. Some very strong chair had to be under her somewhere. Her legs were spread apart so I could see the roll at the top of a pair of stockings. A series of chins melted into her throat. She squinted and turned her head sideways when the smoke from the cigarette dangling between her spotted lips drifted into her eyes.

"I tought I seen ya in de pawkin lot las night."

"Na, I wasn't hea las night." He shook his head and stared at the beer warming between his scraggly hands.

"I was sure dat was ya. Ya was in some green ca right out in de pawkin lot."

"Na, wasn't hea las night."

"Ya was wit some fat chick right out in de pawkin lot. I seen ya. I think the ca was a Faud."

"Uh uh. Na," he said to his beer. "Wasn't me." He started batting the cigarette package again.

"Ya was makin out wit some fat chick in dis green ca. I'm sure it was a Faud." Her hand flattened the cigarette package with a thud, ending his hockey game.

"Na, wasn't me." He looked down at the table and traced a pair of initials carved there by some earlier lovers. "Some utha guy. I don't know no fat chicks."

"Ya know any chick with a Faud?"

"Uh uh."

"I donno! Ya was wit some rill fat chick, an ya was in dis green ca, an ya was makin out. I seen it, an it lucked lik ya, okay."

"I was rill busy las night. It musta bin some utha guy an some utha..." He checked himself and glanced up at her without moving his head. His nose twitched.

"I think it was ya, okay. Dis big fat chick was strukin ya, an ya was enjoyin it. An she was rill ugly, too. I seen ya, an I seen dat chick, too. An I seen dat green Faud. Ya know da ca—dat green Faud. The green one. I seen it round befaw. I know dat Faud. An I know dat fat, ugly chick."

"Na," he said taking a sip and shifting bony buns on his hard chair. "Musta bin..."

A smile had struggled to my face as I replayed the scene and wondered about the strange sounds and the stranger lovers. I thanked them, closed my eyes, and spent the night under the kitchen table.

TEN

I looked past Lily toward the saloon. "Maybe... I think I better stay out here, Lily."

"That's okay, if you really want to. It's not what you think, though. You don't have to worry about anyone in the Yacht Club hurting you. They're my friends, and they'll like you. This isn't like bars in the city."

Lily looked squarely into my eyes and smiled trust to me. Somehow, he knew my fears and was able to massage them and loosen their grip just a little. How did he know? But I was glad he did. I looked at the front porch of the Yacht Club, sagging under the siege of time. The boards were worn smooth by years of friendly feet.

Doc was just raising a hamburger to his mouth when we walked through the front door. With no regard for Doc's half-hamburger mouth, Lily walked right up to his table and said, "Doc, I want you to meet my friend, Michael."

Doc stood up quickly with an embarrassed grin showing through bulging cheeks. He tried to answer twice but only made muffled sounds. With a great gulp, a bulge appeared in his throat and slowly descended out of sight. I watched in amazement until he opened his eyes, wiped some sweat from his temples, and gave a couple of small chokes. Finally, he seemed ready for an introduction.

"I'm real glad to meet you, Michael," he said, his grin returning through beads of sweat.

This time I was able to extend my hand and return his smile.

"Just call me Doc," he said. "In fact, I don't even remember my real name, I've been Doc for so long."

Lily pulled out a chair for me at Doc's table, and after we had both sat down, Doc invited Lily and me to join him. We all chuckled a little over that.

This table was square; the others were round or oval. They were all different styles as if each had found its own way here by some mysterious route. The chairs were even more mixed up, some wood, some chrome or wicker, most needed repair. But all were well used and well loved.

The chairs didn't move easily over the floor because most of the boards were curled at the edges, giving the floor ripples. That's probably why there were ashtrays and things under some of the table legs.

The bar was huge and ran the length of one side of the room. Doc must have seen me looking at it.

"That bar didn't start out all carved up like that, you know. It was just a plain old bar until Jonesy started working on it a few years ago. He said that a bar in a quality place like this should be a kind of an art thing like he read about in some magazine. Isn't that right, Lily?"

Lily said, "Yeah, old Jonesy started whittling on that bar on his ninetieth birthday. Worked on it every day. One day his afternoon nap lasted longer than usual."

"He used to just sleep under the bar," Doc said. "When he got sleepy, he'd take a nap right where he was working. But that day, Coronette announced that he carved his last flute. Worked on that bar for three years and never quite finished it."

Lily went over to the bar and fingered a carving. "We elected Doc to create a fitting memorial at the spot where old Jonesy stopped carving and spitting and sharpening. He used his dentist tools and carved this very fine plaque:

Here is the sight

Where Jonesy died with his knife

Carving for our delight

Until the end of his life.

April 19, 1946

"Welcome to the Yacht Club, young man!" The voice came at me like a freight train at an unmarked crossing. "Well, Lily," she boomed, "you didn't tell me you had such attractive and young male friends. If I didn't know better, I'd say you've been holding out on me."

"Oh, Coronette, this is—"

"My! My! You're a handsome young dude! Let me guess. I'd say your name is Michael! Did I guess it? Ha, ha, ha! Michael. Right?"

I stood up, knocking my chair to the floor.

"Hey! Don't worry none about me, Mike!" She leaned toward me with a smile. "They don't call me the Virgin Mary for nothing!" Then she laughed a laugh that could be heard at the beach. My eyes opened wide, and I backed up a step.

Lily leaned back in his chair and finally said, "Michael, this is the lady who makes all this possible. Her name—"

"Coronette L'Hosteau." Coronette handed me a card. I looked at Lily, then back at Coronette. The card said:

Miss Coronette L'Hosteau

Lady

As I read it a second time, my lips must have been moving as I stumbled over the unlikely grouping of letters.

"The H is silent, Mike! That's French. Nobody else around here can say it. Lucky there ain't that many Coronettes in town! Ha, ha, ha!

"What can I get you gentlemen to drink? Lily? How about your usual?"

"Okay, Coronette, sounds good to me," Lily replied.

"Doc, you look like you're ready for another Strohs. And Mike, why don't you just sit yourself down here while I get you a frosty root beer! Sound okay?"

"Yes. Please," I said as I reached for the back of my chair, which now lay directly in front of me.

"Coming up. And, by the way, it's okay to talk about me while I'm gone. And Mike," she put one hand on the back of Doc's shoulder and shook a French fry out of his hand about half way to his mouth, "I'm depending on you to tell me what they say, 'cause I can't trust nothing these old coots tell me. They're just trying to, you know, get me upstairs. Ha, ha, ha!"

Coronette turned away toward the bar singing:

That's why I wish again,

that I was in Michigan,

down on the farm.

She danced a little jig and then twirled around the end of the bar. Doc had retrieved his French fry and was dipping it in catsup when I looked back at the table.

"Ain't she a cracker jack, Mike?" Doc said just as the French fry reached its mark.

"Remember when she first came to work here?" Lily asked. "She took her first week's pay into Harbor City and bought those curtains on the front windows there. Then got us all to paint the place if she'd buy the paint."

"Yeah," continued Doc, "and she made that contest with a new shirt to whoever could paint the most without getting paint slopped all over the place? Wasn't it Mute that won that shirt?"

"It sure wasn't me. Coronette wouldn't let me go home until I cleaned up all the paint I got on the door. I tried to tell her it didn't matter because we were going to paint the door later, but she just said it disturbed her sensibilities, and she couldn't work under those conditions. It would bother her to know that the wrong paint was on the door under the right paint."

"No way to win an argument with her," Doc said. "She just won't quit until the thing is right. Remember when she moved into the attic above Pickle's old house and she told old man Pickle she couldn't live in a place with a broken window box. The leaky roof didn't seem to bother her, but the flower box had to be perfect."

"You know," Lily replied, "I think it was Mute who won the shirt."

I looked up at Doc as I scooted my chair in. A half smile spread over my face as I recalled Mute's shirt.

Lily caught my smile. "Well, Michael, what do you think of the Port Wine Yacht Club and Inn?"

I hesitated and then said, "It's pretty neat."

"Only pretty neat?" Doc said. "Sounds like we should put you on the Yacht Club Renovation Committee. Okay, what should we change about the place? We need some young ideas here."

I didn't say anything.

"What do you think, Michael?" Lily asked.

Doc suddenly became serious. "Is there really something wrong?"

"Well... it's just what that lady said about... well, making fun of the Blessed Virgin Mary." I studied Doc's empty plate smeared with catsup. "It's not something you should joke about because... It's just not."

"Hm," Doc said. "I don't think Coronette meant anything disrespectful by it." She continued to sing that song about Michigan behind the bar. "She sometimes blows off a little too much steam is all." There was silence for a while. "But I can sure see your point. You pray to the Blessed Virgin Mary?"

I could hear my father asking me once, "What the hell are you always praying for? I see you in front of that statue of your mother's, and it scares the hell out of me. I swear you're going to end up as screwed up as your mother. You'd think that statue had some kind of power over you. And it's just a hunk of plaster. Just painted plaster! I ought to smash it into a million pieces and see how that suits your mother—both of 'em."

I jumped in front of the statue and spread my arms as a shield. I didn't have to say anything, my face told the whole story. He raised his hand, and I braced myself, prepared myself for the soul-saving martyrdom. He took a step forward and raised his arm even higher. I closed my eyes and tensed my body, but ran away at the last instant. I looked back at the defenseless statue of the Blessed Mother. She had to face my father alone. I'd sinned once more, but this time it was the worst sin any person could ever commit. And it was a sin that even Jesus' death on the cross could not erase. I had forsaken His mother. I had one last chance to run back and throw myself over her loving body and protect her. But my feet wouldn't move.

My father just stood there, his hand raised, his head turned toward me. Then his mouth curved up, and he exhaled a laugh from his gut.

"I guess your sacred statue knows what side you're on now, boy!" He lowered his hand and turned to face me. "If Joe was here, he wouldn't have run. You know that, don't you. You little chicken boy."

I sank to the floor sobbing. When I looked up, he was gone. But the Blessed Virgin was there, looking down at me. Her eyes flashed like flickering votive lights and reflected off the wall in jagged splinters. It drew my attention to a crucifix. _I should be nailed to that cross_ , I thought, _not Jesus. If it weren't for me, He wouldn't have had to be crucified. But not even a thousand crucifixions can make up for my sin._

Lily returned my stare. What could I tell him?—that I prayed, even knowing she would never listen to me—that I really couldn't pray anymore, but I did anyway—that I had to pray and hope there was some way for me to make up for such sins that Lily and Doc could never imagine a twelve-year-old boy committing? Could I dare reveal to these good men that a sinner such as they'd never met before was sitting at the same table with them?

"I... ah... just pray for my mother and my... just stuff like that."

Lily's hand was now on my arm. He had seen into my soul as we sat there and was not reviled by me. Who was this man who knew me, gave me strength, and took nothing in return? Doc was just a man, a kind man, the sort of man you wouldn't expect to meet in a bar, but a man just the same. But Lily—I couldn't place him, couldn't know him in the same way I knew Doc. What was it Uncle Johnny had said in the barn? He had started to tell me something about Lily when Aunt Rae interrupted us. But what?

ELEVEN

What's going on here?" came a loud voice from behind me. "You guys having a séance or something? Ha, ha, ha! Here's your sarsaparilla water, Lily. And here's your Strohs, Doc. And here's a Faygo float for you, Mike. When I drew the root beer, it looked too boring for a man of your caliber, so I just spiced it up a little. You don't mind, do you?"

I looked first at the ice-encrusted float and then up at Coronette. "Uh. No. This is fine. I mean, this is really fine. Thank you."

"Look, Mike," Coronette said seriously, "I'm pretty busy here today." We all looked around and saw only one other person in the place, and he was sitting by the front window with a cup of coffee, crocheting. Lily and Doc both laughed. I grinned. "But I could maybe make a minute to give you a first-class tour of this first-class place, seeing as how it's your first visit here. Why don't you grab that float of yours and come with me?"

I glanced toward Lily. My first instinct to decline was checked by his smile. I said nothing.

"If you're too busy, that's okay, too. But if you change your mind, just beller."

I glanced again at Lily. "Okay," I said, pushing my chair away from the table.

"Good! I don't do this for just anybody, you know! In fact, we haven't had no new customers in here in a month of Sundays! Ha, ha, ha!"

We walked over to the bar, and Coronette stopped and ran her palm down the corner of the bar, pausing on a sunflower carving.

"When Jonesy died, it was like my own father dying. Actually, I never knew my father, so maybe Jonesy kind of _was_ my father. But this here is the spot where he was sitting when I noticed that he wasn't breathing no more. He used to fall asleep right under the bar here while he was carving and nap for a while and then wake up and, without saying a word, just go back to work with his knife and gouge. I never even knew what a gouge was 'til he showed me how he kept his all sharpened up. But, anyway, this time I noticed he wasn't breathing. He was the kind of man who just doesn't die, you know? Seems like he should always just be there... He was part of this place. Had his whole heart in it. And our hearts all in him. But he died just the same. Nobody had the heart to carve anything else in the bar after Doc did that nice little poem. Hard to imagine how a person who was always so quiet could make such a difference by not being here any more."

Coronette sighed a little as she moved her fingers over Doc's poem. I looked at those few words and wished my father was the kind of man somebody could write a poem about.

"Now, you see that there picture up there? That's Mr. Krug Weinstagen. He was the founder of this town. What they call a visionary. Guess he saw something here nobody else could see. He landed at the beach right at the end of our road in one of them little sailing dinghies. He bought it in Erie and wanted to start a town all his own. Nobody can figure out why he picked on this spot, but he built a little cabin down by the beach about 1840. Then some Indians came along, and he started trading with them and got to know them real good. Well, this old Indian told him about something that happened a long time ago that kind of worried him."

I was by now sitting at the bar trying to pay equal attention to my giant float and Coronette's story. The float was about at the one-third full mark and was every bit as good as Lily's. I hadn't forgotten her joke about the Blessed Virgin Mary, but I decided to give her another chance.

"Mr. Weinstagen wanted his town to grow and prosper and last forever, so he was pretty concerned about what this old Indian said. It seems that long ago the lake level started going up, and the Indians that lived along the lake had to keep moving uphill every year a little farther. Well, that didn't bother the Indians none because they could easy keep ahead of the waves with their teepees. But Mr. Weinstagen figured that he couldn't just keep moving his town all the time when the lake started rising again. And then this Indian told him that he knew somehow, maybe by the stars or something, that the lake was going to start doing this again pretty soon. He told Mr. Weinstagen how far the lake went up that other time, and it was right out here where the city limits sign is. So, Mr. Weinstagen figured that this would be a good place to build a town.

"He figured when the lake started doing this rising thing again, he'd already be here, and all the business from the other ports around here that were getting flooded out would move here. So, he built another cabin here and a little store and started digging out this little harbor and building a dock and everything so he'd be all set when the water moved into town. He was one hard-working man. I guess we could of done a lot worse for a founding father, even though the only boat that's ever been in town is the one that Harry Truman built behind his blacksmith shop."

I lifted my eyes from my nearly empty glass.

"Oh no, this isn't _the_ Harry Truman. This Harry Truman was a blacksmith that moved here when Mr. Weinstagen was trying to get his town started 'cause he really believed in his vision. Anyway, Harry Truman built this here boat, and it's way too big to get down to the lake, but he figures he wouldn't have to. However, this lake thing never worked out too good, and the town didn't really prosper like Mr. Weinstagen seen in his vision."

"How come he named the town Port Wine?" I asked with interest building. "Was it because he sold a lot of wine here?"

"Oh, heavens no, Mike! Ha, ha, ha! The Yacht Club wasn't even around then. And besides, we don't sell a lot of wine here, and the little we do isn't that fancy stuff they get in the city. We don't even have one of them cork pullers.

"But anyway, about the name. That's the funny part. He didn't name the town Port Wine at all. He actually named it after himself—Port Weinstagen. They say he made this real nice sign that said Welcome to Port Weinstagen. But then a while after Mr. Weinstagen died, some horseshoe salesman was talking to Harry Truman and complementing him on his fine boat, and the youngest Truman girl catches this salesman's eye. I guess she was quite a looker and was her daddy's little girl and all. Well, he doesn't like the way this salesman was looking at his little girl, but he had already invited the young feller to have supper with them. I guess this salesman couldn't keep his eyes off of her the whole meal, and Harry Truman was getting pretty steamed about him flirting and all.

"That's when the coincidence happens. You never think things like that can happen 'til they do. There was this nice boy from over in Harbor City that was real sweet on the girl, and he came from a real nice family, and the Truman's liked him real fine. This fella's name was Timmy, and he just happens to come over that evening and bring the girl some nice flowers. But Harry Truman doesn't know Timmy is there, and he asks her where she got the flowers, and she says, 'Timmy gave them to me.' Now the funny part is that this salesman's name was Timothy, too. And he's out front getting his wagon ready to leave."

I rolled my eyes back as far as they would go and groaned.

"So you can figure out what happens next, right? Well, Harry Truman was real quick tempered, and he grabs those flowers and goes out and shoves them in Timothy's face and says, 'What's the idea you fooling around with my little girl? You're twice her age, and you're just a shiftless salesman, and I won't have you trying to run off with her.'

"Well, Timothy don't like being pushed around that way, and he probably thought Harry Truman was going crazy or something, so he pushes him away, and Harry Truman trips and falls down. Now that makes him real mad, and then Timothy tells him he didn't give her no flowers, and he wouldn't anyway because she is too ugly for him. Harry Truman just flies into a rage and makes some threats about getting his gun and says Timothy better be gone when he gets back. Well that got Timothy's attention real good, and he starts packing up fast as he can while Harry Truman goes storming into the house. And all the while the girl is trying to tell him it's a big mistake and trying to explain it to him. But Harry Truman is just blind, he's so mad. And Timmy is trying to explain it, too. But Harry Truman could only think of one thing.

"By the time he gets back outside with his shotgun, Timothy is just turning his wagon onto the road and trying to make his horses go faster than they was accustomed to. Harry Truman took aim and fires once, and nobody knows where that shot went, but it sure did wonders for those horses' spirits 'cause all the sudden they're really moving. Harry Truman runs out into the road and takes aim with the other barrel and fires again. This time it was real easy to see where the shot went. It blew a hole right in the Welcome to Port Weinstagen sign and just tore out the _stagen_ part. Nobody ever seen Timothy again, and Harry Truman could never own up to making such a blunder. He claimed 'til his dying day that he had saved his daughter from the clutches of a traveling salesman."

"Wow! What a hothead!" I said. "Sort of like... well... just like somebody I used to know."

"I know what you mean, Mike. And that's how this town got to be Port Wein, W-E-I-N. But that's not the end of the story. A few years later, Harry Truman started up the Port Wein Yacht Club and Inn in deference to his own sign alteration, and also 'cause his blacksmith shop wasn't doing too good. He thought the Yacht Club would be a big draw from the towns around, and it would also advertise Mr. Weinstagen's vision of us being a port on the lake someday. He figured that when the water finally did rise, not only would he have a fine boat and a little harbor ready for people to use, he'd have a fine place for folks to relax, too.

"Well, after a few years without the big crowds coming like he figured on, he decides the place is looking a little tacky and needs a new paint job, so he does all that hisself. But he wants the sign out front to be just perfect, so he gets this guy he met in Harbor City to do the sign for him. Now Harry Truman has got no money to pay this guy. So he offers him a week's free lodging at the Inn. Well that was sure the best deal Harry Truman ever made 'cause he never saw the guy again after he painted the sign.

"Anyway, Harry Truman tells him he wants a nice new sign for the town 'cause the old one is kind of faded."

"And full of bullet holes!" I added.

"Yeah, but I guess he probably didn't stress that part of it too much. Ha, ha, ha! Anyway, this guy makes a new sign for the Yacht Club first. And nobody could figure out afterwards just why he done it, but he changes W-E-I-N to W-I-N-E. Somebody said it was because the guy was a Wop and he didn't like Krauts or something."

I looked at Coronette with a grin.

"But I figure it was simply because he maybe had that problem where he mixes up letters in his brain. You know what I mean?"

I nodded that I did as I scraped the last bit of foam out of the bottom of my mug.

"So then the guy goes and makes a new town sign, and he spells it just like the sign on the Yacht Club," Coronette continued as she took my glass and started to refill it. "And he's a real good painter, so he did a nice job. They aren't much to look at anymore, but that's just 'cause they needed a new paint job about twenty years ago.

"Then Harry Truman comes out to look them over, and since they look so beautiful, he just didn't even see the mistake. So he thanks the guy, and he's gone. Ha, ha, ha!"

"So it's Harry Truman's fault," I said, "that the town kept changing its name. He must've been some character! Is he still around?"

"Oh no, Mike! He died way before even I got here, and his wife is dead, and his daughter left Port Wine a long time ago, and we never heard from her since."

She handed me another full glass of Faygo root beer with ice cream and suds creeping gently over the edge. I accepted it with a smile and a thanks. "How do you know so much about all this stuff if it happened so long ago?" I asked.

"I've been around here long enough to hear these old timers tell lots of stories. This town ain't much anymore. In fact, I guess it never was much. But it's got a interesting history, just the same. You see that picture there next to Mr. Weinstagen?"

"Yeah! Is that Harry Truman?" I asked.

"That's him."

"Boy, he is sure ugly. Did he get that patch over his eye from a fight or something?"

"No, not that exciting, Mike. This photographer came around, and when Harry Truman said he was the owner of this saloon, the photographer says he should wear a patch in his picture 'cause that's so distinguished for such a frontier place like this. So, Harry Truman's got a patch 'til the end of time even though he only wore it for about two minutes. See the way his nose kind of turns to one side and hooks up on the end? They tell me he got kicked more than once while shoeing horses."

"Hm. Too bad the patch didn't cover that, too," I said.

"Ha, ha, ha! Good point."

By now I was busy working my way through my second root beer float and feeling very content about the way the day was turning out. I heard a laugh from the table with Lily and Doc and looked over just in time to see the man sitting in the front corner by the window get up and walk toward the bar. He approached very cautiously and put his empty coffee cup on the bar without even the slightest sound.

"Yes, Thaddeus," said Coronette in a tone much more reserved than her usual thunderous manner, "are you ready for another cup of coffee?"

"Excuse me, Miss Coronette, but it would be real nice if I could get a refill."

"How is your tablecloth coming along?" she asked quietly, looking straight at him and smiling. "You're probably about halfway done with it by now, you've been working so steady on it."

"Oh yes, Miss, I'm way over halfway now. I started the flowers yesterday, but I'm not sure if I'll have enough of the rose thread to finish them."

"Well, don't you worry about that," she replied. "If you run out, I'll be glad to take you over to Harbor City for more."

"Oh no, Miss Coronette. That won't be necessary. That nice lady in Bad Ax that's buying it said I should call her if I need anything. But I appreciate the offer. All I really need from you is some more coffee. But I got to be real careful I don't spill it like I did on that baby bonnet I did for Mrs. Birch."

Coronette set a cup of steaming coffee on the bar. "That was too bad. You were almost through with it, too, but you probably could have just washed it real careful, and Mrs. Birch wouldn't have minded. It was such a shame you had to start all over again."

Thaddeus took the cup of coffee. "I could never have sold her a used bonnet. Did you see her little baby? Would you put a used bonnet on that perfect little head? I just couldn't do it that way."

"Yes, I know, but it was a shame, wasn't it?"

"Well, thank you very much for the coffee, Miss Coronette." Thaddeus walked carefully toward his table.

"Now there is the sweetest man you will ever meet, Mike. He sits in the Yacht Club every day and crochets or knits for ladies all over the county." Then she winked at me. " He's Port Wine's biggest industry. Ha, ha, ha!"

Coronette turned away from me to work behind the bar, whistling some unfamiliar tune. Thaddeus scraped his chair back under the table and picked up his unfinished tablecloth. Doc chuckled about something Lily said. I ran my hand over a haystack carved into swirling brown wood grain. Jonesy had been quite an artist. Harry Truman stared down at me with that ridiculous patch. The smell of coffee lingered from Thaddeus.

* * *

The ride back to Lily's house was made in silence. I sat in the front of the jeep, not in the gunner's nest. When I closed my eyes, I could talk to Lily, and he talked back, just as clearly as if we were sitting across the table from each other in his kitchen. I told him I was confused. He told me you have to be confused before you can learn, and you have to learn before you can live. I asked him what I had to learn, and he just said that I was learning and I was starting to live. I told him I had learned many things before I came here from the city. He said I had lived in chains and that some day I would fly from dream to dream, from life to life. I said I had only one life, so how could I fly from life to life? He simply said, "You will learn."

I opened my eyes and watched corn zipping by so close I could reach out and feel its life touching me. I seemed to be learning nothing, and yet could feel new life throbbing within me.
PART TWO

TWELVE

There, now aren't you glad I dared you to do it?" Margo said as I clung to a beam at the very peak of the barn's ceiling. "It's really not as high as it looks from down below, is it?"

"I don't know about that," I replied. "I think that's the highest ladder I ever saw. And the shakiest. My grandpa is a window washer, and his ladder isn't anything like that." I looked down the long wooden ladder that we had just climbed and the patchwork floor of the haymow at its foot, which now contained only ancient, rusting machinery parts. Just a few feet beyond the base of the ladder was the edge of the haymow and another precipice down to the barn floor.

"How far down is it? All the way to the bottom, I mean." I tightened my grip as she brushed against me to look down the ladder, too.

"Oh, a couple a thousand feet, I'd say," she replied.

I backed away from the edge. Then I thought about it and said, "No, really. How high are we?"

"From right up here at the peak," she put her hand on the rusted steel rail that ran the length of the barn roof, "to the ground, Uncle Johnny says is about forty-three feet."

"That's all? Just forty-three feet? I thought maybe a hundred."

I kept my grip on the huge wooden beam and turned my head just enough to look in the other direction, away from the ladder and into the darkness. With the single overhead light bulb and my eyes adjusting to the dimness, I could see the six huge bins dropping off below me, three on each side of a catwalk running directly under the peak of the roof. Two of them were full of last year's beans. The other four were empty, awaiting the new crops of wheat and oats. I gripped the handrails on both sides as I passed by the empty bins. With the dim light and deep shadows, they seemed like gaping, black, bottomless pits.

A yelp behind me from Margo, followed by a thud, shocked me just as my confidence was starting to build a little. I turned toward the sound. "Margo! Margo! Where are you? What happened?" I heard laughter below me. "Don't go messing around now! Are you okay?"

"I'm down here, Mike."

I looked into one of the center bins, and there was Margo buried halfway in white navy beans. "Come on, jump in!"

"Can we do that? I mean, that's food, isn't it?"

"Come on in! It's not quite as soft as the wheat, but it feels good. And it's a lot better than oats."

Her shoes were on the catwalk, so I took mine off. I hesitated, but no sooner did her next "come on" hit my ears than I was airborne. Lying partially submerged in the beans and looking up at the roof of the granary brought an automatic smile. It was my first bin swim, and it was wonderful. I burrowed into the beans until only my face was showing and just lay there motionless, except for my fingers and toes wiggling against the subtle nudgings of a million beans.

"This is better than swimming!" I said. "You can move around or be still. And they feel so cool, and it's like a million little fingers just tickling you all over when you wiggle a little."

"Sure beats hoeing them, doesn't it?" Margo said. "But Uncle Johnny says if you don't hoe the weeds out, some of them get through the thrashing machine, and then you've got dirty beans instead of clean beans to swim in. Lucky for us we hoed last year, too. And with you here this summer, the beans will be cleaner than ever."

Margo rolled over and sat up against the wall. "Are you going to be here after this summer, Mike? You could go to the seventh grade here."

My smile evaporated as I thought about the question. "I don't know. I guess when my mother comes back, I'll be going back to the city with her. But I don't know when."

"Are you looking forward to that?"

"Of course! Wouldn't you look forward to it if your mother was coming back?"

"But I know my mother isn't coming back, Mike. Yours might be."

"I know she is! As soon as she can. She's just got some problem somewhere. Maybe a boyfriend that won't let her leave or something."

"You said you didn't have a father," Margo said. "Does that mean you never knew him or he's dead or something?"

I held up my two hands full of beans in front of my face, not seeing any one of them, but just two piles of beans. I looked for an answer in those piles, but it wasn't there. They slowly sifted between my fingers and disappeared.

"I knew him, and I don't have any idea whether he's alive or not. Probably will never die, though. He's too mean."

"Did you ever love him?"

The beans around me started getting fuzzy and then faded into cotton candy.

Slowly, Susie rose out of them. I saw Susie and me sitting together on the front steps of our house in Detroit. She said, "I hate Dad." I blinked and she said it again. "I hate him. I hate him."

I was in the fourth grade, and she was in the first. She was so sure she hated him, but I claimed I loved him. Maybe loving your father isn't the kind of thing you can defend. Maybe it's just there, and one day you recognize it—or submit to it.

Could this day on this farm be my day to recognize some spark of love I might never have discovered unless Margo held the picture so close I had to look? Maybe my questions would reflect as answers. Was this what Lily meant by learning?

"You can't love pain, can you?" I asked Margo, not really as a question. "Maybe when it stops hurting?" I looked at Margo. She just stared back in silence. "But wouldn't you love it more if it never..." I wondered what I was doing, talking like this. And to a girl. But she didn't seem like a girl, at least not totally.

"I don't know what all that means, Mike. Sounded like I heard hate the other day. I just thought it would be nice if there was some love. Even just a little."

"I'd like to have... I mean, I'd like to love my father. I mean, like my mother. But maybe..."

Margo scooped some beans over her leg. "Why don't you just tell me about him?" she said. "Maybe that'll help you."

Something inside me wanted desperately to talk about my father, and something else wanted to forget. My father hadn't been all pain. There were some good times. But he'd always been the rattlesnake, and I the field mouse—Joe, Susie, and I. Maybe the good times were the ones when he had just devoured some other poor mouse and was momentarily satisfied. I could handle that another eruption was a ways down the road. But I felt that he kept us close just in case he needed a victim. His life depended on victims. It was a tense relationship during those good times, but maybe love, or something, was hidden in those calm waters, between the storms.

Thus I was drawn into a tale about my father and what I knew about how he had come to be the father, and the husband, he was. I burrowed into the comfort of the beans and drew strength from the love, at least the concern, that surrounded me now. I began this new story.

* * *

My father's name was Cecil T. Tether. He grew up in New York City during those early years of the century when bright, young men could make big names for themselves. He sure did that. I found a pile of newspaper clippings, and my mother filled me in on a lot of details. This was soon after he ran away—from us and the law. I don't know how much of my mother's details were history and how much were hatred. But this is the story as I understand it.

His father was Jessup Tether, a longshoreman and son of an immigrant. Cecil was the oldest in a large family and ran away from home at an early age after getting in a terrible fight with a younger brother. This was not just a scuffle. He beat up his brother pretty badly and sent him to the hospital, which Jessup could not afford. Jessup told Cecil that it was time he taught him a lesson. Cecil told his dad that if he came near him, he would send him to the same hospital. Everyone agreed it was time for Cecil to leave. A week later, Cecil was expelled from high school for pushing around the librarian.

Cecil drifted from job to job for a while until, in 1928, he entered college with falsified high school documents. He had watched so many people getting rich in the overheated economy and multiplying small fortunes into big ones in a crazy stock market that seemed to know only one direction to move. Money was now his passion. He saw so much of it around, but so little of it was his.

He didn't last long in college. One day, during an economics class discussion, he lost his temper, stormed out of the classroom, and never went back. The discussion had centered on the popular theory that in this new, fast-paced, industrial society, the old rules had been replaced by the high-risk game of projecting current trends endlessly into the future. Cecil was a pessimist, frustrated by being outside the system. He was riding the edge of some kind of bubble and wanted to get a piece for himself before it burst.

He kept the books for a small dressmaker on East 27th Street and juggled the numbers enough to keep a little extra for himself. He had never done bookkeeping before, contrary to his résumé, and he finally decided that the little profit he could skim was not worth the risk of getting caught. His calling was toward something bigger.

His glib tongue, sincere eyes, and winning smile opened doors for him faster than he could shut them with his temper. In a booming economy erupting with confidence, he could talk himself into a job even though he lacked the most basic skills. His résumé and other forged documents portrayed Cecil Tether as a man of uncommon ability and integrity. It was time to move up to the world of finance and start making bucks like the big boys. He knew the language of the market, so he tried a well-known stockbroker on Pine Street near Pearl who advertised for several experienced salesmen for their expanding business. He scoured second-hand stores until he found a perfect navy pin-stripe, double-breasted suit in which he looked like the successful broker he claimed to be. Armed with his success suit and an empty briefcase with a broken lock, he walked into the lobby with the gold-lettered sign: Fine & White.

He interviewed with Mr. C. C. Smith, Manager of Domestic Sales, who was impressed with his knowledge of stocks and his easy-going, direct manner. Cecil started two days later as an assistant salesman responsible for expanding their services to existing accounts. The pay wasn't much, but he could see an opportunity that depended only on his ability and hard work. He spent his days talking to clients on the phone, discussing their financial problems and goals, and educating them about various services of Fine & White they hadn't yet utilized. He spent every night devouring financial newspapers and reports and learning the Fine & White way. He was, at last, getting close to money, and he was determined to keep his emotions from interfering with his treasure chest.

His interaction with clients was strictly on the telephone. Face-to-face meetings were reserved for his supervisor. This annoyed Cecil, and he asked his supervisor, Jerome Peckler, if he could meet some of the clients himself. He always got the standard answer that clients were very important and deserved to meet only with senior staff. This was the Fine & White way. Cecil kept his anger in check on the first two rebukes. However, the third time it happened, he stood before his skinny, bespectacled boss, his hands forming fists and his breathing labored.

Peckler was suddenly called away by his boss, and Cecil stood still for a while with his eyes shut and the muscles in his arms taught for action. Asked by a secretary if he felt all right, he walked to the men's room where he composed himself before returning to the bullpen. He had come close to losing this job, a job that held so much future for him. He just had to weather the management stupidity.

A week later, he was talking with Mr. Raleigh Cosgrove about using Fine & White's fledgling investment banking service. Fine & White had contracted with the Bank of the United States as an affiliate in early 1929 but had not marketed this service very well. An affiliate was a non-banking institution that would team with a mother bank to perform investment-banking services for corporations in the name of that bank. If a corporation wanted to sell new common stock issues, they would hire an affiliate to underwrite and distribute the new stock. In 1929, Fine & White had decided to increase its staff to expand this highly profitable, and later illegal, enterprise.

