 
THE BLUE PEN

By Lisa Rusczyk

Cover Art by Mikie Hazard

Copyright 2009, Lisa Rusczyk

Smashwords Edition

Everything in this book is pure fiction.

Dedicated to my wonderful readers.

CHAPTER ONE

PARKER

Were someone to have just risen from sleep and looked out over the autumn-touched 6th street, he would have noticed a gray, growing kitten sniffing at a puddle of vomit behind a light blue Nissan. Were he to look over the rest of the street, he would have seen black and brown birds fluttering on the telephone wires, fancy cars lining the sidewalks, iron waste cans every thirty feet, and city-cultured trees in between. Brick apartment buildings were lighting up with the sun, turning copper, and in that hue they looked more like ancient cliff dwellings than modern day city homes.

6th street's first morning human inhabitant was a man standing about six feet tall, face bundled up so tightly that nothing else could be discerned. He walked with a bounce in his step and whistled a melody from a soap commercial. The gray cat ran away into a nearby alley between buildings. After the man passed, more people came out onto the sidewalks. Some got into cars and drove away. Some dropped trash into waste bins. A couple of women in thick robes sipped coffee and smoked cigarettes on the porch outside their building.

Parker didn't have time for such leisurely activities. He came out of his brownstone with his morning gray eyes looking straight ahead, carrying a mission in his heart. He had snapped out of a dream with his first good story idea in months. He had to get down to the magazine office and do some research on the Internet right away, or he'd lose his fire. He hated it when he lost his fire; it always caused him to drop promising leads. If he didn't get busy right away, he would become disinterested. Once when he told Missy about the misery of losing his fire, she had said, "The price of genius. You make me sick."

Her face came to mind as he speed-walked towards his light blue Nissan, and he shook his head as though something were stuck to it. He nearly knocked over an elderly woman as he plucked the car key forward on his key chain. The old woman said nothing, but crushed her eyebrows together and let out a big, white cloud of cold breath.

"Sorry, sorry." He didn't bother with another look. His car windows were a bit frosted, but this didn't daunt a Yankee. He inserted his key and popped open the door. He sat down in front of the wheel and put the key into the ignition.

He heard a scream behind him.

He jerked around to face the back seat. "What the –?" There was a bag lady in his car, and she looked terrified. His nose twitched with the smell of aged alcohol breath coming from the scared woman, and he wondered how he hadn't noticed it right off.

"What the hell are you doing in my car?" He was yelling more out of surprise than anger, but irritation was not far off. Her white skin was dusty, as though she had been playing in a fireplace. Her clothes looked nothing more than blankets tied up around her body. Her eyes were blue, like pale gems in the moonlight, yet they were turning dark and loathsome.

"It's past dawn," she said with a scratchy voice, and she held up a curled, grubby hand and coughed. He felt his neck prickle with a familiar response to nonsense.

"Lady, what are you doing in here? Get out, now." The smell of sweet vomit coming from her was making his eyes water.

She pinched up her lower lip and in a soft voice said, "I never sleep past dawn. Never."

"Well, you did today." Parker held the cuff of his leather jacket over his nose. He couldn't see her hair, which was tucked into a hat, but those blue eyes flickered, making him think of a morning glory alone in the mulch of his mother's garden. For the second time that morning, he twitched his head, trying to shake off a memory.

She leaned forward. "Mister, you are one confused man."

"What?"

"You're just like the rest of them here on this street. Got to get going, don't you? Where are you going?"

He began breathing through his mouth. "That's none of your business. Get out."

"You don't know where you're going. Did you ever know? Or you just going where you think you're supposed to?"

His agitation ebbed and the humor of his situation tickled him. "Okay, lady." His voice lowered to normal talking tones. "What's your name?"

"Cleo." She sat back with a closed-lipped smile.

"Okay, Cleo, I'm going to work. I'm going there because I want to, because I like to, and because I have work to do there. I have an idea for a story. I write magazine stories. Why wouldn't I want to do that, Cleo? Maybe you should ask the voices where the handle to the door is and scat back to your alley."

She sat up again and her dirty face scrunched up like a used paper towel. "You really are a mean reporter to say such nasty things to me. I was only trying to help."

"I'm not a reporter. I'm a writer. And how could you help me?"

"Help by making you think about what you are doing."

"I don't need to think about what I'm doing. I know what I'm doing. I want to know what you're doing in my car."

She started shaking her head back and forth and biting her lower lip. It made her look younger than he originally thought. She might be in her forties still, perhaps fifteen years older than he was. "I think, maybe there's a reason I sleep past dawn today. Maybe I should look a little closer, but you know what? That's the way it goes in stories and television, not in real life. You of all people should know, too, painting your pretty pictures however you want them to look, telling people how to see the world. You see, reporter, I learned about that." She pointed a finger at him, and he saw chipped pink nail polish topping her fingertips. Then her eyebrows drooped over her exotic eyes like thin curtains framing a sad scene. She spoke softly. "I know about you."

He watched her, forgetting the smell, as she clawed at the door handle, swinging the door open wide. In a calm, smooth voice, she said, "Thanks for the lodgings." Then she was gone, walking off into the same alley that the gray cat had gone to - but Parker hadn't noted the cat. He had been shaving the brown stubble off his sharp chin when the cat had been nearby. The gray had been in the neighborhood for almost six weeks, and Parker still hadn't noticed it.

Parker rolled his windows down as he drove into the downtown area of the city. He was too distracted to think of turning on the radio. He muttered words like, "Reporter," and, "Smell," and once he called out, "Lodgings! My car!" He rubbed the steering wheel and decided to get his car cleaned on his lunch break. It wasn't until a traffic light two blocks from the office that he checked to see if his four CDs and his umbrella were still under the passenger seat, which they were. He didn't think she had been in his car to steal, but he thought that one could never tell with the mentally ill. Out loud, he said, "That's what they all are. Sorry to tell it like it is." A car honked behind him. The light was green.

At work, he surfed the Internet for about thirty minutes looking for information on his dream topic, and then scanned around for other things that occupied his mind. At last he pushed his fingers into the back of his brown hair and leaned into his chair. "Damn it!"

Fred Schnieder poked his head into Parker's office. "Is our most coveted writer having computer problems?" Parker could almost smell the fishiness of the man's hidden resentment towards him.

"Fred, let's go to lunch." Parker wanted to see what excuse he would make.

The rest of Fred's body filled out the doorway. "It's only nine."

"Let me buy you breakfast, then."

"Can't. Got a deadline."

The usual, nothing creative. Parker sighed. "The weirdest thing happened to me this morning."

Fred walked in and leaned on the door frame. "Another burning dream story wake you up at four A.M.?" He smiled like he was sharing his own secrets.

Parker remembered the article written about him three years ago in which he had proudly told the reporter that he got best ideas in this way. It made his neck tingle just a little that Fred remembered it.

"When I went out to my car, there was a homeless lady in the back seat."

"No shit. Don't you have a car alarm?"

"Yeah, yeah. But I lost the remote and I just use my key."

He nodded and looked at Parker's computer screen. "What'd you do? Call the cops?"

"No. I talked to her."

"Really? Hmm." His eyes flicked from Parker to the computer screen, then back. "I would've called the cops. She might do it again."

"No, I don't think so."

"Can't trust 'em. There's a reason she's living on the streets. Drugs, mental illness." He stood straight. "So now you're thinking about doing a story on the homeless?"

"Oh, no. Not at all." The idea had burned his brain for an hour.

"Why not? Could be good stuff, especially with you writing it. Remember when Colin Waries did that piece a couple of years ago on the state of the city shelters? He got some things changed, I think."

Parker felt as though he had just zipped his neglected fly as dancing gophers replaced a Web site on schizophrenia glaring out of his monitor. "I don't have much to go on."

"What, you? No material? That's tough to believe. You always make good stuff up." He looked out the doorway. "Gotta do some final touches before ten. Good luck, Townes."

Parker suspected insincerity in the last wish for luck, and waited a few minutes before finishing up his own last edits on a piece he'd written for the current edition.

After getting his car cleaned, he lunched alone at a Thai restaurant across from his office, despite the gorgeous receptionist Kathy's offer to join him. Although he ate mouthfuls of spicy curry, the food didn't interest him. He thought to himself, why else would someone choose to live on the streets? She must be ill, or an alcoholic. He had smelled stale booze coming off her like mothballs from an attic toy chest.

He wanted to know. He thought of her dazzling blue eyes and strange words, and he had to know.

CHAPTER TWO

"No, no, her name's Cleo. Not Leo. I'm looking for a woman."

The dark, clean-skinned bum two blocks from Parker's house squinted at him in the street lights. "Leo ain't been around here for a couple months. Went South or something."

Parker yelled, "No, Cleo. Not Leo."

"Not Leo? What about Leo? Have you seen him?" His eyes widened at Parker. "Are you his brother?"

The writer paused, then laughed. The bum rubbed his ears and grinned back at him. Parker said, "What can I offer you, uh..."

"Kindred's my name. I like crunchy dollar bills."

"How's a twenty?"

"Hundred's better."

Parker stared at him.

"I know you got it. Probably how much your shoelace cost."

Parker made sounds like a picky fly at a picnic feast. "I think I'll go chat with one of your friends."

Kindred laughed and winked, rubbing his gloved hands together. "What you want with Cleo anyway?"

"I want to talk to her."

"She ain't for sale, you know."

"What do you mean?"

Kindred took off his hat and held it out. "Don't make me beg."

Parker pulled a twenty out of his pocket.

"Where's your wallet?" Kindred asked.

"I don't carry one. I've lived in cities all my life."

He tilted his head back. "Ah ha." He took the twenty and folded it up, sticking it in his left glove and propping the hat back on his head. "You can't buy a piece of her for nothing. She ain't like that."

"I don't want a piece of her. Where can I find her?"

He took off his right glove and held it open for Parker.

"First tell me where I can find her."

"Ah, no sir. Don't work that way."

Parker sat down on the curb of 8th Street, and after a moment of looking around, Kindred joined him. Parker said, "I didn't bring any more money."

"Yeah. Okay."

They sat in silence and watched cabs drive by. Behind them, people of all different sizes, sexes and colors passed, speaking in highs and lows and thicks and thins.

"Why do you live on the street, Kindred?"

"Who says I live on the street?"

"Well then, why did I find you sitting in a doorway shivering your ass off?"

"I like that doorway. Besides, shivering keeps me in shape."

After a moment, Parker said, "I'm a writer."

"Oh. And you want to write about Cleo. Poor little Cleo, living on the streets because nobody will take care of her."

"Why are you making fun of me?"

"I'm working on another twenty."

Parker chuckled. A cab whizzed by at a dangerous speed.

Kindred said, "So, will you write about me, too, if I help you out?"

"Not if you're not homeless."

"I am homeless. I just told you I wasn't so you'd think I wasn't."

"You have to tell me why you live on the streets."

Kindred rubbed his gloves together again and said, "I'm going to buy some smokes." When he came back, he lit his cigarette with a sulfuric match, and blew out thick, gray smoke. "Okay, so I'm not homeless, but I hang out all the time. I know all the people. I like to be out here because my momma isn't too much fun to be around."

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

Parker looked away to hide his expression. He knew for sure that Kindred was older than him. He didn't know how to respond. Kindred didn't sound like he was making a joke or egging Parker on.

"You don't believe me?" Kindred said.

"You look older."

"I know. It's how I get into bars. But, yeah, Momma's just a mess, so I get out of the apartment and cruise around, trying to find something fun to do."

Parker thought of how the man had been slumped in the doorway twenty minutes earlier with a spot of drool lingering on his lower lip.

"I ain't seen Cleo in a couple weeks," Kindred said.

"Tell me about her. Are you friends?"

"Oh, yeah. We get along great. She and I sit in the Knockout - that's an alley we toast up at - and get warm by the fire. Last time I saw her, Ollie got us some marshmallows and we cooked 'em on coat hangers. That was good eating. That's what I'm talking about when I say I want to find the fun things to do. You like marshmallows?"

He didn't know. He hadn't had one since he was a child. "Sure."

"Mmmm. Me too." He puffed on his smoke, lighting up his face with orange.

"So what do you two talk about?"

"Oh, you know, the way things are. Art, music, other people."

"What type of music do you like?"

"Me? Oh, I like the reggae music and all the good mellow tunes. Cleo, she likes the heavy punk rock, jazz, just about anything. She's a wild one, Cleo."

Parker looked out at the street. "Is she?"

"Oh, yeah. I thought that's what you liked about her."

"I don't know her at all."

"Oh, well, well, well. She parties all the time. Never stops talking. Likes to dance, too. She puts on this black skirt, and, well, you just have to see it. Always writing in a trance, and everybody wants her to write about them."

Parker sighed and continued looking away.

"But me, I'm not a partier. I keep to myself. I have a philosophical mind, always at work. I—" He sat up straight and looked across the street. Parker tried to see what had Kindred's gaze.

"Gotta go." He was up and running before his cigarette could hit the pavement. Parker looked around but saw nothing. He stood and waited for a break in traffic, and walked toward the alley that had captured Kindred's attention, and from which he had run in the opposite direction. He saw nothing but darkness and dirt.

Later that night, he picked up one of his lonely routines. "Hello, love. It's me. What are you doing? Me? Oh, you know. Thinking about a story. Yeah, I've got the fire." Parker was barely audible to the gray cat sitting outside his window on the sill. As a matter of fact, the writer had no idea there was an audience of one scrawny feline with his nose pressed against the open screen of his living room window. Parker was sitting with his back to the third story window, which, along with gray cat, displayed the alley and a wall of the building next to him. A breeze blew by and rattled the fire escape briefly, sounding like it shuddered from the chill. Parker enjoyed feeling the cold autumn night. He leaned back in the brown leather couch and stared at the only thing on his coffee table, which was a gold-framed photo of a woman.

The cat outside curled into a tighter ball, possibly wondering what type of human this was that would leave his window open on such a windy, chilly night. Perhaps the person was inviting him up.