Mr. Cosgrove was the founder and CEO of Gamma Instrument Corporation, which manufactured precision instruments and parts to support the gas and electric utility industry. Gamma had been very successful with new products flowing from its extensive R&D laboratory for measuring and controlling electricity and gas in the growing industry that had pledged to bring gas and electric to every home in America. He owned large amounts of Gamma stock and had a personal investment portfolio of many millions of dollars.

Cecil made an appointment for his boss to meet with Mr. Cosgrove at his Midtown office on the following day.

"By the way, Cecil, will you be at the meeting, too?" Mr. Cosgrove asked.

"No, Sir," Cecil responded. "It's not Fine & White's policy for junior members of the staff to attend meetings with clients."

"Well, suppose the client has lots of money and requests the presence of a junior person?"

"I guess I don't know the answer for sure, Mr. Cosgrove. It would seem that a client's wishes should take precedence over a company policy. But you know—"

"Yes, I know Fine & White all right. They're so damn stuffy. I don't know why I keep coming back. I guess it's just a habit. But you know, I like your common sense, and you don't make me feel uneasy like those stuffed shirts you work for. I'd feel a lot more comfortable if you were at the meeting."

Cecil was dancing in his chair as the words flowed through the copper wires to his ear. "I'll see what I can do about your request and call you right back."

This was Cecil's opportunity. Jerome Peckler, of course, waived the Fine & White policy, begrudgingly to Cecil, graciously to Raleigh Cosgrove. They found themselves together on a hot July afternoon in the CEO's office. The meeting went very well, and the gregarious Cecil Tether played the perfect opposite to the stuffy senior staff. During the discussions, the conversation veered from the upcoming Gamma stock offering into the area of Mr. Cosgrove's personal investments.

"You know, I feel like I'm really out on a limb with quite a few of my stocks," Mr. Cosgrove said. "I bought most of it on margin, and I'm making a hell of a lot of money, but it sure looks risky to me. What do you gentlemen think about it?"

Jerome Peckler jumped at the opportunity to preach the company line. "Fine & White has just released a research report that indicates that The Dow will probably go at least another hundred points before there is a correction, and that correction will likely be small since the industrial production is continuing to climb to support the market. Remember that for each point The Dow climbs, the value of your account will climb four points."

"And for each point The Dow falls, the value of your account will _fall_ four points," Cecil interjected.

"Yeah, that's the part I don't like," Mr. Cosgrove said. "Suppose there's a really big correction, and my margins get called. Then I have to sell other stock in a soft market to cover my margins. The whole thing makes me kind of jittery."

"I looked at that problem yesterday," Jerome responded. "The Dow would have to fall more than fifty points before any of your margins would call. Fine & White believes that is quite unrealistic, so you can set your mind at rest."

"What do you mean, 'unrealistic'!" Cecil was beginning to sweat around his tight-fitting collar and his hands were clenched beneath the table. This was the time for cool, or he could lose both his job and the good graces of Mr. Cosgrove. "The price-to-earning ratio of The Dow is 22.7. That's a historic high. If it fell back to a more average level of 12, The Dow would lose about two hundred points, and that would wipe out over a hundred percent of your investments, which means you'd have to sell off some of your Gamma stock to settle your margins. And the market for Gamma might be extremely thin if The Dow takes a major tumble. It could cost you nearly everything."

Cecil spoke his words softly but determinedly and watched Mr. Cosgrove's reaction carefully. The reaction he found was one of an unsettled man who was visibly worried about the situation. He thought it best to await Mr. Cosgrove's response, but before that could happen, Jerome Peckler interjected the Fine & White position. "Tether, you're using prewar data. This is 1929, not 1910. The P/E ratio no longer averages 12. This is a new economy, an advanced society compared to those old days. If you're going to make money in this modern world, you have to understand how the rules change with time. If this were simply the opinion of Fine & White, there might be some cause for concern. But the whole market has shifted. The whole market says you are wrong. The whole market says that P/E ratios average at least 20 to 30 for modern, dynamic, and highly-efficient companies. If you don't shift with the times, you end up making last year's profits while everybody else is looking forward to the thirties. That's when the economy will drive the market to heights that will make the twenties look like just a warm-up. You shouldn't be stirring up things you don't understand. This is complicated enough without your interference."

Cecil rose slowly to his feet, his face flush, his fists clenched. The look in his eyes was frightening. Mr. Cosgrove also rose and said, "Now let's just get back to what this meeting is all about. We're supposed to be talking about the Gamma stock offering, so why don't we put my personal investments on hold for a little bit." He gave a congenial smile, although the reaction of Cecil astonished and disappointed him.

"Yes, that would be fine," Peckler said looking straight at Cecil. "Let's do that, Mr. Cosgrove."

There followed a long moment of silence during which both Cosgrove and Peckler stared at Cecil, and Cecil's jaw muscles began to relax. He presently reseated himself beside Peckler and presented his most sincere smile. "Yes, I think that would be an excellent idea," he added.

Peckler continued. "We've examined your expansion plans in some detail and have come up with a schedule for a five-million-dollar stock offering, which should minimize the dilution of your stock. We could begin distribution of your stock as early as September 1. However, after reviewing your financing requirements and the waves of new offerings on the market so far this year, we recommend that you defer your stock offering until November or December. First, the crunch of new offerings should be lower then so there won't be so much competition for investors' dollars. So far this year, new stock has been offered at ten times the average volume of the last ten years, but that can't last. Second, it's likely that the continued strength of the market will increase the price we can get for your stock, thus minimizing your dilution. Third, it appears that you won't actually need the money until after the first of the year anyway. Thus we feel that a November 1 introduction would be appropriate to shoot for."

Cosgrove sat still with one elbow resting on the edge of his mahogany conference table. A pencil accentuated his other hand, the eraser of which formed invisible rectangles on the vacant tabletop before him. Four eyes watched him as he watched his rectangles grow. Finally, he placed the pencil down gently and looked squarely at Peckler. "You know, Peckler, The Dow hit 349 yesterday, and Gamma climbed to 57. That's 39 times earnings, and we don't even pay a dividend. Sooner or later, the market has to run out of steam. Everything does eventually. Even an old war horse like me has to peak out sometime."

With that, he cast a smile toward the two seated across from him. Peckler returned a contrived smile, a Fine & White smile. Cecil sat stoic except for his eyes, which told the story of a high pitched battle, a battle between his emotions and his common sense, a battle in which his common sense was maintaining a thin edge.

"Fine & White will do it any way you wish, Sir," said Peckler. "I only wanted to point out to you that there is no reason to force a premature action and thereby reduce your advantage."

"Well, Mr. Tether, what is your opinion?"

"It is unwise to push the market for more than it is willing to give. Go for the earliest possible introduction."

Peckler shot a glance at Cecil, but it was not received. Cosgrove indicated he would like to think about it and he'd get back to Peckler as soon as possible.

The next day, Cecil was transferred to another department. Peckler and Smith decided that it might be antagonistic to their client if they dismissed Cecil immediately; however after two or three months out of contact with Cosgrove, it would be safe to fire him. Cosgrove contacted Cecil at his new desk in International Accounting and asked him if he would please stop by his office that afternoon.

At this meeting, Cecil arrived with a pile of data to support his claim that the market was way oversold. After three hours of discussions that terminated in diner at a small bistro around the corner on 51st Street, Cosgrove concluded that he should push Peckler for the earliest possible stock offering. He also decided to start selling some of his personal common stocks and reinvest the money in short- and medium-term bonds and Treasury Bills. By the end of September, he had most of his stock liquidated, and Fine & White had completed the sale of five million dollars of Gamma stock at $61 per share. Also by the end of September, the market had lost some ground, but the pundits claimed it was a natural correction after six solid months of dizzying advances. And also by the end of September, Cecil was no longer employed at Fine & White. But both Cecil Tether and Raleigh Cosgrove were in excellent positions to weather the coming storms. In just three weeks, Cecil would be vindicated and on easy street, if he could keep his cool.

At the close of business on October 24, 1929, Cecil sat at a desk on the fifth floor of J. J. Dake & Sons. He had taken a job there two weeks earlier doing bookkeeping and helping with their internal accounting. Most of the other employees stood about in small groups buzzing over the news that had shattered this Monday afternoon, turning it into a day to be long remembered. The devastation would have been even greater had these people known of the terrifying events that would rip apart the globe during the next sixteen years. In retrospect, this day would be nothing more than a wakeup call for the greatest siege against the human spirit in recorded history.

But the conversations could focus only on the calamity of today as announced by the afternoon edition of the New York Times, several copies of which were passing from hand to eager hand. The allure of the stock market had attracted such a vast following that any small gathering hosted several people who would groan as they anxiously scanned the market transactions pages for their favorite company on whose future they had pinned their own financial destiny. Everyone shared the devastation. Yet, like death, each one faced his own ruin privately.

Cecil sat back with his feet propped up on the pulled-out writing board, his hands clasped behind his head, his lips turned up, and his face pointed toward a ceiling fan, which churned sluggishly through the exclamations around him. Although his eyes were closed, he could see clearly. His vision was not limited to a ceiling fan or to this accidental environment. A man's face filled his daydream. It was a smiling face, a grateful face.

"Tether! Did you hear about this?" Cecil's boss walked up to his desk and dropped the front page on his lap. _BILLIONS LOST IN WILD STOCK MARKET CRASH_. Cecil opened his eyes and looked up at the eager blue eyes of the blond man standing over him. He slowly came to a sitting position and then stood up. The newspaper slid to the floor folding over so all you could read was _ASH_.

"Peasant!" Cecil said with disgust. "Peasant!" he repeated. "You're just an ignorant peasant!" He put his hat properly on his head, turned to the others, and said deliberately, "You're all just peasants!" He walked toward the exit as the room hushed. His jaw was set hard, and his eyes focused. A group near the door parted as he approached, as if commanded by Moses.

That evening, Cecil answered the phone in his single-room efficiency. "This is Ral Cosgrove," the voice announced.

Over the next few months, Cecil settled into his new position as personal financial advisor to Mr. Raleigh Cosgrove. He found that managing an investment portfolio through the troubled times following the stock market crash required much more finesse than the simple lucky call of a market downturn by an experienced pessimist. Pessimism, however, was good preparation for most decisions in the post-crash era, for the market continued downward for three years with only a few minor recoveries. Thus, his good calls far outweighed his bad ones as the crash evolved into a depression. But Cecil Tether's luck and cool could not be relied on to see him through such a long period.

Cecil worked closely with the Gamma controller who also maintained the personal records for Cosgrove. Spencer Nest had been with Gamma Instruments almost from its very beginning. He joined the fledgling company as an accountant in those easy days before federal income tax, and he matured during a period of growth in which doubling of sales in a year was commonplace. He became a trusted insider and advised all of the executive staff on tax matters relating to their personal finances as well as maintaining spotless records for the growing company. Nest had devoted his career to Gamma and Cosgrove and was highly regarded as a clever tactician and a straight shooter.

Although Cosgrove had relied on Fine & White for investment decisions, Nest had implicitly agreed to the high-flying, high-leverage market strategy throughout the booming twenties. His comment to Cosgrove had frequently been, "That seems to be the way people make money these days, Ral." After the crash and the praise heaped on Cecil for calling it, Nest was embarrassed that it seemed he had fallen asleep at the switch. Cosgrove counseled his old friend, "Look, Spence, we all got caught up in this thing, and if we hadn't played the market like daredevils, we wouldn't have made fortunes when we got out. Tether made a lucky call, but I want to see how he does in the long haul. If he's good, he'll soon end up as rich as we are. If he turns out to be a bum, I'll hand him a bonus and his walking papers."

Cosgrove treated Cecil like an old and trusted member of the inner circle even though he was, in reality, on probation. If Cosgrove sensed a problem, he could become very single minded and even ruthless in protecting his empire and his image.

Cecil was riding high after some reporter for the _Manhattan Weekly Business Review_ heard about him from a disgruntled Fine & White employee. The reporter did a story on his rapid rise from bookkeeper to stock market pundit. He got most of his information from an anonymous letter from the disgruntled employee. Cosgrove refused to tell the reporter anything. Cecil told Cosgrove there wasn't much he could do about it, and that he wouldn't corroborate the story for the reporter. It ran in the _Review_ about a month after the stock market crashed. The story revealed an amazingly detailed account of the episode, including names of the key players. It upset Cosgrove to see his personal business in the newspaper, but Cecil swore he did all he could to suppress the details.

THIRTEEN

"I read that article," I told Margo. "I was on the bedroom floor when my mother found me that day. She filled in a lot of details, stuff the article missed. My father treated her to his own version of the story when they were going together, sort of a glorified version, I guess. I asked my mother who wrote the anonymous letter to the newspaper. She looked at me and kind of laughed, 'So you figured that out, huh?'"

I looked up from the beans and saw Margo paying attention to every detail. It was like she really wanted to share my history.

"After they got married, he kind of got buried under this mountain of frustration. I guess nothing he tried ever worked out. That was during the Depression, you know. He said Cosgrove turned out to be a bum, and he was having a hard time recovering from that. Said he'd be on his feet any day as soon as one of his plans worked out.

"He said Cosgrove was just like all the rest. He couldn't see what was so obvious to the greatest visionary of the century." I looked at Margo again and grinned a little. She responded with a soft smile. I could tell her everything. And it would be okay.

"He said he gave Cosgrove 'a chance to soar above the others,' but he was blind. Nobody could see doom like my father. I guess he was right though. Mom said the Depression still had a long way to go, even after the stock market crash. My father had vision in a sea of peasants."

"Wait a minute, Mike," Margo whispered.

We both stopped talking and nearly stopped breathing.

"What's the matter?" I whispered back.

"Shhhh!" She put her finger to her lips. "Aunt Rae is calling me to help with supper. I got to go!" Margo stood up and began shaking stray beans loose. "Will you finish your story later, Mike? I want to find out what happened to your father."

She stood between the overhead light and me, so I couldn't see her face. I responded to the glowing figure, "Sure, if you want."

"Yeah! I want to know how he gets from a wheel in New York to just a nobody in Detroit. How about after supper?"

"Okay," I replied.

Margo was up on the catwalk now putting her shoes on. As she disappeared toward the ladder she said, "Don't forget to turn the light off. The switch is downstairs by the workbench." I heard the ladder rattle as she stepped down on the top rung. Then her whispering voice reached me again. "And don't tell anybody we were up here. Together, I mean." Then the ladder rattled as she scampered down the many steps separating this world, our world, from the ordinary lowland. I heard her cross the hay mow, then her feet thudded as she landed on top of the bean thrasher and then catapulted down its steel ladder, our short cut to the barn floor. The barn door slammed behind her, and she yelled as she ran across the grass, "Here I am, Aunt Rae! I was just in the barn!"

"Well, what's so interesting in the barn?" Aunt Rae asked from the garden.

"I was just getting my hoe all sharpened up for tomorrow!"

A smile rallied within me as I imagined Aunt Rae's look of disbelief.

It was easy to lie among the beans and let them massage me into some other world. But _this_ was the other world—all these beans and this farm and Margo. And Lily. How could such a world actually exist? _I shouldn't be telling these stories, especially to a girl. Sooner or later, she's going to ask about Joe._

I burrowed deeper into the beans and forced other thoughts, safer ones, to the front. Suddenly it hit me. The ladder was my only way down. And Margo wasn't there to help. All I could think about was that ladder as I shook beans free from my clothes. It worried me as I climbed out of the bin. I sat on the catwalk a long time picturing that ladder just a few feet away. I tied and retied each shoelace, delaying my encounter with it. Finally, I found myself standing before the ladder, hugging the wood beam beside it.

I looked for strength and realized it would have to come from within. I stared toward the opposite end of the barn, then looked down. The great cavern before me called up another time and place. It was remarkably similar, and yet in a different life. But unlike so many of my memories that were clamped in blood and shame, this one came on a breeze that brings life to seeds that have survived the rage of winter. It was the last trip the three of us had made to downtown Detroit before our trio was split into a duo and finally a solo.

* * *

Joe, Susie, and I stood at the edge of a chasm, peering into the swirling water and then at the opposite bank. It was just a little inlet into the Detroit River. Crossing this obstacle, a railroad track sagged and swayed under its own weight. The pilings that once carried the track had crumbled. Now only rails and ties remained, held together by rusting spikes. There was absolutely no reason for us to use these tracks to get to the opposite side since it was a simple matter of walking a little ways around this gully to get there. But this death-defying crossing energized our imaginations.

Joe walked out three ties from the edge and encouraged us to follow. "Come on, Mike, just follow me. It couldn't be easier. Watch!" He took another step to the fourth tie. The trestle swayed and creaked under this new weight. He looked down to the water below. It was only about six feet into the dirty, oily pool; but to a ten-year-old, it was certain death. And little Susie, three years younger, was petrified. Joe stepped onto the fifth tie, and the world still did not end. He motioned to us to follow.

"If you do it, Mike," Susie said to me, "I can do it, too." She pulled on my arm a little tighter. "But I'm not so sure you should do it. Are you?"

"Of course," I said, putting one foot on the first tie. "Joe says it's o-okay. Don't you t-trust him?"

"Uh huh. But It's kind of scary, Mike. What if one of those wood things breaks. And there could be sharks and stuff down there." She gave me her most wise look. "I do not think this is a safe thing for children to do!"

I caught Joe looking at me now, with a little less confidence than before. "There aren't really sharks in there, are there, Mike?"

"Uh uh," I wagged my head with true wisdom. "S-Sharks stay out in the ocean. But there might be other stuff."

"What other stuff?" Joe placed one foot back on the fourth tie.

"Well... see how the water is all b-black?" I said. A quick nod followed from Joe. "I read that o-octopuses squirt ink in the water, so you c-c-can't see them."

Susie screamed and covered her face with her hands. "I can't look! Is a octopus that giant thing that has a lot of big hairy arms? And it pulls ships right under the water?" Joe lost his balance and put one hand down on a rail. "And eats everybody?" Joe put one knee on the third tie. "And spits out their bones?" Joe made it back to the second tie. "And it's uglier than Witch Hazel? And burps a lot when it eats kids?"

"Is Susie right about that octopus stuff, Mike?" Joe asked when he set foot back on the firm ground.

"I don't know, Joe! Maybe. Am I supposed to be an e-expert on sea m-monsters?"

"Look, you guys," said Joe. "If there's an octopus in there, then it could probably get us even here, right?"

Susie screamed again and backed away from the edge, pulling on my shirt. "I don't want Joe's bones to get spit out!"

"Wait a minute!" I shouted. "There aren't any octopuses in there. This is just a r-river, right?" I looked at Joe for confirmation. "They call it the Detroit River, right? So it's just a river. And r-rivers don't have octopuses. Or sharks, or any of that scary stuff. You s-saw that guy down there fishing. He wasn't catching any octopuses and sharks. Just those little f-f-fish he had on the dock. So q-quit being so scared! Only thing that'd happen is you'd just get d-drowned."

"Well, I feel lots better about that," Joe said. "Look, you guys, if I go out on that thing, will you follow me?"

I looked at Susie, and she just said, "I don't like this place. Let's go ride the exalators at Hudson's."

"Well, I'm going across. And you chickens can just watch, if you're too scared to follow."

Joe walked straight to the edge, clenched his teeth, and began to hop from one tie to the next until he was about halfway across. The bridge began to sway. He steadied himself on both rails and began the uphill climb toward the other side. Suddenly, one of the ties broke loose when he stepped on it, and Joe went almost through the hole before he caught himself on the next tie.

"Hey, you kids!" came a shout from behind us. "What are you doing around here?"

We all turned toward the shout and saw a railroad flatfoot running toward us.

"Let's get out of here, Susie!" I said.

"But what about Joe?"

"Joe's okay. Look, he's a-almost to the other side!"

"I'm not leaving 'til Joe's on the other side. If he falls in, you got to jump in and save him."

"Susie, the cop is coming! Let's beat it!"

Susie stood there, her feet spread apart and her arms folded in front of her. The flatfoot was getting close now, and he was yelling, "Can't you kids read the signs?"

Joe scampered to the other side and turned around. "Meet you at the station!" Susie and I took off just before the flatfoot reached us. We ran like arrows splitting the air. The flatfoot was old and winded, and we soon put a lot of space between him and us.

The station was the Brush Street Depot of the Grand Trunk Western Railroad. It was one of our favorite places to explore during this happiest summer of our lives. It was the only summer when both my mother and my father were gone during the day. This left us free to our own pleasures, so long as we were back home on time.

We quickly discovered the magic of the Woodward Avenue Number 10 streetcar, which ran just five blocks from our house. We never needed carfare because we became so good at sneaking in the back door while passengers were trying to get off. We also learned that by walking a couple of blocks extra and boarding at Grand Boulevard, there were so many people getting on and off that we would never get caught. Every streetcar had a billboard above the windows on the inside that read:

USE IT UP, WEAR IT OUT! MAKE IT DO, OR DO WITHOUT!

Another sign in the streetcar shouted:

The 6th War Loan is on. And it's every American's duty to invest in at least

one _extra_ $100 War Bond. If you haven't bought yours yet, do it today!

A pilot stood in front of a B-24 Liberator with his 87th mission under his belt and said, "You keep on buying, and I'll keep on fighting till the last Jap drops!"

Sometimes the famous Car 3737 came along, and we even got to ride on it once. It would squeal toward us on silver tracks with the message on its nose:

EVERY PAYDAY BUY WAR BONDS

If you were close to it when it passed by, the message printed along its side would be too big to even read. But if you stepped back a ways, it would shout to you to BUY WAR BONDS in letters that filled its red, white, and blue side. It would be the highlight of the day when its colors appeared, and we'd stand and clap and wave to its proud passengers until it disappeared once more into the camouflage of a city bursting at the seams as it rushed toward its finest hour in history and became known to every freedom-loving person on earth as "The Arsenal of Democracy."

We discovered something that summer that we would never have imagined. We uncovered a glorious park right next door to our house. A park so full of wonders that we could never exhaust them, for it was building wonders faster than we could explore them. This park had buildings taller than we could see. So tall that when we stood beside one on a bright afternoon and looked up into the clear sky, we couldn't even see its top. We'd just whisper, "Wow!"

It was mid-afternoon as we stood on the sidewalk outside the Penobscot Building after terrorizing the Brush Street Depot for a while. We were jostled by what seemed like the whole world walking past us and not even seeing us. I pointed to Joe's shadow lying across the sidewalk about as long as he was tall and then to the giant shadow of the building stretching before us down the sidewalk. We stalked it first along the sidewalk, then over parked cars, and finally out into Fort Street. We ran along the sidewalk, screaming at each other about where it was now, never totally sure, but knowing it was there, being trampled by tires and sliced by rumbling trucks. But it somehow survived. It was on the opposite sidewalk as we approached Woodward.

We bumped into a lady and got tangled in her dog's leash before we could once more chase the shadow. By the time it lead us across Woodward, it was narrow with two fuzzy edges lined up on the sidewalk. We came to its end, and Susie squealed with excitement, like it was some buried treasure. At the very top of the Penobscot Building was a huge ball on a tower. The shadow of this ball rested on the statue at Campus Martius in the middle of Cadillac Square.

This was not our first trip here, but this time a giant shadow-finger led us to something we'd never noticed before. The blurry circle covered most of the lady at the top of this Civil War monument. Only her naked sword pierced its edge, shining in the sun, ready to slay all threats to the Union. We stared in awe as I read aloud the inscription, carved in solid stone. "Erected by the people of Michigan in honor of the martyrs who fell and the heroes who fought in defense of liberty and union."

We turned back toward the Penobscot Building, standing together in our tiny group at the base of Campus Martius, studying that sphere atop the tallest building in our world. The throngs of busy people around us seemed no more aware of the magic of this place than did the pigeons. How could they not feel the energy, too? We clung to each other's hands, surrounded by a million people, yet alone. Our eyes followed the stairstep outline of the top of the building to where it plunged straight down to the street and then traced its shadow right back to us.

Joe was the first to break the silence. "Hey, the sun's starting to come around the edge of the building."

"I want to see it, too," Susie said. She craned her head over in front of Joe and blinked as the first sun's rays stung her retinas.

"If we stand real still," I added, "pretty soon we'll all be in the sun, just like the b-building is stepping aside for us."

Joe closed his eyes as the sun bathed his face in warmth. Susie looked up at him and said, "I want to have it on my face, too."

"Just wait a m-minute, Susie," I said. "It'll be your turn in just a minute."

Susie stretched out her hand into Joe's sun and watched her arm as her turn approached. "There it is," she said as she squinted.

My turn came next as we joined hands in the sun that once more defeated man's mightiest structure. We were an odd little group, clinging to each other, to the only people on earth we loved, holding on tight to keep us always together. The sun crept into every pore of our skin, every fold of our clothes. It bleached the darkness that was our other life. It sterilized us until no trace of that cancer remained. It breathed hope into three kids, briefly bonding them to heaven.

Joe stirred from this trance when he felt the sun blotted out from his face. He opened his eyes to some form with a bright glow around it. The form became a man. The man evolved into a police officer.

"You kids okay?" The voice shocked us.

"Yes, Sir," came Joe's crisp reply.

"It just looked like you kids could use some help, the way you're kind of huddled together here. Looks a little strange, like you need some help finding your way home."

"Oh, no, Sir," Joe replied quickly. "We sure don't need that."

"Now, you kids wouldn't be running away from home, would you?"

I blinked and looked at Joe.

"We would never do that, Sir!" Joe continued while Susie and I stood helplessly. "We love our parents too much to ever want to leave home."

"Maybe you ought to come over to the station with me, and we'll call home just to make sure."

"But Sir, we promised our mother that we would wait here while she went over to Hudson's. She said she would only be a few minutes."

"I see, but then why wouldn't she just take you with her?"

"Well, you see," Joe's voice started to twinkle, "I think she wanted to buy some, you know, some real personal stuff. And she didn't think that we, at least my brother and me, that we should be in there, well, you know, in that kind of place like that."

"Yes, I see. Your mother wants to shelter you from that sort of..." He looked directly at me, and I looked down. "Stimulation," he continued.

"Yes, that's it!" Joe said.

The police officer kept his eyes on me, "Is that right, Son?"

I looked up at him blankly, uncertain about how to answer.

"Is that right, Son?" he asked again.

Susie squeezed my hand to get me to say yes, but it only made my face flush, and I swallowed so hard I nearly choked on it.

"He don't talk, Sir," Joe interrupted. "He hasn't said a single word since Mama got the telegram. Our daddy was a hero, in the Army, in Tibet. He killed about a thousand Germans before they got him. A tank just blew him to bits. They couldn't hardly find any pieces." Now Susie was squeezing Joe's hand to get him to shut up.

"I'm so sorry to hear that. How long ago did it happen?"

Joe answered, "About a year ago." At exactly the same time, Susie said, "Last week."

The police officer's look of concern changed to puzzlement. Joe turned to Susie and said, "No, Susie. Remember? That was Uncle Norbert that got killed last week."

"You see," Joe explained to the policeman, "Uncle Norbert was Daddy's little brother. He was like our new daddy after that tank blew him up. Uncle Norbert would send us lots of letters, and lots of pictures of dead Germans. That would make us feel a lot better. Mom would put the pictures on the walls all over our house. Then when Uncle Norbert died last... last week, Mom made us promise that..."

I had my eyes to the ground but could see Susie's hand squeezing the life out of Joe's hand, so he just stopped talking.

"Well, it sounds like you kids have had enough sorrow in your lives. If you need anything, I'll be right around Cadillac Square." Joe and Susie were now looking down at the same concrete that I'd been studying for some time. "Hope your mother gets back soon." He tipped his blue hat and walked away.

We all watched him disappear around the other side of the statue. As soon as he was gone, Joe said, "Come on, let's get out of here!"

We disappeared into the crowd and raced up Woodward toward the J. L. Hudson Department Store, where my mother was supposed to be buying some real personal stuff. Joe led the way with Susie following a close second.

Joe dodged into an alley and stopped suddenly. Susie, of course, plowed into Joe, and I into Susie. He ignored this and muscled his way to the corner, which he carefully peered around. His attention was fixed on the police officer, who would sound a citywide alert as soon as he discovered us gone. With his breath coming in short spurts, Joe flattened himself against the wall. "He's looking around!" He carefully peeked around the edge once more. "He saw that we're gone, and he's looking for us."

"Careful, Joe," Susie whispered. "He might have one of those special telescopes they use for finding kids."

"Have you ever seen one?" I asked.

"Yeah," she replied. "It's got this red light. And it flashes whenever it sees a kid, and then they know exactly where to go."

This time Joe edged just one eye out around the corner. He jerked his head back. "He's got one all right! But he didn't see me! I moved too fast!" Some people looked into the alley at us as they walked by.

"Any of these p-people could be spies," I said.

"You're right," Joe said. "Come on!"

We ran down the alley to where some wooden crates were stacked against the wall, and we ducked in between a couple of them and sat down against a brick wall that recently had been in the sun.

"How we going to get out of this one, Joe?" I asked. "We d-don't dare go out on any s-street. Every cop in town will be looking for us."

"With those telescopes," Susie added.

"Yeah, I know!" Joe said. "And he was talking through one of those two-way wrist radios, so probably all the cops got our description by now."

We sat for a minute measuring our options. "Let's duck into Hudson's for a while," Joe said, "'til they get tired of looking for us. Maybe somebody will rob a bank or something. That's got to be more important than chasing us."

We all looked at each other in an instant and said together, "Twelfth floor!"

We ran down the alley and tiptoed to the street. The door to Hudson's was only a few feet down the sidewalk. We each took our turn peeking around the corner. The door was so close, but dangers lurked on the sidewalk—dangers in blue uniforms and gleaming badges. The whole police force would be alerted by now to look for two boys, one wearing rusty corduroys and a blue and white striped tee shirt with an unraveling collar and the other wearing what was once blue jeans and a white tee shirt with a faded catsup stain down the front, and a younger female accomplice in a blue dress with sparkling blue eyes and a missing front tooth.

Businessmen walked briskly by us, focused on something more important. A couple walked hand in hand, their hands parting company for a No Parking sign. Women carrying green shopping bags with the fancy white H outnumbered all others on this street.

"We can't just stay here," I said. "If a c-cop comes along, we're sitting ducks!"

"But if we go out there," Susie answered, "some cop with a telescope will spot us. And then what?"

Joe finally issued our orders. "Okay, we have to go one at a time. They won't be looking for just one kid. We can meet at the bottom of the escalator." This seemed like a good plan, so I went first to test the waters and made it through the revolving doors without hearing a police whistle. Susie then followed me in, and Joe brought up the rear.

By the time we hit the third floor, we had put aside our fears of arrest and began to enjoy the thrill we always experienced as we rose into the upper atmosphere of the world's second largest department store. The fifth floor announced aprons, silk underwear, pajamas.

"Boring!" Joe said to the sign.

I agreed, with a thumbs down. Then I read further, "Brassieres! Isn't this where our mother is s-supposed to be right now?" I jabbed Joe in the ribs.

He grabbed my collar and said, "You're coming to the station with me, kid."

Susie said, "I think their Peter Rabbit aprons are real cute."

"We went to look at that stuff with you last time," Joe said, "and we're not doing it again."

"Ninth floor," I read solemnly like an announcer. "Home furnishings, bedroom furniture, and bedding." I laughed, then we all laughed.

"Hey," Joe said. "Let's go to twelve later. I think Mr. Jerk is lonely here on nine right now."

"Maybe he needs some c-cigarettes."

"No, Joe!" Susie insisted. "We haven't been to the Toy Department in a long time!"

"Let's just go see if Mr. Jerk is working today. We're right here. Then we can go up to twelve."

Mr. Jerk was a salesman in the bedroom furnishings department whom we had spent a few afternoons spying on and tormenting. We didn't really mean to torment him; it just seemed to happen a lot. He was tall and skinny, and his suit looked like it had belonged to a shorter man in an earlier life, so he really showed off his white socks. He was okay looking, but with a pointy chin and nose like Dennis the Menace's father. His jet-black hair was Brylcreemed back with a perfect part exactly down the center.

We would observe him and his occasional customers from various places around the showroom, but our favorite spot was under beds. We were grateful to the J. L. Hudson Co. housekeepers for keeping such a clean floor for us to play on.

I thought his name was Mr. Jacks, but Joe claimed he'd heard him answer the phone Mr. Jenks, and Susie insisted that she heard Mr. Jerk. We agreed that Susie's name was the best.

We would sometimes crawl under beds or behind dressers or flatten ourselves among the oriental rugs on swinging hangers. All three of us were once between a beautiful flower rug with a green border and a weird thing from China that looked like some giant had puked on it. Suddenly the two rugs parted and there was Mr. Jerk with a fat lady in a dress that perfectly matched the Chinese rug. He knew us by then, and while he searched for the proper words to get rid of us in front of his customer, we disappeared through the rugs like a breeze.

We would sometimes split up like commandos to see how close we could get to Mr. Jerk without being discovered. One time, Joe crawled right under his cigarette break chair, bumped the table next to it, and knocked the half-full ashtray into his navy-blue lap. I was crouched behind a chest of drawers beside the cash register when Mr. Jerk called store security.

Two security guards coming up the escalator passed us as we descended to the eighth floor. They looked at us suspiciously as we floated past, but our escape was blocked by the lady with the vomit dress. The guards must have thought we were with her.

Mr. Jerk's smoking-break chair was hidden behind a folding screen. He wasn't allowed to smoke in the department. Mr. Jerk's boss was a short man with white hair and a squeaky voice we loved to imitate. In his break chair, Mr. Jerk faced one end of the showroom, but he could watch the whole department through slits in the folding screen.

During a previous visit to his department, he sat down for his nicotine break, pulled open the table drawer, and found a single piece of paper in place of the pack of Old Golds. "Your cigs are in the top drawer of the dresser that faces the ducks. PS—If you are nice to us, we won't tell your boss about them."

Mr. Jerk stood up and gritted his teeth. He scanned the department looking for traces of us. "Damn kids!" he muttered, wadding the paper into his clenched fist. "They're probably on their way home now just laughing about this stupid trick!" Finally, he straightened his coat, slicked back his hair, and walked out into the showroom. But he went the wrong direction, stopped beside a bed with a yellow and white duck bedspread, and looked through three dressers near it.

"Mike," Joe whispered, "you forgot about the ducks on the bedspread."

"What if he doesn't go to the right place?" Susie asked. Joe and I shrugged our shoulders. Suddenly he began to walk, and this time in the right direction. On the far end of the showroom was a pile of pillows and a sign in large block letters: GENUINE DUCK DOWN PILLOWS. Across the aisle, he opened the top drawer. There he found another note: "We changed our mind. Try your regular drawer again."

Mr. Jerk was now boiling over again. He stomped back to his smoking table, opened the top drawer, and there was his pack of cigarettes with three of them sticking out just like in the advertisements. He kicked the drawer and cursed and hurried to his phone where he called security again. But we were on our way to the far end of the building where we ran laughing and screaming down eight flights of stairs.

But on this last trip to Hudson's we would ever make, Susie and I advanced toward his break chair under a row of beds while Joe approached behind some furniture and then ducked under a bed on the opposite side of his chair from us. We had Mr. Jerk surrounded, and he didn't even know it. He had just lit an Old Gold when we arrived. Joe was about three feet away with just the table separating him from his prey. Susie and I were directly below and to his left. Mr. Jerk took off his shiny black shoes to relax.

The three of us passed silent signals and grins back and forth past his white-walled feet. Joe pointed to his shoes lying beneath the chair and motioned for us to do something to them. I shook my head no because there was too much chance of getting caught. Finally, Joe motioned that he was about to crawl over to the shoes himself if we didn't do something. Susie waved him off and got into position for the heist. She grabbed one shoe as his left foot kept some musical beat. When we got both shoes, we looked at each other about what to do.

"Give them to me," I whispered.

"No!" Susie whispered back and jerked them away, bumping her head on the box springs with a thud. We immediately stopped our tussle and fell totally silent. Mr. Jerk looked around, annoyed that something, he didn't know what, had interrupted his break. He threw a quick glance through each of his three narrow portholes to check out the showroom, then he settled back down with his cigarette.

"I have an idea," I whispered to Susie as I wrestled control of the shoes from her, bumping my elbow on the box spring with another thud. I glanced across the way and there was Joe with his head buried in his arms, shaking with laughter. I, however, did not see the humor since Mr. Jerk would find us for sure and call the police, and then we'd really be in trouble. But Mr. Jerk just looked around through his slits and seemed satisfied that neither a customer nor a boss was interrupting his break.

After starting to breathe again, I took one shoe, pulled the laces tight, and tied them in a double knot. Susie chuckled, took the other shoe, and did the same. Then I carefully replaced one shoe back under his chair. Susie tried to grab the other shoe from me so she could put it beside the first, but one of her feet crashed hard against a bed leg. I shoved the shoe out where it bumped against the other one, and we all got ready for a fast getaway.

Mr. Jerk looked around the showroom again. "Damn! Here comes that squeaky prick!" He took one last long draw on his Old Gold, smashed out the butt in the ashtray, and slid it into the drawer of the bedside table. Then, with the finesse of a long-time closet smoker, he bent down nearly to the floor, lifted the bedspread just enough, and exhaled his retching lungs right into our faces. Susie and I suffered in total silence as we gasped.

Mr. Jerk's boss was escorting two customers directly toward his hideaway, looking in every direction for the missing salesman. Mr. Jerk began fumbling with his shoes as they approached. "Christ! How the hell..." He tried to stuff a foot inside one of the shoes, but he could barely get his toes in. He struggled with this as his boss stopped beside the cash register, looking all around for his salesman.

Mr. Jerk stood up mumbling, "Those damn brats have been here again! Those damn kids! Those damn little bastards!" But cursing under his breath was all he could do now since his boss had caught sight of him and motioned him over with a scowl.

"Mr. Jerk, would you please be so kind as to attend to these customers?"

His white-stockinged feet began to walk him toward the squeaky voice.

I heard another voice under the opposite bed mimicking, "Mr. Jerk! Mr. Jerk! These people would like to buy some shoes, Mr. Jerk. Maybe you could help them, Mr. Jerk." We all rolled with laughter, at least as much as we could under the beds.

Mr. Jerk walked to a spot where his feet were hidden by a roll of carpet. "Yes! What can I help you with today?"

"Mr. Jerk!" his boss said. "We would prefer not to correspond by long distance. Maybe you could come over here and help these people with some bedding."

Mr. Jerk took a deep breath and walked toward them. Six eyes immediately focused on the two bright white objects approaching them.

"Mr. Jerk! Your shoes!"

"Sir?"

"Your shoes, Mr. Jerk!"

"Shoes, Sir?"

"Where are your shoes, Mr. Jerk?"

"My shoes? Yes. My shoes."

The man and the woman standing behind the boss were laughing.

"Mr. Jerk!" his boss continued. "You _do_ have shoes, don't you? Would you please put them on so we can help these people? I don't believe they wish to be shown about the store by you in your stocking feet."

"Yes, Sir. I understand that, Sir. I have shoes, but I can't put them on. You see, there are these kids—these little kids—and I can't get away from them. They're everywhere. And I just can't seem to get away from them." He took a step toward the trio as if being closer to them would make it easier to understand his plight.

"You see," he began again, "these kids come around sometimes. Right now, they're all around us, but you can't see them." He gestured to the furniture nearby and the piles of rugs behind him. "They're probably just inches from you, but you won't know it until they strike."

But Mr. Jerk was wrong about that because as he spoke, we were crouched on the escalator with our eyes peering over the black handrail as it guided us toward safety below. There were now twelve eyes riveted on him. He glanced our way and recognized us in despair as we disappeared out of sight.

* * *

That wonderful summer day had been two years earlier—two very long years. No sooner did I realize that I was beginning to think in the past tense, than those images started hazing, colors started fading, laughter started merging with a world of noise. I fought for the purity of Susie's hand in mine, but it was slowly replaced by a raw wooden beam in an unfamiliar barn. Even before my eyes opened, I began to struggle against the future. Past and present mingled here to create a totally new tense.

With one hand firmly gripping the present, the other reached backwards in time and touched my face. I was smiling. Joe and Susie were still here with me, and we held each other and lived in each other. We sustained each other's lives as a unity—a trinity. I felt their nearness and heard three voices rising, filling a world known only to us. I smelled three small bodies floating like embryonic life forms, bound together forever by pain and joy. We celebrated our flight from the fire of the adult world while we embraced that same fire, which united and immortalized us.

FOURTEEN

Slowly my left hand released its grip on the rough wooden post and joined the other hand on my smile. My fingers read the remains of my memory. I could rely on touch to tell present from past.

Looking straight ahead, the present engulfed me. I stood on the edge of the platform with the ladder resting against it, looking the length of the rusted steel rail that traveled to the far end of the barn under the peak of the roof. My eyes followed that rail, unused for hauling bales of hay for so many years, encased in rust.

My mother stood at the end of the rail, suspended high above the barn floor. She smiled and put out her hands toward me. I had to meet her. My salvation depended on it. And Joe and Susie depended on me.

I raised my hands toward the rail that lay just inches above my head, grasped it firmly with two young hands, and shook it. A steel wave ran down the rail, and my mother smiled where the wave seemed to melt. I put my weight on it, and the rail groaned. _Maybe_ , I thought, _maybe I could live in memory forever if I could eliminate the present—totally eliminate it._

I now had all my weight on the rail. It cut into my hands, but I looked only at my mother. She had come so far and now stood at just the other end of the barn. I could feel the rail scourge my palms. It was in the present. But what about my mother? Could I touch her?

I shuffled one hand over the other until I could no longer reach back with my toe and touch the platform. My mother stood before me, her hands extended. I looked down, and a gasp turned to a smile as I saw Joe and Susie on the concrete floor far below. They just stood there, holding hands, watching me, expressionless and pure.

"Mike! Mike!" I heard a voice. It must be my mother calling for me to come to her. But it wasn't her. I looked down at Joe and Susie. Maybe they were finally calling me to join them. Maybe there was something very simple I could do to be reunited with them and finally be accepted as a blood brother. But they just stood there, talking to each other with beautiful lips moving as if in prayer but no sound coming to me. They had not called me.

"Mike!" I heard it again. I knew it must be one of them. "Supper's ready, Mike!" I looked again and saw a barn floor with no one there, and the rail disappearing at the far end of the barn with no mother awaiting me there. I moved backwards along the rail until I was back on the platform and once again chained to the present.

Margo appeared below. "Mike! You still up there?"

"Yeah!"

"Can you get down okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"Aunt Rae says we're going to eat now. Can you get down by yourself okay?"

"Yeah. Go tell Aunt Rae I'm coming."

Margo smiled up at me. "Okay, Mike. I'll wait on the back porch for you."

I summoned my courage and put my weight on the ladder. It rumbled beneath me, but my trip down was much easier than the trip up. When I ran to the back porch where Margo sat on the top step waiting for me, I met her smile with a blank stare as I stopped and looked at her.

"I knew you could get down okay."

I looked at my reddened hands with some slivers of rust in the skin. I didn't look at her or answer as I ran up the steps into the house.

After supper, I lay in the grass between two maple trees next to the farmhouse with a million stars to talk to. I pictured myself on one of those stars looking back toward this lonely spot. I wondered if I would even be able to see this tiny world. I had read about a man who had traveled way out into the stars. He had this huge telescope, and he still couldn't see the earth and couldn't even see the sun. Could all the things that seemed so important really be that insignificant? I wondered if you could see the earth from heaven. My mother said everybody in heaven could see everybody on earth. So I guessed heaven must be pretty close to earth, unless they used telescopes.

My mother. She knew so much about God and angels—and sin. She told me men needed leaders, and I was such a leader. She named me after the greatest archangel of all so I would have the strength to lead, to defeat Satan. She was so holy and knew so much more than me. But she never told me exactly what I was supposed to do, except be like Jesus. She said I would know when it was time to lead. There would be a sign, and I would know. But the older I got, the less sense that made. Maybe my calling to lead had been there a thousand times, and I just missed it. Why didn't she make Joe the leader? He would have never missed a sign like that.

She had appeared to me in the barn a couple hours ago, and Joe and Susie beneath me. I closed my eyes and reached out. Maybe they'd appear again. Maybe that was the sign. I touched nothing but still air. Maybe I'll just go on missing all the signs—and end up like my father. Or my mother. No! She's holy. She's holy.

The world I lived in just a couple weeks ago was so different. It was home. It was where I lived with my mother. But this new place was home, too. At least it seemed like home, though so different. Even the sky was different. There were a million times more stars here. But how could that be? Wasn't it the same sky? I pictured my old neighborhood with rows of whining houses. Our sad house begged for attention. Only a few tufts of grass survived in that yard, clinging to life under an army of pounding feet. My hands explored the thick grass beneath me as my mind explored a memory so crystal clear.

We used to sit outside on evenings like this, on the third step from the sidewalk with our feet grinding at the bottom concrete step. Our wooden seat had lost its gray paint long ago, maybe a lifetime ago. The three of us would sit alone, but we never thought of ourselves as alone when we were together. How could loneliness exist as long as Joe and Susie were there with me? I tasted the breath of the two who loved me. We shared fears, hopes, everything. I ran my hands over that wooden step.

* * *

It was a May evening two years ago. Susie didn't like reading and found it harder than anything else. Joe told me I was the brains of the family, so I should help her.

"But you could help her too, Joe," I protested. "You're a real g-good reader."

"Ha! That's a laugh!" he said. "You know I'm not anything like as smart as you. All I get is Cs on my report card. You're the one that gets all As and Bs. Even Mom says you're the smart one. Susie and me get Cs just because the teachers feel sorry for us. You don't have to pretend, Mike. It doesn't hurt my feelings."

"Yeah, Mike," Susie said. "I even see you read those old magazines Dad's got stacked up by his chair. I can't even read the cover."

"Social Justice," I said.

"What is that stuff, anyway?" Joe asked. "Dad keeps reading them over and over, like Mom does the Bible."

"It's just some magazine Father Coughlin used to write. It's about how Jews are so bad, and Negroes too, I guess."

I was elected to be Susie's reading tutor, and we'd spend time on her reading nearly every night. One evening we were sitting on the front steps with her reading book. It was starting to get dark, so she used that as an excuse to set the book aside.

"How come you don't like to read?" I asked her. "You sure don't t-t-take after Dad. He reads all the time. When he's not working, he just sits in that ch-chair and reads all day long, just like he is right now. M-maybe that's where I get my reading from."

"I hate reading, and I hate Dad!" she said to me in an angry, hushed tone that I wasn't used to hearing from her. "And I never want to do anything like him! Even if I _never_ read. And I don't even care!"

"But he's our father, Susie. We have to l-love him. You know that."

"You love him then! Love him all you want! You just love him because he doesn't hit you. You ever notice that, Mike? He hits me and Joe all the time, but he only yells at you and says he's going to hit you, but then he doesn't. You ever notice that?"

I looked across the street where a light just turned on upstairs. I couldn't answer her or face her because I knew what she said was mostly true. Dad hit me sometimes, but nothing like the others. I didn't know why it was true, but Susie and Joe had figured out the system, too. I finally broke the silence. "I don't love him just because of that. H-He's my father, and Mama says if I'm going to be like J-Jesus, then I have to love him. No matter what."

"Well, she never told me that. And besides, I don't want to be like Jesus if it means I gotta love Dad."

The next Sunday afternoon, we were going to have another reading session. Susie was all excited and said Joe should be there too because she had something really neat to read. We all sat across the third step with Susie in the middle.

"What's so great that you can't wait to tell us?" Joe said.

Susie pulled a sheet of paper out of her reading book and spread it out over her knees. It was all wrinkled like someone had wadded it up. As she repeatedly smoothed it, she told us, "Mom opened this yesterday. See here, it came in the mail, and it just had a little staple to make it like a little envelope. Anyway, Mom opened it and read it and got real mad and just crumpled it all up and threw it in the trash. Mumbled something about faults and idols, or something like that. She sure was mad."

"So read it to us," Joe ordered.

"Well, I'll try, but it's kind of hard." Susie cleared her throat three times, raised the paper up several inches, and bravely began on the title reading very slowly: "With Love All Things Are Pos... Pos..."

"Possible, I prompted her.

"Okay, possible," she repeated. "This pa... paper has sent to you for good lu... luck. The... org..."

"Original," I said.

"Okay, that's it. The original is in New E..."

"England," I said.

"Mike? Maybe you could read this better?"

I looked down at Susie's pleading eyes and then to Joe, who added, "We _do_ have to go to school tomorrow morning, you know." Then he pushed Susie's leg with his leg, and she returned a scowl. She stood up and handed me the paper. I scooted over to her spot, and she plopped down in mine.

"Okay, here we g-go you guys:

With Love All Things Are Possible

This paper has sent to you for good luck. The original is in New England in a dry boat. It has been around the world 9 times. The luck has been sent to you. You will receive good luck within four days. Provide that you send it, in turn, on. Neether is this a joke. You will receive some good luck. Send no money and boxtops. Just send copys to people need some more luck. Do not send money. As faith has no price. Do also not keep this letter. It must leave your hand in 98 hours or 4 days. Which ever first on a calender. A RN officer received $7,755,022.07. Joe Elliot received $40,000.00 and lost $52,000.00 for brakeing of the chain. Please send 20 copys and see in 4 days. The chain is coming from Venzuella and was written by Saul Anthony De Grou, a mishonary from Venzuella. Where this chain comes from. You must make 20, and send them, since this copy must toer the world, to Friends and assosiates. You will get some surprise. Even if you are not superstishus, this is true. Make a note on the followings: Constantine Dias receive the chain in 1913; he asked his secertary to make 20 copies; and send. He won a lotery, a few days later, of two million. He didn't need his business, so he fired his secertary. Carlos Daddil, an employey received the letter and forgot the letter and it had to leave his. He lost his job. After a little later and finding the letter which was forgot, he mailed 21 copies. A few days in the future, he got a better job. Dalan Farechild received the letter and not believing it. He threw the letter away which he didn't believe. Nine days later a arrow struck him which was ment for a man. Dalan tried to go to some hosipal, but a arrow would not let him go, to any hosipal. He stayed home. He thought about the letter so he wrote 20 copys in his own blood. With a arrow. But he had no stamps so he, died. His grandfather found some 20 letters and made them, to people. Having stamps. He is still alive, right now. Without a single arrow and not dead. In 1938, the letter received in Calif by a young woman, in Calif. It was bad faded and barly readable and in Calif. She promised herself later she would re tipe the letter and send on it later on, but she put it aside for later. She was playged with stuff incloding a broke car and leporsy, and the letter did not leave the only hand she had left within 98 hours. She finally tiped the letters with one finger and got a new car the day after her other hand fell off.

Remember, send no money, Do not ignore this letter. It will work for you.

When I stopped reading, there was absolute silence. Susie sat with her head propped up by her left hand, her mouth wide open.

Joe was the first to break the silence. "Holy cow!"

"What are we going to do?" Susie said.

"I don't know," I replied. "Think all that s-stuff is true?"

"Of course it's true, you dummy," said Susie in shock. "Look! It's all right there in your hand. We got to do something. Or there'll be a spell or something on us." She examined her hands carefully and then looked cautiously around the bush beside her.

"Wait a minute," Joe said. "If the letter isn't to us, we're in the clear. Maybe Mom and Dad are the only ones in the spell."

I turned the letter over and there, beneath the three-cent stamp, was the carefully printed address. The first line read: _The Tether Family_.

"Holy cow! That's all of us, Mike. We can't afford any more bad luck. Maybe if we burn the letter and flush the ashes down the toilet. Then it's like we never got it, right?"

"That's really stupid, Joe," Susie exclaimed. "Of course we got it. No matter what we do. And the spell... Tell him, Mike."

"Well," I said, "I guess Susie is r-right about that." I sent a worried look at Joe. "Maybe if Susie didn't ever p-pull it out of the trash and if we didn't ever read it. Maybe then there wouldn't be a spell. But now..." I looked first at Joe, then at Susie.

Joe said, "Well, I don't want to get shot with arrows!"

"And I don't want my hand to fall off!" Susie said.

"You know," I said, "Dad's the only one that hasn't read this thing. So he's p-probably not in the spell."

"And he's the one that needs bad luck worse than anybody," Joe said.

"Yeah," chimed in Susie. "We'd have a chance if he only had one hand."

"Or if he had an arrow sticking out of him," chuckled Joe.

Then both Joe and Susie started laughing and joking about what kind of bad luck our father should have. I ached to be a part of their hate-Dad group, even if it meant facing my father's rage. I knew they would always share a special bond with each other, a kind of blood bond I'd never share—a spilled-blood bond in the war with our parents. As they shared that laugh together, I admitted, maybe for the first time in my life, that they were truly apart from me. I would never be their real blood brother.

"What's the matter, Mike?" Joe chided. "Don't you think that's funny? I mean about Dad getting the bad luck instead of us?"

They both nudged me at the same time. They wanted me to join them, to be a part of their club. I thought they must hate me for not joining. However much they hated me in their loving way, I hated myself so much more.

"Yeah, that's pretty funny," I said.

"Wait a minute," Joe said. "That letter's supposed to be for _good_ luck. Bad stuff only happens if you don't do anything."

"Yeah!" exclaimed Susie. "All we got to do is send out twenty letters, and we'll get good luck, not bad."

"Okay," I said, "but we each have to send t-twenty letters. And we have to write each one out by hand. That'll be—let's see—t-twenty, forty, sixty. Wow! We have to send sixty letters!"

"But we don't even know sixty people," Susie said.

"Let's see," I said running my finger over the letter. "Here it is. It says 'f-friends and associates'. We've got to send the letters to friends and associates."

"Huh?" said Susie. "What's that second one? Do we have any of those?"

"Yeah," said Joe, "We better have a bunch of those because we sure don't have sixty friends."

They both looked toward me. "Well, I think associates are just people you know or something."

"This is important, Mike!" said Susie. "We got to know exactly what a sociate is. I don't want my hand falling off."

"Okay," I said. "I'll go get Dad's d-dictionary and look it up."

I returned with a very used dictionary and finally found _associate_. "It says here, 'anyone connected in some way with another'."

"Huh?" said Susie. "We got any of those?"

"I guess anybody living around you is an a-associate," I instructed. "If somebody lives by you, that's like a connection, right?"

"Does it say they got to be white?" Joe whispered. "If it doesn't, we've got a whole lot of associates around here."

I checked the dictionary again. "It doesn't say anything about that here, so I guess it's okay if the associates aren't white."

"But where do we get the stamps?" asked Susie. "We could be like that guy with the arrow sticking out if we don't have sixty stamps."

Joe stood up and stepped down to the bottom of the steps. "I've got an idea! We take our three letters and put them together, and then we only need twenty stamps. Does it say in the letter that we got to send our letters to different associates?"

I reread that part of the letter again. "Nope! It doesn't say a-anything about that!"

"But we still need twenty stamps," Susie whined. "And they're three cents a piece. That's probably about ten dollars. Where do we get that much money?"

I picked up the letter once more and frantically searched through it. "It doesn't say we've got to send our letters in the mail. We could just put them in people's mailboxes for free!"

"Yeah," Joe said. "We could go over on the next street so nobody recognizes us and just stick them in mailboxes and run. Is that close enough to be an associate?"

"I guess so," I said.

We spent the next two days writing until we thought our hands were going to fall off, even without the bad luck. Our penmanship got worse until the last letters were close to unreadable. Susie suggested we make sure each set of letters had at least one good one. I volunteered to put the packages together and tape them shut. Then we went out at dusk, and twenty lucky associates received letters that would change their lives.

The reason I volunteered to assemble the packets was personal and selfish. I had worked twice as hard as either Joe or Susie in writing the letters. I knew that my mother had read the letter, and so she would have a spell on her. I wrote out an extra twenty letters to be from her. I never told Joe and Susie about that because I thought they'd laugh at me or even hate me more for trying to protect their mother, my protectress.

We beat the deadline by a full thirteen hours, so we felt sure that we had satisfied the letter of the letter. We were sure now that our collective luck would change. Two days later, our father flew into a rage about his dictionary being missing and finding it on the front porch. He hit both Joe and Susie for it as I cowered in the hallway. It appeared our luck hadn't changed much.

FIFTEEN

I rolled over in the grass, as if that might obstruct more memories. This rolling over caused me to collide with another body lying beside me. We both sat up startled.

"Why'd you do that?" Margo asked.

"What do you mean?" I replied. "I didn't know you were there. How come you sneak around like that?"

"I wasn't sneaking. I came over here and talked to you, but you didn't answer, so I figured you were asleep. Then you woke up and hit me."

"You shouldn't have been there," I replied. "How was I supposed to know you were there? That was real dumb!"

"Well I didn't know you owned the grass and everything! If you don't want me around, just say so, and I'll leave!"

I said nothing as I examined the sliver of moon that had appeared during my daydream. Then I closed my eyes. A few minutes later, when I reopened them, Margo was still there.

Margo finally broke the silence. "It's okay, Mike. I know why boys don't like girls watching them when they're asleep. Jansy told me about it, and she heard it from her older sister. I understand."

"Huh?" was about all I could think of to say.

Margo laid her head back on the grass, her head full of the wisdom of thirteen. "I know about how you get erections in your sleep, and I know all about wet dreams, so you don't have to be embarrassed around me, Mike. It's okay."

I laid my head down on the grass again. _What the heck is she talking about?_ I rolled her comment around in my brain a few times and finally decided from her tone that it might have something to do with sex. If so, it was sure not a subject I wanted to discuss with her, especially since I had no idea what she was talking about. And if it _wasn't_ about sex, I sure didn't want her to think that was what I was thinking about. After a long pause, I decided that silence was the best approach. I felt comfortable with silence anyway.

Margo, on the other hand, was not as comfortable with silence as I was. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, Mike."

She sure had that right. I clung to that position for dear life, hoping that the subject would change or that Margo would suddenly remember some chore she had to finish. I was out of luck on both hopes.

"Jansy says it's perfectly normal, and boys shouldn't be embarrassed about it."

Another gulf of welcome silence spread between us. Silence was my best hope, like a swell or a tide that could pick me up and carry me from danger. To Margo, silence must have been a flood against which she must swim with all her might. I cheered for the tide in the safety of my heart, but she was a strong swimmer.

"Jansy says that boys usually don't like to talk about it, so we don't have to if you don't want to."

"That's okay," I finally struggled out. The thought hit me too late. It was out. _Suppose she thinks that means I want to talk about it?_ _You dummy! I thought you were just going to keep your mouth shut. If I get up and run now, she'll know I don't know what she's talking about. Maybe I'll just pretend to fall asleep. No! Not that. That's when I do whatever she's talking about_.

"What are you two love birds doing down there?"

Margo and I both bolted up to a sitting position. Donnie was standing there outlined against the porch light. "Thought you could just slip away and neck in the dark, huh?" Then we heard him make some sucking sounds with his lips. I actually found some relief in that. It was a whole lot better than the direction my conversation with Margo was going.

Margo, however, did not share my relief. "Donald, you creep!" she said as she jumped up. "You're such a disgusting infant!" Before I knew what had happened, Donnie was sprawling on the ground and yelling something about dumb girls as Margo ran into the house.

"Boy, is she touchy!" Donnie said to his smaller audience. "You're sure lucky you haven't got a sister."

I shot a look at Donnie, then swallowed hard as I wondered about it. _Could he be right?_

SIXTEEN

The next day was a bean-hoeing day. The four of us found ourselves surrounded by low, green plants in perfect rows, stretching, it seemed, to the horizon in every direction. The little plants dripped with dew in the early morning calm. This field was pretty clean, so we did more walking than hoeing. But that was all right with me. By picking up my pace a bit, I could slowly pull ahead of the others, and I was soon immersed in my private bean jungle.

But my private bean reserve was not to last. Before I knew it, another hoer joined me on my right, walking and hoeing in unison with me. Nothing was said for some time as we occasionally murdered a weed, and less often, a perfectly healthy little bean plant.

"So what happened to your dad after he started working for Mr. Cosgrove?" Margo asked.

"Huh?" I replied.

"You know, your story about your dad. Remember? You were going to tell me what happened to your dad when he was working with Spencer Nest for Mr. Cosgrove."

"Oh, I didn't know you cared that much."

"Of course I care," she said. "You're the best story teller I ever knew. And what makes it even more exciting is that it's all true. Don't you think true stories are more exciting than made-up ones?"

"I guess." I walked right past a tall milkweed as I thought back about Cecil Tether and Raleigh Cosgrove. Margo chopped down my missed weed and moved closer to me.

* * *

One evening, Cecil was reviewing Cosgrove's position in Gamma securities. About a year earlier, Gamma had split its Class A Common Stock three for two. At the same time, several of Gamma's inner circle had exchanged many of their Class B non-voting stock for Class A stock. A stock dividend was also paid at that time. The resulting bookkeeping entries had to explain the stock transfers, the dividends, and the splits.

Whoever had done it had been very clever and rolled all the accounting events into one, maybe to save bookkeeping effort, maybe for some other reason. As Cecil studied this transaction, he decided that it didn't add up properly. He finally concluded that the bookkeeper had performed either a series of errors or a sleight-of-hand. Cecil, of course, voted for the sleight-of-hand.

The entries had not been made by their regular bookkeeper but by Spencer Nest himself. This in itself was quite odd since Nest's duties by then had risen well above the bookkeeping level, unless he was making entries for his own benefit. Whether it was the late hour or Cecil's built-in bias toward deception and fraud, he decided that Nest had been embezzling company funds without absolutely verifying it by a more detailed audit of the records.

The next opportunity he had alone with Nest, he decided to explore this potentially profitable area. "I've been looking at the benefits for Mr. Cosgrove and all the major stockholders to further divest in Gamma."

Nest looked surprised. "It seems to me the opportunity is ripe for just the opposite. Gamma stock is as low as it's been in over two years."

"That's true," Cecil replied. "But I believe the stock still has a ways to go before its P/E gets back to historical levels."

"What do you mean, Tether? The P/E is at 18 now."

"That's projecting earnings growth at the rate of the last two years. If you base the earning projection on a declining economy, it comes out more like 30."

"You and your declining economy. Can't you get it through your head that what's happening now is just a correction? The economy will be back on track in three months, and stocks will take off again."

"Can't you see beyond those spectacles of yours?" Cecil said with glaring eyes. "Market momentum is down and will be until it's fully corrected."

"All you can ever see is stormy nights. You made one lucky call, but your luck is running out. You'll be out of here in a few months, so don't get too comfortable."

Cecil's left fist tightened, but it was out of Nest's view. He checked his breathing and made a decision. This was his opportunity—his real opportunity. Taking a deep breath, he said, "And leave the fox here all by himself to guard the hen house?"

Spencer Nest cocked his head slightly and looked straight at Cecil. "What do you mean by that?"

"The accounting system is pretty sloppy here, maybe even purposely obscure, but with a little diligence, your sleight-of-hand last year was quite transparent."

"Get to the point."

"With the stock split and all the stock transfers going on, you probably didn't think anyone would notice that you came out with a fist full of preferred stock and convertibles that didn't exist before the finagling. Before your personal finagling."

Nest walked halfway to the window and turned to face Cecil. "You seem to be talking about the second quarter of last year. Yeah, I remember that."

"It occurred to me that you could—we could—benefit from a bit more finesse at bookkeeping."

"Hm." Nest examined the floor for a moment. "Tracked your way all the way through those transfers, huh?"

Cecil responded only with his eyes. He was relaxed now, in control.

"What do you mean by 'benefit'?"

"There seems to be quite enough slop in the system for two to play. If it's done carefully."

Nest faced the window and clasped his hands behind his back.

Cecil added, "I'm sure your auditors would be most happy to know precisely where to find certain irregularities." Cecil was silent for a minute. "I have some reading to catch up on. You'll find me in my office."

Later that afternoon, Cosgrove came to Cecil's office. Nest followed him in. "I'll get right to the point, Tether. Spence says you've been doing a little research."

Cecil swallowed hard and didn't respond.

"I'm gratified that you've taken such an interest in the company, and that your technical skills are such that you were able to find certain 'irregularities.'"

Cecil had recovered enough to stand up, and hope for the best. But this was clearly not what he had anticipated.

"Had your technical skills been even greater, however, you would have recognized that the 'finagling', as you put it, was nothing more that a strategic overhaul of our equity accounts to put us in a better position to weather the income tax increases that we expected and were subsequently passed by Congress. I put Spence personally in charge of this exercise because I wanted it done right. Our auditors concurred. Your amateur auditor antics show promise. And imagination. I am heartened by your efforts."

The pause that followed this left-handed complement raised Cecil's anxiety.

"Now, there is the other matter. It's to your discredit that you lacked the insight to see how we operate here at Gamma. It's even more to your discredit that you lack the moral fortitude to accept what is due you by your efforts rather than take advantage of the system fraudulently. I had hopes for you, Tether, but there's no sense crying over spilled milk.

"The good news is I've taken care of everything. You won't even be called upon to make any decisions. I'd like you to meet Walter."

At the sound of his name, Walter entered the room and stood beside Mr. Cosgrove. He stood slightly taller than his boss and a good deal broader. He was not fat.

"Walter will be with you until 3:26 A.M. tomorrow. At that time, you will step off a train at Detroit. If I ever hear of you in New York again, I'll have you prosecuted. If you're lucky. Here is your pay through the end of the month. The train ride's on me."

Cosgrove and Nest left the room. Cecil stood there facing Walter. A tightness ran down his throat, through his chest, and settled in his stomach. He blinked several times as he stared into Walter's gray eyes.

SEVENTEEN

Grandpa Flynn was an extraordinary man. I will never forget his enthusiasm for life, his love for his three grandchildren and, as Mom told me, for his own beautiful little daughter, my mother. But as a young man, he took to the bottle along with the buckets and chamois he inherited from his mother.

His mother had come to this country from the village of Immenstadt in the Bavarian Alps with her younger brother who was trying to escape being drafted by the Kaiser. They settled in Roseville, a little town just north of Detroit. The brother soon married a fine German girl and moved to Minnesota. Grandpa's mother married an Irish immigrant named Flynn, good-natured, but with wandering eyes. Soon after Grandpa was born, the rest of his father's body started wandering, too. His final wander happened a few years later, and he was never seen again.

The most valuable skill that Grandpa's mother brought to America was washing windows. She had also become a champion yodeler at the age of seventeen, a championship she had shared with her beaming father who held the men's title for as long as anyone in Immenstadt could remember. But she found very little demand for yodeling in her new home, so she became a window washer to keep her small family alive.

For a while, Grandpa's mother combined yodeling with window washing until a customer asked her to cut out the yodeling. She couldn't understand that. In Immenstadt, her talent got her more than the going rate for windows. How could these American dumkopfs not appreciate this gift? She finally compromised by switching mostly to Bavarian drinking songs. Her business slowly grew.

She didn't make much as a window washer, so she advertised to give yodeling lessons and actually had a student for a while. He was an elderly man with quite a lung capacity who would come to her upper flat in the evening after window-washing hours. After the third lesson, her landlord told her it would have to be her last lesson.

Grandpa inherited the window-washing trade but never took up yodeling or drinking songs. He instead whistled on the job. When Grandpa and his mother worked together, the harmony could be complex.

One morning, Grandpa got a lecture about staying out late with the guys and, even worse, with a Jewish girl he sometimes saw. The lecture became a battle and ended with shouts and accusations. Grandpa's mother told him to take the horse and wagon to a job a few miles away, and she'd walk to one a few blocks away. She would absolutely not ride with him.

With the sun low on the horizon, she picked up a bucket, threw a wooden ladder over her other shoulder, and swished off down the street, her bucket playing some Bavarian tune against her skirt. She had to cross a pair of railroad tracks, and a sharp whistle pierced the morning as she approached. There was time to cross if she hurried. Leaning forward, she quick-stepped across the tracks; but her forward lean caused the front of the ladder to dip and scrape the ground. The ladder touched down between the rails of the second track on which the steaming freight charged toward her.

The end of the ladder stuck under the far rail. This stopped her shoulder, her feet flew up, and she landed on the ballast of the first set of tracks. Seeing the train coming fast on the other tracks, she panicked at the thought of two weeks wages being splintered into kindling. The whistle shrieked louder and louder as she struggled to free the ladder. She didn't realize that the louder whistle was from another freight train on the other track, the one she stood on as she yanked her ladder to safety. As she congratulated herself for saving that ladder from certain death, the second train sent her, the ladder, and the bucket into window-washing history.

Grandpa was on his own now. His nearest family was in Minnesota, but he knew them only by name. He began wandering all over the Detroit area, living out of his wagon, washing windows wherever he could. He was satisfied with his career and never thought about any other way to go. Drinking began to use a bigger part of his earnings, although it didn't seem to affect his performance. He washed windows by day and washed down grog by night. The next morning he'd drag himself to a job and wash some more. By midday he usually felt not too bad; and by the next morning, he was back recovering from another night of drinking.

It was on one of these mornings that he met his wife, my mother's mother. He stood at the top of his ladder, washing the upstairs windows of a large house in Dearborn. It was cold, but he needed the money too badly to just crawl back into his wagon. He finished one window and, without climbing down, hopped his ladder a few feet over to the next window. As he began to wash that window, his hand suddenly stopped, and his eyes opened wide.