Parker smiled at the gold-framed beauty. "Yeah, I had Thai food today, actually. Pretty good, you know, that place across from the office." He paused. "You made brownies? I love your brownies. I remember the last time you made them for me." He laughed. "Yes, I do. It was Christmas of last year, two weeks before you moved to London." His lips relaxed and his eyes glazed, watching memories of her face rather than the picture resting on his table. "I'll let you read it when I'm done. I'll email it to you. I promise." He focused his clear, gray eyes back on the portrait. "I'm sorry about that. I should have told you about that one before it went to press." He looked at his hands folded in his lap. He hissed, "That was stupid," and the cat jumped from the sound. Parker turned his head slightly when he heard paws hit the fire escape landing, wondering what the sound was, then forgot it. His hands were numb from cold. He turned around and reached out to the window, closing it and latching the lock. He sat back again and looked at the picture. "Missy, Missy, Missy, I miss you." He rose, put the picture on his mantle, and walked with a shuffle to the kitchen. "Stupid," he muttered, and poured whiskey, then soda into a short glass. He walked to his bedroom, claimed a novel about the Revolutionary War, and returned to the couch. It wasn't the first time he wished he owned a computer in his home, but he didn't want work to consume him.

"As if it doesn't anyway."

He rubbed the book's spine and said, "If you're so sure you know me, come and tell me yourself."

The next morning Parker didn't go to the office. He spent the daylight hours walking the streets and trying to pick up vibes from the people he saw who he thought might be homeless. He didn't want to assume anything this time. He used his childhood trick of becoming seemingly invisible as he watched the happenings of others. He saw a little boy, about ten years old, wearing dirty jeans and a knit hat, pick-pocket an old woman who didn't look like her purse had much to offer. Parker followed him from a distance, and watched him slide into an old apartment building. He thought the kid's parents might be putting him up to it, seeing as he ran straight to a home. He also saw a white man with gray hair begging for money on Hickory Boulevard, but on closer investigation, he saw the man's hair was sliding to the right, revealing underneath stragglers of red locks. A daytime street walker offered him goods, which he refused without emotion.

Parker asked a skinny woman peddling watches where the nearest shelter was. She said, "You're looking for St. Anthony's, up two streets."

He found the shelter, which was in the basement of an ancient church. It wasn't one of those fancy churches built by great artists in days of old, but rather a little stone square with a modern office built along side. It seemed to Parker that the only purpose this church ever had in any century was to aid the homeless.

He entered the basement from a door on the east side, with the smell of chicken pounding his nose. He opened the door at the bottom of a bright staircase, and was overwhelmed by the sound of at least fifty voices. Before he could take a good look around, a brown and white mutt came from behind the door and stuck a wet nose in his crotch. "Hey, hey, watch it." He sent out a friendly laugh, though he wanted the owner to claim the pooch from its wanderings.

"Kenny, boy, you are so rude to the gentleman visitor." A woman who looked as old as the church emerged from the noisy crowd of eaters and sleepers. She wore a dark rainbow-colored baja and spoke with an accent.

Parker said, "Hello, ma'am."

Her voice rose higher. "Why, hello! You must be one of the generous souls who come to help us. Kenny likes you. You have a way with animals."

"Thanks." Parker had never owned a pet other than a toad he kept hidden under the bathroom sink when he was eight. "Where are you from? I noticed your accent."

Her wrinkled hand rubbed one cheek. "I am from all over. Kenny and I have traveled all around the world." She pointed a finger into the air. "So kind to be interested in an old parcel like me! I am guessing this second time that you do not work here after all."

"Why is that?"

"You aren't looking through me. Or at least, not yet. Maybe it's your first day?"

He shook his head and rubbed Kenny's floppy ears. He could feel dog grit settling into the lines on his fingertips. He grinned to hide his clenched teeth. "I'm here to ask about something. I thought I could find someone who would help me."

Her black eyes widened and she inhaled like she was using albuterol. "I would be honored. Look no further. Interest you in lunch?"

He looked to the far wall at the food bar, where a few heavily clothed people picked over the contents. "I would love some lunch."

As she led him to the food, she said, "Do you know it's dinner time in Europe?"

"Actually, I do."

She stopped walking and gazed up at him with respect. "A fellow world traveler. We should talk." He smiled, but didn't explain that he had never been to Europe.

They sat at a long cafeteria table. The chicken pot pie would have been tasty, had it not been for the salty crust. He sneezed from the overdose of pepper and wondered what it was masking.

The woman said, "You have always been a picky eater, right, young man?"

"Yes."

A man next to him coughed so hard that he had to wipe phlegm off his face with his blue scarf.

She said, "Tell me about your dog. You must have one."

"No dog. Right now, I don't have time to take good enough care of one."

"I see." She stood up. "Be right back." She picked up her yellow plastic cup and walked two tables over. She bent down and spoke to a man whose back was to Parker. The writer looked around the yellow room, thinking the homeless might cheer up if the walls had a few pictures on them. Actually, he realized as he watched, they didn't look too miserable, except for the ones who were coughing or obviously sick. The man next to him hacked into the blue scarf without relief until the old woman returned. She took a deep sip from her cup and handed it to the coughing man. She said something in another language. He nodded at her and dropped the liquid into his mouth. He continued to cough after he put the cup down. Parker could smell vodka coming from him.

She sat down and leaned forward to Parker, whispering, "Whiskey's better for the cough he has, but none around."

Parker looked next to him as the man resumed eating between coughs. "Why don't you get medicine?"

The man would not look at him or answer.

The woman said, "They don't have enough, kind man. Don't have enough."

Parker nudged Kenny under the table with his knee as the mutt tried to make another move on his crotch. He hoped the woman hadn't seen it. "What is your name, Ma'am?"

"You can call me Sylvia. It is the closest translation to my real name."

"What is your real name?"

"Slyvesartaria Cannon Massodanie Kallse. And you?"

"I'm Parker."

"Nice to meet you, Parker." She held out a hand and smiled so that Parker could see she had three gold molars. She noticed his observation, and grinned with more sparkle.

He said, "And you."

"Okay, now, you have been a nice, patient young man, so I will answer your question."

He shifted and pecked at the nosy dog with his tennis shoe. "Sylvia, I am looking for an alley called Knockout."

She smiled and looked at the table. "You don't want to go to that dirty place. What else?" She gazed back at him, but her old eyelids were twitching.

"Yes, I do. Why wouldn't I?"

Her eyes did not leave his face. "Oh, nothing but burned beggars there. Dangerous for a cute one like you, even if you are too skinny."

"I'm looking for someone."

She nodded and looked around the room. The man with the blue scarf coughed, sounding loud and juicy. He seemed not to ever run out of breath.

As though telling him about the amenities of the shelter, she said, "Kenny has a tight collar. Holds anything."

Parker leaned back in his metal folding chair and looked down at the dog nudging his knees apart under the table. He shook his head at Kenny, and looked up at Sylvia as he put a twenty under the dog's old, red collar, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. Kenny slipped away.

"You go up to Little Point. There's an old subway entrance that's all boarded up. You have to go past it into the street behind. Looks like an alley, but a car can fit. Go in the third wood door on your left. Go down the hall and out the back door and you are in Knockout." She reached under the table and petted Kenny, and then looked at Parker with her eyelids still twitching. "I think you're a nice man. You were nice to my little dog, otherwise I'd tell you it was somewhere else and you'd end up with an ass kicking."

Parker went home and opened three windows. He could hear cars humming by and the occasional squealing wheels. It amazed him that as many times as he heard near-accidents, he never did hear the soft thuck-craaack of car metals meeting. He thought about Cleo, about what Kindred had said about her, and then wondered about Kindred. He wasn't fourteen, Parker thought. What else had the man lied about?

He sighed, thinking that Knockout was his only lead, as weak as it was. He stretched out on his couch and looked up at the window behind the cushions. The sky was as blue as it was at the shore. He smiled, thinking of a white sun dress Missy had worn the last time they were at the beach together. Within minutes, he was asleep, and did not hear the mews of the gray cat that had joined him at the windowsill again. The small cat stuck its nails into the screen and pulled them out, as though stitching strings made of metal. He meowed again, ending with a touch of howl, but the person who opened his windows did not wake up.

CHAPTER THREE

Parker grabbed a twenty-dollar bill and a few bus tokens, putting them in his back jeans' pocket. He crammed some Doritos into his mouth, knowing he should have dinner, even if just a bachelor's meal. He slipped his keys in his front pocket after locking his home and he walked down to the corner bus stop. He didn't feel like driving in traffic and caught a bus to Little Point, arriving there just after dark. He had not wanted to go so late, but his unexpected nap dictated otherwise. He didn't want to wait until the next afternoon to go to Knockout, and decided to risk the unknown territory.

Little Point was crowded and noisy, like a little city in itself. Parker sat on a bench and watched the area for thirty minutes. He saw the very rich and very poor mingle like fire ants on a disturbed anthill. A woman in diamonds and a black evening gown rudely brushed shoulders with a woman in fake jewelry and a red skirt that showed butt cheek. Neither one appeared to care. Two men in suit pants and thick overcoats got into a loud fight over a cab. Parker could smell butter and shrimp each time the Filet O' Yea's door opened behind him. Cars cruised slowly in the traffic, many of which blared popular music and rap from closed windows so that he could mainly make out suffocating bass lines.

He stood up and went in search of the abandoned subway entrance. He was a good writer; he could remember exactly what people said to him, word for word, for at least two years. His memory was like a book that simply needed to have the pages flipped to the mental tab marking an event.

He found a boarded up piece of sidewalk next to a bar called Crystal's. He looked beyond it and saw a dark alley, although a car would have to be sawed in half to fit down there. Parker stuffed his hands in his pockets, stood thinking for a moment - perhaps checking a note about the dangers of dark alleys in his memory book - and then held his cold, black-leather gloved hands out in front of him. He proceeded into the brick-lined alley with ears alert. He heard nothing but the cars behind him and the mingling, muffled voices coming from the second story, closed windows of Crystal's on his right. He thought of an old saloon from a movie as he left the bar behind and entered the alley. Once his eyes adjusted to the weak light, he put down his hands.

He walked for half a block, looking behind him every few seconds. There was nobody around. There was not even a door or window to be seen, but he kept walking. A light blue door came into sight on his left suddenly, then another light blue door about ten feet after the first. He paused outside each and listened, rubbing his glove on the wood and squinting to make out the color. He heard nothing, but thought something looked strange about the doors. He continued on until another blue door carved out a piece of building. He listened, rubbed the wood and reached for the doorknob. His gloved hand brushed air. There was no doorknob. He thought that there must not have been any on the other two doors, as well. He watched the door for a minute, and then pushed it like a schoolboy poking his head into the girls' bathroom.

A long hallway stretched out in front of him, lit only by the orange light coming from the glassless window at the end of the hall. The sounds of the street still reached him, but they sounded lonely, like the office at night when Parker worked late. He thought he could almost hear the floor polisher sweeping the hallways, as though unmanned and working on its own, without pay.

The floor thumped as he walked, and he pushed his shoulders back, thinking of Cleo's mysterious blue eyes. He muttered, "Remember why you're doing this."

He reached the end of the hallway and faced a blue door on his right, the shadowy light from the window above his head brushing his hair and tapping his cheek. There was no doorknob here, either. He could hear soft male voices coming from the cool air above. He pushed the door open. The talking stopped.

Parker stepped out into an L-shaped alley. He saw cardboard boxes and black trash bags in front of him, but could not see what lie around the corner to his left.

He said, "Hello? Hello, can someone help me?"

A man's deep voice answered from beyond view. "Who are you?"

"I'm looking for someone." He walked around the corner, but saw nobody, only small, cooling red coals from a fire set below the window from the hallway. "Where are you?"

"Come on in a little closer." It was the same deep voice, but he heard a woman laugh gently after he spoke, as though she were trying to hide it from a priest.

He hesitated, and then took a step forward.

He felt a hit, a sharp sting on the top of his head, and saw a flash of white light behind his snapped-shut eyelids. He let out a gasp as another hit came from above. He opened his eyes to see the coals somehow coming closer to his face. He realized he was falling in time to roll to the ground to the side of the dying fire. A shoe hammered into his gut and he felt the Doritos he had eaten spill out his mouth with an acid back-taste. He could not see. Warm blood was filling eyes. Another blow fell on his crown, and then everything was a dark dream.

He awoke with his cheek freezing on the cement. He cracked his eyes open. Everything seemed disproportional, like an alley-themed funhouse. Folding chairs and cardboard boxes seemed to float and twist in the city lights reflecting off the hazy clouds above. His eyelashes were stuck together, and he heard them crackle as he widened his view. Groaning and no longer able to be afraid, he slowly sat upright. He had cottonmouth, as though he had hit the whiskey rather than been hit by the bottle. In the movies, they always break, he thought. His left ribs ached, and when he sharply gasped as he touched his head, his entire left side screamed at him in shock and pain.

He cursed, but pulled himself up the wall. He jerked and breathed in shallow breaths, then used the wall to support himself as he rounded the corner. He reached the door and held out a shaky hand...but there was no doorknob.

Parker moaned and ran his bare hands over the wood. It was cold and splintery, and he realized he hadn't felt it before. They had taken his gloves. He rubbed his arms, noticing for the first time that his jacket was gone. He slipped his hands into his pockets, and found in one a black coal, nothing else.

"Damn it."

A woman's voice came from the darkness. "You shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain."

He turned his head too quickly and saw a white glare for a second. "Who said that?" His voice sounded crackly and adolescent.

"I did."

He saw no one. "I didn't use the Lord's name."

"Every damn damns Him."

He felt dizzy and leaned against the door. "Are you going to tell me how to get out or are you going to take my teeth, too?"

"I didn't hit you. That's not nice."

He shivered as he let out a dead laugh. "I guess I know why this place is called Knockout."

He looked around again. The voice was coming from above, from one of the shadowy windows. Keeping his back to the wall, he edged around to the window above the hot coals. He hoisted himself through the window, his left ribs keeping him warm with pain. He was sweating by the time both feet hit the hallway floor. He sped up as he lurched toward the exit door, and leaned his shoulder against it once he got there.

He whispered to the dark, mold-stained walls, "No doorknob." He slumped and touched the cut on the top of his head, then straightened and dug his short fingernails into the crack between the door and the door jam. He felt it give a little bit, so he braced his heels and pushed his nails deeper into the soft, old wood. He let out choking grunts as pain chased up his fingers and knuckles.