There, directly below him in a gleaming white bathtub, was the loveliest body he had ever dreamed of. She just lay there in the hot water, her head tilted back on the tub, eyes closed, her hands gently swirling the water around her, making the most gentle ripples that washed over her breasts and swirled around every square inch of her creamy skin. Grandpa was transfixed. Only his eyes moved as he outlined her body and caressed her every part with his cracked lips.

But this lust came to an abrupt end when her eyes cracked open and focused on the man hovering over her, close enough to touch. Grandpa was not aware of that because his gaze had wandered far from her eyes. She shrieked, which caused Grandpa to jump off one rung and land on another, which broke. He grabbed at the ladder, caught himself, and climbed to a safer rung. But this gave the lady just enough time to grab a pitcher, fill it with water and a washcloth, open the window, and hurl it onto the man clinging to the broken ladder.

He stepped down under the attack, forgetting about the broken rung, and crashed down to the next rung, which snapped. He hurtled to the ground, landing on his bucket in surprising silence, except for the snapping of bones. His body lay perfectly still. The lady upstairs realized what she had done and was filled with grief for the man she just killed.

She ran screaming downstairs into the yard, and was quickly holding the broken man's head on her naked lap, beseeching God to have mercy on this wretched creature whom she had killed in a fit of unjust anger. Grandpa opened his eyes, stared first through her tears, and then followed one tear as it descended her cheek and fell upon a lovely, pink nipple, which stood erect in the morning cold. He grinned.

This was a sign. God had spoken to her in that grin. She cried and hugged him and swore to God that she would nurse him back to health if He would only forgive her for her indiscretion. She held his head to her bosom and rocked him gently as tears washed a spot of blood from his head. Grandpa believed the nursing had already begun.

Grandpa stayed in that house for several weeks as his bones mended, and he grew strong once more. He told her that he needed his ale every day to help the healing process. She rejoiced in the Lord for sending this challenge. He would be her salvation, and she embraced him as Jesus had embraced His cross. Her name was soon to become Mrs. Beatrice Ripley Flynn.

Mr. Ripley was not pleased with his daughter taking up with a common window-washer, a drunk, and an Irishman. He'd been optimistic for his beautiful and talented daughter, his only child. She would marry one of the several young managers in his electric motor factory and have sons who could inherit the expanding business. With Beatrice's beauty and his influence, the future would be bright for the Ripley empire. This Flynn character had dashed his dreams. If Beatrice insisted on this nonsense, he would fire her as his daughter. And that is precisely what happened.

Grandpa soon found the downside to being saved. As soon as they were married, Grandma started the soul-saving part of her promise to God. His daily ale disappeared first.. What's more, they had to have a decent place to live. Camping in a wagon with a tarpaulin roof was no way to raise a family.

Now there was something Grandpa had never considered—a family. "What family are you talking about, Bee? We ain't got no family."

"The Lord will bless us with abundance," Grandma replied. "We will raise a small army to march to the beat of God's own drum and fife. They will slay the forces of evil, and we will know that we have done well."

Grandpa just looked at her a little strange. "Huh?" he replied.

His mother had never explained to him about procreation. Though he knew sex and babies were related, he didn't grasp the full consequence of that wonderful experience Grandma referred to as "the act of procreation." He simply thought of it as screwing. Her groans rose above their bed as hymns to the Lord, whom she sought to please with her every resource. At the moment of his climax, her voice soared in prayer. "This is for you, Lord! This is for your army! Make us many and mighty in your holy struggle!"

Grandpa never once asked her why she did that. He thought it was just another in an endless stream of female oddities that he neither understood nor questioned. He didn't want to disrupt a well-oiled machine. But now this talk of family. "We can't afford no kids, Bee. We're barely making out with just the two of us."

But Grandma had that figured out already. "You know, I can make three times as many rosaries as I do now, but St. Michael's Bookstore just can't sell that many. So I figured you could sell them to the people where you wash windows. And if you had everything I make besides rosaries, like the medals and chains, scapulars, crucifixes, those statues I paint, and..."

Thus, Grandpa became the only window-washing, rosary, door-to-door salesman in Detroit, and maybe anywhere. He didn't like the idea, especially since he didn't know St. Jude from St. Christopher. And he didn't know what the third sorrowful mystery was, or why they call a certain medal miraculous, or what kind of indulgence you get for saying the Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel, or what an indulgence is or even an archangel, for that matter. But under the tutelage of his zealous and passionate wife, he began to learn the language of the religion to which he'd been born, but which he'd never practiced. His yodeling mother never had any use for Irish Catholicism after her husband wandered off the last time.

As Grandpa practiced his newfound calling, he grew in skill, if not fervor, before the Lord. It surprised him that he actually could sell these things door-to-door, offering a rebirth to windows and souls alike. Certain neighborhoods harbored much better prospects for his menagerie of religious articles than others. The same was true of window-washing customers. Unfortunately, the two kinds of customers didn't always live in the same neighborhood. It was about 1910 when rosaries and scapulars began to displace rags and chamois. Within a couple of years, window washing had begun to yield to the more lucrative religious hardware trade. Grandpa had a flair for rosary hawking that would have been hard to predict. He created zeal on demand. Grandma stayed home, keeping his inventory full and praying for little soldiers.

One thing that Grandma seemed to inherit from her mother was a marginal fertility. After several years of procreative diligence with louder and longer ejaculations to every conceivable angel and saint, she did become pregnant. Thus began the life of Alice Flynn, my own mother. Grandma was disappointed that her army was getting off to such a slow start, however she promised the Lord to try harder. Her ejaculations grew in strength and service to her savior.

Alice learned her religion from the very first day of life outside the womb. Her mother protected her with a scapular and assorted medals at all times. When Alice was about six months old, she somehow removed a small miraculous medal, popped it into her mouth, and swallowed it before her horrified mother could grab it. Grandma prayed over her for an anxious day. Then it appeared in her diaper without doing any damage to that perfect little body. The brass safety pin stood open, ready for another attachment. Grandma claimed that as a legitimate miracle. She knew Alice would be an invincible soldier.

But to have an army, she would need a general, not just soldiers—a boy general. She'd train Alice to be a good soldier, to follow her little brother, who would surely be along soon. Grandma went back to her regimen of once a day. To Grandpa it became another evening chore, like feeding his horse and washing his chamois. He began to be away for three or four days at a time. The gray-tented wagon with multi-colored patches was seen all over the city once more.

A couple years later, Grandma once more got pregnant, but her labor was very difficult, and her little general died at birth. The doctor said she was lucky to have survived, and if she wanted to see Alice grow up, she better not have any more children. Grandma accused him of conspiring with the Devil and threw a pitcher at him. He rushed to calm her, but she thrust a crucifix, which had been touched to a sacred relic, directly in front of his face, bringing him eye to eye with the crucified Lord. She growled some exorcism as he backed toward the door, then disappeared. This was proof that she had actually repelled the Devil.

The next few years were rich with unfulfilled ejaculations. Grandma finally did get pregnant again, and both mother and general died at birth.

My ten-year-old mother had learned two things from her zealous mother—how to keep her father supplied with religious hardware and that she was like John the Baptist, preparing the way for her leader. Somehow she would recognize that leader immediately when she met him. How could anyone have guessed that the glib, searching-for-his-niche Cecil Tether would be that long-awaited leader when they met in 1930.

My mother grew up believing that her father was every bit as resolute in his battle against Satan as her mother had been. Grandpa was always there to take Alice to Sunday Mass, and he never talked to her about religion. His considerable sales of religious supplies proved his fervor to her. He was not a salesman to her but a missionary.

Grandpa accepted his life pretty much at face value. He met a woman with a lovely body who flowered him with attention and put some structure into his life. Along with the structure came the chance to increase his earning power simply by being the earnest, guileless window washer he was.

Grandpa accepting the cards that were dealt and never seeming to question them in any fundamental way. He never analyzed his situation or questioned his values. This simplicity allowed him to weather a hard life, the Depression, and the marriage of his little Alice to the most vile man he'd ever met.

Grandpa was closer to us, his grandkids, than to his own daughter. Maybe he saw too much of his wife in her, or maybe not enough. I'll never fully understand him because his quietness stirred up so many questions about him. I knew there must be more to him than what I could see, but I never really tried to probe his values.

In retrospect, I don't think he really believed in all the things he sold. But he didn't disbelieve in them either. They were a part of his life, and that was that. Grandpa's religion, like everything else about him, was very practical. He probably accepted his wife's zeal simply as part of the deal.

After my mother married, she continued to supply Grandpa with religious fixtures, although always under the disapproving eye of my father. The burden of being married to him grew slowly, as did her realization that he really was not the general for whom she had waited all those years. She pinned her hopes, and her mother's hopes, of raising an army against Satan on a new general. But why did she choose me instead of Joe? He was general material. I'd be lucky to get my second stripe.

Grandpa found it increasingly difficult to make a living washing windows during the Depression. He found more competition as jobless men turned to any kind of labor they could find. His price kept dropping. First, he gave up the tiny house on Warren Avenue that Grandma had picked to replace the tarpaulin-covered wagon as their home. She said they would live there only one or two years until they got established and could move to one of the beautiful brick homes on Boston Boulevard in Detroit.

But they never moved up to Boston Boulevard. That one bedroom house in Dearborn was the Flynn home from 1909 until 1933. But at the depth of the Depression, Grandpa could no longer pay the rent. He moved back into his wagon and lived in it that whole winter. He wandered around the Grosse Pointes making just enough to stay alive.

One of the few complaints I ever heard from Grandpa was that the Depression brought out so many unworthy window washers. He and a few others were the true window washers who had been with their customers through all those years. They were being displaced by novices who left streaks and spots, by amateurs who smashed shrubs and muddied windowsills. These impostors were ruining business for the professionals.

Grandpa struggled through most of the Depression in his portable tarpaulin home. My father wouldn't let him live with us because he said we barely had enough to live on ourselves. I guess that was true all right, but my mother and father got into a few battles over that. Grandpa would appear, stay for a day or two, and then head back to the streets for another two or three weeks. Finally, near the beginning of the War, Grandpa came to stay with us one whole winter. Joe and I were eight, and Susie was only five, but I remember that winter clearly.

EIGHTEEN

Winter was the most dreaded time of year at our house because we were indoors, which put us within reach of my father. This meant being as invisible as possible so not to be noticed by him. Invisibility during the warm months was a lot easier.

Winter was a special challenge. One trick we learned was to freeze him out of the living room into the bedroom. We did this by stuffing rags down the hot air register in the living room. He would fiddle with the register and then try cursing it into working. Kicking it didn't work either. Then he would shout obscenities at us for just standing there grinning. Finally, he would stomp off to the warm bedroom and slam the door. We then bathed in peaceful cold.

Our landlord, Mr. Hall, always had some candy in his pocket for us and would ask us about school or baseball or something. He started bring along his very fierce looking German shepherd, Boy, whenever he came to collect the rent. Then my father stopped threatening him. Boy would growl at him and step between him and the landlord. Boy had good taste.

We loved playing with Boy. The only part we didn't like was his drool. But Boy always kept one eye on my father. We had to be especially invisible after the landlord visited. My father would try to take his anger out on us, probably because of Boy.

My father got the landlord to look at the furnace register problem once. On that rent day, we took turns watching for the landlord's car. We pulled the rags out of the duct then, and the register worked just fine. This really made my father mad, and he cursed at the register and drew one foot back to kick it before a low growl stopped him. The landlord asked how the register got so dented, and my father said it must have been the previous tenants. Boy growled again, and the landlord wrote something in his notebook. After he left, the rags went back into the duct, and my father began a short but bloody war with it, which ended happily with his retreat to the bedroom.

The winter that Grandpa stayed with us was different. He had a good effect on my father's temper, even though my father bristled in his presence, and Grandpa grunted in disgust of his son-in-law. Grandpa would be gone all day washing and hawking, Joe and I would be at school, Mom usually worked in the factory, and my father and Susie stayed home together. That winter we didn't have to stuff rags in the heating duct.

Every evening when Grandpa got home, he'd ask Susie how she and her father had gotten along that day. My father knew this question was coming, because he kept his hands off of her all the while Grandpa was there. Maybe my father was afraid of Grandpa, or maybe he felt competition for the head of the house. Whatever went on between the two men that winter, it was the happiest winter of our lives.

Grandpa normally worked six days a week, but all the while he stayed with us, he never worked once on Saturdays. That became our time for play. Grandpa had a wonderful gift for child play. As I grew older, I began to appreciate the depth of his simplicity. It became clear to me why he had succeeded at door-to-door, religious-hardware sales. He had a natural approach. People must have seen in him what they'd like to see in themselves. His approach to children was the same.

He taught us how to do the ladder hop. He made it into a game that the three of us clamored to master. Joe was soon hopping down our driveway, surprising my mother at her kitchen window in our upstairs flat. She ran downstairs, took me by the arm, and said that she never wanted to see me do such a foolish thing. She wouldn't have to worry about that. Susie and I would stick with the stepladder.

We grew up thinking snow was just something we had to sludge through to get to school. Grandpa taught us how much fun snow could be. And when the snow took on its typical city color after a few days, Grandpa showed us there were places where the snow stayed white and beautiful, even in the city. We never even knew that Belle Isle existed until one Saturday when the city was paralyzed with a thick blanket of snow. That morning, Grandpa showed up in front of our house with his wagon pulled by Pal.

"Come on, all you Tethers!" he shouted as his head appeared at the top of the stairs. "There won't be many cars out today, so it's perfect for us to go to Belle Isle in style!"

Susie was so excited she ran out front in her stocking feet. "Grandpa! Grandpa! What did you do to Pal? He looks so funny with that Santa Claus hat on his head! Did you know his ears are poking right through it?"

"I put them holes there myself so Pal could hear me when I'm barking at him!"

We all laughed, and my mother and father even chuckled.

"Are we going for a ride in your wagon, Grandpa?" Susie asked.

"You bet!"

"But isn't the snow too deep for your w-wagon?"

"That little dusting of snow out there might stop all them fancy cars everybody zooms around in when the weather is just right, but what do you think Pal will do on a day like this?"

Mom stepped forward and put her hand on Grandpa's shoulder. "Well, I'll bet he'll just zoom right through it."

"You bet, Al, so we better dress up real warm 'cause there'll be quite a wind the way Pal moves."

Thus began a most memorable day. It swelled from a simple idea of Grandpa's into a beautiful day of snow and family and memories. We wrapped ourselves in our warmest clothes and blankets and made a special treat of hot oatmeal for Pal and a thermos of hot chocolate for the rest of us.

We sang songs all the way to Belle Isle. We were nearly alone in this wonderful city of snow with its sky and ground so white you couldn't tell where they met. After playing in the snow at Belle Isle, the return trip was more subdued. The memory I retain the most was that of my parents smiling, my father with one arm around my mother and the other around Susie. I sat between Mom's legs and kept warm against her in a way that only sons can do with mothers. And my marvelous twin sat beside her, his head on her chest, her hand stroking his head gently as we bobbed over rough streets cushioned with snow.

The magic of that day was never repeated, or even approached. I sometimes wonder if it really happened.

But that day was unusual in another sense. It was our last ride with Pal. Grandpa told us Pal was the gentlest horse he ever had, and that was especially important now that the streets overflowed with cars and trucks. A horse had to be able to ignore all that traffic going around him and remain focused on his job. Pal was the best at this that Grandpa had ever seen.

My father told Grandpa once that he was just "an old fool because that horse is eating you alive." Grandpa said Pal was his best friend, and he was "ten times as good as any of those infernal machines crowding the city anymore."

Grandpa had gotten Pal for nothing from a farmer who couldn't sell him because he was cross-eyed. Grandpa never even had to use blinders on Pal. He was just a natural on city streets.

Pal worked for Grandpa for over twenty years. He knew the streets, and he seemed to know where Grandpa wanted to go even before Grandpa did. As the years went by, there were fewer and fewer horses on the streets, and Pal got to be a celebrity with the kids. He seemed to enjoy the attention and realize that they were just kids. He did take exception to one boy who shot him in the balls with his slingshot before Grandpa could chase him away. But after a few strokes and some calming words from Grandpa, he settled down, and he still trusted kids, though slingshots made him nervous.

Kids loved to take rides on his wagon when he was working the nicer areas where people cared about clean windows, and Grandpa loved it too. He knew some cowboy songs, and the kids would think they were out on the prairie on a cattle drive. Then they would run home and tell their parents about the cowboy, and that seemed to help sales.

One day, Grandpa had stopped in front of our house with four kids on board. They were all screaming and singing a Gene Autry song. When Grandpa set the brake, he yelled that it was okay to jump off now. They swarmed around Pal, feeding him carrots and taking turns brushing him. Grandpa showed them how to rub his legs, and next thing there was one kid on each leg. Pal never got such royal treatment. The kids were so happy. And so black.

I watched from the front porch. Then I noticed Susie and Joe were right behind me. None of us said a word as we watched Grandpa warn a girl who lived a couple houses away to keep her feet away from Pal's foot so if he moved his foot it wouldn't end up on hers.

"Pal's got these steel shoes on, you know. They sure wouldn't feel so good if they came down on those pretty little feet of yours."

"His feet are so big!" she squealed. Then she laughed as Pal's skin shuddered under her touch.

A boy was trying to feed a carrot to Pal, but every time Pal put his lips to the carrot, the boy would drop it and pull his hand away. "Looky here," Grandpa said. He moved the boy to the side of Pal. "If you stand here like this, then you can see it's just his lips tickling you, and that don't hurt nothing. Pal would never bite you. He's got manners. Now put your hand out like this like you're asking your mom for a cookie, and put the carrot in it like this, and—"

"Hap!" the boy yelled. "Look what Pal is doing!"

But Hap was busy trying to persuade Pal to get his foot off his Tigers baseball cap.

I felt Susie move close to me, but still none of us spoke. In fact, we never talked about it. But I thought about that day a lot, and I suspect Susie and Joe did, too. Our parents always called them niggers and never even thought of them as people. And I guess we thought that way, too. But after that day, I never heard that word from any of us kids again.

But then, we didn't have much time left together.

NINETEEN

Pal was slowing down in his old age, but only Grandpa knew him well enough to see it. We thought Pal was young and strong and perfect, but Grandpa could tell he wasn't up to what he used to be.

"You see," he told us as Susie bounced on his stomach on the floor and Joe and I sat beside him to keep him from crawling away every time he cried that she had broken every rib in his crippled, old body, "me and Pal, we're a lot alike. When Pal come along, I was a pretty-young feller myself. I wasn't broken and tired like you see me now."

"Grandpa!" shouted Susie, "You're not broke or tired!" She bounced on him, and he grunted and grimaced. "You're a good horse, like Pal!"

"Well, Susie," he said, "I used to be a pretty good horse, but I got a lot of miles on me now, and I ain't the horse I used to be." He flipped a surprised Susie over his head and set her gently on the floor. Before she could scramble back aboard, he rolled over the top of Joe and sat upright against the sofa with a deep sigh. Joe and I took our positions on either side of him while Susie plopped down in his lap.

"What k-kind of horse are you now, Grandpa?" I asked him.

He looked straight into my eyes and paused. "I guess I'm an old horse. You see, I've been watching Pal getting old; and, you know, he's been watching me, too. In a lot of ways, well, I think he's smarter than me. I think he seen what was happening to me before I even seen it myself. He's real patient with me, you know, like when I forget something; and I got to go back and get it. He just turns around, without no complaining or nothing; and we goes back together to get the thing. You know, maybe it's a ladder or a pail or something. Well, I starts to thinking about it; and maybe it's a lot harder for him to turn around than it used to be. And then I starts seeing him in the morning when I harness him up, and I'm thinking that maybe he doesn't stay as warm as he used to. That's why I keep that heavy blanket on him all day now. He likes that a lot, you know. He's a good horse. But he's getting old just like your Grandpa."

We all hugged him, and there was a long silence. There was rarely much silence around Grandpa, but we sensed that this was a time for quiet hugs. Finally, Joe asked him, "How old are you, Grandpa?"

"Yeah, Grandpa," said Susie, "are you over a hundred?"

"Susie!" I said, "You know he's not that old! Now you a-apologize for putting all those extra years on Grandpa."

Susie pursed her lips and glared at me through mean-looking slits for daring to reprimand her.

"Now, Mike," he said, "Susie don't need to apologize for nothing. She just said what she was thinking way inside her."

Susie instantly turned her angelic face into the most hideous gargoyle, hidden from Grandpa but directed right at me, and then turned back into an angel just as quickly.

"Can I see your watch, Grandpa?" Joe asked.

"You can see it any time you like."

Before the words had fallen from his lips, Joe had the watch out of its pocket. He pushed the button on the worn, filigreed case and the lid flipped open. We all gathered around like we hadn't actually seen this a dozen times.

"How come your watch has just one hand?" Joe asked. "Other watches have two or three hands."

"I don't recollect exactly what happened to that hour hand, but it come off a long time back."

"But how can you tell what time it is?" Joe asked.

"You know, it don't take a genius to figure out what hour it is. It's exactly how many minutes after that hour that you need a watch for."

Joe and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. Joe put the watch back in its pocket.

Grandpa held his hands out in front of us. These hands had been thrust into a million pails of scalding water and then steam dried in a million frozen mornings. They had washed an army of windows, taken care of a cavalry of horses, and knocked on a forest of doors. They were able to outfit a crusade of Christian ladies with religious artware for countless battles against the forces of Satan.

He turned his hands over, examining first the palms, then the backs. Besides the wrinkles, scars, and jagged skin, there was character—character born of the simple resolve to earn bread and shoes and a bed for just one more day. We all examined those hands with him, although our thoughts probably were very different from his.

Susie was the first to touch his hands. She placed her small, soft hand on top of his. She felt the canyons running deep between his knuckles. She rubbed his right ring finger, which he hadn't straightened out since so long ago when his father dropped a ladder on his hand as he chattered after him. His finger had never healed properly, and the joint nearest the knuckle always stood up at a sharp angle. As he aged, his misshapen finger stood higher, year-by-year, until it dominated his hands and provided a masculinity that comes only to aging warriors.

"Does that finger hurt, Grandpa?" she asked.

A tear rolled over his cheek as he sandwiched her hand between his. "You know, Jeppy, that's about the only thing I can remember about my daddy."

Susie said, "Did he have a tangle finger, too?"

Once I had told Susie that Grandpa's finger looked like a triangle, and she picked up on it with a slight change.

"No, he didn't have one of them. But he had big, powerful hands, and I remember him holding my hand one day, and I remember looking at my arm and how it kind of just disappeared inside of his hand, and I remember how good it felt even though his hands was as rough as these old claws of mine."

"What was your daddy like?" Joe asked.

"Well, you know, I don't remember much about him. Mama said he had to go on a sortie. That's what she called it. She said he had to do that 'cause he couldn't make enough money around home and that he sent her money every month from his sortie."

"What's a sortie, Grandpa?" Susie asked.

"I always reckoned," he answered, gazing into space, "it was when somebody goes to wash windows far from home, like working out on the road and not getting home much."

Joe said, "We read about some knight called Charlemagne in our history class, and our book said he went on some sorties, but I don't think he was washing windows. He had this army, and—"

I poked Joe in the ribs to get him to stop. Then I said, "Our teacher said sometimes w-words have real different meanings in different c-countries and languages and stuff like that." I pinched the skin on the inside of Joe's thigh until I knew he got the message.

"Yeah, that's right, Grandpa," he said. "Our teacher said that, too. That was a long time ago. In Egypt or someplace, and they didn't even have windows in their pyramids, so it was probably real different then. And they used camels a lot instead of—" Another poke silenced him again.

"Did your daddy come home to see you sometimes?" Susie asked.

"I don't recall how old I was when he went on his last sortie. But I never seen him again after that. I sure remember his big hands, and he didn't have no tangle finger, neither." He lifted Susie's hand and gave it a kiss. "I remember my little pink hand being in his just like this."

"Did he ever hit you, Grandpa?" Susie asked.

"Susie!" I said. "Why do you have to go and spoil a real nice c-conversation with Grandpa with something stupid like that? Don't pay any attention to her, Grandpa. She's just a little kid and d-doesn't know anything. Sometimes her mouth gets way ahead of her b-brain."

The gargoyle returned instantly and evolved into the smuggest of all possible angels at the response of Grandpa.

"That's a fair question, Mike, and I don't mind them fair questions. In fact, I don't believe an angel like Susie, here, could even ask no unfair questions." He kissed the top of Susie's head, and her face simultaneously became grotesque for my benefit only.

"You should see your little angel now, Grandpa," I said. "L-looks more like a devil to me."

Susie turned her angelic face upward, put her arms around Grandpa's neck, and planted the most affectionate kiss on his cheek. On her way back to his lap, she lowered her head and did it to me again.

I said to her, "'Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light.' I didn't say it, Saint Paul did, and he was talking about Miss Angel here."

Joe rolled his eyes. "There he goes with that Bible stuff again that he gets from Mom."

"That's okay, Joe," Grandpa said. "The Good Book is real important. It's one of the things what's kept the wolf away from my door for a long time. Mike just needs a little more practice in how to use all them fancy verses.

"Now, Susie, I know why you asked about my daddy hitting me. I got eyes, and I can see what's going on around here, and it grieves me so to know that you kids get some pretty rough handling sometimes. And it grieves me, too, that my own daughter sometimes does it but mostly just lets it happen. And I can smell the fire and brimstone around here that your own Grandma left behind. And maybe I should've poured some water on them brimstones a long time ago, but I just left them simmer 'cause I didn't know the way they was going to turn out."

The three of us smuggled glances to each other because Grandpa didn't usually make such speeches, so we knew this must be pretty important.

"Now I know you're all wondering why I'm telling you all this, but it's something what's bothered me for a long spell. Now I'll answer your question here directly because I know you didn't ask that question for just no reason. I don't remember my daddy never hitting me, and my mama didn't neither, mostly because she was too busy paying for my upkeep. Now I suspect I sometimes needed some hitting, because I was pretty ornery. But I guess I turned out okay even without the hitting, so I'm thinking maybe you kids don't need so much hitting neither.

"But I'm just an old grandpa. Your daddy don't listen to me because he thinks I'm uneducated and don't know nothing about kids. And your mama... well, she just thinks it's none of my business. And I guess they're both right. I don't like what's going on, but I don't know what to do about it, neither. I'm just kind of worthless to you."

"Grandpa, that's not true," Joe came to his defense. "We love you, and you're the only one we love." Susie nodded vigorously in approval. I stared at the floor, motionless, saddened by what might be in my heart. I successfully held back those feelings and my approval of half of Joe's claim. I did not fool Grandpa, however, and his hand tightened on my shoulder. I didn't look up at him. I couldn't look up at him. But he understood me, and I him.

Once more, I was not a solid member of our trio. My allegiance to my mother set me apart. Susie had Joe, and Joe had Susie. But I was alone. I must have doubted my mother's sincerity, but at that age I couldn't even think such words. I even clung to my insistence that we must love our father, thus driving another wedge between my two wonderful siblings and me.

* * *

Pal was getting old, and Grandpa knew his days on those busy streets were numbered. Pal was losing the sense of detachment from all that traffic a city horse needs to survive. There was an old livery stable not too far from our house. It had been a busy place fifty years earlier when it was the main horse barn for the DSR streetcar horses in north-central Detroit. After the streetcars were electrified, it was taken over by a drayage company and then became a public livery barn after the drayage company went to trucks. The old guy that owned it, Johnson is all Grandpa called him, had sold off pieces of it as his business dwindled so he could continue in the horse business that he loved, even though hardly any horses were left in the city.

A black man that people just called The Sheeny, kept his mule, Carolina, at the stable and went out every day to collect junk and scrap metal. A few milkmen and icemen still plied the streets in their antique, horse-drawn wagons; but after the war, when trucks became available again, they, too, would merge with history. They would become photographs, memories, stories.

Johnson did everything himself at the stable. He was a carpenter, plumber, farrier, mechanic, blacksmith, and saddler. But year by year, his crafts served fewer and fewer drivers; and the ones who remained tended to be on the economic edge and would sometimes just stop coming in for their horses. Those horses were usually not worth much anymore, and the wagons were only good for firewood, so Johnson ended up having to dispose of them all. The wood and steel were the easy parts. He just left it to decay in the yard or in unused stalls. But then there were his abandoned friends. He could no longer love the job he had lived his whole life for.

One day, Grandpa discussed his aging Pal with Johnson. The stable man said his son had a farm out around Rochester, and he was going to sell the stable and move out there. Johnson said he had a fondness for Pal and would like to take him out to the farm for his grandchildren to ride if Grandpa didn't think he could use him any longer. Grandpa agreed that it would be the best thing for Pal because he knew Johnson would give him a good home. Grandpa would need a way to get around, and used trucks were way too expensive during the war, so he struck a deal with Johnson, who happened to have some equipment in his barn.

That day, Grandpa arrived home with his new transportation. We were just getting home from school when he roared past us and parked in front of our house. Susie was the first to recognize Grandpa. He was sitting up straight, his face hidden by goggles, the chinstrap of his brown leather helmet flapping in the wind, and his old wagon clattering along behind him. She took off like an arrow freed from its bow with Joe and I running after her. By the time I reached Grandpa, Susie was standing beside the curb jumping and screaming, her books scattered along a trail behind her.

We could see she was screaming, although her screams were lost in the thunder rolling out of the tail pipe of the vintage Harley-Davidson. Grandpa gave the throttle a couple more twists, and we all covered our ears and laughed. Those smiles were exceeded only by the broad grin glowing beneath those goggled blue eyes. Then Grandpa reached up with his foot and killed the engine right at the peak of a thunderclap that brought neighbors to windows up and down the street. The engine died slowly, firing several more times on its way to its grave. It was like the bad guy in a Hopalong Cassidy movie after he's been shot.

"Is this thing a motorcycle, Grandpa?" Susie screeched.

"Johnson said it's a hog, honey."

"A hog! You mean like a pig? It's not a pig, Grandpa! It's a motorcycle! Maybe John meant this thing here that I'm sitting in is a pig." She stood up, reached over the front of the sidecar, and patted it. "It kind of looks like a pig, but it doesn't have one of those funny pig noses."

"We could paint a picture of you on the front," Joe said. "Then it would look just like a pig!" I punched Joe's shoulder in approval as we laughed.

Joe took the leather helmet Grandpa had hung from one handlebar, put it on, and buckled it under his chin. Grandpa put the goggles over Joe's eyes. "Now you look like one of them pilots, maybe in a Spitfire or a Mustang. Hope I look that spiffy when I'm flying this baby."

He made a gesture with his arms. "Well, kids, this here is my new transportation. How do you like it?"

"But what about Pal, Grandpa?" Joe asked. "What about Pal?"

"Yeah, Grandpa," I said seriously. "What about Pal?"

"Is Pal going to have to walk behind?" Susie asked as her smile faded.

"Pal's got a real nice home with Johnson. You know—that nice man at the stable."

"You mean...." Susie looked at Joe and me for help, but her look was met with our own questions. "You mean, Pal isn't going to be our horse anymore?"

"Yeah, Grandpa," Joe added. "You mean Johnson's just going to take care of Pal for you between when we take him on rides and stuff?" My head nodded with Joe's as we tried to make that true.

"Well, kids, I couldn't afford to keep Pal and get this here machine, too. You know, I been saying for a long time that Pal was just getting too old for working in the city like I do. And Johnson... Well, you know how he's kind of like part horse hisself the way he dotes on them horses. And Pal is his most favorite and..."

"But he's our most favorite, too, Grandpa," Susie whined.

Joe interrupted. "Is Johnson going to rub Pal's leg when he gets one of those... what do you call it?"

"Charlie horse," I said.

"Yeah, when he gets one of those Charlie-horse things?" he completed the question.

"And how about all the flies?" Susie asked. "Is Johnson going to chase them all away like we always do? You know how they bother Pal. Does Johnson know about doing that?"

"Now wait a minute, kids. Pal is going to retire. You know how nice that is? I'd like to retire, but I can't afford to do that. I got to keep on working. So this is really a good thing for Pal."

The three of us looked silently at Grandpa for a while, and then Susie said what only she could say. "But it's not such a good thing for us, Grandpa."

TWENTY

The weather stayed cold through March, but the snow had melted and no more fell the rest of the winter. Grandpa left every morning about the same time we went to school, and he would sometimes give us a ride to school in his Harley-powered wagon. Susie's favorite place to ride was in the pig.

My mother spent her days working in the factory and her evenings making rosaries, scapulars, chains for medals, holy-water cruets, and votive-candle racks. She worked hard at keeping Grandpa's wagon well stocked. Plus there were several stores that carried her stuff.

She once told me a story about how she bought a piece of linen that had been laid on the casket containing the head of Blessed Marten de Porres, precisely cut it into little squares about a quarter inch on a side, and then glued these squares onto the backs of holy cards with a picture of Blessed Martin with his eyes cast heavenward. Beneath the relic, she carefully lettered in the most elegant script "All for Jesus, Through Mary, Joseph, and Martin." For weeks after she had received the sacred linen in the mail from The Blessed Martin Guild in New York, she practiced developing a script technique worthy of such a purpose.

That had happened just after Joe and I were born. It marked the beginning of her period of artistic development during which she came to see her religious articles as works of art in addition to holy icons. Blessed Martin was the first of a whole series of these relic cards, each more beautiful than the ones preceding it. They were popular on the window-washing circuit, too.

I remember the glassy look in her eyes as she shared with me the secrets of that period of her life. When I asked her why she always told me these stories when Joe and Susie were not around, the glassy look was replaced by the determined eyes of a soldier. "I want you alone to know how I've struggled so you can appreciate the great responsibility you have as my general. Your brother and sister wouldn't understand even if I told them. They haven't been chosen. You are a natural leader, and you will have dominion over them and all others like them. You understand this, don't you Michael? You will save the world from the wickedness of Satan. Your brother and sister are just another part of that wickedness, so you must close your heart to them and concentrate on the greatness that will be yours. Please tell me you understand this and that you will not be like them or any other sinners. Tell me, Michael."

Her eyes frightened me, but the words struck such fear in me that I could only nod back. Certainly I understood. I was a ten-year-old chosen general.

Over the years, she developed all the skills needed by an artist of sacred and beautiful icons. She especially enjoyed statute painting and manuscript illumination. But it was her devotion to painting that ultimately led to Grandpa's leaving us forever.