He heard a yell behind him, sounding like it was coming from the alley he'd been robbed in, and he felt all his aches tingle as though shocked by a live wire. He worked harder. The light blue door slid open in fanning intervals until he could wrap his fingertips around the outside corner. He pulled the door open and ran like a deer, forgetting his pain and replacing it with marble fear. The other two blue doors flew by on his right, and he saw the traffic and bright lights of Little Point before his brain registered that he heard it.

"Hey, man, are you okay?" He saw a small teenage girl with cheekbone-length hair in front of him. He had stopped and was catching his breath, college track years far behind him.

She tossed her bangs back over her pierced, yet bare ear. "You look beat up."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"Whatever," she said.

"What time is it?"

"Dude, you should call the cops or something."

He rubbed dried blood off of his forehead and felt the chill of his drying sweat. "Time?"

She pointed across the street to a red digital clock high above, set into a building, as glaring as a naked woman. It read, 1:34. He had been unconscious for nearly five hours.

"Thanks." He turned away and walked into Crystal's. The people near the door only gave him one look, and then went back to their bottles and cigarettes.

"Beer for you?" Her appearance was so sudden to Parker that the waitress seemed to come out from under a table.

He yelled over the jukebox and voices, "Bathroom?"

She took a better look at him and lowered her painted eyebrows. "You alright?"

He nodded without looking at her.

"Poor thing, no need be ashamed," she said into his ear. "I can tell looking at you. Just go to the back on your right."

The bathroom was clean, but old. A man hunched over the urinal. Parker thought to himself that he was lucky they didn't literally beat the piss out of him. He cursed when he looked in the mirror. Blood reached over the front of his head and onto his face like a red, crumbly hand trying to scratch his nose from atop his skull. His eyes were neither blue nor gray, but yellow in the faded light of the small room. As he took a towel from the dispenser and filled it with water, he saw that the skin under the tips of his fingernails was the deep pink of raw salmon. He washed his hands and used the towel to scrub his face clean. He dabbed at his head, cursing again.

The man at the urinal finished up and gave Parker a rolling-eyed, fearful look as he left.

He cleaned the back of his neck and pulled up the front of his shirt. Purple and blue filled his skin like shimmering oils. He coughed and gagged as he poked it with his aching fingers. He tasted cheese.

He left the bathroom and walked to the front door of the bar with his head down. Smoke on the Water hit his ears from all sides.

He felt a hand on his elbow. He looked over to the cocktail waitress, who held out a glass filled with almond-colored liquid. "This will help you," she called into his ear.

He nodded and took the glass. "I wish I could tip you, but," he shook his head.

She put her hand on his arm again, and said, "You get to feeling better." She walked back into the full crowd.

He sipped the drink slowly, without pausing, like a dog licking a wound in the middle of the day.

It took him twenty minutes to hail a cab. None of them wanted to stop for a dirty, coatless maniac whom all the other curbsiders were standing far from. One man finally stopped, and Parker realized halfway home that he wouldn't be able to get inside his house to pay the man. His keys had been taken.

"Can you stop at a gas station on the way? I need to make a quick call."

"Sure, yes."

Parker wondered where the foreigner was from, but thinking hurt too much. He leaned back and waited until the driver pulled over at a convenience store. Chills shook him as he walked to the blue and white phone stand. He picked up the black receiver and dialed many numbers, having memorized his calling card for instances such as this.

A sleepy woman's voice answered, sounding like she was squinting at an alarm clock with her lips. "Hello?"

"Hi."

He imagined he could hear her sit up. Her tone changed from butterfly to wasp as she talked. "Parker? What the hell? It's five in the morning here. I need all the sleep I can get. What is it?"

"I need to know where you put the extra key."

"Oh, Jesus. Are you drunk?"

He pushed his forehead against the cold, skinny metal and squeezed his eyes shut. "Look, it's been a really long night, Missy. I can't talk now. The cab's waiting for me, but-"

"Cab? What the hell are you doing? You lose your keys when you're drunk and you want me to bail you out to be able to pay the cab fare?"

He raised his voice like he was talking to a spoiled child. "I got my ass kicked in an alley, and everything was stolen. Now, can you tell me where you put the spare key?"

She sucked in her breath with a quick, swoooop. Then she let it out just as fast. "You were working on a story, weren't you? Almost got yourself killed again. When are you going to..." Behind his closed eyes he could see her sticking out her pointed chin and shutting her eyes as she stopped herself. "It's under the flowerpot on the fire escape. The one that had the aloe plant in it."

"Yeah."

Like saying thank you for a Valentine's Day present she didn't want, she told him, "I'm glad you're okay."

He thought of the brown ringlets that must be tickling her cheek. "Thanks. I have to go."

"Parker—"

He hung up and dragged his feet back to the cab as though he were already asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR

The small, gray cat sat on Parker's windowsill, smashed against the glass in a ball, looking like he lost his paws and tail to the cold. Parker was going about his morning routine and he never thought to look out the window. It was a Saturday, his head and ribs had healed in the last three weeks, and he was on his way out to buy a copy of the magazine he worked for. The new edition had come out that day, at two in the morning, and he wanted to read his latest article over coffee.

He liked to imagine his father reading his printed words after he'd shoveled the driveway in his Detroit suburb. His parents had retired from the city life ten years ago. His father was in his sixties, and would have worked into his nineties, but he'd had a lucky break with the stock market. Parker still wasn't sure what his father had done to support his family. He only knew Dad had worn a tie and did "office work." His mother had never known a job. He smiled at himself in the bathroom mirror as he imagined her deep voice say, "Other than raising two boys and taming a house, you mean." Then he remembered the way she had looked in her coffin at the funeral, an image that came every time he thought of her. He wished he had never seen that still face, that he could associate only living memories of her when he remembered her.

He walked through the living room and stopped, feeling he was being watched. He looked around, stopping his gaze on Missy's photo, then went into the kitchen for his keys and a ten-dollar bill. The cat propped his paws up on the screen and pushed on the glass. His mouth opened and closed without sound, a furry mime.

The November temperature had dropped below freezing during the night.

After throwing back one cup of coffee, Parker walked to the corner of 6th Street and Kepler, nodding to the old man and woman he had been buying periodicals from for years. He had never learned their names, and wondered on this day as he handed them ten dollars ("Keep the change") if they rubbed each other's mitten-clad hands to keep warm from the cold. Was there love still between them? Did their matching braided-silver wedding bands he had spied in the summer time mirror the similarity of their souls?

He realized he was quite excited about himself and his article as he walked away, because he was thinking such romantic thoughts. Everything in the world had been compared to love. He laughed like a giddy girl with a crush as he rolled the magazine and, with it, slapped his bare hand. He still hadn't replaced his gloves.

Back at his apartment, he poured the last of the coffee, adding a kiss of cream, kicked off his shoes and sat on the couch. He took a slight sip, sucking in air along with the coffee in order to cool the thimbleful he received, propped his feet on the coffee table, and opened the magazine. He turned the pages one at a time, as though he'd never seen such a contraption. He blushed like looking at his first centerfold, feeling warmth spread across the skin of his chest as he saw his name under his article's title in the table of contents. It was an old reaction that never went away or lessened. "Like the flush of true love," he muttered, and then laughed. He hoped he never stopped getting excited.

The fire escape rattled behind him like the wind had decided to dance there. He almost turned around to see if it was still there, but the dazzle of his name in ink kept him from distraction. On the way through the magazine he read a line about rain forests, an advertisement for stereo speakers, a blip about something in Italian food that is good for the body. As he reached the desired page, he heard it again - a rattle from behind him - this time sounding like two well-paid wrestlers in a cage.

Someone knocked on the window. Rap-rap.

He dropped the magazine to his feet and he turned around to see what was happening to his fire escape.

There was Cleo, in a huge, long, black skirt and wrapped in a brown blanket, her thin eyebrows raised, head tilted, looking at him like he owed her money for the article. He stared back at her without moving. When she knocked again, rap-rap, as urgent as a nurse wanting to go on smoke break, he realized that in her other hand she cuddled a small, gray cat.

He almost took the Lord's name in vain again, but his skull throbbed once as a reminder before the thought could cross his lips. He turned and hopped on the couch on his knees, unlocked and opened the window, and leaned into the screen as he asked, "What are you doing here?"

She stroked the cat's head. "I was under the impression from your article that you wanted to see me." She held up the gray. "Your cat's freezing. Shouldn't let him out in this weather. It's twenty-eight degrees out."

He stared at the cat like it was a green alien infant, pointing toward it until his finger was blocked by the screen. "I've never seen that."

Her blue eyes glowed as she looked down at the feline. "Oh. Not yours, you think. It's a he. Are you going to invite this odd couple in for a coffee, or are you going to watch us like we're street performers?"

"Oh." He ripped the screen off the window, and the sound was only masked by his loud apology. As she hiked up her skirt and climbed inside, he said, "Why didn't you come to my front door?"

She dropped onto the couch, draping her skirt over hairy legs. "Thought I'd make an entrance worth writing about." She let the cat out of her arms. He jumped to the floor and looked up at Parker, as if to say, nice place.

Parker put the screen back and closed the window. "Where did you get it? Him?"

"He was on your windowsill. Didn't you see him?"

"He's so small."

"He's still a kitten. I'd say, five months old. Do you have any meat?"

"I..." The gray continued to watch him with dark green eyes. Parker thought he saw a halo of blue around the skinny pupils. He clapped his hands once together and held them. "I have lunch meat. Ham."

"Good enough," she said, then pointed across the room to a doorway. "That the kitchen?"

"Yes."

She looked at him, leaning forward as expectantly as the kitten. He looked from her eyes, to the turban hiding her hair, to the cat, then back to the turban.

"Well, reporter?"

"Of course." He patted his pants pockets. "Yes, coffee. Ham for the cat." His guests followed him to the kitchen. He heard Cleo trample over the magazine.

He began preparing the coffee at the counter as a slight sweat broke out on his back. "Why did you come, Cleo?" He looked back at her.

"Shocked?" She smiled.

"Yes."

The kitten sat next to Parker's feet as he scooped coffee into the filter.

Cleo spoke again. "I read your article last night. A friend brought it to me."

He dumped the little drop that was left in the coffee pot and rinsed it in the sink, glad that the water overtook the space their voices would were they to talk for a moment. How had she found out about the article so quickly? He breathed deeply and wriggled his shirtsleeves.

He turned off the tap and asked, "Did you like it, or are you here to yell at me for something?" It was the kind of comment that would have made Missy push him off a curb and into traffic.

Cleo's voice was touched with humor rather than irritation. "I was impressed."

"Really?" He sounded unconvinced as he started the coffee maker.

"Yes, I was," she said.

"Mah," from below.

Parker looked down at the gray beggar. "Oh, sorry," he said to it, and he opened the refrigerator next to him. He dropped three slices of ham onto a paper towel and put it on the floor. He could feel cold coming from the creature when it ran forward to the food, brushing Parker's fingers. Parker pulled his hand back, stood up and looked at Cleo. She was examining his place mat. He said, "You liked it?"

"A woman picked these out." Without looking up, she added, "He's thirsty."

"Oh." Parker pulled a half-gallon of milk out of the fridge.

"Give him water."

"Oh. Right." He filled a coffee mug that read Bob Hates Mondays with tap water and put it next to the ham.

He looked at Cleo again. "Should I get him dessert and a latte?"

"You're an honest reporter." She met his eyes. "I like that. You even wrote how you were an ass to me, and didn't try to make yourself out to be anything."

He leaned back on the counter and folded his arms. The coffee dripped. The cat's gums smacked like muted tap shoes. "What color is your hair?"

She raised her eyebrows.

"Is it black?"

"Men often try not to have a vocabulary. Can't you be more descriptive?"

Parker smiled. "Why else did you like my article?"

"You made a very poetic plea for my life story."

His lips stayed tight, but seemed to twist like a branch in a cold breeze as they watched each other across the kitchen. The coffee perked. He said, "I know you've slept past dawn before. I want to know when and where and why."

She pinched her chin and nodded at his coffee maker. "I don't like cream."

"The why is what I really want to know."

The coffee let out a final, steamy breath. The kitten was creeping around on the floor in a crouch, head bobbing like it was loose, nose devouring every scent that had ever crossed the tile.

She propped her elbows on the table. "Just because I'm homeless?"

He filled two blue mugs with coffee. "I thought you read my article."

"I want sugar."

He put the mugs and a sugar bowl on the table. He said, "Aren't you going to mention that they match the place mats?"

"A lady doesn't point out such things."

From the living room, they heard, "Mah."

CHAPTER FIVE

CLEO

I'll jump right into where the important things happened, the ones that would take me to where I am now. I can tell you have a busy life and I'll try to keep things as relevant as possible. A little background is necessary, but I'll start with the person who shaped my entire life. Patrick.

I was born in Nebraska and raised on a farm. My father was a veterinarian and my mother never left the house. My younger sister was a blonde and bragged to me about it from the first time my Dad called her Barbie. It became her nickname.

In 1970, I was sixteen. Barbie was fifteen. We went to school in the nearby town. It took Dad forty minutes to drive us there every morning, and then he would go to his clinic a few streets over. After school we'd walk to the clinic and work there until he drove us home.

I loved the clinic. It smelled like horse hay and dog baths. My sister hated it. She said her ears rang from the barking kennel dogs.

Nebraska is beautiful country. Don't guess you've been there. You seem like you've never been south of Maryland. That's not an insult, just an observation.

I was feeding a black lab after she came out of surgery on the day I met Patrick. She had her front left paw removed. Her owner ran over it with his riding mower. It was four A.M. when we met the man at the clinic for emergency. He had smelled like piss and cherry wine when he brought the screaming dog in.

It was a Saturday in September, one month after tenth grade year started for me.

I fed the doped-up dog puppy food that I'd soaked in water to soften. She licked her bandaged paw-stub and whistled through her nose like an old car that is tired of stopping for traffic lights.

I got angry, but Dad was a professional. He came up behind me when I was staring at the poochie - her owner had named her Buck even though she was a she - and he loosed my hands from the cage bars. He said, "Accidents happen, Cleo. That's what we're here for."

Around six that evening, I turned off the office lights and went back to look at Buck. Her owner had not come back to pick her up. Dad was doing something with the horses in the care stable, and I was waiting for him. When I heard the office doorbell ring, signaling a visitor, I felt fresh anger, thinking about the neglectful man who had finally come to get his crippled pup. But it wasn't the man waiting for me when I reached the front desk. It was Patrick, and here's how he looked the first time I saw him.