My mother's religious ideas might have been rigid, but her mind was wide open when it came to marketing that religion and turning a little profit, so she could continue to better serve the Lord. She had inherited her mother's zeal, but who knows where she got such an artistic flair.

One Easter, Mom decided to go way beyond the traditional egg decoration. She spent several days working on a dozen eggs, making them the most beautiful Easter eggs I'd ever seen. Each egg was decorated with a different miniature painting relating to Christ's resurrection, and the scene was framed with colorful border swirls and angels.

Susie was captured by these works of art. "Look how pretty these are, Mike. Did you know Mom could do that?"

"Put that down, Susie!" I scolded. "You know Mom told us not to touch them. They're just to look at."

"Ha!" came the voice of our father from the couch. "Where I come from, eggs are for eating, not looking."

"You can't eat these," Susie replied. "They're too pretty. You're just supposed to look at them."

"Just some more of that religious crap of your mother's," he said. "She couldn't just color them like everybody else does. No, she's got to paint Jesus Christ on everything. Or Goldilocks or the Seven Dwarfs or whoever else she's praying to this week."

"You know we never eat the Easter eggs until Easter, at least," I said. "So you can't eat any 'til then, anyway."

"I'll tell you something, boy! When I get ready to have some eggs, all those pretty pictures will be going right to egg-shell hell. And I don't want to hear you telling me what I can and can't do in my own house. Christ! You're getting to sound more like your mother every day. It's probably all that Bible crap she's stuffing you full of. At least I don't hear the other two spouting all that goody crap around like you do."

The three of us admired those eggs in silence and with just a little touching when Mom wasn't looking.

That spring, Grandpa would come around a couple times a month or so to replenish his supply and settle accounts with Mom. One day, she was helping Grandpa sort the inventory in his wagon. When they returned upstairs, we were crowded around the twelve eggs all lined up on the kitchen table. We had each chosen our favorite and were defending its merits when Mom and Grandpa appeared in the doorway.

Susie squealed and ran toward Grandpa, bumping the table and knocking two eggs off their cardboard display. They rolled toward the edge of the table. Joe grabbed them and replaced them in the blink of an eye.

"Grandpa! Grandpa! Come see what Mommy made!" She ran to him, grabbed one hand, and pulled with all her might to get him to the viewing area. "Look at that one first, Grandpa!" She pointed to one that Joe had just rescued from certain death. "It's the prettiest one, but you can pick another one for your favorite if you like!"

Grandpa grunted to one knee before the egg assembly as Susie bumped the table once more and knocked another egg off its perch. Joe and I both jumped for it, but Grandpa reached with his weathered hand and gently plucked it from the table before any harm could come to it.

"Ops," she said.

Grandpa held it before his eyes and grinned, "I think this one just chose me. But they're all so darn pretty, I'd have to call it a horse race."

"Grand-Pa!" she said with a sigh. "There aren't any horses here! Now quit fooling! Which one?"

Joe, Mom, and I all stood at attention in case another rescue might have to be made since Susie's arms and legs seemed to be everywhere at once.

"They're all so beautiful, can I pick more than one for my favorite?"

"Oh, sure. But you can't pick them all! Now please pick!"

"Well," Grandpa paused, inspecting the array of Easter scenes before him. "I guess I still gotta pick this here one." He held the runaway egg in his hand. On the egg was depicted Jesus dressed in red robes, emerging from a cave with an angel on each side of the entrance.

"I like this one because I came along just when these here angels was struggling with that rock there." He pointed to the rock with his crooked finger. "They told me it was real important to get that rock moved, and would I please give them a hand? Well, I put a rope around that rock and hitched up Pal to it, and we just drug that rock right out of the way so Jesus could come out. Now it don't say nothing about that in the Bible, but that's just what happened."

Joe and I pushed each other and said together, "Grand-Pa!"

Mom rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Now, Dad, don't you go filling Susie's head with such foolishness!"

Without listening to one word of his daughter's reprimand, Grandpa said, "Susie, could you excuse me for just a minute so I can say hello to my favorite grandsons over here. They probably think I don't even remember their names no more." He turned to us and said, "Hi, I'm your grandpa, and you must be Joe and Mike."

We engulfed him, and the three of us hugged the life out of each other while our mother wisely removed Grandpa's favorite egg from his clutches and replaced it in its place of honor. Then he turned to my mother. "Did you really make all these beautiful eggs, Al? I didn't know you was such an artist. I wish your ma could see this. She'd be so proud. I just know she'd..." He stopped and hugged his daughter and whispered to her. "She always dreamed of you being somebody real special, and it looks like you made it. You're an artist for Jesus."

A week later, Grandpa stopped back and told my mother he had taken one of the eggs to a couple of his customers and they had made a great fuss over it and praised the artist. When he told them that the artist was his daughter, the same one who made those beautiful rosaries and statues, they said how proud he must be of having such a fine artist for a daughter. My mother just beamed. But then her beaming turned more serious. Her eyes narrowed, and she stared at some distant star.

"You know, Dad, I have an idea."

Grandpa looked at her with a little dread.

"I could make a thousand of these eggs next year," she exclaimed in a controlled way, "and they'd be your biggest seller ever. What do you think about that?"

"A thousand?" Grandpa gulped. "You mean you'd make a thousand of these? And then I'd have to sell them all?"

"Sure! Great idea, huh?"

"Well...." Grandpa stalled. "I guess. But you can't paint a thousand of them pictures, Al. You'd have to start tomorrow."

My father walked to the doorway. "What in the holy hell are you talking about? A thousand eggs? And you're going to paint them? That's the dumbest thing I ever heard of! A thousand eggs? Where do you get this crap from?"

"You know, Al," Grandpa interrupted. "I think that's a real good idea!"

"Ha! You prehistoric idiot! Even if she could paint them, the only way you could get rid of them is by feeding them to that sorry excuse of a horse of yours."

"Cecil! I won't have you talking so vulgar in front of Michael and the children! The devil is working in you, and he won't be satisfied until you've brought the whole family down to your level of hate! But I won't let you do it! I won't let you destroy what I've labored for all these years!"

Grandpa stood still in the kitchen with his eyes fixed on the twelve eggs. His lips were clenched as tightly as his arms. The three of us kids edged toward him as the pitch of the emotions soared. We were well-schooled in reading the storm flags our parents unfurled. We knew the difference between the small craft warnings that we lived with every day and the storm warnings that were now going up as if there were no innocent bystanders, as if the cannonballs could only splash harmlessly in open waters. We could see a resolve building in our mother. But in our father, we saw a caged animal. The frustrations of years of failure and fraud seethed within him, threatening to engulf us all once more.

Grandpa edged us away from the battle line. We kids had witnessed similar skirmishes ending in fistfights, which always went poorly for our mother. But despite her inferior strength, she maintained a willpower, a brute stubbornness, which allowed her to wear my father down until his passion subsided. We had also witnessed fights in which they simply shouted and tussled their rage away. The outcome surprisingly was determined by my mother rather than my father. If she could hold her ground without striking back, my father might feel vindicated and retreat. We understood the rules of combat probably better than they did themselves. Joe and Susie would give her encouragement, and I would pray to the Blessed Mother or to Saint Michael the Archangel to deliver my mother from this awful danger.

So it happened on this occasion that the tempers finally tapered off before my father drew blood and forced Mom to defend herself. After three pushes and Mom three times regaining her position, the banner of victory could be hoisted above each soldier.

My father picked up one of the eggs and glared at it. "Now I want you to forget this stupid idea about a thousand eggs. It's the stupidest damn thing I ever heard of." He held the egg before him, and his hand shook and reddened as he tried to destroy it. Finally, he just slammed it down on the table and stomped back to the living room where he picked up an old copy of Social Justice.

There was silence as the five of us in the kitchen stared at the flattened artform and breathed a sigh of relief that the battle had ended so easily. But, of course, the battle had not really ended. We all knew, with the exception of my father, that the egg-art scheme was now cemented into my mother's mind more firmly than any legion of angels could ever accomplish. And it was done by the act of a single devil.

Nearly a year went by, and I all but forgot the incident. There seemed nothing unusual about those days following Christmas and leading to Lent. When we arrived home from school on Ash Wednesday with our foreheads freshly anointed with the holy oils and ashes of our faith, we found no one home. Our mother sometimes didn't get home from work until later, and our father might have been out with one of his "colleagues" working on some deal to make us all fabulously wealthy.

"I still don't see why we can't just wash this dirt off," Susie said. "It looks kind of silly there with my hair stuck in it."

"If Mama finds you with a clean forehead," Joe said, "she's going to be real mad. Remember how she was when Mike and me made our first communion. She made us wear those white shirts and ties to school the whole next week. She said it was disrespectful to the Lord to want to take off that stuff right away. I don't know why, she just said it was."

"She said," I interrupted, "that if Christ could wear that crown of thorns for us, then we should be able to wear a white shirt and tie for Him for a while."

"But this is just dirt," Susie said. "Sister Marie said they just take dirt and mix it up with holy stuff and smush it on you. And some of it fell on my nose, and on my lips." She made a disgusting face. "And Sister said she didn't want to see any hands up around our face to brush it off. She said that would be a sin. Bet I swallowed some. Yuck! I'll probably die! What would Mom think about that?"

"From dust thou came, and to dust thou shalt return," I said. "Just keep that in mind."

"Yeah, Bible butt, and Susie's going to return to dust pretty quick if she keeps eating that dirt," Joe responded.

Susie danced around me and sang, "Bible butt! Bible butt! You're just a Bible butt!"

Joe went into the bathroom to look in the mirror. "Hey! Sister said Father was going to make a sign of the cross on my forehead. Just looks like a blob to me. Like somebody just took some dirt and threw it in my face. That's not a cross. Look, Mike. You see a cross?"

I took a step toward Joe and tripped over Susie still circling me. "Bible butt! Bible butt!"

"Look out, Susie," I growled. "You act more like k-kindergarten every day! I ought to just step on you and put you out of your misery."

Just then, we heard the front door open downstairs, and two laughing voices rose to us. "Okay, now shut up, Susie!" I whispered.

Mom and Dad came up the stairs talking about something funny, and they appeared at the doorway with black smudges across their foreheads. Susie ran to them and yelled, "You got smudged, too! Look at mine!" She pulled her hair aside to show off her badge. "Mike said I should wash it off, but I said if Christ could wear those thorn things for me then I could wear this little smudge for Him."

"She's lying, Mom! She's the one—"

"Now, you two stop it!" Mom said. "Do you always have to be fighting and telling on each other? Why can't you be more like Jesus and love each other?"

"Jesus didn't have a stupid little sister," I said. "If He had Susie for a sister, He would have killed her, same as I'm going to."

"Shame on you, Michael," Dad said with a chuckle. "You know Jesus would never kill anybody. He'd just turn the other cheek." He turned his butt toward me and laughed.

"Don't you go encouraging these children in your vulgar way, Cecil," my mother said sternly. "Every vulgar thing they know they got from you!"

"You're just the cutest thing when you get mad, Al," Dad replied. "And that black smudge really sticks out when your face turns red. I think you ought to keep it. Makes you look even sexier than usual. And that's smoking, Baby!" He gave her a wink and a kiss and pulled her close to him.

"Cecil! Don't talk that way in front of our children. What'll they think of us?"

"We could really give them something to think about if we'd just walk into our bedroom for a while before supper."

"Cecil! That's the crudest.... I just don't know what gets into men sometimes, children." With that, she walked in a huff to the bedroom.

"Well, kids, supper will be a little late tonight, so why don't you take this opportunity to get a head start on your homework." He walked toward the bedroom with a grin. "And I don't want any eavesdropping. Or there'll be hell to pay." He pushed the door shut silently.

Susie came up beside me. "What do you think they're doing in there?"

"I don't know," I answered.

"What planet you two live on?" Joe teased.

"What do you m-mean, Joe?" I replied.

"Yeah, Joe," Susie said. "You know where we live."

"They're having sexual intercourse," Joe said.

"Joe!" I reprimanded him. "They are not!"

"Sexual intercourse," Joe repeated. "That's what they're doing."

"Don't talk d-dirty like that," I said.

Susie pulled on my arm. "What's that thing Joe said?" she asked. "Tell me! Please!"

"It's dirty, Susie. Joe shouldn't even be s-saying it."

"But what is it? Huh? Just tell me."

"I can't tell you," I said. "Girls don't.... G-girls aren't supposed to know about stuff like that."

"You tell me other dirty stuff. Just tell me about this one? Just this one. If you tell me, I promise I'll never call you Bible butt again. Honest. Just tell me."

"I can't! Now l-leave me alone!"

"Know why he can't?" Joe said. "Because he doesn't know anything about it."

"I do too!"

"Well," Susie pleaded, "then, okay, you tell me, Joe. Okay? What's that thing you said?"

"When you get a little older," Joe said, "you'll know about junk like that."

"But I'm older now. You can tell me. You said something dirty. It was something horse. But what does it mean?"

Joe just shook his head.

"They going to go to the bathroom? Like pooping and stuff in bed? That it?"

"Susie!" I said. "That is so g-gross, and stupid! Only babies do that."

"Well, that's dirty." She started tugging on me again. "And I'm just trying to find out what they're doing. Cross my heart. I won't ever tell anybody what you said. And I won't ever call you names. Ever again. So what's that horse thing they're doing?"

Joe was sure right about at least one thing. I didn't know much more about it than just the words, and I wondered how much he knew, and where he found out. That evening, after supper, my father went out with one of his colleagues to talk business. My mother called us together and said she had something very secret and very important to tell us.

Susie said, "Oh, boy! You're going to tell us about that horse thing you were doing." I stepped on her toe until she stopped. Mom looked at us sort of funny. I just prayed she wouldn't say any more.

"Come in here, children, I want to show you something. Now, you have to keep this just between us girls."

Susie looked at me with that funny face she did when she didn't understand something, which was a lot of the time.

I just pushed her ahead of me as we followed my mother into her bedroom. Susie pushed me back, and her swinging arm hit Joe who didn't know what we were tussling about. He pushed her in retaliation, and she hit him back. My mother turned around and said, "Joseph! Are you hassling your sister again? Why can't you two grow up and act more like Michael?"

Susie turned her gargoyle face on Joe, and then they both gave me gargoyles. Meanwhile, my mother had walked to her bedroom window and was opening it. When it was as high as it would go, she propped a broken broomstick in the jam, stood aside, and said, "Now, look out here on the roof."

We looked at each other in bewilderment as we stepped to the window. There on the roof was a brown cardboard box that said on the side "Twin Pines Farm Dairy, 12 Dozen Grade AA Large Eggs." Joe read the label aloud.

"Mom!" Susie shouted. "Easter eggs! How much is twelve dozen? Must be a lot."

"It's about a hundred," Joe said.

"One-hundred-forty-four," I said. "Have you forgotten your t-twelve-times table already?"

Joe gave me a dirty look that only a loving twin brother could. I matched it and added a smirk. "Dad know about these eggs?" I asked.

"That's where I can use some help from you children. I'm going to paint these eggs one dozen at a time, and I don't want your father to know there's more than one dozen. I'm keeping them out here on the roof so they'll stay cool and so your father doesn't see them. I want you to bring the eggs back here as I finish them and bring me new ones. That way, your stupid father will just think I'm spending all my time on just one dozen. See?"

"Oh boy!" Susie squealed. "We got a secret from our stupid father. And he won't know!"

"Susie!" I said. "Remember the Second C-Commandment."

"That's right, Susie. I shouldn't be giving you a bad example by calling your stupid father stupid. I take it back."

We all giggled. I put the Second Commandment on hold for a while.

Over the next two weeks, my mother worked at the kitchen table every evening on her Easter project. We took turns ferrying eggs and diverting our father's attention. We loved both jobs. We normally talked as little as possible with our father since this minimized disturbing his planning, which was his term for reading. But on these evenings, we even enjoyed our risky diversionary tactics with him. We loved our secret and taunted him with it until our mother had to remind us to be more careful.

One night, when it was Joe's turn to replace some eggs, Susie asked for help with her phonics. Father looked up from his paper. "Phonics, huh. Didn't you just ask me about that yesterday? I sure don't see what your problem is with phonics. You just remember what each letter sounds like. How can remembering twenty-six sounds be so tough? Why don't you get Mike to help you? He knows all that stuff—and probably everything else, too."

He turned to look at me standing next to my mother in the kitchen. Our eyes met. Neither of us flinched. Neither backed down. We communicated more during those few seconds than ever before or since. The fear I read in his eyes shocked me. What was he afraid of? Me? Finally, his eyes retreated. I realized then that my eyes had not shown fear. I would wonder about that look, and that fear, for two years until the summer of 1946, when Lily's silent explanation enlightened me as we sped past cornfields in a World War II relic. My father, beater of wife and kids, prophet, self-made man, expert on everything, consummate planner—this man was afraid of me. Afraid of being surpassed by his son.

A little while later it was Susie's turn for an egg run, so Joe approached my father. "Dad, can you ask me some catechism questions?"

"Jesus H. Christ! What the hell is going on here? You kids been bugging me all week! It's arithmetic or spelling or phonics, and now you're asking me about religion." He stood up, crumpling his newspaper in his right hand. That got everyone's attention. "Hell, your mother is in charge of religion around here, and what she doesn't know that smart ass Mike can tell you. Will you kids just leave me alone? What the hell are we paying those nuns for if you have to keep bugging me about this crap all the time?"

Joe backed off as the rest of us watched, worried. Then Mom said, "Come here, Joe. I can help you with your catechism. Your father is far too busy with his planning to help his children with their education."

Joe retreated to the kitchen as my father glared at my mother. She did not raise her eyes from her painting as my father took his first step toward her. "If you'd spend more time helping the kids and less time screwing with those damn eggs, they wouldn't be on my back so much!"

My mother put her egg down. "Okay, Joe, what questions do you want me to test you on?"

With that uncertain victory, my father returned to his chair to continue planning. After that evening, we decided it was better to retreat to our usual practice of just ignoring him. Egg ferrying could be easily done right through his dream world.

My mother poured herself into the task with the same zeal that had produced thousands of rosaries, hand illuminated Bibles, crucifixes, and scapulars over the years. But her efficiency and organization reached new heights during these holy-egg days of Lent. The decoration of 144 eggs, which she had estimated to take a month, was completed in just two weeks.

Father was out the evening she finished the final egg. Our excitement drove us to rescue all of the other eleven dozen eggs from outside the window and display the army of holy scenes on the kitchen table. We examined egg after egg, choosing our favorites, debating their merits. We created categories to make our choices easier—artistry, holiness, color, and border. But there was not even agreement on which category many of the eggs went into.

My mother stood by, proudly watching the three of us making such a fuss over her creations. After a while, she called us to attention with the warning that our father might come home any time, and if he discovered all these eggs, who knows what might happen. We, of course, were bullet proof in those days of innocence. This was one of those times when we created joy simply by putting aside caution.

I watched her watching us and saw, for the only time in my memory, a true union of mother and children. Maybe it was this wonderful conspiracy that bound us together. Maybe it was sharing a common enemy. My father had brought his children together with their mother many times before in conflict. But this was different. This was a real adventure. The magic finally faded, but a spark of unity with our mother continued to glow.

The next day, she decided she had time to make more eggs before Grandpa returned to take them out on the road to spread the glory of God, and to increase our fortune a little. She struggled another gross of eggs onto the roof, and we began our well-tuned ritual again. We knew our parts so well that these were completed in only twelve days. And all the while, my father dreamed.

A couple of weeks before Easter, Grandpa made one of his regular visits. My mother and he loaded the two boxes of poultry art into his wagon and discussed the pricing of this new line. She apologized for not having more of the standard items for him because she'd spent all of her time lately on the eggs.

Mom said her usual prayers to the Blessed Virgin Mary and asked St. Christopher to guide her father on his journey and finally invoked Simon of Cyrene to help Grandpa bring these images of the Risen Savior to Christians just as he had helped Jesus carry his cross to Calvary on that first Good Friday. Then Grandpa said his own good-byes to his three favorite grandkids with kisses and promises to be back for Easter.

He climbed aboard his hog and fiddled with various controls. His slender body then rose high above the machine before it plunged downward with all the force he could muster. The engine coughed twice and then was silent. He did this three more times. After each kick, he made another mysterious adjustment before trying again. Finally, the engine thundered to life and roared away the calm of the neighborhood. Grandpa pulled his cracked and foggy goggles down and gave a triumphant wave as he gunned the engine, making the wooden wagon rumble away.

We three kids cheered and waved. Susie jumped up and down until her enthusiasm brought a simple smile and wave from my mother, who watched her labors and her hopes depart with that rumbling wagon. I heard her whisper, "Ad majorem Deo gratias." I realized then that her art, as proud of it as she was, took a second position to its role of bringing greater glory to God. She put her hand on my shoulder and drew me to her. I knew that my own passion for glorifying God was somehow tied to those same cardboard boxes.

TWENTY ONE

"You were really lucky," Margo said to a mound of beans in her lap. "I mean that your grandfather got those eggs out of there, you know, without your father finding out."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"I like your grandfather."

My attention was fixed on a particular bean.

"Is he still alive?"

That particular bean went out of focus. "Uh huh. He doesn't come around much anymore."

"How come?"

"He was always getting in fights with Mom... my mother. So she told him he should get his religious stuff somewhere else. And besides..."

Margo looked up from her bean project. "What?"

"Well, my mother is so different now, since Joe..."

Margo pushed a mound of beans over my hand and then patted the top level. "Two of my grandparents are dead," she said. "The other two, well... Guess I never knew them much anyway."

A long silence opened up between us. I held up a handful of beans and then rolled my hand over to expose five perfectly straight fingers. I wondered if I would get a tangle finger as I got older.

"Are you going to finish your story about the Easter eggs?"

"If you want."

"Sure."

I lay back and stared into the shadows of the rafters just out of reach.

* * *

We heard nothing from Grandpa for nearly two weeks. He finally returned on Holy Saturday while Mom and we kids were at church, and my father was out somewhere. When we got home, Grandpa was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. Susie was the first one up the stairs, calling his name before she even reached the door. Joe and I were practicing our mature-older-brother manners and followed my mother up the stairs.

When we got to the kitchen, Grandpa was sitting with Susie on his lap having his nose hairs delicately separated from his mustache hairs, which usually had totally blended by the time he had finished one of his washing-hawking trips. Joe and I could resist no more. We rushed past Mom who stood inside the kitchen, her eyes examining the many boxes piled on the floor. The egg boxes were not to be seen.

"Your sister thinks I'm not fit for Easter services, so she's trying to make me look pretty."

"No, Grandpa, I'm making you handsome. Girls are pretty. Boys are handsome."

"Oh, I always get that mixed up," he said. "You better write that down for me 'cause I wouldn't want to make that mistake out in public."

"Hi, Grandpa," Joe and I said in unison as we took our stations on either side of him.

Then his eyes turned toward my mother. His smile faded. "Hi, sweetie."

"Hi, Pop. How did the eggs sell?"

"Well, I sold some. But this isn't the best year for stuff like that, you know."

Silence filled the room as all eyes turned toward my mother. She just stood and looked at Grandpa.

"I sold three or four dozen—actually three dozen. But I got two dollars a dozen. That's a pretty good price, huh?"

The hurt on Mom's face could be felt even without looking at her. "Where are the rest of them?" she asked.

"They're right in these here boxes." He pulled aside some boxes, and the two egg boxes appeared.

Mom walked to them and opened the first box. The top three dozen were missing. She then opened the second box. All twelve dozen were there. She lifted out one dozen and slowly opened the lid. She looked for the longest time, and then a question appeared on her face as she held one egg and then another in her hand.

"These eggs are all cracked, Dad. Did you drop this carton, or what?"

"Well, let me explain that sweetie. You see, I let them boxes of eggs set under the front seat because I didn't have room enough for both of them inside my tent. But one night, it got real cold out, and the next morning I checked them and they was all frozen solid and cracked like that. See, I didn't think...."

"You mean this whole box of eggs is cracked like this?" She set down one carton and opened another, then another.

"Well, you see, I didn't think they was going to freeze like that because I figured hard boiled eggs is already kind of like frozen inside so it wouldn't make no difference if they just froze a little more. But when I opened them cartons and seen what happened, I just commenced to cry because I knowed what trouble you took with them and everything. Well, I knowed that it happened because I'm such a stupid old man. So then I thought I could make it up to you by selling them even if they had some cracks, because they still looked real pretty. I took them from door to door, and I knocked on probably a million doors, but them people must've thought I was kind of crazy. You know, an old man walking round with a bunch of busted eggs trying to sell them like that. Well, they all thought they was real pretty eggs, and they said that it was a credit to the Lord that such beauty was on just plain eggs like that. But they didn't want to buy any that was cracked. I prayed real hard so the Lord would help me sell them eggs that was praising His glory, but I guess He thought I was an old fool, too. Anyway, I didn't sell no others but three dozen."

Joe and I stood next to Mom and put our arms around her waist.

"But everybody said they was real beautiful, and they was works of art that should be in a museum. They just wouldn't buy any that was broken. It was all my fault, Sweetie. I'm real sorry, Al. You shouldn't of trusted such valuable things to your old pa. I let you down."

Mom just looked at the eggs all the while Grandpa talked. Then she took the two boxes, put them on the table, took the cartons out one at a time, and piled them on the table.

"Well, Pops," she said slowly and with a forced smile, "I guess..." She swallowed. "I guess there's always next year."

"What do you mean, next year!" came a voice from the doorway.

Grandpa's sad story had so absorbed us that we were unaware of my father. He stood in the doorway, his face flushed with anger and his fists white with tension.

"What kind of bull is this?" he yelled. Then his voice became sinister as he directed it at my mother. "I warned you, Alice. I warned you about those damn eggs. I thought you were just doing a dozen for the family, but all along you were plotting against me. And I guess your little dwarves were all in on the conspiracy, too. I don't put up with this kind of crap. Not in my house. You got to learn that I mean business when I say something."

"I bought those eggs with my own money, Cecil, and you can't—"

"Shut up!" The blue veins stood out on his arm as he backhanded her to the floor. "You're just a woman! You don't have your own money. I bust my ass every day planning for our future, while you go out and squander—"

His rage was interrupted by a firm grip on his arm. Grandpa said, "You keep your hands—"

But that was as far as Grandpa got before my father's fist connected with his stomach, and he fell to the floor. "You interfered for the last time, you decrepit old bastard." He kicked Grandpa in the back and pushed him toward the stairway. Suddenly a blow on the back of his head stunned him. When he turned around, there was Joe with a broom in his hand winding up for another. My father put up his arm just in time to ward off the second strike. Then he faced Joe, a grin forming on his face.

"So, the little fighter comes to life. And I suppose you're going to beat me up with that puny broom handle. You think you can whip me with that thing, boy?"

"I don't know," Joe said, "but I'm going to try."

"Okay, big Joe," my father said going into a crouch and starting to circle menacingly. "Let's see what you can do with that thing."

"Mike!" Joe cried. "Help me! We can beat him together!"

"No, Mike!" my mother cried. "You stay back. He's too big, and he'll kill you both!"

I looked at Joe, standing his distance, tears streaming down his face. I looked at my mother, her hand stretched out clutching my shirt.

"Come on, little Mikey," my father taunted. "This is your chance to be brave and beat up your old man. Or are you the chicken twin?"

I pulled against my mother's grip, but not hard enough to break it, tears welling in my eyes. But my father grew tired of me and turned to Joe who was still standing there with just a broom between himself and his father. My father stepped closer to Joe, and Joe backed away. My father grinned and advanced some more, clearly enjoying the game. Joe backed into the front room. Grandpa crawled toward my mother, "Get out, Alice! Take Susie and Mike outside and get in the wagon!"

At this, my father turned to us. "Don't anybody move! I'm not through with you yet!" As he finished that command, the broom came down with all the force a fourth grader can deliver. It ripped a gash in the side of his head and stopped on his shoulder. My father screamed in pain and put his hand to his head. When he saw the blood, the game he had been playing with his son turned serious again. "Well, you little prick! Let's see how tough you are! Let's see if boy blood looks like man blood!"

By now, my mother was herding Susie and me down the stairs. Grandpa was back on his feet. Joe swung again, but my father put up his hand and caught the broom, ripped it from Joe's hands, and threw it across the room. "Okay, you little bastard." He forced Joe into a corner, grabbed one of his arms, and twisted it, wrenching him to the floor. No sooner did he hit the floor than his foot crashed into Joe's stomach. Joe couldn't move and just lay in a ball as my father's eyes narrowed, and he prepared a kick to Joe's head. As he drew his foot back, a lamp crashed down on the back of his head, and he crumpled to the floor on top of Joe, blood gushing from his head and splattering on them both.

Grandpa tugged my father off his son. "Joe! Joe! Come on! Get up! Joe!" He tried to pick up Joe, but his shaking legs wouldn't work right. Finally, Joe started across the room, half crawling and half dragged. When he got to the stairway and started limping down the stairs, my father reached out and grabbed Grandpa by the arm. Grandpa tried to slam the door on his arm, but he would not let go. My father could hardly stand up. He was still dizzy, but he had a vice grip on Grandpa, who tried to keep the door between them. But as my father's strength returned, he ripped the door open. Grandpa saw Joe go out the front door and then turned to face my father. With all the strength he had left, Grandpa pulled back his right arm and slammed his fist into the center of my father's face. He fell backwards onto the front-room floor. Grandpa tumbled down the stairs just as I was helping Joe into the wagon. He staggered to his hog and struggled to clear his mind for the starting procedure.

Grandpa kicked the starter twice, and all it did was cough back at him. Susie and I screamed at him to get the thing started, but that only confused him. "Grandpa! Grandpa! Hurry! He's coming!" she yelled.

Grandpa turned to her, "Susie! Quiet! I gotta think!" He fiddled with the controls some more and gave it another mighty kick, but it didn't even fire. "Oh no! I think it's flooded!" he said.

Now my father was coming down the stairs. When he appeared on the front porch, my mother yelled, "Dad! Please hurry!"

"I'm hurrying, Al. It just won't start!"

We all turned to look at my father coming down the sidewalk but were surprised to see that he was carrying a box of eggs. He knew there were neighbors watching. He dropped the box of eggs next to the wagon. "So you mutineers like eggs, do you? Well here's some for you!" He took a carton of eggs and threw them right at my mother. They hit her hard in the chest, broke open, and fell in pieces to the wagon. Then more eggs followed, this time two and three at a time, crashing everywhere in the wagon. He fired several dozen eggs like that before Grandpa finally got the engine to roar and belch smoke.

Then my father turned his attention on Grandpa and his hog, firing eggs like a machine-gun. They were quickly plastered with eggs before the hog barely moved. As we rumbled away from the curb, the last few eggs came flying into the back of the wagon along with some curses that he better never see that old man again, or he'd kill him for sure.

I looked back as we gained speed and saw my father standing in the street with eggs in each hand, too tired to throw. He just stood there, surrounded by the wreckage of eggs—and of his life. As we rounded the corner, my mother picked up an eggshell at her feet that had miraculously survived with an entire picture in tact. She held it and rubbed one finger over an image of the good shepherd. She was silent and tearless. Only the rumble of the wagon competed with her misery.

We had seen our parents fight before, and the viciousness of this fight did not seem that extraordinary. But the effect on my mother was unique. She silently fingered that single eggshell as we bumped along and continued that impulsive act long after we stopped and were hard at work cleaning up the mess in Grandpa's wagon—his home.

We returned home the next day, Easter Sunday, a day when Mom would normally dress each of us in at least one new thing. The five of us would have gone to church as a good Catholic family, nurturing each other and bound to our nurturing faith.

This Easter was the only Sunday I could remember when the family did not attend Mass together. Even my father went to Mass with us faithfully each Sunday. He was well-coached in his role as a good Catholic father who sat beside his wife and children each Sunday morning, no matter what might have happened between Masses.

Mom finally convinced Grandpa that everything would be all right now. The storm had passed. I looked out the front window later and saw Grandpa walk slowly by our house. I don't know how long he patrolled that way, but I didn't see him again after a couple hours.

My father had not yet returned when we got home. The battle scene looked like there should have been dead bodies lying in the pools of blood, but there were only broken things—and eggs—everywhere. It looked like my father had come back after we fled and finished off the remaining eggs in a rage around the house.

"Well, children," my mother said at last, "we have some work to do before your father gets home."

Joe and I looked up at her in astonishment. "What! After Dad kicks the crap out of us—"

His exclamation ended abruptly as a slap landed across his face. "I will not have my children using such vile language! If I ever hear you say such a vulgar thing again, I'll..." She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and said in a controlled tone, "We will all get to work now and clean this place up so it looks like home when your father arrives."

The three of us just stood and looked at her. "Susan, you get a bucket of warm water. Joseph, get the broom and start—"

"The broom is busted in half, Mom!" Joe cried. "You forget it was a club yesterday. It didn't survive!"

Mom leveled her gaze at Joe and slowly repeated, "Get the broom, Joseph, and start sweeping up this mess."

Joe picked up the broom with its handle splintered in the middle and toyed with the end as he stared at my mother.

"Now Michael, pick up what's left of that lamp and straighten up the room. It looks like a herd of hillbillies moved in here.

"Susan, you have that water yet?"

Susie had not moved. She first looked at Joe with his partial broom and then at me staring at a blood-spattered lamp.

"Susan!"

Susie jumped and walked off to the bathroom. Joe looked at me as I began to pick up pieces of ceramic. Our eyes met for a moment, then I glanced at the splintered handle and back to his face.

In three silent hours, the job was done. Joe, Susie, and I went to bed in a flat that mostly looked like our home. My mother stayed up to await my father. The three of us decided to wait for him too, but we fell asleep in no time.

The next morning, we went to school as usual, my mother left for work as usual, and my father stayed in bed as usual. It was the way my parents' battles ended, with life as usual. Not a word was spoken on our walk to school.

I never knew for sure what happened behind that bedroom door in those sensitive times after a major battle. They never spoke of it to us. We copied what we learned from our parents. If we didn't talk about it, then it hadn't happened. Joe's bruises healed, and our bewilderment dissolved into some distant memory—distant enough to give us some security.

But it was not gone. I can promise you that.

The only memory I wanted to keep of that terrible Easter was of my grandfather. That Saturday evening, with his wagon in a city park, I was helping Grandpa clean egg debris out of the engine of his hog. Joe was asleep, trying to heal. Susie slept with her head on my mother's lap, and my mother sat back with that single eggshell between her fingers.

"Grandpa, I can't figure h-how those eggs could freeze like that."

"It was just dumb, Michael, real dumb."

"But I helped you load them in your w-wagon, and we put both boxes inside your tent. There was lots of room. You even said so. Remember?"

"Well. I guess I just forgot. I was planning my strategy, you know, for selling all them eggs, and I guess I just forgot to put them inside that one night."

I felt his eyes on me; and when I looked up, he went back to work. We worked on a stubborn egg yoke that had baked within the cooling fins of the forward cylinder.

"I don't know," I said. "This piece won't..." I shook my head as I looked at Grandpa.

" I can get it," he said. "Maybe I should use that little screwdriver."

I handed him the screwdriver, but my mind was elsewhere.

"There, I think that does it for the night, Mike. We'll get the rest when we can see better."

He brushed egg off the tools, then put a hand on my shoulder and motioned me to follow him. We walked a few steps down the street and sat on the curb together. "Glad it's not so cold tonight," he said.

"Uh huh."

"It was real cold that night the eggs froze."

We sat in silence for a while as my foot traced the edge of a crack in the street.

"Them eggs didn't freeze by accident, Mike."

I kept tracing the crack, trying to figure out what he meant.

"I put them eggs outside to freeze."

I watched my breath rise before me. "Huh? What do you mean, Grandpa?"

"I wanted them eggs to freeze. I wanted them to crack so they wouldn't be no good to anybody."

"You froze them on p-purpose, Grandpa? You mean..."

"I couldn't sell none of them eggs. I took them around to all the ladies that liked them so good last year, but they just said they was real pretty, but they didn't need no eggs from me. I took them to so many places. What I said about knocking on a million doors was the truth, Mike. But them eggs was perfect and beautiful when I was doing it."

"You mean nobody would buy..." I stared at a distant streetlight. "That's not..." I was going to say _fair_ , but I knew that wasn't right.

"Well, Mike, I figured if I went back to your mama with all them eggs and told her nobody wanted them, that would just kill her. You know how she worked so hard. And she was so proud of them."

My foot stopped moving now, and the crack, and the whole world, seemed to disappear.

"I figured if it was my fault I couldn't sell none of them eggs, she'd get over that pretty quick."

"Nobody'd buy those beautiful pictures?"

"Well, I did sell them three dozen, like I said, but that was all." He squeezed my shoulder harder than usual as he sighed loudly. "I hope you won't tell nobody about this, Mike. Especially after what your Mom just went through. She's real proud of them eggs. And she has every right to be. It was my fault I couldn't sell them. I just wanted it to be clear to your mama that it wasn't nothing she did wrong. Her pictures were the prettiest things I ever seen. And her mom would've been so proud of her. It just didn't work out. That was my fault, not hers."

I reached up to his rugged hand on my shoulder. Canyons of time flowed beneath my even skin. A million noonday suns had baked those canyons, fossilized them. My fingers trekked over that terrain and paused on his tangle finger as I searched for more clues to this man I simply knew as Grandpa. A warm tear found my hand and answered me.

TWENTY TWO

One evening, Uncle Johnny announced, "Okay, kids, time for Sergeant Preston!"

We all flew to the radio where he was standing, waiting for it to warm up. A wooden grille covered a cloth front that would be the focus of our attention for the next half hour. "Let's see," he mumbled, "that's on the Bay City station, I think." He fumbled with the tuning knob, and the needle danced across the dial. Above the dial, a brass lightning bolt announced Zenith. I fingered the brass as Uncle Johnny said, "Okay, here it comes."

The radio slowly came to life, first with rude catcalls and then with streaks of sound as he adjusted the tuner. Uncle Johnny didn't listen to the radio very much, but he made an exception for Sergeant Preston of the Yukon. His parents had come from Libourne, France and settled in St. Chrysostome, Quebec. He was not sure why they moved again to the flat lands of The Thumb of Michigan, but that move had seemed to satisfy the family's wanderlust. His father had told him stories of those days on the farm in Quebec where Uncle Johnny had been born and their occasional trips a short distance to Montreal. Two of his father's brothers had joined the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He had a picture of them in the dining room near the radio where we gathered to hear of the great exploits of that most famous Mountie of all. Their red uniforms blazed as the perfect accent for tonight's radio adventure.

But Sergeant Preston was a nostalgic trip for not just Uncle Johnny. Sergeant Preston and King were old heroes to me, too. Joe, Susie, and I invented a game we called Play Radio. We would copy down as much as we could of a radio show, and then act out the show on our front porch. Sergeant Preston was one of our favorites because Susie liked being King. But after a while, she grew out of that role and wanted to be Sergeant Preston, a role that Joe and I naturally reserved for ourselves.

* * *

"But Susie," I could still hear Joe's argument. "A girl can't be Sergeant Preston. That's a boy part."

"Well, King is a boy dog," she said. "How come I can play a boy dog, but I can't play a boy man?"

"It's just not the same thing." I came to Joe's defense. "Boy dogs and girl dogs are the same. You can't tell the difference. But anybody can see that Sergeant Preston is a boy not a girl."

"Uh uh, Mike!" she said. "Some boy dogs have a thing under them. You know that brown and white dog that always comes to lick us over on the next street? He's got one of those things right under his back legs."

"Well, King doesn't have one of those," Joe insisted, "so it's okay for a girl to play King!"

"Okay, I'll make a deal," she said.

"Uh oh," Joe exclaimed. "Whenever you want to make a deal, it's usually something real dumb."

Susie ignored the comment and appealed to me, her more logical and more easily swayed brother. "I'll play King, but we have to change him to a girl dog. We have to change his name to Queen."

"What!" yelled Joe. "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard of! King can't be Queen! Where do you get this stuff, Susie? Did you ever hear of Sergeant Preston and his dog, Queen? Did you ever hear of Queen leading the pack through a blizzard? Who the heck would follow a dog named Queen?"

"If I have to play King, then he's going to be a girl dog." She folded her arms and looked away after a quick glance at me to measure my sympathy.

Joe looked at me. "Well, Mike, you tell her!"

I motioned to Joe that it was time for a huddle. He followed me out to the street where we sat down on the curb with the elm tree shielding us from Susie. "Look, Joe, w-we need a dog, right?"

"Yeah, but not Queen!"

"You know how stubborn Susie is. She's even m-m... more stubborn than you. You know she w-won't play if we don't let her be Queen."

"So what?" he said. "She's only a girl, so we can play without her."

"But who's going to be King?" Joe watched the ants between his feet busily building a new house as I continued. "We'll let her be Queen this one time. Okay? And she'll see how s-stupid it is and how it s-screws up the whole play, and then she'll be glad to be King next time."

Joe looked at me with some doubt. "What if she likes it, Mr. Brain?"

"How could she, Joe? It's going to sound so stupid. Even Susie will see that. And n-next time she'll be glad to go back to being King."

"I'm not so sure."

"Look, you and I both can see how dumb it is, right? Well, Susie may be stubborn, but she's smart. She'll see it that w-way too. After she does it once. She just has to get her w-way once, and then she'll be okay."

"I'm still not so sure."

"Don't sweat it, Joe."

We returned to the porch and made the deal with Susie. It was my turn to be the narrator and Joe's turn to be Sergeant Preston. We began:

NARRATOR:The great saga of Sergeant Preston of the Yukon continues staring, this time, Joseph Tether as the indomitable, that means he's the hero, Sergeant Preston (Joe steps forward and bows), Susan Tether as his brave dog, Queen (Susie steps forward and bows while Joe shakes his head), and narrated by the brilliant star of stage and screen, Michael Steven Tether (I bow) who winters in Hollywood and spends his short summers in Whitehorse.

"Come on, Mike," Susie interrupted. "You're saying too many words."

NARRATOR:When we last left Sergeant Preston, he was searching for the gold thief, Dirty Jacques. Our story continues. The shot cracked over the frozen wilderness and carried to the sensitive ears of Sergeant Preston and Queen. Sergeant Preston urged his dog, Queen, onward. Queen, the fastest dog in the Yukon, leaped ahead of the pack and led them in the direction of the shot.

SGT. PRESTON:There's a cabin ahead, Ki... Queen! The shot must have come from there!

QUEEN:Woof! Woof!

NARRATOR:Sergeant Preston stopped the team at the front door, but Queen was already investigating. Sergeant Preston opened the door and found Jean DuPres lying there.

SGT. PRESTON:Get my medical kit, Queen!

QUEEN:Woof! Woof!

SGT. PRESTON:You'll be all right, DuPres, as soon as I get your wound bandaged.

NARRATOR:Queen came back with the medical kit and laid it next to the wounded man.

SGT. PRESTON:Good boy! I mean girl... This is really stupid!

"Joe," Susie growled with all the ferocity of a husky, "you promised."

SGT. PRESTON:Good girl, Queen. Good girl.

QUEEN:Woof! Woof!

"That was fun!" Susie shouted. "I like it much better now that I'm a girl!"

Joe shot a look at me that I tried to ignore.

* * *

I stared right at the grill of the radio so only it would know my eyes had filled with tears. Donnie cheered when the narrator announced, "And now, Sergeant Preston of the Yukon, staring Jay Michaels." I excused myself and went out the back door. On the porch, I could still hear Sergeant Preston and Yukon King through the screen door. I walked out to the barn and climbed onto the tractor seat. I could still hear Sergeant Preston, but it was no longer from the radio. And now Queen was there, too.

My fingers slowly circled the steering wheel as images of the past faded in and out. As I outlined the six gears engraved into the gearshift handle, I felt my mother holding me, teaching me. Then my father stood in front of the tractor, his eyes squinting, his terrible hands raised. I drove the two front wheels of that McCormick tractor right over him, splitting his lifeless body in half like a furrow.

But even then, my vengeance was only half complete. I was not yet ready to deal with the full truth of my brother's death. I had never even told the flawed story, the version with my mother's imprimatur. But that story was about to be unlocked and drawn from me. I knew it had to happen. I didn't know how or when.

"Mike! Mike!" Margo's voice chipped away at the edge of my iceberg. I felt ready, maybe even wanted it. All I lacked was something to provoke it, some trigger to start the flow.

"Mike! Is that you there on the tractor?"

"Uh huh."

"You missed a really good Sergeant Preston! He had to climb up this water tower." She grunted as she climbed up to sit on the grain wagon. "Then he waited until the train came by taking Mike Rivers to Dawson so—"

"So he could jump on top of the train when it went by," I continued in a monotone. "Meanwhile, Queen, I mean King, raced ahead with a message to the telegraph office about the gold shipment. Then Sergeant Preston captured Mike Rivers and turned him over to the Mounties in Dawson, and the gold train was flagged down before it could leave the country."

"Oh, I guess you heard that one before," she said.

"Uh huh."

"Well, guess what? Aunt Rae is making some popcorn, and we're going to play canasta. You know how to play?"

"Uh huh."

"Okay, then we can be on a team together. Come on!"

"I don't feel like it."

"It won't do any good to wait for your mother out here in the barn, Mike. When she comes, she'll go to the house first. "

"I'm not waiting for my mother! I just want to be alone."

"We're going to start in a few minutes, so come on." As she spoke, she moved to the edge. With her last word, the slap of her feet on the concrete startled me, and I turned to see her running toward the door. "Come on! The mosquitoes are coming out!" She disappeared outside.

I climbed down to the draw bar and then to the floor. I had to follow her. I had to play canasta. I didn't want to. I had to.

"Come on!" I heard her voice just before the screen door squeaked and then slammed.

I followed her into the house with its brightness beckoning and the smell of popcorn flooding every corner. The kitchen table was arranged with a double deck of cards in the center and a stack of dishes patiently awaiting the popcorn.

"Okay, now, we have to decide on teams," Aunt Rae said as she brought the tub of popcorn to the table. "I know you don't like to be on a team, Johnny, because you say it cramps your style; so how about if you be the odd man."

Margo poked him in the ribs and said, "We always knew you were a bit odd, Uncle Johnny, but now I guess it's official."

"I'm very sensitive, little girl. I might just wup you good for being disrespectful to your old uncle."

"I remember last time you tried to wup me, Uncle Johnny. I went out and you were stuck with a fist full of tens and queens."

"I have to let you win a hand now and then, otherwise you'll just go and sulk."

"I swear, Johnny! You sound just like a little kid sometimes."

"Yes, sometimes you're so juvenile!" Margo teased. "I, on the other hand, am the most sophisticated girl in the eighth grade anywhere."

"Yeah," said Donnie, "if sophisticated means dumb."

"I doubt that you will ever have any appreciation of the word _sophisticated_ ," Margo said.

"Well, I know what pride means," Donnie replied, "and you're just full of snotty pride!"

"And it saddens me so to realize that my poor farmer brother will never have a single thing to ever be proud of." She said it to the popcorn as she filled five bowls.

"That's right," Donnie fired back. "You just take care of serving the men folks, and you'll do all right for yourself, girl."

Margo picked up one bowl of popcorn, emptied it back into the tub, and set it on the table. Donnie picked up the empty bowl and handed it to me. "Gee, Mike, maybe your girlfriend isn't in love with you after all, lover boy."

"She's not my girlfriend," I said in defense of my boyhood. "And I don't even like her!" I said from the shallows of my maleness.

"Ha!" said Donnie. "You hear that, miss sophisticated eighth-grader? This seventh-grader at least is smart enough to not like you. There's hope for him yet."

An invisible shudder crept through me as I heard the words I wished I could take back. But the sounds had escaped, and there were laws that would never let them reverse. I chose to deal with my mistake the way every coward does—by ignoring it. I knew Margo looked at me because I saw Donnie's eyes light up.

"If you kids are about through with your meanness," Aunt Rae said, "maybe we can pick teams. We'll have to have one team with three and the other with two. How about if you kids be one team, and Johnny and I will be the other?"

"No!" Margo said. "Uncle Johnny and I can play against the three of you."

"Awe! How about me and your boyfriend?" Donnie baited Margo. "I feel crushed." He put his hand on my shoulder. "Your lover has forsook you."

"Quiet, Donnie!" Aunt Rae said. "We can solve the team problem real easy just by sending you to bed."

Margo launched her own counterattack with venom. "I won't..." Then she changed back to her sophisticated-eighth-grader tone. "I choose not to participate on a team with my inferiors. I believe that Uncle Johnny and I shall be able to dispatch you with all... debilitation."

"I get the message," Uncle Johnny chuckled. "I think we can dispatch them, too, Margo, with or without any debilitation. Is that all right with you, Love?" he said with a wink to Aunt Rae.

"I think we better not hear any more meanness from a certain boy who could easily disappear from the table." Then she glanced at me and smiled, but I chose not to return her smile.

Aunt Rae slid the deck in front of Uncle Johnny who cut it ceremoniously and passed half of it to Margo and the other half to Donnie. He took half of his pile in each hand, raised one pile above the other, and began the clumsy forcing of the two piles into each other as weekend card sharks have always done in the shadow of real card players.

Meanwhile, Margo performed her delicate gambler's shuffle. The two piles slid together with a prolonged snap as sophistication rose from her face. Donnie struggled through his shuffle with his tongue between his lips.

Margo dealt eleven cards to each of us. Aunt Rae started the play, but she couldn't open and discarded a safe black three.

"What!" Donnie exclaimed. "I can't believe this! With all these cards and we can't even make fifty points!"

"Okay, Uncle Johnny, it's your turn," Margo said.

"Huh?" he said, as if awakened from a sleep.

"Come on now," Aunt Rae said. "You've been plotting something over there, so just get it over with."

"Now, Love," he said, "You just quit picking on me. I'm having a real hard time figuring this out. I can never remember. Does the card with the A on it come before or after the 2 card?"

"Uncle Johnny!" Donnie said. "We know you're just trying to con us. You're probably plotting something real bad."

"Now, Little Brother. You'll hurt your poor uncle's feelings."

"Thank you for your support, Margo," Uncle Johnny said.

Uncle Johnny and Margo smiled graciously at each other, Donnie acted out a sound of being sick under the table, and Aunt Rae rolled her eyes and shook her head. My first card game with this quartet was quite an education.

"Play!" said Aunt Rae.

"Okay, okay," Uncle Johnny said as he grasped three cards from his hand and laid the aces silently on the table.

"Okay, that's sixty," said Donnie.

"Why, Donnie!" Margo teased. "I had no idea you could count that high!"

Uncle Johnny took three more cards out of his hand and laid down three queens beside the aces.

"Ninety," Donnie said with gritted teeth.

Then Uncle Johnny pulled out one card and first positioned it above the aces without letting go. No one but Uncle Johnny and I saw Margo's nod just before he placed the joker smoothly on top of the queens.

"One hundred and forty," Margo shot the words toward Donnie. "I thought you might be having trouble with that one, little brother."

Uncle Johnny reached again for three cards in his hand and this time spread out three red threes in an arch above his meld. A hot flush hit my face as I grunted, "No!" Everyone looked at me and then back at Uncle Johnny as he discarded, leaving a single card in his hand.

I stared at the three red threes until they went out of focus. I became aware of the cards wadded in my fist, cutting my thumb.

Margo took the top card from the deck, smiled, and turned over the last red three.

"No!" I said again, but this time everyone's eyes were fixed on the four red threes. No one saw my cards crumple as my fist tightened.

Margo grinned and then took four aces from her hand, laid them on the melded aces, scooped them all into a pile, and said, "One natural." Then she melded three fives and added one queen to the meld leaving three cards in her hand. "Jokers are wild, right?" she said looking at Aunt Rae.

"Go ahead, Honey," came the response. "You already know what you're going to do. So get it over with."

I also knew exactly what she was about to do. I stiffened in horror. My breathing notched up like I was running a race.

With the most serious look that any sophisticated eighth-grader could muster, Margo took two deuces and a joker from her hand and placed them on top of the four red threes. "Two," she said, scooping the red threes into a pile. The words, "And I'm out!" pounded my ears as Margo stood to give Uncle Johnny a hug.

My eyes were fixed on the red three canasta sitting on the table. "No," I whispered. Then I shouted, "No! No! No!" I found myself standing, my cards rolled into a wad. My other hand slammed down on top of the red three canasta. "No! No! Take it back! Take it back! Tell him you'll take it back! Just tell him you'll take it back! Just tell him! Tell him!" I ranted at the top of my lungs. "It's only a stupid game! Please tell him you'll take it back!"

I stopped my breathing and looked around the table. All eyes were fixed on me. "He didn't mean it!" I begged. "You know how he is!" I pleaded. I bolted for the door knocking popcorn, cards, and Donnie on the floor. The next thing I knew, I was running through the cold night air away from the house, away from that red three canasta. I dissolved into the blackness of a moonless night.

There were shouts behind me. I heard my name over and over as I tripped, got up, and ran behind the barn. I could pry the big sliding doors just far enough apart to force my way between them. I groped my way up to the haymow and then up the granary ladder.

Half way up, I stopped in total blackness and felt tears wet the rung clutched by my hands. A voice behind the barn said, "He's not back here! And you can't get in the barn except by the front door." I scrambled to the center bin and dove into the blackness that I knew was three thousand bushel of beans. I lay there sobbing for a long time, not wanting to think about what just happened, not daring to think about what happened on that terrible night over a year ago.

The tears flowed like a faucet as I lay there, wishing that the tons of beans would suffocate me. I didn't hear the ladder rattle and didn't know anyone was standing on the catwalk until my name reached me.

"Michael? Michael?"

My head rose with a jerk. "Momma?" I whispered. "It's you, Momma. I can hear you. Help me, Momma!" Then I gulped down a sob. "No! No! You can't help me. Not you! Not you!"

"Mike, it's me, Margo. Are you okay? I came to help. No one knows where I went. Don't worry! It's just me."

"I thought... I.... Not my mother! Please, not my mother!"

"Can I come down, Mike?"

I stared into blackness as I felt her presence.

"You scared us, Mike. What just happened down there?"

"I don't know. It was... What did I do?"

"You started yelling. And you acted real crazy. Your eyes, Mike! Your eyes were so crazy! It scared everybody."

"I don't remember! Really! Do you think I'm crazy? My father's crazy. And my mother... Maybe that makes me crazy, too. Did I hit anybody?"

"Uh uh."

I stared into nothingness and tried to fill my mind with what I saw.

"Something happened when you were playing canasta once, Mike. Can you remember what it was?"

"No."

"Was it something bad?"

"No. I don't remember."

"Well, you sure remembered a few minutes ago, and it must have been real bad."

"Canasta. Why did you have to play canasta? Such a stupid game. So..."

"Did you used to play canasta at home?"

"Yeah. Sometimes. In the kitchen."

"Just like tonight, Mike. Who used to play?"

"All five—I mean, well, the four of us." I felt the sheet metal of the bin wall as I leaned against it. It was so cold. It felt good. "Me and Joe and my mother and father."

"Was it like tonight?"

"I don't remember."

"Did you play very often?"

I wiped tears from my face in the blackness. "I... sometimes. A year ago, or so. My father brought home some potato chips. They were left from a meeting with his colleagues, he said. We were playing and eating these chips." I let out a huge sigh and stopped talking.

"Then what happened?"

"I forget."

"Did your father like playing canasta?"

I worked one hand deep into the beans. This was the place. I could talk here. I held a fist full of beans and tried to remember what I had been trying to forget.

"Only thing he ever did with us. Said card games were good. For helping our logic, or something. He was such a bad loser, none of us liked to play with him because... we just didn't. But sometimes he made us play. That time, Joe and I were on one team, and my mother and father were on the other."

Thus began my recollection of the most terrible day in my life, a day I'd pushed to the blackest corner of my mind, a day I vowed never to remember. But I was powerless now. The canasta trigger had unlatched the gate.

TWENTY THREE

I used to let my father win sometimes. He was a good canasta player, but his recklessness would sometimes cause him to make mistakes; and as soon as that happened, he'd lose his temper. Then this game became a mirror of his life; and the players became his enemies, which his life seemed so full of.

It was a Friday night, May 4, 1945. Joe and I were huddled around a calendar, marking off days until our summer vacation. "We can go downtown on the s-streetcar any time we want," I said.

"Yeah," Joe replied. "And other places, too. Maybe catch a bus out to Briggs Stadium and sneak into a Tigers game."

"Y-you think we could get away with that? What if we got caught? They m-might throw us in jail."

"Mike! They don't throw kids in jail for doing stuff like that. Maybe if we robbed a gas station or something, but not just for sneaking into a ball game. Bet a lot of kids do it."

"I sure would like to see P-Prince Hal on the mound."

"Yeah, but Newhouser's going downhill. He—"

"Hey, watch it, Joe." I pushed him with my shoulder. "You just like D-Dizzy Trout's name. Heard about Hank Greenberg? He'll be back soon as he's through killing krauts."

"That what the weird Free Press guy says?"

"Iffy the Dopester?" I laughed. "Isn't he great? Said the Tigers will beat the Browns this year so St. Louis won't have two teams in the World Series again. The Tigers and the Cards in '45."

"Okay," Joe said. "So we've got to make some plans."

"Well, m-maybe we could go and check out Briggs Stadium some time."

"Yeah!" Joe said. "Like those guys in the Dick Tracy comic when they went to case that bank before they knocked it over. We could case Briggs Stadium!"

We watched each other's eyes for a while, trying to judge the other's excitement, trying to see if we really could plan such an adventure for just the two of us.

"What do you think Susie will be d-doing this summer?" I said.

Joe looked away and just stared for the longest time. I watched him and saw him as he really was to me—my strength. I wondered what he saw in me.

"She's okay, Joe. You know Susie. Just makes everybody around her happy."

"Yeah, while we sit here and do nothing about it!"

"But what can we d-do against Mom and Dad?" I said.

"I'll think of something," Joe growled.

"We can't do anything, Joe! Forget it! You'll get in a lot of trouble."

"You think we aren't in trouble now, Mike? Look at who we're living with. If that isn't trouble..."

"We don't even know where they s-sent her."

"You heard the same thing I did," Joe said. "The night before she disappeared."

"She didn't disappear. They sent her someplace. They can legally do that."

"Legally! You've got rocks in your head. They could've sold her to gypsies for all we know." Joe looked at me and shook his head. "Legally. Sometimes I really wonder about you, Mike. You one of them, or one of us?"

I stared at the floor as he continued. "Remember what they said that night? When they thought we were asleep? They had to get rid of at least one of us until one of Dad's plans made us rich. Some relative of Mom's up in Minnesota. Dad voted for Susie, and Mom voted for me."

It was another crushing blow from my loving twin.

"Hey, you two!" my father interrupted. "What do you think about a game of canasta or something?"

Joe looked at me with distrust written in his eyes. I turned from Joe to my father, worry visible in mine. We didn't budge and hoped he would just get tired of waiting for us and go back to the newspaper or go out to meet with one of his colleagues and plan another big business deal.

"I said—how about a game of canasta tonight? Now I know you boys like to play canasta, right? So why the stalling around? Alice! Get the cards out and set up the kitchen table. Come on, everybody. We're going to do a family thing tonight. Alice! You got those cards yet?"

Joe poked me and said, "Come on, Mike. Maybe it'll be fun." Then he turned to my father and said, "Will you promise not to get mad about anything and lose your temper tonight, Dad?"

"Now just what are you talking about, son? I never lose my temper over a little thing like a card game. Where do you get that stuff?"

"The last time we played," Joe said, "you got real mad about freezing the discard pile and knocked our Faygos on the floor and—"

"I did not lose my temper, boy," he said in measured meter. "That was an accident. You had your glass too close to the edge of the table. And besides, you cannot freeze the discards with a joker! You got that, boy?"

"Okay, Cecil! Let's not start out this way," Mom said. "I've got the cards and the chips. Everything's ready."

My father broadcast a wide smile as he walked toward the kitchen. "You know, it's real good for a family to have times like this when we can be together and share all the love we have for each other." He signaled to us with exaggerated gestures and a smile that he may even have believed came right from his heart.

"Don't you remember, Dad?" Joe pressed. "This loving family used to have five happy faces around the table."

"Joe," I whispered, "are you crazy?"

My father's back was toward us, but I could see the knuckles of his left hand tighten on the back of a kitchen chair. My mother quickly stepped to my father's side and touched his arm, ready to duck away from him if necessary. She took a couple of steps toward us, keeping my father in her peripheral vision.

"Now, Joe, is this going to be a game or a battle? Let's forget the sniping and just pick teams," Mom said. "Last time it was Mike and me against—"

"How about Mike and me against you two?" Joe said.

My father scraped his chair toward the table, ignoring what Joe just said. "Okay, I'll deal first. Who's my lucky partner tonight?"

"Well, Cecil, I thought Joe and I could—"

"Mom's your lucky partner tonight," Joe said.

"That's okay with me," he replied. "If you two have a death wish, I won't try to stop you. Just don't come crying to your old pop when you can't make even one canasta." He threw a half grin at Joe. "I won't promise anything, but I might try to help you if I can."

"I'm sure you will, Ol' Pop," Joe said with his eyes fixed on mine. "We can always count on our old pop for help, can't we, Mike?"

I shut my eyes for a few seconds and then made a sign to Joe with my finger slitting across my throat. He nodded his head back and forth at me, self-assured. I couldn't figure out why he seemed ready to take my father on now. He was determined not to give an inch, a dangerous and stupid maneuver. I tried to warn him with a life full of brother signs. He got the message all right, but he wouldn't back off.

"Everybody in this loving family can always count on Pop. At least everybody that's left."

Silence filled our little group until my father spoke, slowly and deliberately. "Look, you little prick of a kid," he said to the double deck of cards in his hands. Then he stopped molesting the cards and raised his gaze until it squarely hit Joe. The veins stood out on the back of his hands. A smile began slowly. "It's not easy being a loving father when all I get is sarcasm from little worthless turds who ought to be grateful for everything they get from their father—instead of just trying to piss him off." He shifted his gaze toward me and said, "You understand that, don't you, Mike?"

The deathly silence frightened me and tempted my eyes to take refuge in the corner of the room, but instead I kept them on my father. Then my mother spoke. "Now Joseph, you just stop being so bull-headed and apologize to your father."

I looked at Joe, and his eyes were fixed on my father. There was not the slightest emotion in his face, just a cold stare.

My father reflected it back. "That's all right. No apology needed. I'm a big man. Just so this piss ant knows the score. And I think you do, don't you, big, brave Joe?"

We sat down at the table. I had never seen Joe so confrontational. I began to appreciate how much Susie's "disappearance" had affected my brother. And I was surprised at the strength I was able to draw from him, as little as it was in absolute terms.

"Okay!" my father began with a lilt in his voice. "What's everybody so serious about?" He shuffled the cards with a long snap. "We're here to have fun, gang! So let's see some smiles!"

Cards flew out as he dealt until a pile sat before each of us. The ordeal of a family card game had begun. We played in silence, only my father seeming to relish the action. Before long, a meld appeared before him for our parents' team and another in front of Joe for our team. Canastas stacked up on both sides about evenly until most of the cards had been played. Both Mom and I played a conservative game, adding to the meld regularly, keeping the cards in our hands to a minimum so we wouldn't be penalized if the other side went out first.

Joe and my father, however, kept their hands full of secrets. Each had a strategy for going out in a flash of glory with some brilliant display of canasta savvy and sticking the opponent with the penalties and disgrace of being caught off guard. Each played for stakes much higher than just points in a canasta game.

I had always seen Joe and my father as opposites until that evening. Joe was happy, considerate, and loving. But I began to appreciate his other side now. My discomfort rose as the stakes grew, and I hoped my father would break the bubble and win and lord it over us all. But I saw that same determination in Joe. I saw him trying to rise above us, to show in some small way, that he stood separate from us. The growing war between them frightened me. I knew the consequence of winning, the prize of the victor.

Then it happened. As soon as Joe reached for the discarded black three from my father, I knew there would be an explosion.

"Hey!" my father said. "You can't pick up a black three!"

"You can if you're going out—Pop."

Joe laid the black three down in front of him and withdrew two more from his hand to meld them. Then he proceeded to distribute cards until there were just seven left in his hand. With some ceremony, he laid down all four red threes and then two deuces and a joker on top, scooped them into a pile with a red three on top and said, "Canasta! And I'm out!"

"What the hell are you doing?" my father said. "You can't make a canasta out of red threes!"

"The rules say you can meld red threes," Joe proclaimed. "And if you can meld them, then you can make a canasta out of them, right?"

"That's bullshit! Who ever heard of a red three canasta?"

"Joe," I said. "Why don't you play those wild cards over here and you can still go out. Look!" I reached over, took the deuces and joker, and put them on his four Jacks. "See, you've got another canasta, and you can still go out. And you can just lay down the red threes like usual. See?"

"No!" Joe grabbed the wild cards and slapped them back under the red threes. "This is a red three canasta! And it's fair!"

"Bullshit!" I heard from my left.

"Joe!" I yelled. "It's not that important! You know what I mean?"

"Look, boy! You take those wild cards out of that canasta right now. Don't you try to cheat me! You just want to stick me with all these cards and go out and be a big hero or something. Well, I'm not going to let you get away with cheating!" He stood up and started to rearrange Joe's cards.

"No! It's not right!" Joe took the cards back and began to rebuild his meld.

Mom stood up and said, "I think we should call this game a draw. Mike, have you and Joe finished your homework? It's time to—"

My father wrenched her by the arm and pushed her toward the sink. "Damn you, woman! I've got to teach this boy not to cheat, and I don't need your interfering! This is between me and Joseph, and I don't want your damn butting in with this crap of yours!"

"No, Cecil! It's just a game! I don't want you hurting these boys over just a game!"

"Game nothing!" he shouted as he pushed her against the sink and grabbed her throat with one hand. "I'll show you a game! I'll show you a game if you ever try to interfere when I'm disciplining the boys!" He knocked her to the floor.

Meanwhile Joe had rearranged the cards to the way they were when he went out. "No, Joe!" I shouted as my father turned back toward us. "Take it back! Take it back!" I backed away from my advancing father. "Tell him you'll take it back! It's only a stupid game! Please tell him you'll take it back!"

But Joe stood beside his cards, one hand gripping the back of his chair and putting it between him and his father. "You don't scare me! I'm not Susie, you know. You can't get rid of me so easy!"

My father grabbed the chair out of Joe's hand and threw it on top of Mom. "Well you stupid little prick! Too stupid to be scared, but I'll change that!" He punched Joe in the face and sent him slamming against me. I grabbed Joe around the waist as my father grabbed him by the arm. Joe landed a good kick against my father's right shin, started swinging fiercely with his free arm, and landed a chance blow to his groin. My father doubled up in pain.

"Run, Joe!" I shouted, but Joe took the opportunity to hit my father again. Mom crawled over to protect me as Joe hit and kicked my father over and over. But he recovered from these small blows and knocked Joe to the floor. Grunting like a wild animal, he grabbed Joe by both shoulders and flung him with all his might across the room. Joe slammed into the sink and slid to the floor. He just lay motionless as my father stood over him.

"Little bastard! I won't have my boy cheating and spreading lies about me!" He kicked the quiet form but got no response. Breathing hard, he stopped kicking and just stood there. "Okay, you learned your lesson. Get up!" There was no response. Mom and I cowered in the corner as he knelt down to help Joe up.

"Damn!" he whispered. Then louder he said, "Damn!.... Alice, get over here and help this boy!"

Mom crawled back across the room to her son and took Joe's bloody head in her arms. "He's not breathing, Cecil. Not doing anything, Cecil." She placed her head against Joe and whispered his name and then whispered it again. Tears began to roll off her cheek and disappear into his hair.

My father stood there, both hands clenched into fists. "If he hadn't cheated. If he just... And then coming at me like that. What the hell was I supposed to do? You saw the way he was acting. What the hell was I supposed to do?" He walked back and forth like a caged tiger, mumbling. He stopped in front of the table. It still bore the cards arranged as Joe had insisted. "Damn-it!" he shouted. "Why the hell did he try to cheat me? Why couldn't he just play right?" He picked up the pile of red threes and threw them across the room.

"Now what are we going to do? Damn-it! Now what are we going to do?" He was answered only with silence as he stormed out of the room. A few minutes later, he reappeared with a travel bag slung over his shoulder. He paused at the kitchen door and then disappeared down the steps.

Mom just sat there with Joe in her arms. I stared across the room at nothing. I turned a red three over and over in my hands. After a while, our wall clock came into focus. It was 8:30 P.M., Eastern War Time.

* * *

I reached up to wipe a tear from my eyes and nearly cut it with something sharp and stiff in my hand. I held it before me in the blackness, seeing nothing, feeling the rounded corners and smooth edges. But slowly the object came into focus, its brilliant red and white colors returning to me through a time channel opened in my mind. There were three red hearts, the bleeding hearts of three hostage children.

On the backside of the card was a queen who oversaw and judged the game of every player. The queen was dressed in her blue and white robes of geometry. Her face was stern and lifeless like the children she had borne.