The clinic faced west, and the daylight's end shined around him. I could see sweat glistening off his tan skin, and short, raven curls of hair clung to his temples and forehead. His hair was a little longer than most boys I'd known. It touched his ears, like a boy on TV. His eyes looked black in the shadows, but somehow I knew they were as multi-faceted as the coat of a rabbit pausing on new morning snow.

He said, "Hello, Beautiful."

I answered with, "Enough of that. Can I help you?"

"I'm here for Gypsy." His voice was like chocolate milk where you pour way too much chocolate in the mix when your mother's not looking.

My voice was steady, but my hands behind my back shook like faulty sprinklers. "We have no Gypsy."

"My Pa brought her in. She lost her foot."

"Buck," I said, and I covered my mouth.

He said, "You're excused. Now, can you get my dog for me so I can see what the bastard did?"

I smiled at his cursing. I thought he must be at least seventeen. "Follow me," I said.

I led him back to the black dog who was digging her teeth into the top of a bandage.

"Jesus Christ," he said, and stood and stared, then wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. I opened the cage.

"Gypsy," I said to her in my doggie voice. "Look who's here."

Her eyebrows poked up to her master, and again came the squeaky brakes. "I know," he said to her and rubbed her behind the ears. The way he looked at me then I'll never forget. How did he look at me? What was it like? It was as though he said aloud, "You know, only you know."

I didn't watch him out to the parking lot, but I found out later he only rode a little green bike to and from where he needed to go. How he rode home with that dog I never found out.

But isn't Gypsy a nice name?

It turned out Patrick was an Irish boy, and a Catholic. His family had just moved from Philadelphia. Some vague reason, something about property inherited, though no Catholics had ever lived in or around the town. Patrick and his four brothers began attending our school soon after that Saturday. Although Patrick was two grades older than me, his brother Sean was in my class. They all had vibrant blue eyes, but not Patrick. What I had thought at first was a tan was his normal skin tone. He was darker than the other brothers, and there was gossip, of course. Small towns love gossip about new folks, as much as they love their reverends. We found out from the dime store owner that the mother was only half-Irish and had brown eyes. That stopped the Catholic-haters' slandering for a while.

Nobody found out about Gypsy. My dad and I were the kinds that don't tell.

CHAPTER SIX

Patrick always made an effort to say hello to me when I'd see him outside school. "Beautiful," he'd say, and nod like it was a how-do. He had a collection of friends as varied as a spice rack within a week of starting school. Everybody loved him. Only he could get away with calling a girl beautiful and make it sound like a friendly nickname, although I never heard him say it to anyone but me.

He'd smoke cigarettes and listen to people talk. That's what I'd see him do when I passed him on the street on my way to the clinic after school.

He caught me once out on the sidewalk.

He said, "Hey, Beautiful," and tapped my arm. "Hang out with me."

I said, "I have a boyfriend."

Before I could finish saying "friend," he said, "I don't care."

I put my shaking hands in my armpits and said, "I have to go."

He asked me, "Why does he make you work all the time?"

I told him that I wanted to.

"Doesn't it make you sad," he said, and he dropped his voice as soft as a dove with bread crumbs, "To see all those animals die?"

"No," I said. "It's natural. Death is natural."

As he lit a cigarette, he said, "Think so?"

"You don't?" I asked him.

"I think God is cheating us," he said.

I'd never had this kind of conversation before, and the only times I'd talked about God was with my father or Cecil, and then I always listened. I said to him, "How is he cheating us?"

He took a deep drag and blew it out as he squinted at a nearby storefront, as though the deity in question were watching him from the other side of the glass. His explanation was, "He doesn't give us enough time to get it all done. We die before we can completely understand why we should want forgiveness."

I looked at the storefront, then back at him. I couldn't think of anything to say.

He asked, "What do you think, Beautiful?"

I said, "Stop calling me that."

"Never," he said.

I told him that I didn't know what I thought about it.

He told me, "Sure you do. You're just too afraid to say."

I said that I had to go, said something about a cow in labor. My ears and cheeks got hotter as I thought about him and our conversation. My father looked at me longer than usual when I came in, and when he went back into the lab, I put my icy hands to my face and felt where all the blood had gone. I was in love.

I talked to Cecil on the phone some nights, but I mostly saw him in school. He was a farmer's son, but his hands didn't have a single callous. He said he was going to be a lawyer. One night in October, he told me that the Downes - that's Patrick's family - had no furniture. They had moved into a farmhouse that had been empty for two years before they came. The gossip about the lack of tables and chairs and whatnot came from a plumber named Joseph Ketty who had done some fix-up work out at their house. I told Cecil that it was possible that their furniture hadn't arrived from Philadelphia yet, that perhaps something had gone wrong with the shipping.

I really loved saying the word "Philadelphia." It was like talking about him without anyone knowing I was.

Cecil answered with, "Why are you always defending them?"

I said, "Why are you so quick to believe everything you hear and expect the worst?" I held the phone away from my mouth as I yawned. "It doesn't seem like that would make you a good lawyer."

"Expecting the worst to be true is what will make me an excellent lawyer. Then I will see everything that could come my way in a trial," he said.

As much as I liked to talk about Philadelphia, I felt almost obligated to bring up a comfortable old shoe of a discussion. "You'd seriously defend an evil person, someone you knew was guilty, wouldn't you? You just as much as admitted it."

"Seeing ahead and expecting anything from an adversary, in this case, a D.A., is different from defending evil."

"You twist your words so well," I said. "You could open wine bottles with your tongue."

He laughed with delight and said, "I only mean exactly the words I choose to mean, Cleo," sounding like he was delivering terms of endearment. We had no fancy titles, we never touched each other except the one time he put his arm around me on the tractor when we were twelve. We were like sausage and pancakes, comfortable on the same plate.

In my silence, he had the chance to add, "And you still haven't explained why you defend them so much."

I said, "They all seem so nice to me."

I could hear him slap his head from my end of the phone. He said, "Don't tell me you're one of those girls."

I said, "What girls?" but I knew what he was talking about.

"The ones who have fallen for those big, blue eyes and hippie haircuts. The one in our class looks like he's on his way to a peace rally every time I see him," Cecil replied.

I said, "They don't all look like hippies. Charlie has a crew cut. And I heard there's an even older brother in the army serving in Vietnam."

He laughed like a geek sniffing markers and said, "You are! You are one of those girls. But who am I kidding? What girl at school isn't? I bet the women in college aren't so easily blinded."

I bounced my fingertips off each of my freshly-painted pink toenails. They were dry.

"Well, Cecil," I said, "I'll let you stew in your jealousy. Mom wanted me to help her with something."

He ignored me at first. "Even my sisters, who know better, get giggly around them. What is it, that they are in a herd?" Then he heard me. "Jealousy?" He blew in the phone receiver. "Jealous of what? Teamwork good-looks and drunk Catholic parents?"

He continued on like this until he took a breath, and I said, "Can't we talk about this some other time?"

"Well, if your mother needs you." He paused. "Tell her I said hello."

"Yes, I will. Bye," and I hung up.

Destiny isn't a romantic boat ride where the water lilies dance in the moonlight. It isn't mysterious. Destiny decides things for you, tortures you with obsessions and compulsions to follow its direction. It's a child with a matchbook crouching near a dead tree stump. I can't ever forget it's out there, calculating with every move I make how it can fry me right along where it wants me to go.

Next time I saw Patrick, he was waiting for me at the clinic doors when I arrived after school. Barbie had lagged behind at school with a few of her friends.

He said, "Door's locked. Your dad went on a call." He handed me a piece of paper. It read that the Shanders' pony had hurt herself on the barbed wire fence and he'd be gone for a couple of hours.

I asked Patrick, "What are you doing here?" His hair was getting longer. It hung over the rims of his ears now.

"I got my dad's car. I want to take you somewhere." He smiled like he was offering milk and cookies.

I wished I had worn something more feminine. I wished I could breathe. "Where?" I asked him.

"It's a surprise."

I thought of things I should say, but instead I said, "Lead the way."

We rode in an old, gold Plymouth on a country highway, heading toward Lincoln, which was an hour's drive east of our town and almost two hours from my home. It isn't a big city by big city standards, and certainly wasn't then, but to me it was television life and newness. I thought for sure he was taking me to the city. I begged him to at least tell me how far we'd be going.

He said, "Don't worry, I'll have you back by supper."

The illogical possibility of my getting home at a reasonable hour didn't seem strange at the time. It was as if nothing but chilly fall air and crop fields and late afternoon sun existed outside the Plymouth. His hair blew around him from the draft of the open windows, and he squinted in the sunlight. He looked like a man.

The radio didn't work, but the car engine hummed a mellow rhythm with the whipping wind. He only spoke to tell me he had a leather jacket in the back seat if I was cold. I was as warm as a campfire, but I wore the coat like I would a blanket on Christmas Eve, and I sneaked glances at him all along the ride. He would catch me and smile out at the sun, then tap the steering wheel a couple of times.

The suburbs of Lincoln rose up as the sunshine faded. "Good," he said, "You'll be able to see the lights."

I said, "The city lights?"

"No, Lincoln's not quite a city." he said, and pointed out my window.

I had never been to a fair. Mother said they were too dangerous. And seeing it from a mile away, all yellow and orange and sparkly and shiny, I ran my hands to cover my red cheeks. "Oh!" I yelled. "Are you really?"

I didn't know where he got the money for it all, but it didn't matter. I could smell the caramel apples at the entrance gate, and it was like he read my eyes as I stared at the vendors. I only finished half an apple before he bought me a funnel cake. That thing was sweeter than any pumpkin pie Mother made. I only finished half of that when he insisted we jump on a ride. It was a wide, flat disk loaded with booth-sized teacups. The disk spun and the teacups spun on top of it. He twirled us around and around and I felt the sugar rise up in my throat before I swallowed it back. It still tasted yummy the second time around. I hadn't laughed like that since I was a child, since before work and school.

He watched me that night, not saying much. He didn't even smoke a cigarette the whole time.

The lights were no match for the smell of the air. Dust and sweets and sweat and some other odor that was like the kitchen two hours after a big meal. I told him I wanted to run away and join the traveling fair.

He said I wouldn't like it, that fun things aren't fun anymore when you had to do them.

I said I didn't like heights when he wanted to take me up on the Ferris wheel. It spun red and yellow lights like a comet lazily trying to scorch the earth. He brushed hair off my cheek and told me, "I'll take care of you."

"How?" I asked.

He told me, "I can fly."

We rode the Ferris wheel. He held my hand with my fingers lying together against his palm as the basket spun upward into the dark sky. He said my hands were cold, and that he liked that, and I realized I couldn't see the stars. All of the fair lights had shied them away.

I squeezed his hand as we descended. As we whipped back around for another turn upward, I cried out, "I love it!"

Our cab paused along the ride to let more people on board. He said we were lucky to stop so high in the sky. I could see the lights lining the streets of the city a little ways off.

"It's so big."

He told me he wished he could show me Philadelphia from some building whose name I didn't know. He said his hometown "Philly" like it was an older cousin. Still looking at the ground, he said, "Do you really have a boyfriend?"

I said, "Not really."

When I was a girl, my thoughts were so simple, and my ideas had only two tones. I wanted to both talk to no end and never open my mouth again except to kiss him.

It was very late and we stayed until the park closed. We only cracked the windows on the ride home. I made excuses to my parents in my mind, and my imagination let them find me innocent.

He asked me why I was so quiet.

"You are, too," I said.

"I like to listen," he told me.

I asked him what he was listening for.

The headlights from occasional passing cars lit his dark skin so that he looked like a ghost. "I listen to hear what other people think about. What are you thinking?"

I said, "How I should get out of trouble for being out so late."

He nodded as though I was telling a secret, and he didn't look at me for a few minutes. Then he said, "I think you have a lot of things that you think about, but you just don't say."

"What do you think about?" I asked.

"Not much," he said.

I said, "Of course you do. You just don't say."

"Alright." He nodded and started to tap the steering wheel with one finger. "My brother went to Vietnam. I think he's an idiot."

I asked if he went on his own, without the draft.

"Yeah, on his own. He's in the military for a reason."

We were quiet, and then he asked what I thought about Vietnam. I told him I didn't know.

"I spilled, now you," he said.

"I haven't thought about it too much." Why should I? I lived in a field and was surrounded by animals half the day. Nobody my age would be drafted. Only a few farmers' sons had joined up around us, but I hadn't known them well enough to do more than nod as I passed them on the roads. I had heard Cecil talk about it for hours uncounted, but that wasn't the same thing as thinking about it. Mother would change the television channel any time war talk came on. So I just said, "I don't think I like war."

He told me, "I think it's wrong. All of it. I don't think my brother should be over there."

I said, "What do your parents think?"

His shoulders hunched and dropped. "Mom doesn't think. Dad says my brother's a hero." His finger tapping stopped and he said, "I don't care what they say about it."

Had I said something wrong? Nothing in the car had changed; the windows were cracked and the radio silent, but the air seemed full of dirty soap foam. I huddled down into the brown leather of his jacket and felt cold.

But then he changed yet again. He pushed his hair back from his forehead and looked at me. "Alright, so what do you think about Janis Joplin?"

I didn't listen to music much, but I knew who she was and how she had died.

He asked me what I thought of her death.

I said it must be a shame. I said, "She must have loved music and it's so sad she couldn't control herself."

He said, "You've never tried any?"

"Drugs?"

He nodded and watched my face. The car slid over into the other lane, but it was nothing to worry about. There was only starlight to pass.

I said, "They might have drugs in Philadelphia, but there's nothing but a little homegrown grass around here. At least that I've heard of. I've never even seen it before."

He said, "You don't need to see it. You need to smell it."

I giggled. Actually, I had never talked to anyone who had so much as smelled it before. "What does it smell like?"

The car smoothed out into its own lane. "Like springtime, seasoned."

"Seasoned with what?" I asked.

He said, "It's different every time."

I remembered we were talking about a singer who had died because of such things. "But they killed her."

"No, I don't know if they did," he said. "A little grass won't kill you, or other drugs in moderation. Other things do, like the way the world is."

I fiddled with the jacket's zipper, but I felt still so excited by the night's ride that death and the way the world is could not bother me.

We pulled up to the crossroads of the country highway and the little road that was my street. They didn't even have stop signs out that way back then. People just knew to look where they were going. He took my hand from my lap and kissed the back of it. "Little cold hands," he said as he looked down at my hand like it was a sleeping newborn kitten. Then he said, "You need to get in a little trouble," and he looked at me with his fair ride eyes. He took a right turn and dropped me off at my home, a quarter of a mile up the road.

I didn't say goodbye or thank you, I only looked at him and he was smiling like he'd thrown a hound dog in a hen house at midnight.

All of the lights in the house were on.

Barbie watched from the stairwell as Mother and Dad lectured me in the living room. I was to be safe. I was to tell them where I was and when I'd be home and who I was with. They didn't yell, but my mother's eyes were swollen and red like she'd been boxing rather than crying. I could have been hit by a car and dead, for all they knew. I felt guilt as deep as my evening's pleasure as Mother said boys like that boy were trouble. I didn't ask what they meant, but by the time I was washed up and in bed, I'd forgotten their hard-voiced wrath and I rolled in my sheets in the light of the moon coming from my window.

Later that night, when Barbie crept into my room past three A.M. and got into the bed with me, I told her about my evening. I could feel her toes curling against my leg when I told her how he held my hand on the Ferris wheel ride. The last of my guilt slipped away like a quilt tossed to the floor on a summer night.

She asked, "Were his hands soft or rough?"

I told her I was too numb to notice.

"Did you really see Lincoln?" she said.

I told her the lights must have been as bright as daylight from my view on top of the Ferris wheel.

She said I was so lucky and that she would do anything to have a boy hold her hand.

Barbie fell asleep soon, but I could not give up my memory to the brainwash of unconsciousness. I bypassed waking before dawn to just staying awake until I saw the highlights of Barbie's blonde hair on my pillow. It was such a pretty color, like the silk in a corn husk. I heard my father's alarm and I slipped out of the covers feeling completely rested.
CHAPTER SEVEN

PARKER

"You see," said Cleo, "I had a normal girl's life. I had gotten into trouble for being out with a boy. I was innocent of the worries our elders bear."

"More coffee?" Parker got up and poured her some without her answer. She dipped her sugar spoon into the bowl and slowly spilled the sweet grains into the dark mug.

"Why didn't your mother ever leave the house? What was wrong with her?"

"Oh, oh, oh." Her spoon clanked against the ceramic mug, sounding like timing bells going off in her memory. "I didn't tell you about that, did I?" She let the brown blanket fall off her shoulders and on to the back of the chair. A lip of dust spat off the edge and marked the floor. Her sweater underneath was bright purple with hand-sized yellow and red fish swimming through the threads. Parker could see other layers underneath the sweater. Cleo was thinner than she looked in the heavy clothes.

"Mah-wah." They both looked down to the gray kitten that had rejoined them.

"My mother loved cats, but we only had one," Cleo said to the kitten. In one slinky hop, the cat was on the tabletop.

The cat sniffed every inch of the table, and Parker clenched his mug in both hands to keep from booting the animal off. He did not want to risk offense at this particular moment.

He asked, "What was the cat's name?"

CLEO

His name was Fidore and he was an orange tabby. He was a barn cat who would only come in the house for my mother, who would only open the door to the outside world for him.

When we were little girls and our mother didn't go to church with us, we asked why. They told us that she had certain allergies to specific wild plants and pollens and that were she to be exposed to them unexpectedly, she could die. Our parents said there was no protecting her with shots or pills. It was best if she never left the cleanliness of our house, and it was a spotless home.

I said to them, "But I've seen Mother outside in pictures."

She told me that allergies change over the course of one's life. "I wasn't always allergic," she said with a sniffle. "And those pictures you've seen of me were in Birmingham, Alabama. They don't have the same plants there as here."

I knew my mother was different from other women. Her words had a song to them that other ladies and farmers didn't have. She met my father at a veterinary convention. Her brother had been a veterinarian, and she assisted him in much the same way Barbie and I assisted our father. Mother and Dad fell in love and married quickly, just three months after they met, and she moved to Nebraska to be with him.

Every day Mother would get up, cook breakfast and dress like the rest of us. Her clothes stayed new-looking longer than any of ours would, but such would be if one never left the house. The first time I remember her leaving the house was when we left Nebraska the following summer.

She especially liked wearing red. It made her blonde hair look flashy and her teeth whiter than clouds. She was a really beautiful and frail woman, with Barbie as a small mimic. While mother and Barbie could easily keep doll house furniture on their delicate limbs, I looked like I could haul horse trailers on my broad shoulders. Mother said I was lucky to be big-boned, and that if I ever gained too much weight when I was pregnant someday, I would still look like a model of the Italian female shape. I didn't really know what she meant by that.

The day after my fair trip was a Friday, and I didn't see Patrick in school. I could have asked one of his brothers where he was, but a certain adolescent shyness came over me and the thought of his eyes in the sunlight made me blush when I saw his brothers.

At the clinic that afternoon my father did not look me in the eye for longer than a couple of moments when he would talk at me. I should have been exhausted from no sleep, but I was a car battery getting a jump each time I thought of Patrick.

Barbie looked nearly as love struck as I was. She was the bookkeeper and she twirled her black pen over and over like her hand was a majorette. She hummed old fifties songs about love. I would giggle and tell her to stop and then she sang with her mouth open.

Dad came out of an operating room looking like dark prayers. "Cleo, in here a minute."

I sat in the hard orange chair looking up at Dad, who stood with his hands on the operating table. He still did not meet my eyes. He said, "Cleo, about last night. I want to talk to you." He pulled a cotton ball out of a jar and pulled at it, making a little sheep without a head by twisting legs from the cotton. "There are things you have to know now that you're growing up. You have to think before you act, and you have to consider the consequences." He propped the little toy animal up, but it fell over to the side under its own weight. He pushed it back up. "Just like this," he gestured at the sheep, "You must weigh things out. What is important to you and what is necessary for survival. Not just your own survival, but that of your family." He pushed one of the legs into the cotton and let it fall over. "You must stand for what you believe in, but you must first know what it is that you believe."

"I don't understand," I said.

"You will have to decide things that may not be right in the eyes of others, or possibly might not even be legal, but you must question everything."

I thought about the conversation I'd had with Patrick about grass. "I don't do drugs, Dad."

"No," he shook his head, "I don't think you do." He even laughed a little. "Listen," he said, "Listen to me and think about what I'm saying. Our country is built on questioning, our lives are built on it. You must put what you love before all else. And what you love is your family, and your passions." He paused to stretch the flawed leg. "Sometimes what you do will seem right at the time, but others will not see it as so. I'm asking you to always consider their points of view, while keeping your own. Let me ask you," and he looked at me. "What is it I have created here on the table?"

"A sheep, Dad."

"I meant to make a cloud with legs. It can never fall to the earth and succumb to being its lakes." He nodded slowly at me, and then slipped the thin bifocals out of his pocket, which he kept for small incisions. He put them on. "I may not make sense to you now, but only think about this. Balance." He pointed at the four-legged, fat cloud. Then he left the room for the lobby. I heard him say, "Barbie, wipe down the tables, will you, and we'll be off for home."

Barbie came in and immediately saw the little cotton figure. "What's that?" Without an answer, she scooped it up and dropped it in the trash. "Dad's acting so weird today. He got a phone call and he's been moody ever since. What'd he say to you?"

"I think he was telling me to go to college and not do drugs."

We giggled and giggled. We had not giggled so much in a 24-hour period since we were little girls.

That night I called the only two friends I had, Genie and Cecil. I wanted to know if they'd heard anything about Patrick, but I kept the fair to myself.

Genie loved to talk about the Downes family, and she said she heard that Patrick was supposed to take some kind of job that his father was forcing him to get.

"What kind of job?" I asked.

"Something to do with labor," she said.

Cecil, however, was unusually quiet and withdrawn. I was afraid that he had somehow heard about my adventure from the night before. I wasn't sure at the time why I should keep Patrick a secret from him. I tried to get him to speak his mind, but he said he was in the middle of a good book and it was distracting him.

"What book?" I asked.

"One you've never heard of. It's about politics," he said.

By the time I got off the phone, my mother was in her red robe in the den, sipping iced tea and watching a TV show. It must have been All in the Family. It seems lots of my memories of her in Nebraska involved that show in the background.

I saw her profile from the kitchen, so child-like with her round forehead and up-pointed nose. I tried to tip-toe past without her attention, but she always knew when someone was near. One time, later in life, she wrote to me that she could smell other people as well as most of us see them.

"Cleo, can you get me some more tea, honey?"

After I refilled her drink with the glass pitcher, she said, "Sit down. I want to ask you about something."

I sat on the lime green chair beside her, wanting to escape.

"Tell me more about this Downes boy."

"What do you want to know?"

She looked away to her TV and curled her naked legs up. She looked small and pale in her deep red robe, a farmer's wife without her make-up. "What does he look like?"

I told her without the poetics, but perhaps with a little flush.

"What do you two talk about?" She sounded more like Barbie the night before and less like the frightened mother.

"Not much," I said. "We talked about Janis Joplin."

"Who?"

I said, "She's a singer. She died last summer."

"Oh. I don't ever listen to the radio," she said.

"I know."

She looked all over me before she met my eyes again. "Cleo, be careful. I don't trust a boy who has little respect for a lady's parents." She frowned like she wanted to say more, and added, "It's so hard being a mother sometimes."

"We just lost track of time. It won't happen again."

"Yes, but," She pulled her knees up higher to her chest. "I just don't believe you went for a walk in the woods and got lost. That's not like you." She squeezed the hem of her red sleeve. "I don't like lies."

"I didn't lie. What do you think I did?"

She sipped tea and ice jittered in the shaky glass. "Be careful, is all I'm saying."

"Careful of what?"

"You know." She turned back to the TV with an empty face.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Maybe they thought I'd get pregnant. They were married over a year before I came along, so it wasn't that they had married in shotgun style. It takes so long for things to be revealed, and they are almost always found out from your own imagination plundering the treasure chests of memory randomly tossed around the brain.

On Monday night, Mother asked me to find Fidore, who hadn't been around the house in three days. It was unusual for him to not scratch at the door for Mother's attentions, but his food bowl was always licked clean.

Fidore liked the barn, so that's the first place I looked. I dreaded finding a lifeless pet's body in the straw, as there could be plenty of stray critters feeding from his bowl.

At one time, our barn had been an active one, complete with dairy cows in the stables. However, our family lived on the land around the barn and farmhouse. Dad sold the crop fields and all but two cows long ago to our neighbors, who kept the land fertile. I might mention that the smell of organic fertilizer was as homey as perhaps car exhaust is to you, reporter.

I went into the barn and called to Fidore, but it was Patrick who poked his head out of the hayloft.

"Cleo, hey, Cleo," he whispered.

"Patrick! What are you doing up there?" The hurt feeling from not seeing or hearing from him in four days was banked at the sight of him.

He smiled down at me and said, "Nice place you've got here."

I climbed the ladder as fast as a squirrel up a tree full of nuts. It was shadowy and the one naked barn light below the loft did not let me see him clearly.

"What is going on?" I tried to sound disturbed, but I couldn't hide my joy at the sight of his darkened eyes.

He said, "Your barn looked so cozy when I dropped you off that I decided to stay a while."

I asked him why he hadn't been at school.

"My new friend hates to see me go," he said. Fidore crept out of the hay, stretched, yawned, and rubbed his cheek against Patrick's side.

"There you are," I said to the cat. "Mother's been worried to death about you." To Patrick, I said, "I think Fidore is Mother's best friend."

He petted the cat's arched back and my eyes became more comfortable in the thin light. The shadows fell darker on the left side of his face, particularly around the eye. He looked up and saw my expression.

He shook his head and scratched Fidore's neck. "I fell off my bike." He touched his cheek. "Boom," he said, "Right in the middle of a shortcut between those two fields by the creek. You know what I'm talking about?"

I did. "You've been here since Friday?"

He said, "Actually, probably late Thursday night. I've been staying out of sight. I didn't think your parents would be too thrilled with my new homestead after I brought you home so late."

I said, "Aren't you starving?"

He licked his lips. "A little hungry."

"Fidore, come." I wrapped the cat in my arm. "I'll be back later," I started whispering. "I'm taking him to Mother."

"Cleo," he said as I descended the ladder. The cat went limp. We both looked up at him.

"You're not mad, are you?"

I didn't say anything, but only smiled and breathed so deeply I almost dropped Fidore.

I sneaked out leftover roast and potatoes in Tupperware after everyone had gone to sleep. My white nighty under my robe tugged on the wooden ladder as I climbed up to him and he held out his hand. We lit a small pink candle I brought with me.

He ate the food faster than any beggar I've known, and drank all the tea when he was finished. "Is this tea?" he asked.

"Sweetened tea," I said, "It's how Mother likes it."

"Mother has good taste," he said. "Thanks, Cleo," but the expression in his eyes said he was still hungry. The hay in his hair looked like gold in the candlelight.

One of the cows below mooed and chewed its food stored from the afternoon. We didn't need music.

"I brought you this, too," I said, and handed him a book of poetry my father had given me when I'd turned fourteen. "It's eighteenth century."

He ran his thumb over the bind and a strange thought occurred to me that I'd like my spine to be that of the book. He said, "You didn't tell them I'm here?"

"Stay as long as you want," I told him.

He looked up at me. "And what if that's forever?"

I swatted his knee and said something about how bored he'd get. He kept looking me without blinking.

I told him I had to go. He whispered goodnight and I ran all the way back to the house, my heartbeat shaking my whole body. Breathing had never been easier.

I ate lunch with Cecil the next day, and I didn't need to get up the nerve to ask him if he'd heard any gossip about Patrick's family. Cecil was brooding and his skinny body hunkered over his cafeteria tray more than usual. I asked what was wrong, and he talked about the war for twenty minutes, more of a monologue and I was the audience. He thought it was a waste of lives, but that the young men should do their duty for America. Both sides of his argument bucked each other like flaming horses in a barn fire. "But the fathers shouldn't tell us what to do!" he said so loudly that a cheerleader in uniform at the end of the table gave him a dirty look. "My father, trying to tell me it's what we sons should do. And that Catholic boy you make eyes at - even him I feel some form of pity for."