"Why did we kill him?" I whispered to the image between sniffles. "How could I have done it?"

"No, Mike," I heard a soft voice whisper through sniffles. "It wasn't your fault, Mike. You couldn't have... It was your father, not you. Your father."

"I killed him. I killed him. And my mother killed him."

"Mike," Margo sobbed, "you can't blame yourself for what your father did. He probably would have killed you, too, if you had tried to stop him. I mean—more than you did."

I looked again at the card in my hand, but now I saw only blackness. "We all killed him."

I heard a young body flow toward me through a lifetime of beans. She sat with her back against the granary wall and forced my head into a warm lap studded with beans.

"You're always bragging about how strong Joe was, but he couldn't have handled that situation any better than you did. You'd have to be a boy Hercules to go up against your father. He would have done the same thing to you he did to Joe."

My silence replied as my breathing shallowed and the darkness around me began to suck away the images, leaving only pain. I felt a tear role down my cheek, and then another, like beads of holy water, but they were not mine. They fell from above almost in time with the tremors I felt beneath my head.

"What's going to happen to me, Margo? How can I..."

There was no reply. I knew there could be none. Then a hand worked its way slowly down my arm. My own hand responded, crying for comfort. The red three slipped away as they met.
PART THREE

TWENTY FOUR

My trance was broken by the doors of the glass-encased elevator opening behind me. My vision of Grandpa's elevator ride and the war years dissolved in the bright light from that doorway. Incredibly, I aged fifty years in the same instant. As my eyes adjusted to the light, and my thoughts to another age, people began to enter the elevator. I stepped out and listened to the elevator door close behind me. An image of a lifetime of confessional doors closing struck me. None of them sounded quite like this one, but they all concealed the same lie.

All my life I'd feared what might happen—what must happen—if I actually came back to Detroit to face my past. This trip was not just about Aunt Rae's funeral. I'd been running from the truth for so long. But I had to stop. Not for Joe, or Susie, or my mother—but for me.

"Strength." My own whisper shocked me. But it was what I fought for at this moment.

For a lifetime, I'd been trapped in a lie. For a lifetime, I'd had no future, only a past. I had to confess my sin and claim my future before that lie, and my submission to its icy grip, suffocated me. This slow death was worse than anything else I could imagine. All I knew was that only one priest could hear my confession. Only one confessor had the power to absolve me, because I had told that terrible lie to only that person.

I slowed my breathing and took a step, then another. No sooner did I walk around the next corner than the past confronted me again. But so did the future. I desperately wanted a future. A small lounge with an enormous window faced those same lights that had just exhumed ghosts from some mausoleum within me. But the universe of city lights beyond that window could not distract me from the lone figure seated in that lounge. Though I'd prepared myself for this moment, my feet stopped, my breath paused. Everything but that figure receded.

She sat on a couch facing those city lights, perhaps confessing to them, too. I wanted to approach, yet I wanted to run. If I didn't run now, she might break down that last barrier, the one I'd hidden behind for a lifetime. Yet, I wanted it broken.

Suddenly I looked beyond her and saw us both in that accidental mirror straight ahead. It was too late to run. One more step, and Margo turned toward me.

We examined each other in silence until she rose. I put my hand out formally as I felt my lifetime of barriers slip just a little.

"Margo." It came out raspy, quivering.

She took my hand but did not stop there. Her other hand reached and touched my cheek. "Mike." It came out soft and pure.

That's all that happened for the longest time—our right hands attached, her left hand on my right cheek, my left hand in chains.

"Guess we're not kids anymore." I struggled it out.

"I think you were an adult already when we first met."

I just looked at her, at how age had mellowed her face, but not her eyes.

"But I'm talking like a psychologist," she said. "It's just that I've thought about you so often over the years. You had such a... sadness. For a twelve-year-old boy."

"You helped me." I swallowed and restarted. "You got me through that, Margo. I might not be here today if you hadn't rescued me."

"Maybe you're being melodramatic." Her smile notched down. "But who can say? Come and sit down while we're waiting for our table. Let's catch up."

We arranged ourselves on the couch with a bottle of wine and two empty glasses on the coffee table before us. My eyes caught a glimpse of the tall pine tree on the label, and I picked up the bottle.

"You remember that?" she said as my fingers stroked that smooth memory.

"La Foret Merlot," I replied. "Uncle Johnny's favorite."

"Remember how he used to give us a little on Sunday evenings, and we'd cut some cheese to go with it?"

"Vin et frommage," I said as Margo poured two glasses. "He called it _la fete vin et frommage_. But we're missing the frommage tonight."

"And Uncle Johnny."

I paused as I reached for a glass. "He died, what, about five years ago?"

"Nine, 1984."

"And you've been living with Aunt Rae since then?"

"Yes. We grew very close in those nine years. I don't know what I'm going to do now. We were all the family there was to each other. Maybe you heard about Donnie. That was five years ago. Aunt Rae asked me what I'd do when she died. I always just said, 'What if I die first?' She'd just laugh and tell me what a healthy youngster I was. Well, I guess she was right."

"What happened to her?"

"Just old age, I guess." Margo picked up a glass and said, "Help me remember, Mike. Help me remember Uncle Johnny and Aunt Rae. I can't even hear his voice anymore, and I'm afraid that'll happen with Aunt Rae, too."

"I can hear him crystal clear," I said. "Remember how he used to say, 'Small job for a Frenchman,' and then kind of chuckle?"

"Yes, that's right. I forgot that," Margo said with a smile. "He sort of chuckled through his lips."

"But the real chuckle was in his eyes. They'd twinkle and then you'd hear this little noise through his grin."

"You see. I forgot about that. What else do you remember about those days?"

My eyes shut softly. "Too many things, Margo." Our reverie withdrew to some dark corner. Pressing wine glass sketches into my napkin, I said, "Tell me what happened last Thursday."

"Aunt Rae and I were sitting under the maple tree between the driveways. We'd been out in the garden and just picked our first crop of sugar peas. The last thing she said was, 'You finish shelling these peas and I'll get the water going for the corn.' I found her all slumped over the corn on the kitchen table."

We sipped the deep red wine we'd learned to savor so long ago. I studied her profile, backlit by countless manmade stars spread across the landscape of this once-great city. Forty-five years had changed the signature of a face I knew and loved in another life. But profiles seem less mutable, more able to withstand the mischief of growth and ripening. I could see Margo now, more like she was then. The warmth of this discovery urged me to continue.

"You would have liked Joe."

Margo's eyes left the safety of her wine glass. "I've always liked Joe. You brought him to life for me as sure as if he'd been my own brother. And Susie my own sister. You can't imagine how often I've thought about you three over the years. And your grandpa." She paused, glanced down to her wine glass, and then back at me. "And your mother."

"My mother," I whispered.

"Aunt Rae said she was living in the Detroit area."

"Cantwell Nursing Home, 8460 Harding Avenue, #911, Center Line, Michigan 48015."

"You've been to see her?"

"I'm a very dutiful son. I support Hallmark instead of going to see her. She gets cards from me on all the right days, each one signed with love from her Michael."

"How is she?"

"She's okay."

I raised the merlot to my lips. Margo followed suit.

"It wasn't her fault, Mike."

I finished my glass and said, "You just... you just don't know."

"I know the whole story. Remember the night you told me about how your father killed Joe. We were in the granary and you—"

"I remember every single detail of that night in the granary," I said trying unsuccessfully to summon a smile for Margo. Then I turned to the window. "And I remember every single detail of the night Joe died."

"Is there more to the story?"

I wouldn't answer her. I wouldn't look at her.

"I'd like to hear the rest of it, Mike. Maybe it'll help. Maybe..."

After a while I said, "Maybe. Maybe it's time." I shook my head, chastising myself. "It's way past time, Margo. Way past." I was finally rescued by a waiter who showed us to our table.

The menu was my private monastery wall as the restaurant turned slowly, assuring that each part of the city would get equal representation as the radial geometry of Detroit evolved below.

"I promise not to ask you about Joe's death again if you'll come out from behind your menu."

I lowered the wall enough to show my eyes. When I saw Margo's reaction to them, I realized my anxiety was much higher than I imagined. "I don't know if I can finish that story. And yet..." A deep sigh surprised me. "But if..." I fixed my eyes on her. "When I do, some day, it'll be to you." I placed the menu on my plate and rubbed my eyes. "Isn't that odd?"

"What do you mean?"

"We haven't seen each other for almost fifty years, and here I'm telling you that you're the only one I'd ever tell my secrets to."

"Could it be you've been afraid of me all those years? That you might tell me something you really didn't want me to know?"

I took a sip of La Foret, and Margo did the same. "Could be. Or maybe I'm just afraid of saying it. Out loud. Do you know, you're the only person I ever told that story to? After Joe died, I'd just nod to confirm my mother's story. It didn't really seem like a lie until I told you."

My stare at a blurry wine glass was finally interrupted by Margo. She reached across the table and touched my hand, just for a moment, but long enough. Then she sat up straight in her chair.

"Why don't you tell me about yourself, Mike? Tell me what you've been doing all these years."

"That's seems like it ought to be a pretty big order, but it won't take long. This is the first time I've been back to Michigan since I left to go to the seminary. Spent thirty years in the Army after I quit the seminary. I was a deacon in the Chaplain Corps for a few years. That's kind of a priest's helper. Then I played bassoon in the Eighth Division Band. After that, I pushed papers in a procurement office at Leavenworth for several years, then ran the BOQ, bachelor officer quarters, at Dix. Then I retired and moved back to Kansas. That seemed like the place I liked best."

"Have you ever married?"

"No." We both played with our wine glasses until I said, "How about you?"

"I married a great guy. Then after sixteen years, one day he just left. I think it was because we never had any kids, and he wanted a family. He married this really gorgeous young woman; and the last I heard ten years later, they still didn't have any kids. I just never remarried. Went to nursing school after the divorce, and that's what I did until I went to live with Aunt Rae."

We ate our dinner peppered with small talk and the mandatory praise about the dinner and the view.

Over a cup of coffee, Margo said, "What did you like about Kansas enough to go back there to live?"

"Just the feel of it, I guess." I stared at an overhead light in the surface of my coffee. "And a woman. I met her when I was at Leavenworth. Wanted to ask her to marry me then, but I didn't."

"So what happened when you got back there?" Margo asked with animation.

"Never asked her."

"The old spark wasn't there anymore?"

"I don't think it was a spark problem. There seemed to be enough of that. I just... just couldn't."

"Was it your mother?"

"Oh, boy." My grip tightened on my coffee cup.

"I'm sorry, Mike. That's not fair. I'm just being an amateur psychologist again."

"That's okay. I've faced this before, and I don't think it's my mother. It's me. I just can't do that to a woman I love. Jane had her own problems. She didn't need a giant headache wrapped around her."

"Mike, you have so much kindness to offer."

"You're right, I do. But there's another part of me that isn't very kind. It's not even..." I shifted my gaze out the window. The glowing ball atop the Penobscot Building took me back fifty years. I was holding Susie's hand as that same ball slowly drew a curtain across three carefree children as they saluted their youth. The same shadow has crept in silence across that faceless stage a million times since that day, and a million times we were denied it.

"Where is the viewing going to be?" I asked.

"You remember Mortensen's Funeral Home in Burton?"

"Hm. The white house just off the main road," I said.

"Right. That's M-82. And the house is bigger and whiter since John's daughter took it over."

"A lady undertaker."

"Yes," Margo said with a grin. "We're very progressive. At least Rita Mortensen Trooper is very progressive. The viewing starts at one o'clock, then the funeral is Wednesday morning at ten at Sacred Heart Church." She rearranged the leftover silverware beside where her plate had been. "I was hoping you could stay with me tomorrow night. I'm all alone in that big house now."

"Thank you. I'd like that."

"And if you're not in any hurry to get home, you're welcome to stay. For as long as you like. It would be a nice vacation for you, and it would sure help me get over being by myself again."

"Where you going to live now?"

"I guess I'll stay in the farm house. Aunt Rae left it to me, you know. She sold the farm after Uncle Johnny died but kept the house and a couple acres. Mike Gamble right behind us bought the rest. It's hard to believe I'm her only living kin. Except for you and your mom."

"And Susie," I said.

"Yes. I don't know what happened to Susie."

"That's a long story." I reached for the check and gladly lost myself in the numbers.

TWENTY FIVE

Farms filed past to the south as our tires drummed out a syncopation that bore me back in time and space. Each farm would emerge from a speck lost in the ashen band where the horizon should be, and then slowly swell until the red barn with classic white doors stood beside a white clapboard or red brick house. That farm would then be replaced by another speck that knew its part in our kinetic geometry. Finally, a barn arose across a field of climbing grain that seemed different. When the great, black doors separated themselves from the red barn, I saw a half century fade away. As we approached, I could see that the new owner hadn't made the black paint blaze like Uncle Johnny did, but it was clearly his enduring signature on this red and white landscape.

I awoke the next morning in the bed that Donnie and I had shared all those years ago. The sun put the same patch on the foot of the bed in the exact same spot. The dew dripped from the same board on the overhang just outside the window. That single drop of water captured me again as light spun out of it. I'd learned a lifetime ago to predict the exact second when the drip would release itself and plummet to the next stage in its endless lifespan. The drip would reach its maximum extension just as the rays dance upward and barely skim the ceiling. That was the instant when gravity would free that tiny drop from its grip.

It let go precisely on schedule. It had remembered over all those years and all those timeless journeys through rivers and oceans, and finally back to this singular spot. The memory of a water droplet is so much more than that of a boy. It will remember this step long after the boy has returned to the earth and left not the finest trace on the tablet of time. The drop of water writes its rules in indelible ink.

I raised my hands from beneath the sheets and examined them in the light of this new dawn. They were not the same hands, nor the same eyes looking at them. But the brain behind those eyes had changed surprisingly little over those decades. It still hid from the same truth.

Margo sat on an ancient steel glider on the front porch. The steam from her cup of coffee rose as the Bay City Times rested unopened on her lap. Aunt Rae used to sit in that exact spot on the mornings when she could afford such a luxury. Uncle Johnny would sometimes sit beside her when his chores allowed.

"This seat taken?" I said.

"Been saving it for you."

"Sharp still talking about getting rid of that stone pile?"

"Sharp's been dead now for several years, but he groused about that pile of rocks 'til his last day on earth. His grandfather started that pile a hundred years ago. It always bugged Sharp to have to work around it. He apologized to Uncle Johnny about it disrupting their view of his bean field, but Uncle Johnny assured him it added a touch of art to a boring field of straight rows, or at least straight as Sharp could make them. They were getting pretty wavy the last few years before he died. He would never trust his boy, Finn, to pull the planter."

"Did Donnie ever come back after high school?"

Margo was silent for a while as her eyes studied the rows of wheat stubble flowing around the stone pile about ten rods beyond the dirt road directly in front of her front porch. "You know about the promise Uncle Johnny and Aunt Rae made to my mom before she died? They promised they'd send us to high school in the city."

"Yeah, I remember."

Margo turned toward me and sighed through a forced smile. "Donnie started high school down in East Detroit the same year you left for that seminary in Ohio. We both lived with Dad then, and we both went to the same high school, but Donnie got in with some bad kids, and it changed him a lot. He was so intent on those punks liking him. He just forgot about me. And everybody else. It took him a lot of years to work his way back into the human race, and by then he'd just plain forgot about Uncle Johnny and Aunt Rae. They'd always ask me about him, and I'd say how I never saw him either, although that wasn't quite true.

"Anyway, the years flew by, and then Uncle Johnny died, right over on the other farm. Aunt Rae found him when she went to take him lunch. A stone had gotten lodged in the cultivator really tight. He had a trick he showed Aunt Rae once for getting out a stone that's stuck tight. He always carried an ice spud on the tractor, and he could only do this with the Moline because it had a hand clutch. He'd jam the spud into the ground right behind the stone and then nudge the tractor backward just a little while standing on the cultivator and hanging onto the spud handle with one hand and working the clutch with the other. He told Aunt Rae it was dangerous, and she should never try it because there was the chance of falling and getting run over by the tractor.

"Apparently, when the tractor jerked forward, he fell. But the tractor didn't run over him because he hadn't fully engaged the clutch. He just hit his head on some steel part, and that's what killed him."

I quietly studied Sharp's stone pile. "You can die from hitting your head too hard," I said.

Margo reached and touched my arm. We sat in silence for a long time.

After breakfast, we walked around in the barn. The same red combine that Uncle Johnny bought the summer I left was parked there. The wheat and oats were in, so it wouldn't be used again for a couple months until the beans were ready.

I looked up a long gray ladder leading to the top of the granary. "Anything in the bins?"

"I guess Mike Gamble put most of the wheat and oats in the north bins, and I think there may be some beans left from last year on the south side. Want to take a look?"

"Remember the time," I said, "when you wouldn't go up the ladder because you were wearing a skirt? Even when I offered to go up first, you still wouldn't."

"Well, I'm not wearing a skirt now. Would you allow me the pleasure of preceding you up the ladder today?"

Halfway up the ladder, I said, "You know, Margo, from this angle you look exactly like you did forty-five years ago."

Margo stopped and looked down at me, "Thanks, Mike. That's a compliment, isn't it?" Then she chuckled at the top of my head. "And if you were wearing a Tigers cap, I could say the same thing about you."

Three bins were full of grain, and one was full of white beans. Suddenly, Margo was sitting on the catwalk taking her shoes off. "Come on, Mike. I haven't done this for a long time, and I'll bet the Army doesn't even have granaries."

"You'd be surprised what the Army has, though Army beans would probably be in classified granaries just to keep riff raff like us out of them." Before I finished my sentence, Margo had jumped from the catwalk into the beans.

"Come on in. The beans are fine. Hardly any surf today." Margo made swimming motions as I removed my socks. The beans really were fine, and a joy blossomed in me and caught me by surprise. For a moment, I didn't recognize it. Then when Margo began burying me, it came into focus. This was just fun, no more, no less. We giggled like school kids on an outing. I hadn't had just fun in a long time.

Then I started burying Margo. "You've got to work your butt down into the beans more," I said. "And quit wiggling your toes or I'll never keep them covered."

"Can't wiggle my butt and not wiggle my toes. They're connected, you know."

"Okay. I've got your bottom half covered, now comes the big problem—or problems."

"You mean my huge buzooms. You'll just have to do your best on them suckers. They sure weren't anything like this the last time you saw me."

"I thought your breasts were beautiful the last time I saw you."

"What! You, Michael Tether, noticed my breasts when I was in the eighth grade?"

"The last time we saw each other, you were in the ninth grade, and I was in the eighth grade. Remember that Easter weekend your dad let you come up on the bus, and we picked you up in Bay City?"

"Wow! I don't even remember that. But you do, and you remember my breasts. No wonder you never became a priest."

"Yeah," I said as I finally got everything covered but her face, "my impure thoughts certainly were an impediment to becoming a priest."

"You would have been a great priest, Mike. You would have been so caring and so understanding, but not too holy."

"I finally figured out that I wasn't the one who wanted me to be a priest. It was my mother. I was supposed to be her soldier in the battle against evil. She used to tell me that so often, and I never could figure out why she chose me to be the soldier rather than Joe. He was so much stronger. He would never have ended up pushing forms through an Army procurement office. He'd have been a Green Beret or a gunship pilot or something. But for some reason, I was the one chosen by my mother to be the soldier. And I lived my life trying to fulfill her dream in some way, even after she was gone from my life."

"I don't think your mother can ever be gone from your life. My mother is still shaping my life fifty years after she died."

"But your mother was different, Margo. You..." I couldn't finish the sentence.

"I loved my mother?"

I lifted my eyes to hers, then away.

"Don't forget, Mike. You told me all those stories about growing up in Detroit, and I remember every one of them. I think I remember your childhood better than I do my own. And one thing I can tell you is that when you were twelve, you loved your mother with a passion that I couldn't begin to understand. I envied you then. I wished I could love my mother the way you loved yours. Actually felt guilty that I couldn't reach your standard of love. Can you imagine that?"

I stared at Margo as she sat up and displaced the mountain of beans I'd worked so hard on. "I don't know how your love for your mother has evolved over the years, Mike, but it was pretty amazing then. And not just your mother. The way you talked about Joe and Susie, and your grandfather."

"Maybe what you saw wasn't love. Maybe it was just... jealousy."

"Jealousy? Maybe, but I think I know the difference between love and jealousy."

I stood up and looked toward a thin streak of sun coming through the vent under the gable. The dust particles danced in the beam just like they always had. "Those people are all in my past. I can't even tell how I feel about them anymore."

"They may be in your past, Mike. But it's not that easy. They are also in your present. And—you still need to deal with your mother... and Susie. They both need you, and I think you need them."

My eyes followed the sliver of light to where it fell on something that didn't seem to belong. There was a spot where a roof beam tied into a rafter at the side of the bin we were in. I took two steps toward it, and forty-seven years vanished. My hand reached back through a half century of harvests and storms and spring thaws and sunsets. I removed the object that was partly under a rafter and held it like an archeologist lifting the remains of an ancient culture. But I knew the history of this thing. I didn't have to study it and try to figure out how it fit into the lives of some bygone people. I could see through its dust to the red heart in the corner. I confronted the red three's stern history.

I felt Margo touch my arm. "How did that get here?" she said.

"I put it there. While you were climbing out of the bin that night, I just stuck it in that crack. I don't know why. I just... did."

"These hearts have aged gracefully," she said, brushing years of dust easily from the red symbols of love in a comfortable world of civilized rules. "It was right here. Same bin, different beans."

"And the same lie," I said.

"What do you mean, Mike? You said that at the restaurant, too."

"It's time I tell you what really happened that night. About ten years ago, I begged out of a trip to the Army Tank Command in Detroit. I was terrified to come back here. Can you imagine? I pretended to be sick just to get somebody to take my place."

"What changed your mind this time?"

"Lily."

"Lily Portage?"

I pulled a small object from my pocket and handed it to Margo.

"What's this? A steel ball or something?"

"Lead. Lily gave it to me. Said he dug it out of his leg a long time ago. I found it and started carrying it in my pocket. When I heard Aunt Rae died, I knew what I had to do."

Margo's eyes rose from that ancient bullet to my eyes.

"And here I am." A swallow went down hard. "Only a lifetime late."

She closed her hand around the lead ball and said, "Go ahead, Mike."

"It all started with a stupid card game." I snapped the card with my thumb as we sat down, our backs against the side of the bin. The light beam had now moved to where it disappeared into the shadows of the granary. I reached into those shadows for truth, and forgiveness.

* * *

"Mama, what are we going to do?" I asked after the front door slammed shut, and my father's footsteps disappeared down the front walk. "Joe's hurt bad. We've got to get him to the hospital."

Joe's head was cradled in my mother's arms, and she hugged him and wiped blood from around his mouth. "Joseph. Joseph. Why you? It wasn't God's will for you to be the soldier. You took up the sword instead of..." She shook her head as a drop of holy water anointed his forehead. "Michael was supposed to... It was God's holy will. You changed the natural order. Why? It was so sinful. So arrogant."

We listened to Joe's rasping breath. He could only breathe through his nose. His mouth was filled with blood and vomit. Every breath whistled as the only sign of life from his impassive body. But that whistle told me he was still fighting, like he always had. Fighting for his life, for our lives. Joe would never give up. He was too strong.

"Sinful and arrogant, Joseph. You stole that strength from Michael. Stole what was his. And now there's only one way to give it back. You know that don't you. And now you must release it to your brother. It belongs to him, as it is written."

"What are you talking about, Mama? Joe didn't do anything wrong. He needs help. We've got to call an ambulance. He's going to die if we don't help him. Mama, please. I'll run downstairs and use Harper's phone. Remember? They said we could, in an emergency."

"No!" She grabbed my arm and pulled me beside her. "Stay with us. It's what the boy Jesus would do for His mother."

She turned back to Joe. "You have defied the Lord and taunted his archangels all these years. Now the power of the Word shall make it right. But God will be merciful unto you. Even now, He is preparing a place for you in His holy kingdom. He knows that even a sinner can be saved if he but repents, as I know you are doing now. It is time to turn the keys over to the rightful son."

She bent down and kissed his forehead. She pulled a folded white handkerchief from her apron pocket. "Michael, hold your brother's hand and pray with him as he enters the Garden of Paradise. Rejoice with all the angels in Heaven for the lamb that was lost."

"Mama, you're talking crazy! Joe's not a sinner. He's good. He tried to protect us from Dad. Now we've got to help him."

"Michael! Get hold of yourself! Listen to me! Jesus always obeyed his mother, as you must if you want to be like Jesus. Don't be arrogant and defile the Holy Scriptures like your brother did. Don't you see? He has finally submitted to the will of the Father. Help him now. He needs your help now more than ever. Don't run away from him."

She placed the soft handkerchief over Joe's face. The faint whistling continued but so lightly the handkerchief didn't flutter the slightest. She reached over it, placed her thumb and index finger gently over Joe's nose, and squeezed his nostrils together. The whistle stopped.

"No!" I shouted as I pulled her hand away.

"Joseph! I mean Michael! Don't work against God! You are either with God or against Him. There is no middle ground. Give your spirit and your trust to Him, and you shall gain everlasting happiness. Your brother is trying to do that now, but you won't let him. Why do you think he picked that fight with your father? He knew it would end this way. Don't stand in the way of his everlasting peace."

She pinched his nostrils again, extinguishing again the faint whistle. "Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world."

"Joe! Joe! Is this really your will?" I sobbed. "Is this really God's holy will? Just tell me, Joe. All I need is to know. I'll do whatever is best for you."

"Then pray with me. Pray with your brother. He is making straight the way he made crooked." She pressed me into her bosom. The three of us stayed there perfectly still and silent for a long time. I knew that if this was not Joe's will, he would summon the strength to let me know. I knew he could and would do that. He had never let me down before. I waited for his response. I prayed for it. Our silence was broken only by my mother's sobs. And by mine.

* * *

Margo and I sat in silence. When I opened my eyes, I didn't realize where I was until I felt two arms pressing me into her. "Mama," I said as the tears came. "Was it right?"

Margo rocked gently, as if such motion could revive—or absolve. "Mike. Mike. I wish you'd told me that night. Maybe I could have... Maybe it would have helped. Somehow. That's the most terrible story I've ever heard."

"It's the story of my life. Of Joe's life. He just happened to have the wrong mother—and the wrong brother." I wiped tears from my face, tears poised there for fifty years, eager for release—vintage tears. We sat in silence as tears gently rolled from sinner and confessor.

"When we were little," I said, "we used to play funeral. One of us would lay in this old wagon like he was dead, and the other two would pull him around. Sometimes we'd have a contest to see who could play dead the best. Joe always won. He looked just like that. When he laid in Mom's arms, he looked... It's like he'd been practicing all those times before. That's what I thought when I looked at him. Can you imagine thinking something like that when... when you're looking at your twin? And you just helped murder him? Maybe if I'd been a better pretender, it would have been..."

"Oh, Mike. Joe and Susie could never have had a better brother. The three of you made life bearable for each other all those hard years. You loved each other and each of you knew it. What happened to them was your mother and father's fault. Don't judge yourself then by your standards now. You were just a little kid. And under your mother's spell."

"I'm still..." I looked through the three hearts in my hand. "She has always been my blessed mother." A tear landed on the card and ran through three hearts, joining them one last time.

There was a silence as we both descended from the emotions of those long ago events to the inescapable present.

"There's one thing I didn't understand, Mike. Your mother called Joe the Lamb of God. What did that mean?"

"That's right. I forgot you didn't have all the Catholic training that I take for granted."

"I went to Sacred Heart Catholic School for the four years I lived here on the farm."

"Not enough, Margo. Not nearly enough. You remember the Agnus Dei part of the Mass?"

"Uh huh."

"Agnus Dei, qui tolis pecata mundi, miserere nobis."

"Yeah, I remember that. What does it mean?"

"Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy..." I had to stop and take several deep breaths before I could continue. "Have mercy on us."

I rubbed the red three between my thumb and finger, feeling the ancient language come back to life. "It means that Jesus was the sacrificial lamb sent by..." I stopped again. "Sent by his father to redeem the sins of man. He had to die, so it would be a perfect sacrifice—and acceptable to a perfect God. I think my mother always knew that Joe would have to die. Maybe even Joe knew, like Jesus did."

I stared at the red three—a Holy Trinity—enduring for all time as we men, and lambs, turn to dust. I placed the card back under the rafter.

TWENTY SIX

That afternoon, we drove to Mortensen's Funeral Home for Aunt Rae's viewing. I said goodbye to the woman who had rescued me from my fate in Detroit. Uncle Johnny lived beside her in my thoughts. My guilt at never returning to them during all those years bounced off me like bullets off kryptonite. I had so much experience with guilt that such a minor offense couldn't penetrate my armor.

In the evening, we sat again on the front porch with long shadows creeping across the road and challenging Sharp's stone pile.

"I want to go and see my mother," I said to the steam rising from my tea.

Margo's shadow nodded. "It's time."

"Time to forgive."

"And to ask for forgiveness," she added.

"Yes, that too."

"You both need it, Mike. For both your sakes. You need it as much as she does."

I sipped my tea and looked toward her just as the red ball of the sun disappeared beside her. The sun-reddened glow of her hair was extinguished as I reached for her hand. Her hand turned slowly over, and our fingers intertwined. We sat for a long time just looking at our hands. Then her other hand, still warm from the teacup, covered the back of mine and slowly rubbed it, bringing every part of me to life. I closed my eyes and whispered, "I didn't want this to happen, Margo."

"Yes you did, Mike. We've loved each other our whole lives, ever since that day you kissed me in the back of Uncle Johnny's pickup. But this time I'm not running away. I can wait until you're ready. It's been half a century, so what's a little more time?"

I lifted our three hands and kissed the back of hers. "So you remember that."

"Remember it. I've replayed it over and over ever since you called and said you were coming to Aunt Rae's funeral."

"Why did you run away?"

"Ha. I was just a dumb farm girl. You scared me. I guess you made me see a part of me I didn't know was so..."

"Alive?"

"That's good, Mike. That is the right word. But maybe not exactly the way you meant it. I was ready for you, but I didn't know it until you kissed me. I think that realization scared me. But I'm not a dumb farm girl anymore."

"You never were, Margo. You used to brag about how sophisticated you were. And you were, too."

Her smile matched the subtle shadows in the afterglow of a summer evening as we sat in silence, recalling selected parts of our past, trying to merge them into the alloy of our present. "How about going to see your mother day after tomorrow? We probably won't have time after the funeral tomorrow. It's about a two hour drive."

"I need someone like you to keep me directed," I said. "I can easily see me chickening out if left to myself."

"Then it's a date?"

"Yes. A date."

* * *

The Cantwell Nursing Home rose out of the asphalted earth like everything else in that sterile land. Its generic beige brick walls competed with the ordered array of aluminum windows for the honor of the most vulgar expression of suburban America. It was only fitting that this convenience to the modern, self-absorbed family, the nursing home, should be so aptly housed.

When we stepped off the elevator, Margo volunteered to wait in the lounge so I could be alone with my mother for a while. The blinds were closed in her room. I crossed to a bed and examined it before realizing it was empty. I sensed someone in the room, but the other bed was also undisturbed. Then I saw a wheelchair nearly under my nose, and my gaze fell to a ball of white hair tilted to one side of a pair of white shoulders.

The old woman faced the window with her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling shallowly. I stepped around the wheelchair and dropped slowly to one knee, terrified by what might happen next. A knot tightened somewhere in my gut and rose slowly toward my chest. My mind shot back to the last time I saw this woman.

I was wrapping a peanut butter sandwich in a piece of waxed paper. As I slipped a rubber band around it, she walked up to me, kissed my forehead, brushed my hair aside, and kissed it again. She reminded me to put the milk in the Frigidaire before I left for school. She would see me when she got home from work. There was no air of foreboding, no hint that we would not see each other again for a half century. Just an ordinary goodbye at the start of an ordinary day.

I listened to her footsteps on the stairs. The even pattern paused as she stepped to the side of the broken step. Then it continued until the front door opened and closed. Then four more beats on the porch steps. Then she disappeared from my life.

I had to force my eyes to the face of this stranger, wincing at the frozen pain and fear that trapped her even in sleep. I'd thought about how she might look, but my imagination wasn't up to what fifty years had done to that face. It grimaced at me from an agitated sleep. There seemed to be some conflict raging within her as spasms marched from her eyes to her mouth and back again over the rutted terrain dividing them. Even her mottled hands jumped in time to the movements of those troops.

I sat down in a chair against the wall, captured by the vision of a mother I'd loved and hated all my life. I sat to wait for her. As the novelty of sitting in the same room with my mother began to wear off, I started to look around and fidget. There were no photos, and I wondered about the people who must have populated her life after I fell off the list. There must have been many people, some of them even close. She mentioned a man named Oliver once in a Christmas card. But that must have been fifteen or twenty years ago. Did I ever mention another person in one of my cards? No, of course not. I probably didn't write a half dozen sentences in all those years. My correspondence was limited to a dozen or so Mother's Day and birthday cards, and most of those were in the last few years.

I had no idea what kind of life my mother had led after she ran away. "Ran away," I whispered. "You ran away. From me? From Joe?" I asked the person seated before me. She'd gone into a quiescent stage now, a peaceful stage. She didn't answer.

I opened a drawer beside her bed. There was a blue glass rosary. I fingered the beads as she had taught me so long before. "Blue is the Blessed Mother's color," I said. "Is this the rosary? You used to put it around the Virgin Mary's hands on the May altar I made every year."

I pressed the crucified Jesus between my fingers. That feeling came back to me. I used to do that when I sat on her lap, but maybe not. I swallowed hard as I replaced the rosary. "Ghosts. So many ghosts."

Then a stack of letters caught my eye. The return address was in Minnesota. Could this be? I reached for the pack. They felt warm to my touch. My childhood tingled in my fingers as the letters rose from the drawer. My breathing went out of control. I closed my eyes and the bark of Queen touched my ears. A small hand on my arm tugged at me. I found one of the letters open and trembling in my hand, but I could not focus on it. Then the words began to appear. The handwriting was jerky with spikes.

I gulped the words as a diver grasping his first breath after being under water much too long, beyond reason. I had to slow down, take smaller steps. I had to check the flow of words. They were getting tangled up with memories. There was so much confusion. The starvation for news of my sister had been accumulating for so long. I wasn't aware of just how famished I was until I inhaled the first breath from that page.

I throttled down my racing eyes and reread the letter. It was brief, just one side of a page. And it was mostly inane, chatty phrases. Then I reached the last paragraph:

"I don't know why you won't send me Mike's address. Aunt Claire is dead now, and she was the only one who knew about those relatives in Michigan who might know where he lives. He is my brother, you know. Please tell me."