I let my homemade sandwich slip to my plate. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the one with the muscles and the eyes as sparkly as a wood troll's."

"No," I said, bypassing my surprise for his observational nature. "Why do you pity him?"

"I heard from his brother last period that his dad's making him go to war. He's eighteen, you know."

"No, I didn't know," I said.

"Huh," he choked down some beans. "I thought you'd have a case file on him by now."

"But he's not going to war. He's in -" I almost said my barn, but Cecil was still in lecture stance.

"Of course he is. That family's as broke as any Catholic family comes. But I still feel like if he's old enough to be drafted, he should let the country or himself decide, not big daddy."

I couldn't eat anymore.

Cecil continued. "But who wants to go fight that war? Only ignorant people who can't read. I mean, really? Who would want to go to war of their own choice? I wouldn't. Well, maybe if I were saving my children or wife." He looked at me and continued on. "But is it really like that? Or are we really saving people over there? I'd think not, after some of the slaughter stories about soldiers massacring villagers I've heard. Our country is none-too selective, but how else can it be, really, Cleo?" And on he went.

CHAPTER NINE

I brought Patrick food and books every secret chance I got. On Wednesday night I found the courage to stay longer than his meal, feeling a false sense of safety from my parents finding us. We leaned against a square, dry hay bale, little pieces prickling my skin through my nighty, our knees touching like birds in a nest. I asked him why he had so many brothers, hoping to get him talking about his family. I wanted to find out about his father telling him to go to war. Instead, he told me about his religion.

He said, "Catholicism says we can't use birth control. Catholics have big families because they think God says they should. My mother has even had a few miscarriages. What do you think about that?"

"I think it's people's choice what they should do about -" I couldn't say sex, so instead I waved my hand and was grateful for the candlelight.

"Yeah," he said, "I agree. But Catholicism has good things that these country religions don't have."

"Country religions?" I said.

"Like Baptists don't have saints."

"Saints?" I asked. I had heard Mother refer to her sister as a saint many times, but it didn't sound like a compliment. I had a vague idea that they were people from Jesus' time who had done something good, but that's all I knew. I didn't listen to sermons very often; usually I thought about anything but God when in his house.

He told me, "Saints are people who did great things in the name of God during their lives."

I said, "Like what?"

"Lots of them died for Christ," he answered.

"Huh." I said. I let my knee press harder against his. "What's so neat about them?"

He said, "Well, they can be like angels, and Catholics can pray to them for help. Religions out here say you can only pray to Jesus, or else you're disobeying a commandment."

I asked if he prayed.

"Sometimes," he said.

I urged him to tell me who he prayed to.

He smiled and poked his finger in and out of the candle flame. "I've prayed to Saint Michael before."

I asked, "What does he do that God can't?"

He told me St. Michael could slay demons.

"Have you demons?" I said it in jest, and he turned to me. The flickering light lit half his face. With the finger he'd been dragging through the candle, he touched my lips. I felt warmth like the fires of hell itself inside me and I slapped his hand away. He laughed quietly and pretended to slap my hand back. We grabbed each other's fingers and pulled and wrestled until he had his arm around me and my hand in his. I took care to remember how his hand felt in case I told Barbie about it someday - rough and bumpy like warm tree bark. We stayed like that for a long time, and I left him leaning back into the hay as sound asleep as I would never be that night.

It was late Thursday night when, after his sandwich, he said, "Today's my birthday."

"It is? How old are you?" I asked, although Cecil had already told me.

"Nineteen." He chugged tea and said, "Does your mother ever wonder where all her food and tea goes?"

I said, "But aren't you a senior? How can you be nineteen?"

He leaned back against hay and stretched his legs out to where his feet were inches from my bent knee. I pulled a horse blanket around my cold frame. He told me he had missed a year of school.

"Happy birthday," I told him.

"Want to celebrate with me? I went down the road last night to a friend's house." He reached into the hay and pulled out a tall, dark, unlabeled bottle that wore a half-inserted cork. "Homemade plum wine. Ever tasted it?"

"No." I had only had sips of alcohol now and then when my parents brought it out on holidays. They said it was okay as long as it was in moderation.

He said I was to have the first sip, and he pulled the loose cork from the bottle with a thwoop. I made a toast to warm weather and drank it like it was Mother's tea. It was sweet, and tart, and fruity, and we both smiled more after our first tastes. It was like our mouths were naturally turned at the corners, and our eyes lit up since birth.

I asked him to tell me about Philadelphia. He told me about his neighbor, Willie, who had played kickball in the alley with him, and about a street fight he'd seen in which one man sliced open another man's entire arm with a switchblade because his wife had been unfaithful. "There was always a fight going on somewhere," he said. He told me about his favorite place on top of their apartment building where the air seemed cleaner than the smoggy traffic-covered streets below. He told me how the different races had their own neighborhoods, but how they also lived mixed together in some places. "I bet you're a city girl and you don't even know it," he told me.

"Why do you say that?" I laughed and laughed at the idea of Mother and Barbie and I wearing pants and paying for parking meters. He did too. The bottle was almost empty and the before-freezing hayloft was a sauna from our hot, drunk bodies.

He told me, "I say that because, although you've been a country girl all your life, you have a brain in there that's just ticking away until you can see the world."

How could he see these things in me? I was just a little girl. Was it even true? Suddenly, the outside world felt just that, and digging through its cities would be like being able to fly out of the hayloft of my own will and seeing the clouds and trees from above.

Whatever it was he thought he could see, I was thrilled he was looking, and we might have touched our wine-swollen lips together at that moment if Barbie's head hadn't appeared floating in the air next to us.

She said, "So this is where you've been sneaking off to." She climbed up the rest of the ladder and sat next to him and said, "Hi, Patrick. I'm Barbie."

I saw him find the situation acceptable, and he asked her to join us for a drink.

She clasped her hands together in front of her chest and asked, "What are we having?"

I said, "It's Patrick's birthday and we're celebrating. It's plum wine."

"I haven't had wine in months," she said, although it had been since Christmas that Dad let us share a glass. She tipped the bottle back. Her eyes were watering when she lowered the bottle, and she tried to hide them from Patrick by rubbing her lids and saying, "1875, it must be. A fine year for wine."

He pointed at the collar of her nightgown and said, "Nice bunnies."

"Thanks," she said, and pulled one of the white bunnies forward. "This is Whitey. Say hi, Whitey."

He looked at her the way one looks at adorable puppies when they lick each other's behinds.

Barbie said, "I'm freezing, Patrick. Can I have your jacket?"

He took it off as slowly as a Southern preacher delivers a sermon, and I pulled my blanket around me more tightly.

She asked him, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm enjoying the weather," he said.

Barbie said, "You're so funny. You didn't tell me how funny he is, Cleo."

But we were interrupted. My father's voice, sounding like his alarm clock at dawn, echoed despite the sound-muting hay. "What the hell is going on?"

The bottle slipped from Patrick's hands. I noticed how soft and shiny his lips looked.

My father called out, "Cleo? Barbie?" We heard his slippers sticking to the wooden ladder as he climbed. Then there he was. His face was white and his eyes were thunder skies in April. I saw relief there when he found we were okay, then hatred when his eyes met Patrick's. I'd never seen my father hate. What did he see but two young girls, a man, and a bottle?

He cursed then. He cursed at Patrick and told him to get out of his fucking barn.

"Drunk," my mother cried as the sun's yellows whispered to the hungry trees. "Drunk with that boy. How could you do this to me?"

And so it had been for hours. Somehow, Mother had woken in the night just knowing her daughters were gone.

I begged Dad not to call Patrick's father. I said, "He'll kill him."

Mother called me dramatic and threw her white tissue at me. It didn't make it far enough and fell at my toes.

Barbie picked at the lace on the wrists of her nighty. She seemed as concerned about our parents' anger as an air-born kite is with the ground. The flush of her swig of wine had not left her face.

We both worked at the clinic the next day after school. Our parents said we had to be seen every second we were not in school from then on so that we wouldn't get into any more trouble.

Barbie wasn't in the room when my father finished spaying a white puppy. "Too young," he had muttered as he sowed her up, then he looked at me over his glasses.

The young dog breathed easy, and my father laid down his tools.

"Cleo, hand me a towel." I handed him one and he wiped medicines and blood from his fingers, but he dropped the towel to the floor.

His forehead wrinkled like he'd been kicked in the shin, then his eyes actually vibrated in their sockets with the flicker of the fluorescent lights. He slapped his right temple with his left palm. He stared at me and said, "The pain –"

He fell.

Strokes can be brought on by great stress. I heard a doctor say to another doctor right in front of me in the hospital room, as though I were only my father's phantom, that Dad was dead before he hit the ground. His corpse was lumpy under the white sheet, like nothing was under it but more white sheets. Mother didn't come to the hospital or the funeral. She wouldn't come out of her room even for a glass of tea, and she muttered through the bedroom door to me when I knocked that, "It is all hell out there."

To summarize the next few months, because that is all they seem to me, a summary, I took over at the clinic so that we could have money, and Patrick went off to the war. Barbie stayed with Mother, and I stopped attending high school.

Barbie and I didn't know how to be vets, but we kept the kennel open and sympathetic townspeople brought their pets for minor things like shots and stitches, which I could do. They overpaid for my services and we got by.

Cecil was sent from the Lord himself, and came to the clinic each afternoon to help me with my duties. He'd say things like, "History already happened, no need to study it," but he had deeper circles under his eyes as the weeks passed and I just knew all his marks were still A's.

Mother came out of her room one month to the day after father's death, and she was wearing a red dress and red heels. She said it was Father's favorite dress, but did not make another personal reference to him for years.
CHAPTER TEN

PARKER

"Your phone is ringing."

"I know."

"Answer it."

Parker got up from the table with a groan and picked up the cordless receiver. "Hello?" He sounded like he'd been sleeping.

"Hi Parker, Fred here. I saw your article. Dazzled me."

"Oh. Thanks, Fred."

"Gotta tell you, you have guts. You make yourself sound like a fucking dick, but somehow you pull it off." He laughed hard like they shared a personal joke about Parker's true nature.

Parker paused, looking at Cleo as she petted the kitten that had curled into a circle on the table. "Okay."

"You're a craftsman, I'll give you that. But that's not what I called about. Dean-o wants to see you up here right now. So cruise on down." They called their boss the Dean because of his history as head of a college department.

"Why? What's wrong that somebody else can't fix?"

"You. You're the only one who can fix you."

"Why? What's wrong with me?" Cleo looked up at him with her eyebrows raised.

"Why should I take all the mystery out of it for you?" He laughed loud enough through the phone that the kitten's ears twitched and he opened his eyes with a flicker of gray underlid. "See you soon, Townes."

Parker didn't bother hanging up the phone. Instead he turned it off and opened up the freezer and stuck it in the empty door shelf.

"Cleo –"

"You have to go. No problem. Not at all."

He stood behind his chair and looked down at her and the cat. The gray glanced up, and then stared off into the air in front of his nose.

"Stay here," he said, and gestured around his kitchen. "Eat, bathe, do whatever, just..."

"Oh, I could? But I might warn you, I'm no housewife."

"I want to know more."

"My voice hurts anyway."

"I'll only be gone an hour."

"Do I really have to bathe?"

He put his hands on the chair back and said, "But he has to go out."

"We'll see." She sipped and looked away.

Parker cracked his knuckles and glared at the cat, but it would not give Parker the satisfaction of a staring war. "I'll only be gone probably less than an hour."

"You already said that," and she wouldn't look at him in the eyes either, as though in a silent contract with the cat to not let him intimidate them with his meaningful expressions.

"Now I say less than an hour. But make sure you eat. I have some frozen stuff, some lunchmeat."

The kitten glanced up at him at the sound of the word "meat" and licked his furry mouth.

Cleo said, "His teeth are almost out. Did you know cats' adult teeth grow in before the baby teeth fall out?"

"Before I go," he said, his shoulders lifting as he looked away from the creature on the table, "Why did you leave Nebraska? Did you see Patrick before he went to war?"

"I didn't see him, no. He was gone the next Monday, and his brother told me he got the beating on his face from his father because he took the car out without permission. Not that that bastard gave anything but orders."

"What about leaving Nebraska?"

"That," she said while closing one eye and looking into her empty cup, "I can tell you about later."

"You promise you'll still be here?"

"Wouldn't leave for anything."

"Okay. Less than an hour. Some women's clothes, if you need any, in the closet in the other bedroom. The one that's not mine."

She smiled up at him. "I'll look for the one that smells like woman."

Parker folded his arms. "I don't think you're charity."

"Of course not."

He looked at the kitten again without expression. "See you later."

Even on Saturday, the magazine office was full of workers. Kathy, the receptionist, was as tall and lovely as ever in her navy suit when she greeted him as Parker paced into the office. Many men had certain taste in women's looks and often sought out the same types repeatedly as companions, but Parker wasn't of that nature. He liked a nice smile, and if that was particular, then so be it. Kathy's mouth drooped like a fading pink flower when she smiled, and he felt a little urge to moisten it each time he saw her. That didn't mean he intended to do anything about it.

The Dean was on the phone when Parker entered his office, and the Dean made apologies to whoever was on the other end when he saw the young writer.

"Parker, have a chair, and some water?" He mixed his tones like the sentence was both a request and a question. The Dean was thin and lined at sixty-two, and had told Parker he would work until he published his own obituary. "Got something for you. News channel wants to pick up your story. Wanted to meet you for lunch. Kind of thing that could be good for the magazine. Thought you'd like a little coverage."

Parker sat and declined the offer for water. "What kind of report? What station?"

"Network, could be big." The Dean propped his bottom on the edge of his black desk and leaned towards Parker with know-what-I-mean eyes. "Maybe a follow-up is in order."

"I'm a little busy today. Could we reschedule?"

The Dean never said anything like an order, rather he used more deadly means of persuasion - that of watching his employees and tapping their hidden desires as his force. "Another award might be calling. I remember how proud your father looked at the banquet two years ago. Ever mention I think you look like him?"

Parker did not mind such techniques, but rather felt flattered that the man paid such close attention. Like most people with impeccable memory, he felt the world was too empty of creative manipulators. "Each time you want me to buy you lunch."

His eyes twinkled like ice in a vodka martini.