I held the letter for a long time, my eyes returning to my name. There it was, in Susie's own hand—my name. She wanted to contact me. I looked to the top of the page. It was over a year ago. My mother had been here about three years.

My eyes searched around the drawer some more. There was a Bible. It had been black but the corners were worn to beige. I rubbed my hand over the once-gold lettering on its cover. Could this be the same Bible she used to read to me from? I opened it to the family information page. "Cecil T. Tether," I read out loud. "Alice R. Flynn, married January 21, 1932, children: Joseph William, March 27, 1933, 1:46 P.M., Michael Steven, March 27, 1933, 1:51 P.M." There was no other entry.

The Bible dropped closed on my lap. My fingers traced the worn gold title, and then rubbed the smooth edges of the page, which were also covered with patchy gold. But they weren't quite smooth. I opened the book to the page where the makeshift bookmark protruded slightly. It was a photograph of Joe and me. I examined the text around that bookmark and found a place where the paper was smudged with the oil and grime of countless reflections, countless readings. It was the Book of Genesis, Chapter 25. I began reading, as my mother must have so often before.

21.And Isaac entreated the Lord for his wife, because she was barren: and the Lord was entreated of him, and Rebekah his wife conceived.

22.And the children struggled within her, and she said, If it be so, why am I thus? And she went to inquire of the Lord.

23.And the Lord said unto her,

Two nations are in thy womb,

and two manner of people shall be separated from thy bowels;

and the one people shall be stronger than the other people;

and the elder shall serve the younger.

24.And when her days to be delivered were fulfilled, behold, there were twins in her womb.

25.And the first came out red, all over like a hairy garment; and they called his name Esau.

26.And after that came his brother out, and his hand took hold on Esau's heel; and his name was called Jacob.

I flipped back to the front of the Bible. Joe was born first. In astonishment, my gaze shifted up to my mother's face. Could this have been the source of her troubled relationship with her sons? I studied that face and imagined the battles being waged behind it, battles for territory I never even knew existed. Battles between brothers who've been warring for thousands of years, and I just now discovered the war. And I just now discovered my mother's convoluted view of a boy I'd loved as a brother, and she'd hated as a son, her first born—the elder who was to serve the younger. Joe had the audacity to be strong, but that was my role. Joe and I had unwittingly conspired to stop our mother from fulfilling her mission—the sacred duty she'd inherited from her mother.

I reread the passage. It made no sense to modern lives, but here it was, fully integrated into the canyon separating two unsuspecting boys, and torturing a mother who would always hate them for not playing theirs roles according to the inspired word of God.

I replaced the Bible in the drawer and then stared at suburbia beyond the window, though not really seeing anything. I suddenly became aware of being watched. When I shifted my gaze to my mother, I found her eyes studying me as intently as I had studied her earlier. Neither of us disturbed this silent dialogue.

I was shocked by her voice. "Why are you here?"

"I wanted... I needed to see you."

Her eyes penetrated a lifetime. "After all these years? You couldn't just let me die in peace?"

"I need peace, too... Mom."

"You? I did everything, everything I could for you, but you..." She looked down as if examining her hands. "My hope." She looked up at me. "You were my hope. Know what it means to lose your hope?"

I wanted to look away. I wanted to tell her that hope is what I've missed my whole life. How often in my early years I prayed for hope. Later, I just wished for it. Hope and future are tied so tightly together. For a half century, I've had only a past. No hope. No future. But I wasn't yet ready for that kind of a dialog.

"Susie could be your hope, too."

"No. Susie could never..."

I watched her gaze fall to the floor. "Can't you ever forgive Susie for being a girl?" I asked.

"You're the one I can't forgive. You could have been great. You were..."

"How about Joe? Have you ever forgiven yourself for Joe's death?"

She closed her eyes as if traveling back. Then she glared at me and said, "No! That was your father's doing. Evil man. And Joseph was evil. They deserved each other. But you were wonderful, Michael. You were so wonderful. My boy. My only boy."

"Joe was my brother. I can never forgive myself—us—for what happened to him."

"Your father killed him." She stared straight ahead. "Your father. Evil man."

"How can we ever have peace if we can't even admit what really happened, Mom. We killed Joe. You and me, not Dad."

She turned toward the window. "Trying to confuse me. I know your trick. I'm old. Trying to make me think something bad. Something that didn't really happen. That's the devil working in you. But you're too good for that. Not me, but you."

"We can never become better than we are if we can't admit who we've been. We did something so terrible there may not be enough forgiveness for us. But we have to at least ask for forgiveness."

"I don't want to talk to you anymore."

She looked out the window and ignored my hand when it dared to touch hers. I rose and walked past her, then stopped and turned around to face her in a mirror over the sink. Our eyes met.

"I'll come back to see you, Mama, if it's okay."

Her eyes glistened with tears as she said, "Michael. Who do we ask?"

"What do you mean?"

"For forgiveness, Michael. Who do we ask?"

"Ourselves, Mama." I rested my hand on her shoulder. "We start by asking ourselves."

* * *

Margo's car hummed its steady song of a northward journey, a journey home.

"I'm so happy you and your mother have started a reconciliation. We can come down as often as you want. That is, if you want to stay for a while."

My hand crossed the space between us and met her hand. They rejoiced in each other. "You're like Eve tempting me with the forbidden fruit. And I accept." I felt a smile spread over my face. It was a welcome feeling, a strange feeling.

Margo stole a glance at me. "You're beautiful when you smile, Mike."

"Trying to say I should do it more often?"

"Yes."

"When I had Joe and Susie, my life seemed full of smiles. Well, maybe not full, but you know what I mean. Then you were there, and I couldn't figure out why I sometimes wanted to smile, but it just didn't feel right. Then you were gone, so fast, and for so long. Smiles didn't have much of a chance after that."

"But I'm back. And I'm not so easy to send away any more. So you better practice that smile of yours. I think you'll be needing it a lot more, from now on."

I brought her hand up to my lips and kissed it. Then I placed her fingers across my mouth so she could feel my smile. She laughed and swerved a little in her lane.

Margo was right. I needed that smile a lot after that. It was such an unusual experience that I was conscious of it each time it happened. She said I'd get used to it after a while. She'd see to that. I told her I didn't want to ever take it for granted. It was too beautiful, and I wanted to know when I was beautiful.

We talked like that most of the night as we pressed our bodies close, and my smile touched every part of her. And my mother wasn't there, nor any other part of my unforgettable family. For the first time, it was just Margo and me—and my beautiful, beautiful smile.

TWENTY SEVEN

I sat in Uncle Johnny's easy chair and touched the worn arms that held his arms every evening as he read the _Bay City Times_ or _Field and Stream_. There on the book shelf beside the chair was the cigarette burn where it had fallen from the ashtray one evening. I could still hear Aunt Rae's lecture to him about the dangers of smoking, not to his lungs but to their house. He just pulled her onto his lap and said, "I'll stop smoking, Chickie, if you stop baking those sinfully delicious apple pies." Then they laughed and hugged each other and ended the conversation with a kiss. I watched jealously from the other end of the room where I pretended to be reading a _Reader's Digest_.

My finger outlined the burn mark, still warm to the touch after all those years. My fingers followed my eyes to the row of books—a _1988 Farmer's Almanac_ and _Nineteenth Century French Verse_. My eyes stopped suddenly on the next book. It was very small with a worn black cover and no title on the spine. But I knew the title. I opened it to the cover page: _The Search for Immortality_. I paged through the book, remembering how I'd devoured it as a boy.

"What you got, Mike?" came the question from beside me.

I looked up at Margo. "Where did this come from?"

"Ha! We found that out in the barn after Uncle Johnny died. I guess he was a closet reincarnationist or something. Aunt Rae wanted to throw it out, but I saved it and convinced her that it was a part of who Uncle Johnny was, whether she liked it or not, and we should keep it in his memory. I read a couple little bits of it and just put it here. I don't think it's been touched since."

I flipped through a few more pages, stopping to read a couple paragraphs out loud.

"You believe in that stuff?" she asked.

"I don't know. It..." I flipped a few more pages. "Uncle Johnny showed this to me once. I read it cover to cover a couple times—out in the barn, of course. He told me Aunt Rae had some powerful feelings about it and would never let such a thing in the house."

"What attracted you to it?" Margo asked, slipping onto my lap.

I happily accepted her. "Well, there's this chapter on people who take over the role of somebody else, without that person dying first. It's like there's two people playing the same role, but that's necessary sometimes because the first person might be sick or gone away or, I don't know, maybe not able or willing to do what he's supposed to."

"Hm. Sounds like you could rationalize just about any situation with that kind of theory."

I ran my fingers over the pages. They felt familiar. But they were just paper.

"Whatever happened to Lily?" I said.

"He's still right where you saw him last."

"What? He's still alive?"

"Yeah. And still living in that little shack. Only difference is he doesn't get out much any more."

"He must be really old," I said. "He was probably fifty back when I was here last. That'd put him in his nineties. Do you ever see him?"

"Aunt Rae or I used to drive him into Burton to go shopping once a week or so. He always insisted on walking over here, though, with those two green canvas shopping bags. The last year or so, we mostly just take him stuff. But he still keeps house just fine and works around his place. And tells great stories. He's a pretty amazing guy."

"Yeah, I thought so too. That's his house there, isn't it." I pointed through the far living room window where I could just see Lily's house through the orchard. "I want to go see him. I need to go see him."

"You want any company, or is this a guy only encounter?"

"I'd like to go by myself. By the way, is Demon still around?"

"You're really getting into this reenactment thing, aren't you?" We both laughed as she got off my lap, and we started toward the back door. "Demon is right in the garage. A lot of kids rode him over the years. I rode him myself a few times. Tires are probably soft, but we've got a good tire pump."

There in the back corner of the garage, resting, was my Demon. I rubbed my hands over what was left of the flames. I spun the pedal.

As I pedaled down the lane toward Lily's house, I came upon a muddy spot, stopped, and looked back toward the road. "This is the spot," I said and chuckled. "The same mud hole is still here." Closer to the house, I could see that the bricks still played essential roles. They might not have been in all the same places, but just as many demands were being made of them as before. An antique army jeep, with flat tires and weeds invading it, stood at ease awaiting its next assignment. My hand explored the rusted rear gun mount as my mind reveled in the wind sweeping through the hair of a boy learning to survive on the long road of a motherless and brotherless life.

The bricks leading to his back door were much more numerous now so walking on them was easier. As I stepped to the door to knock, it opened slowly, and I stood staring into a face that seemed as familiar as my own.

"Come in, Michael. I've been waiting for you."

I stared into those eyes, as brilliantly blue as ever before. His skin was wrinkled and his hair white; but he stood straight and lean, as he must. A smile mimicked his eyes. I was drawn into them as a bee is drawn into a squash blossom to the benefit of both. I accompanied him into the kitchen. It was nearly as if I'd never left, never gone and lived an entire life outside of it. The cabinet's white paint had yellowed, but I could still make out the flowers. The blue and white tablecloth was replaced by a green and white one of the same design. On the table were two tall glasses with sweat beads covering them like the jeweled royalty they were.

"Faygo floats," I said.

"Sit down," he said as he pulled my chair out.

We sat down together. The glass touched me like a friend. The spoon fit me perfectly. We savored Faygoed ice cream in silence for a while. "How are the mosquitoes this summer?" I said.

"We get along just fine."

"How about the Yacht Club?"

"Well, that's not doing so good. It's been closed now about twenty years."

"And Doc and Coronette?"

"They both died just after it closed."

"They were really something, weren't they? Thaddeus ever finish his tablecloth?"

"Yes, he did. But then he went to live with his niece in Bad Ax, and I never heard from him again. He might still be there."

I was scraping foam from the side of my glass when he said, "How is your mother?"

"We have a long way to go, Lily. It's hard to imagine a mother and son being so far apart. It's like we're strangers. No, that's not it. We'd be better off if we were strangers. We know too much. There's too much to forget."

"Your knowledge is the basis of your love. It's all you have."

"I've tried to think of it that way a thousand times, but knowledge is also the basis of hate."

"You're right, Michael. It is a two edged sword. But both edges are equally sharp. They can draw blood from friends and enemies alike. But the sword is in your hand."

We savored the sweet confluence of root beer and ice cream for a while.

"How is Joseph?"

My eyes traveled to the cuckoo clock. "Joe would have liked your clock. There was this grandmother clock at our school that had a man chasing a lady around in circles when it chimed. He always wondered how it worked. He drew a picture of a clock once that was a real Rube Goldberg thing with gears and levers and stuff. We'd take turns joking about weird things to add to it."

"That clock up there doesn't have anybody chasing anybody, but it keeps pretty good time."

"Looks like it's missing the hour hand," I said.

"Yes, it's been like that for a while. It was really a funny thing. One day I went to wind it, and I noticed the hour hand was missing. I looked all over for that thing. I figured it had to be on the floor, but it wasn't. Never did solve that mystery."

"How do you know it keeps good time if it doesn't have an hour hand?"

"Right now it's a quarter after eleven."

I checked my watch and said, "But how did you know it's not quarter after twelve?"

"That's just something a person knows, Michael. It doesn't take a genius to know the hour, does it?"

I glanced at the clock and then looked into Lily's eyes. They radiated back a comfort I could feel but not hold. "How long ago did that hand fall off?"

"I can't pin it down, but I'd say maybe forty years ago."

My heart raced back to 1953. It was my first year in the Army. I opened a letter from Aunt Rae that had finally caught up with me. I reread that second sentence in my mind. "We just learned that your Grandfather Flynn died last week." He'd spent the last couple months in a nursing home in Detroit after suffering a stroke while washing windows. The same grief stabbed at me now that I had felt the one time I talked to him on the phone in that nursing home—and when I read that sentence.

Lily rescued me with his voice. "Your grandfather is pretty special, isn't he?"

I looked at the minute hand describing its tenured arc. "He's the only survivor of our family."

"You've survived too, Michael. You may not feel that way sometimes, but I could see the spark of it in you years ago. And now, thanks to you, your mother has a chance to know her son once more."

"I've had some second thoughts about going back to see her again. It was so painful for her. For both of us."

"There's no sin too great to forgive a mother. Or a son."

"How about the sin of loving me. But never teaching me to love her back. Or anyone else."

"But you've begun to overcome that. Your capacity for love will only increase with time. And your mother is a part of that growth."

"And I'm a part of hers."

Lily picked up my glass and took the two of them to the sink where a few strokes of the pump handle filled the glasses. He turned back toward me.

"I need to go back to see Mom. We need to heal... together."

"Margaret can help you. She's quite extraordinary."

"You know, Lily, I've found a lot of extraordinary people around here."

"I've always known we were different, but I like extraordinary even better."

"How is Sir Gowdarth?" I asked.

"Come with me, Michael. I have some additions you'll be excited to see."

"You've made more campaigns?"

"Many."

TWENTY EIGHT

I sat at Aunt Rae's kitchen table, the phone still warm from my encounter with it. I stared at it, overwhelmed by the unraveling of one more knot in the long thread of what, just a week ago, had been a hopeless life. I looked out the window toward the barn, toward Uncle Johnny's stone pile. Those stones had been there for over a half century. Before that, they lay in the ground feeling the sun warm them millions of times before being disturbed by a farmer and his plow. How impulsively life revolves around our clocks, but how patiently it extrudes through the hourglasses of earth and sun.

In just a few days, a mere blink on the scale of stone-pile time, my life had taken a new shape. A future began to emerge where there had been only a past.

Margo came into the kitchen and sat beside me. She took my hand and kissed it. I turned my face to her, and her expression said I was smiling.

"You didn't talk to her very long," she said.

"It was more tears than words. For both of us." Our legs touched. Our hands tightened. "How far is it to Duluth?"

"I guess about a day's drive. You want to get started?"

"No. She's coming here. Sounded like she was just going to jump in her car and take off."

"Has she been happy there?"

"I don't know. We didn't really talk much. Just kind of held each other. I could feel her tears on the receiver. And then we both had to blow our noses." My smile reflected Margo's. "It was a pretty bizarre telephone conversation."

I looked out the window again and remeasured those old stones. "What am I going to say, Margo? What do you tell your sister after all this time?" I swallowed hard. "And all this pain?"

"I guess you start out by touching her. The words will come."

"Yeah. I guess." I studied my hand cradled in Margo's. "That's probably what Joe would do. You know, I can't picture Susie without Joe. And I can't picture Joe without my mother. Isn't that odd? And everybody is like they were then. I can't even remember what my mother looked like yesterday, but I can see her just as plain as day painting those Easter eggs. But then I can see her holding Joe's head in her lap. That's the picture that always wins out. And she looked straight into my eyes when she was doing it. Like she was daring me to try and stop her."

"Maybe she was asking you to help her figure it out. She probably didn't understand what she was doing."

"Maybe."

Margo got up and said, "Scoot your chair back, Mike. I'm coming in for a landing."

I laughed and made room for her. Holding her on my lap aroused a passion in me I didn't expect. It was sexual, but more than that. It reminded me of walking out of my mother's room the day before, and hanging up the phone just a few minutes earlier. It was not the end of something but the beginning of some new part of my life. Maybe the beginning of life itself, of hope. I'd muted these feelings for so many decades. Her body warmed me, and not just my body, but every fold of my mind as well.

"Let's not think anymore about ghosts for a while," she said.

"You got yourself a deal, Nurse Margaret. That's an order I'll gladly follow."

She put her lips to my ear and said, "Let's think about sex."

This was not whispered between the shadowed folds of sheets, but in the full glow of the late afternoon sun in a farmhouse kitchen. She certainly got my attention.

"I know just the place. I dreamed as a girl of kissing there. It wouldn't have been proper for me to think of anything more, and I was very proper."

"And now you've lost your propriety?"

"Let's just say my propriety is not what it once was."

"I think I'm going to really like following you."

She led me into the barn and up the ladder.

* * *

"Think it's okay to just wear blue jeans?"

"What were you wearing the last time you saw her?"

"Well, let's see. It was probably corduroys and maybe a flannel shirt."

Margo finished sweeping the kitchen floor dirt into the dustpan. "Seems a little warm today for that," she said. "Maybe what you're wearing is fine."

I picked up the broom as soon as Margo set it down and began resweeping the floor. "All those years I was in the Army, I kind of pushed her out of my mind. Sometimes I'd think about her, and I'd decide to try to find her. But then I wouldn't. Didn't know where to start. That was always the hardest part. If I could just start..." I stopped sweeping the imaginary dirt and looked at Margo.

She stepped toward me and calmed the broom. "What happened the day she left?"

My eyes kept searching the floor for dust bunnies, crumbs, anything to refocus my attention on the job. "The funny thing is, nothing." My eyes stopped wandering. "My mother told us that my father wanted Susie to stay home from school that day. He was standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, just staring at Joe and me. We looked at each other and didn't say anything. I finished fixing my lunch, but Joe just looked at my father, and I knew something was going to happen. Then my mother handed Joe his lunch wrapped up in a graham cracker wrapper."

I looked out the window at a barn just down the road. "It had a red rubber band around it." I closed my eyes as images stumbled into focus, then out. "Then Mama hugged him and said everything was going to be okay. Joe and I went down the steps and walked to school. I can't remember if we talked about it, or anything else, all the way to school. When we came home, Susie was gone. Mama's eyes were all red, and she had a new bruise on the left side of her face. Said Susie was going to visit somebody for a couple weeks." I felt Margo's hand on my arm. "That was February 20, 1945."

Margo and I stayed busy with odd jobs the whole day. Around five o'clock, I was lighting some trash in the steel drum incinerator behind the garage. As I struck the Ohio Blue Tip, I heard a car approaching down the gravel road. As the fire caught in the third place, the sound of tires crunching to a stop beside the back porch reached me. I watched the flames begin to lick other papers, growing geometrically. My eyes closed against a puff of smoke just as the screen door squeaked. I took a deep breath of heated air as Margo's voice reached me with a single word. I looked through the waving air rising before me, and that sight fell upon Lily's house. Was that Lily standing next to his jeep looking back at me through darkening billows? I nodded to him and then turned around and walked toward my little sister.

Two women stood speaking to each other beside a white car whose crackling engine spoke to me above their words. As my steps brought me closer, their conversation stopped. Then Margo faded away, as did the car and the house. Only a plump, gray-haired lady remained. She brushed her hair back as I stopped about ten feet away. A nervous smile ran across her face and disappeared just as quickly. I heard myself say, "Su—" but a swallow interrupted me.

How long did we stand there in silence, speaking to each other in that most basic language? She was closer now, and her hand was reaching toward me, and I toward her. When our hands touched, I saw her looking out the upstairs window at Joe and me as we walked away. Then the elm tree blocked the window, and my arms were around her, tears rolling down my cheeks, and down my back. It was a forty-eight-year hug.

After diner, Margo volunteered to clean up the kitchen and make a pudding with the leftover rice. Susie and I sat on the front porch with a setting sun to our left and half a century between us.

"All those years I've been working in the kitchen at St. Dominic's School, I still haven't gotten comfortable being around grade school boys. You know, I didn't find out about Joe until almost three years after it happened? And then I was never really sure of what happened. But I hated our mother ever since that day."

I gulped, not knowing exactly what she had heard about the murder.

"Even though Dad killed him, our mother never stood up for him, never protected him like..."

"Like she did me?"

"Do you understand that, Mike? Have you ever figured out why she stood up against Dad for you, but not for Joe or me?"

"I'm beginning to. I went to see her the other day."

Susie turned toward me.

"I thought you might want to go with me tomorrow. We could see her together."

"No. I've done my duty all these years writing sappy letters to her as if we were a regular family. What a joke."

"What if she wanted to ask your forgiveness?"

Susie just looked at me. I returned that look and said, "We talked about forgiveness, in kind of a general way. Can't make any promises, but maybe she's ready to look at our lives a little more objectively."

Those last red rays of sun intermingled our shadows on the white railing to our right.

"How about you, Mike?"

I feared where she was going with this, but I had to answer. "What do you mean?"

"How come you never tried to find me? I've been in Duluth ever since I left Detroit. Aunt Millie and her family always knew where I was. After I found out Joe was dead, I thought about you so often. You were the only one in the world. The only one who could... who knew about our childhood. What happened, Mike?"

I closed my eyes, but that couldn't shut out the words, much less the pain. I took a deep breath and forced my eyes to hers. Hers weren't accusing mine. Just hurting.

"You don't know how many times I've wondered about that. So many times I came close. I knew about Aunt Millie, so I could have found you. But each time, each time, I never, well, never followed through. You and Joe had...." I shut my eyes to eject those unwelcome thoughts. "There was a special something between you. I was part of the triangle, but you and Joe were.... Anyway, the way Joe died was... maybe preventable. I guess I've been running away from my part in that. For a long time, I thought it was our mother. Like, I had to get away from her. But it's been you, Susie. I have been trying to get away from you all these years, because I... I couldn't face you, couldn't own up to what I should have done."

I felt her hand take mine and just squeeze, and not let go.

"A lot of things happened to us, Mike. But none of them were our fault. Joe dealt with it different than we did. And look what it cost him. And us. I don't know exactly what happened that day, and I don't want to. But Mom and Dad were both crazy, Mike. Did you ever think of it that way? We're the children of crazy parents."

I looked at Susie and nodded. I put my arm around her and we sat back together.

"Considering that our parents were both crazy," she said, "I think we turned out pretty damn good."

I felt more warm drops on my shoulder. "And two out of three surviving...." Her sentence was interrupted by a sniffle. "Two out of three, is not...."

But she didn't finish her sentence with words, just with shudders of sadness, and tears that had waited a lifetime for my shoulder alone, to burst out, to relieve her.

* * *

Susie and I walked through the apple orchard, letting the early morning sun welcome our skin to a new day. I filled her in on my two years on the farm. She described growing up with her new family in a new town. Only one thing made it a better place—no father. But that could never begin to make up for the loss of her brothers, the entirety of her positive universe. As the years chipped away, school and her new family tugged her away from her real family.

"When we lived together, Mike, I remember you stuttering. I never thought much about it at the time, but now it's clear that it's totally gone. Was it just something you had to grow out of?"

I stopped and kicked at a lump of dirt, making it submit to me. "I remember that, too," I said to the dirt. "I also remember exactly when I stopped stuttering. I thought I was out of the woods, and no one would ever ask me about it. But you have, so I'll answer you honestly." I stopped fidgeting with the dirt clumps and looked at Susie. "I remember the day, the exact day, when I realized I could talk without stuttering. I was talking to our... to my teacher, Sister Mary Allen. I didn't say much to her, just that I would make up all the lessons I was missing. It was at Joe's funeral."

I started kicking at another clump of dirt, my eyes followed. "Did you ever figure that out, Mike?"

"I have thought about it, analyzed it, for...." I took a deep breath and started again. "When Joe died, it... it freed me, or something like that. I didn't have to, I guess, compete with him anymore."

I turned to Susie and took both her hands. "I wasn't.... I loved Joe... but... I hated him too, Susie. I must have been glad—"

"Michael. Stop. Let me tell you something. You didn't hate Joe. And you weren't glad he died. You said Joe and I had a special bond. Maybe there's something to that. But it's not what you think. Joe was pretty extraordinary. I could see that, even at eight years old. But you're the one I remember. You're the one who was real to me. Much more so than Joe."

"We'll probably never sort this thing out, will we, Susie?"

"How can you ever finish a puzzle when there's a piece missing?"

"You're right, of course. I never hated Joe. And I wasn't glad he died."

"We seem to know more about what wasn't than what was," she said.

I smiled at my sister, the philosopher. "Margo says I'm making great progress with my smiling."

"I remember that smile, Mike. Margo didn't know you then, but I did. It's the same smile."

I picked up a green apple from the ground and tossed it into a wheat stubble field. The apple bounced and stopped directly in line with a small house on the next farm. "You know what, Susie? There's somebody I'd like you to meet."

We walked across what had recently been a waving sea of golden wheat toward that house, climbed across a small drainage ditch, and arrived in a back yard where an Army jeep lay rusting.

As Susie pulled a couple foxtails from her socks, the screen door opened. "Welcome, Michael. I'm so glad you brought Susan with you."

He reached for her hand and said, "I'm Lily. Welcome to my home. Your brother and I have been on many campaigns together, though my campaigning days are not as frequent as they once were."

Susie recovered from her surprise quickly and said, "No major campaigns in my recent past, either."

Lily laughed. "My latest campaign is against three months of dirt on these windows. If you can get past these buckets and things, please come in."

Susie stared at the wooden-handled squeegee lying beside the galvanized bucket with a chamois folded neatly over its side. "Looks like you do window washing the old-fashioned way."

"I guess I do most everything the old fashioned way. In fact I didn't even know there was another way to wash windows."

"Where did you learn to do it this way?" I asked.

"That's a very good question, Michael. I can't think of where. I just started doing it this way, and I never quit." He chuckled again as he offered us chairs at the kitchen table. He pulled out a chair for Susie and held it with a little bow as she sat down. "I don't get a whole lot of lady guests here. The last one was your Aunt Rachel. Now there's a fine lady. She and Margaret sometimes take me to Burton to do a little shopping. I had to quit driving Old Hog, that's my jeep. She loves the mud and can wallow through just about anything. The sheriff said I was becoming a hazard on the road. Can you imagine that? Me, a hazard?"

"I've never heard of a sheriff who knew much about such things," Susie said.

Lily laughed. "You are so right, Susan. So right. Michael, you know the routine as well as I do. Is it too early in the morning for a root beer float?"

"Is it too early to smile?" I said. "Let me do the honors. I know where everything is." For the next few minutes, I labored over three Faygo floats while Lily and Susie talked.

"How is everything in Duluth?"

"Well, just fine. But how did you know I live in Duluth?"

"Oh, Duluth is a fine town. I've been there a few times and always enjoy it. It reminds me of what Port Weinstagen could have been. That's a little town near here up on the lake. You remember Port Weinstagen, don't you, Michael?"

"Sure do."

"Have you lived here a long time, ah, Lily?" Susie said.

"Ha, ha. You find my name a bit odd, don't you?"

"Well, I have to admit. You are the first man I've ever met by that name. Is it some kind of family name?"

"Family name? Huh." He paused for a few seconds. "I never knew my mother, or father. You're both very lucky to still have a mother who loves you."

Susie and I shared a glance.

"Many things happen over a lifetime. Many campaigns. But your mother knew you before the campaigns. No matter how old you are, she sees you as you were before all these things happened. Sometimes you might think your mother is very flawed, and it's hard to see things through her eyes, but they are the only timeless eyes in your life. No matter how old they look on the outside, they see you as you always will be."

I stood at the kitchen counter with three completed floats. I looked at Susie, but she did not see me. She just looked at Lily, and he at her.

* * *

During lunch, Susie asked if we might drive down to visit our mother. I looked at her and smiled. Margo said, "Sure, my buggy knows the way there perfectly. I'll be the chauffeur, and you two can stay as long as you like."

Susie didn't say much on the trip down to Detroit. Margo brought along a book and waited in the lounge as Susie and I took the elevator to the ninth floor. We stopped in the hallway outside her room.

"Mike, you have to help me. Like you did when we were kids. Remember that time we took Grandpa downtown, and we rode the elevator way up to the top of that building?"

"Uh huh. Grandpa's airplane ride."

"Do you remember that I was afraid to go to the open window because it was so high up?"

"No, I don't remember that part, Susie. What happened?"

"I got between Joe and you, and you each took one of my hands, and we walked right up to that window. I thought it was the most splendid thing. Well, if this is going to be splendid, too, I'll need some help getting started."

She brushed her hair back and took hold of my hand. I saw her other hand grip something imaginary as we walked through the doorway.

the end

About the Author

Paul Dueweke

_Lamb of God_ was written in 1993 and evolved into its present form over the next seven years as I learned the craft of writing fiction. It is my second Smashwords publication. I would be very grateful to any reader who would write a Smashwords review of _Lamb of God_.

I was a research physicist long before I turned to writing. But I've written five novels and am presently working on numbers six through twenty-seven. My first was an autobiography, _MY LIFE AS IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN — a memoir for readers who find memoirs disagreeable and reality tedious_ , inspired by my lifelong obsession with Don Quixote and his ingenious view of reality. It took first place in the 2002 Independent E-book Awards \- Humor Division. _THE MEDIA CANDIDATE_ is a near-future, speculative science-fiction thriller inspired by watching too much TV. _PRIONA_ is a multi-cultural, multi-generational story of love, poetry, music, and the dividing waters of race, set in the Jemez Pueblo of northern New Mexico. _LAMB OF GOD_ is a psychological drama of how a young boy, surrounded by the racial and commercial tensions of the Arsenal of Democracy, Detroit during World War II, deals with the guilt of being too weak to save his twin from tragedy. It won second place in the 2003 Writer's Digest Self-Published Book Awards in a field of 370 entries. Finally, _HORSE CAMP WEST_ is a modern western drama set on a dying ranch in the highlands of southern New Mexico. It was a 2002 EPPIE Award finalist. These books should be available at Smashwords later in 2016, but for the time being, you can get a taste of them at my website fictionQ.com. If you would like me to notify you when my next books hit the ground at Smashwords, drop me a line at editor at fictionQ.

I have spent forty years as a physicist in Ohio, New Mexico, and California. Some of those years I did basic physics research at The University of Dayton in the areas of ionizing radiation detectors, shock waves in solids, and infrared measurements. This stuff probably doesn't excite very many of you, but it has been breathtaking for me. Call me a nerd, but I love science.

I spent some years at a beltway bandit* doing a funny thing they called system studies. Then I evolved into a mid-level manager for a big defense hardware company. I learned pretty quickly that upper management is really, really hungry. That's why middle management has to run so fast. Now I have become an even higher lifeform. I work off and on for an itsy bitsy company right in the bosom of Silicon Valley. My business card has a blank under my name so I can be anything I want. And I haven't needed a security clearance for the last twenty years.

I'm a firm believer in second careers. When I was doing physics research, I had to do mostly what other people wanted me to do. That was still great because it was such exciting stuff. But now I can write whatever I want to. Maybe that's just as good, in a way. I think every writer should write as a second career, not as a first. It gives my writing roots and a unique point-of-view beyond writer.

I married Marilyn where we met at the University of Dayton. We moved to Alburquerque** where our two daughters grew up; and now we all live in the San Francisco Bay Area.

FOOTNOTES:

* Beltway Bandit — For those not conversant in Government Speak, a Beltway Bandit is one of the companies clustered around the Washington, DC Beltway that sells "professional services," which is stuff the Government could do itself if they had any idea what they wanted done or if they weren't fighting among themselves about who should do it.

** Alburquerque — Most of you traditionally educated readers are probably under the mistaken opinion that the dusty little town in central New Mexico is Albuquerque, not Alburquerque. It was, however, named after Don Francisco Fernandez de la Cueva Enriquez, Duke of Alburquerque, Spain, and Viceroy of New Spain in 1706. About a hundred years later, it was misspelled to its present form. I, in the spirit of Don Quixote de la Mancha, have taken up the cause to redress the evil of misspelling the name of one so highly born.

What others say about

LAMB OF GOD

"Every once in a while you will come across a story that will stir your imagination and indignation. This is such a book. The talented author has caught the flavor of the war years of WWII when Mike Tether was growing up in Detroit.

"Children suffer for the sins of their parents as you will find in the pages of this book. This is not a story to be taken lightly. It goes to the heart of wrongs committed against children and will strike a familiar note with many readers. You will remember your own childhood and friends who hid dark secrets behind behavior that cried out for attention and affection. It will make you want to weep. This author has a gift for capturing the emotions of a moment in time, saving them for our posterity.

"I look forward to the next book from this author and recommend it as a very interesting and absorbing read. You will not want to quit reading until you reach the end."

Anne K. Edwards, author of "Death Comes Knocking"

for eBook Reviews Weekly

"It was a very moving story. Childhood is something we all deal with all our lives and you have dealt with Mike's demons well. The scene with Joe hit me like a sock with a rock in it. It was true, every word of it. It was understated, not at all overwritten or melodramatic, and that increases its power. I'm not telling you anything you don't already know when I say that you can write.

"The ending was right. They are hard, but you've gotten it just right. The circle closes as they confront their mother together.

"Also, I greatly enjoyed the story of the father in the postcrash stock market world. Very detailed and very real. Reading it I thought of Dos Pasos and his style of blending present and past. You move from reality to memory with effortless aplomb. Seamless. Very moving stuff. I think you've got yourself a hell of a story here."

David W. St.John, Executive Editor, Elderberry Press