Parker said, "You didn't mention what this network liked about my article. What do they want from me?"

"They want to know more about the condition of the streets. Woman named Loretta Jones called - you might've seen her on TV. Nice hair, though her news voice is a little too whiney for me. Her phone voice was much better. More like a telemarketer selling something worthwhile, if there is such a thing. She mentioned my story about spinal meningitis from '76."

"I know her name. I didn't write about the condition of the streets." Parker folded his hands on his lap and glanced at the clock over the Dean's desk. "I was writing about Cleo."

The Dean's eyes stayed in cheerful shape, but his expression changed as though clouds had parted over Parker's head and the Dean saw a hidden halo. "What are you up to today that has you in such a hurry?"

Normally Parker would tell his boss about the homeless woman in his apartment, but he didn't feel good about Loretta-the-reporter's nosiness into his story. He felt that Cleo was telling her story to him specifically, not to the world, and he felt more flattered by this than any network interest. "My brother's visiting," he lied.

"I didn't know he was in town. But still, as brothers go, I'm sure he would like a little time away from his sibling so that he can breathe more easily for a couple of hours."

Parker sighed and agreed to lunch, and said, "But I'm not promising anything."

"Of course, you know I think you should be playing for just one team - ours. But what's good for them could be good for us." He waved his hand, and then held up his thumb, "And good for you. I always thought you should try writing a book."

"You're very convincing," he said, but it wasn't the Dean's words that persuaded him. He was thinking of Cleo in his house, possibly the first time in years she had been alone in a nice apartment, and he thought maybe it would be kind to let her relax there. The thought of her having thief's hands made him pause, but when he was washing his own hands in the bathroom of the Thai restaurant ten minutes later, he looked at himself in the mirror. He remembered the night he had been attacked in the alley and how his reflection had looked in Crystal's shady bathroom mirror, with dried blood flaking on his forehead. He thought of how it was just one lonely night for him, and he wondered if Cleo had seen a beaten face in the mirror, and if so, how many times, and by who's hands and what for?

Loretta was short, wearing her weight like a fitted fleece coat. She had store-tanned makeup on and perfectly painted maroon lips. Parker recognized her, but would not have been able to place her face on the spot had he seen her on the street. Now, he remembered seeing her covering the last presidential election. Her talking voice was different from her television voice, and her expression seemed more earnest than his memory recollected. As she ordered, she looked the waitress in the eye and asked questions about the dishes with sincerity, and the waitress visibly enjoyed telling her what was in the red curry dish. Then Loretta turned her deep brown eyes to Parker, flickering once to the Dean as if to say, "Is this okay? Can I talk now?"

She said, "I enjoyed your article and called your office at once. I'm so happy you agreed to meet with me. I've followed your work in the past." She never broke eye contact except to look up at the heavens and say, "I wish we could just sit and chat, but I know you must be a busy man."

"Actually," said the Dean, "He was just saying earlier that life is an open calendar when it comes to chatting with the media."

She laughed like she thought he really was funny. Parker smiled his worldly grin and sipped water from a goblet. He resisted the urge to look at the Dean's watch as he remembered the gray cat and how it probably wasn't house-trained.

Loretta told them that not many people feel that way when it comes to reporters, "But you know what I mean, right, Mr. Townes?"

"Of course." Parker looked around the restaurant with a friendly face, but felt heartburn from the three cups of coffee he had surging up his throat like he'd swallowed a live hamster.

"I'll get right to the point then." Her face seemed to fill his entire vision as she spoke. "I was really affected by what you wrote about the different homeless people you saw and talked to. Do you really think they are just people who haven't ever been listened to in their lives?" And on it went. Parker did nothing but watch her meaningful expressions and listen to the wide, smooth fluctuations of her voice. The news was the last thing he'd flip the TV to when in a hotel room when he was traveling. It put him at ease and made him sleepy. As Loretta talked, her voice sounded more and more public-friendly, and he could have sworn she had said, "And eleven people were killed in a New England tragedy early this morning when a ninety-year-old building collapsed without warning." Instead, what she did say passed him by, and when the question came, Parker didn't notice.

"Parker," the Dean said, "Don't leave a lady hanging."

"Oh, Loretta. I'm sorry. I haven't been sleeping much," he said. "You were saying..."

Her soft, motherly gaze tightened up to that of a hungry rat. "I'm asking if you would let me extend your story to a broader audience, with your angle and your name."

Parker rubbed his eyes and glanced at the Dean. "Well, honestly, Loretta, I think the story is pretty much out there."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, anybody can walk down a street here and see that story. If they really wanted to know more about it, they would already."

"But then why did you write it to begin with?"

He didn't explain to her that he had hoped his story would lure Cleo in some manner or another, or that it had worked, he only said, "I needed something for this issue. It's work. You know about work and what you do to just get it done. Story over." He stood up, and said, "Sorry, Dean. Loretta. I have an appointment I have to keep." He reached in his pocket and dropped fifteen bucks on the table. "Nice meeting you." She stared up at him like he'd blown off her advances in a bar. He thought to himself that she was so good, he almost felt sorry for her.

He didn't need to hear the Dean's apologies after he left, and how the Dean would tell her that whenever a story really got under Parker's skin, he was a wild bear on the hunt. He would say, "Don't worry," and, "He just needs to think about it."

Parker imagined that Loretta kept a hurtful touch in her eyes, but the Dean would know as well as Parker that a little shoulder brush was all Parker's abrupt leave was to her.

Parker's house smelled like diaper and must. He tried not to panic when, after closing his front door and locking it, he saw cat poop on shredded paper in the corner of his living room. "What the hell...Cleo?"

The gray cat seemed to appear out of nothingness on an end table that Missy had picked up at the shore a couple of years earlier.

"Mahhhh."

Parker almost told the cat to get out, but remembered Cleo's special affection for it and instead, he walked to the shredded paper pile and scooped up the mess. "Damn, damn it," he muttered as he saw slight moisture from the cat urine under the paper on the wood floor. "That'll stain the frickin' wood."

Cleo's voice came from the hallway. "Reporter? I'm in the tub. Nice soap you have here."

He stood and stared at the hallway, although the hall bath was out of view.

"I used your magazine for litter. You really should get a litter box for your cat." Her voice echoed against the bare hall wall, then cracked as she strained to be heard. "Too cold for him to go outside for business."

He heard the water begin to drain from the tub. Swish, swishhh as she rose. It didn't even occur to Parker that he had a naked woman in his apartment, door open and all showing. He jumped when the kitten arched his back and leaned against Parker's right leg as though trying to become a part of it.

"Hey," he said to the cat, then felt dampness in his hand as the paper began to leak. He nudged the cat away and went to the kitchen. The trash can he intended to drop the waste in had been knocked over, and coffee grounds and wrappers and coke cans had spilled out all over the floor. He cursed again, and began scooping the trash into the can. The cat joined him and walked through the rubbish with dainty paws. "No! No, get." He pushed the cat with the back of his fouled hand.

Cleo's voice came from the bathroom, "I think he knocked your trash. I heard it when I was bathing. You should take your trash out more often."

Parker closed his eyes and bit the insides of his cheeks. He called out, "No problem," and, opening his eyes, finished cleaning. The cat walked back through the trash, and Parker scooped him up with his dry hand and put him in the kitchen closet.

"Mahhh, Mahhar," cried the imprisoned cat. Parker finished putting away all he could get with his hands, and then pulled a dustbin and small sweeper out from under the sink. The wet coffee grounds resisted his quick sweeps like ants in a windy storm. As he emptied the bin into the trash, the sound of Cleo's boots clanked into the kitchen.

"Where is he? Oh, reporter, you didn't put him in there, did you?" She sounded like she was chiding a six-year-old for dropping his favorite ball in a creek. She opened the door and the gray walked out slowly, a king who had been awakened from dozing on his throne. She picked up the kitten and said, "There, now, you just don't worry about that man. He really doesn't know what he's doing."

Parker wiped at the surviving grounds with a sponge, then washed his hands twice. As he ran the water over his knuckles, he looked Cleo over. She had put on Missy's blue sweater, and at the collar he could see she'd also put on one of Missy's long-sleeved, black cotton shirts underneath. She was wearing a pair of Parker's dark blue jeans and had stuffed them into her boots. One of Parker's gray bathroom towels was wrapped around her head.

Cleo watched him examine her and said, "Your woman must be a twig. I could never fit into those size fours." She gestured at her legs. "Don't mind, do you? I have a pair of your black thermals under, so just don't let me forget."

He put the small trash can under the sink. "Forget what?"

"To take them off when I leave, of course. Where is your woman?"

"In England, working."

Cleo unwrapped the towel from her head, and long, black ringlets as thick as desert brush fell out all over, reaching down to her waist. She draped the towel over the back of a kitchen chair.

Parker involuntarily blinked twice, and then offered Cleo food. "You must be hungry."

"I am always hungry for biscuits. Got any?"

"No, but I can get you a sandwich."

"I can make some. You watch. Where's your baking stuff?"

He pointed at a cabinet and Cleo opened it. She pulled out flour and other boxes and bags Parker hadn't even looked at in a year. She shook her head and said, "Must pick up some yeast next time you are out, but never mind the biscuits. I'm not very hungry just yet." Cleo sat down at the table. "Why's she in England and you're here?"

"She had an opportunity she couldn't refuse."

"And what are you? An opportunity to let things fly by?"

"It's not like that," he said, and stood over the towel-draped chair. He watched the gray cat disappear into the hallway. "Did you leave my bedroom door open?"

"Don't worry, I put some paper in there, too. Cats don't like closed doors. It makes them anxious." She rolled up one side of the placemat in front of her. "Shall I continue with my story?"

Parker, still looking at the hallway, walked around the chair and sat down. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees so that the wet towel wouldn't dampen his shirt. "Tell me more about your family. Grandparents? Cousins?"

"Oh, them. Yes, I guess I have neglected to mention relations to this point. But now would be a good time to talk about my family."
CHAPTER ELEVEN

CLEO

My father's mother was dead before I was born, and my father's father had Alzheimer's and was living in a retirement home for people in such a condition. I never met him. My mother thought it would be too upsetting for us children, and my dad said since my grandfather wouldn't remember us anyway, there wasn't any point. I never knew where he stayed or even if or when he died. My father had no other family.

My parents also told us that Mother's parents lived in Alabama, and that was just too far to go back to for a visit. Mother got a letter from her mother once a month, but she would never read us any of it except for the part that said, "Tell your two little girls Cleopatra and Joan that we love them and can't wait to meet them." She said it exactly that way every time. What they told us was that Mother's brother had been a veterinarian, her sister had moved up north, and that her parents had family money, but we didn't know what that meant.

Out in Nebraska, family money meant having land that was passed down through the generations. Mother had many cousins and all of them were Aunts and Uncles to us who sent us presents at Christmas. My relatives were names with ribbons and bows for faces. Aunt Savannah always sent me my favorite gifts. When I was ten she sent me a box turtle in a glass terrarium, which Mother made me keep in the barn. Then when I was twelve, she sent me a pair of red, sparkling panties, and the next year she gave me a flute. For four months I ran all around outside with my flute in one hand, piping out little trills and screeches, until one day it disappeared as so many things do when you're on the border of childhood and being an adult. I wondered about my aunt every year, asking Mother what she looked like and how she acted. Mother said Savannah was her sister, and that she had long, blonde hair and big thighs. She said that with a smile as though she meant to say, "Thighs bigger than mine," and that Savannah could somehow hear her and not be able to lash back at her. This was something Barbie and I appreciated, as we had a way of letting unflattering words fly out when one of us was irritated with the other.

"Barbie, you spend so long in the bathroom. What are you doing, soaking your butt in the toilet water?"

"I'm looking at how straight my hair is. I could do anything with it!"

"Toilet butt! Toilet butt!"

"Girls, knock it off," from Mother on a Monday morning.

As I was saying, after Dad's death, I worked all the time, and Cecil joined me after school and on weekends. Barbie did as best she could, but our father's death changed her and she would cry suddenly, with little warning. Her cheeks would look like they'd just been pinched by a lobster, with little red slashes curving along her cheekbone, and her eyes would gray over. She'd almost always say, "It's just not fair," and run into the kennel, or her bedroom when home, crying. Cecil went after her the first couple times it happened at the clinic, and so did Mother when she did it at home. Barbie didn't want help; she would throw things until everybody was out of her sight. Later, she would apologize as though the world owed it to her instead. She sniffed each time, and said, "Some things can't be helped, like Dad's death."

I thought she was selfish until I heard the news that Patrick had died over seas. It was Cecil who told me when the three of us were closing down the clinic one day during the summer. Barbie was organizing the books as Cecil and I fed two dogs in the kennel. The kennel always had such a specific smell, much like I imagined a jungle or thick forest would have. Cecil asked me to sit with him for a moment out back by the horse stalls, and I had a funny feeling, like he was going to ask me to marry him. Instead, we sat on a bench and Cecil looked me in the eyes with his chin tilted down and said, "Patrick Downes is dead." He told me that he heard it earlier that morning from one of Patrick's brothers. "There was an ambush...that's what he told me." He took my hands.

"Why are you telling me this?" I didn't believe him.

He said, "I thought you would want to hear it from someone who knows you."

It couldn't be true, I thought. Then Cecil told me Patrick's older brother had died as well, in the same battle.

For a moment I blamed Cecil for telling me. "Where do you come up with these lies?"

He shook his head and looked at our hands. "I'm sorry, Cleo. I know how you felt...about him."

When I told Barbie and Mother that night after dinner, of which I did not eat a bite, Barbie cried and ran out of the room. Mother sat quietly, looking at her tea glass, and then she wrapped her thin, pointed fingers around the bottom of the glass. She said, "Cleo, you should go comfort your sister."

And I wanted to say, "Who's going to comfort me?"

Barbie threw her hair brush at me when I walked into her room, then as I tried to escape the comb coming after it, she put down her arm and squealed, "Cleo, it's just not fair," and she ran to me and all her weight wrapped around my shoulders as her arms latched there. She was as stiff as a dead beetle on a winter sidewalk.

She moaned, "What are we going to do?"

It was a week later that the IRS man came to the clinic. He asked to see my father. I said he was dead. He handed me some papers and said, "Your father has not paid his taxes in seventeen years. This clinic is closed." He looked to Barbie sitting behind the desk, and said, "Who's running this place?"

Neither of us said a word.

Mother was instantly concerned when we came home so early from work. It was only two o'clock, and none of us spoke as Cecil drove us home, except when Barbie asked, "What does it mean?"

Mother dropped her tea glass when we told her, but she did not act surprised. She covered her face with her hands and then stuck her arms out like a child wanting to be picked up. "Let them have it all!" She went into the kitchen and we heard her pick up the phone. The two of us stood still as we heard her say, "Daddy? I'm coming home."

I don't like talking about money. I never have and I never will. Much legal nonsense happened and we left all our belongings that we couldn't carry with us behind. Mother took responsibility for everything, as far as I know, and I left with but one phone call goodbye to Cecil a week later. He said he would come visit me, he said a lot of things, but I didn't listen. Things like, that I could stay there with him if I wanted, and that none of this was my fault.

The day before we left I made one visit, but it wasn't to say goodbye. I borrowed the car without permission, though I still didn't have my license, and I drove to the Downes' little farmhouse. My cheeks were red the whole time, and I intended to blast the wicked man who would send his boys out to war for a few bucks, for that is what I felt was his motivation. I pulled to the end of the drive. Two little boys were playing with toys in the yard, and they looked at me without much interest. I wondered if they were younger brothers of Patrick's that I had never heard of. Their faces were dirty and the front of the house mirrored them, with white paint that looked as though it had been living in the sewers rather than out in the sun and fields. One of the windows over the garage was broken out.

As I got out of my car and started walking to the front door, one of the boys yelled, "Whatcha want?"

"Where's Mr. Downes?"

"Mom's home. Go to the back door." They looked so somber to me, those little boys, like monks who had never known anything but the monastery. I walked around to the back, sidestepping the bristly weeds and overgrown rose bushes that had gone wild. The back door was only a screen door, with nothing solid to back it up. So, I thought, so what if it's his mother. Surely she let it happen as much as his father had. She could have saved her two boys' lives. I knocked to no answer, and I called into the screen, "Hello?"

I heard a throaty woman's voice, the kind of voice you'd expect from someone in the middle ages whose title was, "Barmaid," say, "Leave me alone. What do you want?"

I took a step back as the smell of stale popcorn drifted out the door. My voice had weakened, but my anger had not, so I said, "I'm here about Patrick."

"Patrick's dead." But the voice had softened. I waited a minute, and heard, "Are you still there?"

"Yes."

I heard the sound of a recliner being set back in to sitting position, and I saw the silhouette of a round woman coming into the kitchen. She opened the screen door and stood with it resting on her hip. Her hair was dyed red and it hung in big, oily, red curls that had obviously been set three days earlier. She lit a cigarette and looked at me, hazel eyes squinting in the sun. I took another step back.

She said, "I didn't know Pat had any girlfriends. He's dead, you know."

"I know." I took a deep breath, but held it when I saw the woman's left arm. I could see a perfect hand print of a bruise around her upper arm, just barely disappearing into the sleeve of her old, white blouse.

She said, "We had him buried in Philly, wanted him and his brother's memories to stay with the family. So there's no grave for you."

I shook my head and let out my breath.

"Oh," she said, "There's no body though. Not for Patrick. I guess he was blown..." Then she stopped and her face turned stiff like stone and she looked down to my shoes.

I looked at the bruise again and, yes, there were definitely finger marks. She looked back up at me, saw me examining her arm, and she tugged her sleeve down. "Well, go on, then. Say a prayer for our boys, will you?" She let the door drop closed and she left my vision. I could feel her watching me, though, as I made my way back to the car.

One of the little boys called out to me as I opened my driver's door, "Is she still mad?"

"I don't know," I answered them, and I drove off.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was the first time I had ever seen actual sunlight touch my mother's pale hair and skin. We took the car into Lincoln, sold it for bus tickets, and got on a bus to Birmingham. In my last call to Cecil, I asked him to pick up Fidore.

I saw so much of the countryside change on that road. I saw huge mountains and frothy rivers. I saw young and old people unlike any I'd seen, but none of these things prepared me for Birmingham, and for my mother's family's way of life.

They were rich. Rich, rich, rich! Their home and land took 40 acres on the outskirts of the city.

The city, for it was one. It had so many paved roads that it seemed to me at the time I could take a million paths into my future. But none of my futures had Patrick in them anymore.

My Grandmother was a thin, stiff lady, and my first impression of her was that she was rather like a walking stick that I had found in the woods as a kid. She moved slowly and purposefully, and had a smooth, southern accent that at first I had a hard time understanding. It sounded like my mother's, but it was different, as though it had been sown into her throat by a skilled seamstress. She was small, too, and I physically looked down at her. My second impression was that she was not a happy woman, but that idea faded in the first week we lived in their mansion. The impression went from sadness to meanness, for every time my mother spoke, my grandmother would chide her in some way. For example, the first night we arrived, my mother said that the children, that would be Barbie and me, could stay in one room together.

"Nonsense," my grandmother had said. "You have lived with so little for so long with that man that you forget the necessity of privacy for a young woman."

In a weak voice, my mother had said, "But they are only girls and we did give them their own rooms, it's just that –"

Grandmother cut her off like changing a TV channel. "Joan, Cleo, follow me upstairs." Then to my mother, whose eyes were spacey and distant, "Sandra, you wait right there. We have things to discuss about the raising of these two young women, such as why they are so dirty and in such poor clothing."

My Grandfather, you ask? He was never home. Retired, but spent all his days fishing and hunting. No matter what the weather, he was always off on some trip, to one of their cabins in Georgia, one of their houses in Biloxi, Mississippi, or just off to some unmemorable place in the middle of nowhere. I only saw him on rare occasions, and he looked over my head when he addressed me, saying things like, "Hello, there, Cleo. Why don't you run and fetch me a tonic water?" He often played Debussey on a record player and would lose himself in drink. The only thing I remember is that he loved Clair de Lune. I could hear him playing it at night when everyone was supposed to be asleep. There really wasn't anything else to the man, I tell you.

Barbie hated Grandmother almost instantly. I could tell by the bratty way she pooched up her lips and glared at the woman each time Grandmother called her Joan. Within the first month of arriving in Birmingham, we were back in school. It was a small, private school for girls, where they made us all wear the same clothes and pull our hair back into tight buns. This especially bothered Barbie, because she so loved to let her long, straight, blonde hair bounce and dance in the sunlight. The teachers were all women and had that same accent as my grandmother, as did the other girls attending the school. I felt like an old doll somebody had washed in the sink and dressed up to put in a new baby's crib. Somehow we did it, Barbie and me. We went to the school and we made good grades, along with Grandmother saying, "Well, I suppose our blood was strong enough after all."

Oh, yes, I think I should mention that my mother's brother was not a veterinarian. He was a politician in Birmingham, and a prominent one. When I learned of this, I went into my mother's room, which she never left, and asked her why she had told us he was a vet. She didn't answer, just turned her head away into her pillow and rubbed her temple like there was a splinter stuck there that she couldn't get out.

My mother's sister, Aunt Savannah, lived in some city up north. Nobody talked about her or anything, but her Christmas presents came all the same. Now they came to my grandparents' house, so there must have been some communication within the family about our moving in with our mother's parents.

No, no, I don't want to talk about living there. I was a shell of a girl who would emotionlessly put on a pink dress twice a year for fancy balls, bathe regularly in one of the four lavish bathrooms of the mansion, go to school and believe everything I was told by spinsters without caring what the truth was. I don't want to think about the screaming matches between Barbie and Grandmother, or how Barbie and I were convinced to go to a college for girls in Atlanta, or how Barbie told me we were finally free...I didn't know I was in a cage. I was on a Ferris wheel in 1970 holding my true love's dead hand, or watching my father fall down in his veterinary office. Barbie would come to me crying like some kicked puppy over this or that, and then accuse me of being my grandmother when I didn't care. What life Barbie had as a young girl!

I had been at college for a year when Barbie joined me, and Barbie spent six months there, and then disappeared. Mother said she knew where Barbie had went, but only told me that, and as far as I know, she wouldn't tell anyone else where Barbie was, either.

It is 1976 when I would like to resume my life story. I had very much enjoyed my studies in college. I loved English and all the books I read. I think my favorite, if it concerns you, was Frankenstein. Or perhaps Pride and Prejudice. Oh, I really cannot say what my favorite was. I just read everything that was tossed my way. I was not at the top of my class. Many of my professors did not agree with my essays and what I felt the stories were about.

At the time, I was often disappointed after spending so much time writing papers. Hours, I tell you, sometimes days. Did I mention the Canterbury Tales? Anyway, often I would get marks on my papers telling me that I was, "looking into it too much," or, more specifically that the teacher had taught it one way, and that was the way it was. Honestly, in my college years, I felt angry and misunderstood for the first two years, and then I just didn't care. My joy of literature in any form had taken over any desire to please, since I pleased so few with my interpretations. I had no friends in college, to say it so, except for one teacher, Dr. Hammerstein. After one essay I wrote about a Greek satire, she had written on my paper, "Come see my during my office hours this week."

I went to see her. It was in my third year, but all I have to say is that she enjoyed reading my opinion. It somehow made me feel validated, but only because I appreciated her teachings so much. That was the young woman I was at that time. I had developed an understanding of authors, what they wrote and why. I still think, after that one meeting with my only "friend" in college, that all that mattered was what I got out of a piece of art. That is what Dr. Hammerstein taught me, in that one session. We never talked that way again, but I think I saw a glimmer in her eye whenever I turned in a paper to her. I was what some people might call withdrawing from society, but to me it felt very invigorating, very exciting to go into my own mind and just think.

Cecil had never stopped writing me, although I never wrote back, and he showed up at my dorm in May, 1976, as I was packing my things up, ready to move back to Birmingham to teach English at the same girls' high school I had attended four years earlier. I appeared to be one of those mindless spinsters, trying to keep my hair pulled back tight like a little Christmas ball ornament, not a curl allowed to spring out.

But to tell you the truth, which is why I am here, I loved being that way at that time. It was romantic.

Cecil rang up to my room, and I went down to see him, only wondering what he might look like all grown up.

He stood in the hall with daisies in his left hand. He was wearing an old, ratty suit, the kind only a boy who had stayed in the Midwest for college would have been wearing. He was quite tall, taller than I remembered, and he looked at me for the first time in years with confidence and pride, as though no time had passed. But to me...to me nothing really mattered at that moment. I had no idea why he was there, nor why he was carrying flowers, but he asked me to come outside with him.

We went out into the courtyard of my dorm and he said, "Cleo, you never wrote me back, but you have always been the one person in my life who makes sense. I have a million things I want to say to you about all the things I've learned in college and in the wild duress of this world we live in, but I am coming to you now with nothing to offer but these flowers and a little something that has been passed through my family." He paused, looking me over, all the way down to my shoes, and I realized that he thought my shoes were quite nice. He continued, saying, "I don't have much to give you other than these things and I haven't developed into a man of romantic words. But I have come," and he got down on one knee, "To ask you to marry me." He reached into the pocket of his old suit and pulled out a small gold ring band. He held it up to me.

I told him I already had plans, as though he were asking what I was doing that Saturday night. His expression did not change. How determined he was. And what he said next was what changed my mind. He said, "I am going to work in this world for the better. I want to go into politics with you as my wife, my rock of sanity, and we can start our life in any part of the country you want. I have a Bachelor's degree and intend on furthering my education. I have just enough money saved up from mindless jobs for us to move into a comfortable home and begin our adult life together." Then his eyes did soften a bit, like he had caught a slight fragrance from the flowers and mistook it for the smell of my perfume. He said, "Anywhere you want to go. You name the place and I will offer you the most promising and fulfilling life you could ever have."

He did not say he loved me, or that he wanted my love in return. He wanted to take me somewhere, and marry me.

I said, "What about Philadelphia?"

He blinked in the hot Georgia sun, and I thought he would rather I had asked to go to just about anywhere but there. He glanced back down at my shoes, then his own, and nodded, meeting my eyes again. "Philadelphia it is."

My grandmother threw us a grand wedding, although at first she didn't want to. Then she met Cecil and they went into the parlor for an hour, and when they came out, I think my very own grandmother would have married him. He did have a way with charming people when he wanted to. The wedding was held just two weeks later since Cecil wanted to be settled in Philadelphia for the start of school term so he could get a master's degree.

Barbie even heard mention of my wedding, wherever she was. I didn't know it at the time, but she and my mother had been in constant contact through letters over the years. All she did on my wedding day was show up in a red dress, which was frowned upon, but I must say she was more beautiful than the bride, which was also frowned upon. We did not speak except for when she kissed my ear and said, "Good luck."

My mother was a gracious and spacious mother-of-the-bride. I believe it was the first time she had left her mother's house since we had arrived there. She congratulated both of us, and when she hugged me she slipped a little envelope in my hand. I opened it after my new husband was asleep naked in bed. All that was written on it was an address in Philadelphia. Nothing else, just an address. It seemed about as personal as cigarette butt on the side of a stretch of highway in Virginia.

Cecil took me to a part of Philadelphia that was called Powelton Village. What I saw were beautiful Victorian homes and fading brick boxes. Cecil did not seem to see the different kinds of people I saw, but I remember squirming like a rat in a trap, wondering where I was and why I had wanted to make this a reality. But I let this thought, as all the thoughts I had that were not about books and writings, fade away like an after-taste of Cajun chili Grandmother would make when I came home from college. She would say, "Cajuns, taking over our Louisiana. But they make good food, so I imagine that is what kept them alive so long without being policed. Good food." And then she would raise her little eyebrows and perk her lips, so like Barbie, and I would eat every bite of my chili.

Powelton, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The only thought I had that was my own that I kept without it fading was that Patrick was from this city, and that was as close to him as I would ever get. It was like a memorized poem, that thought. Like remembering the Lord's Prayer. Words whose feeling had long since gone, but kept a strength in me that I would not release.

Cecil asked if I wanted to work. I told him I would think about it, get back to him. I never did, and he didn't ask again. But for hours he would talk at me, like he did back in Nebraska. He would say things about equality, and how the justice system just needed a kick in the humanitarian butt.

Powelton Village. A place in West Philadelphia. It was all he could afford, he said. Grandmother would send me cash every month, and I would go out to stores in the city and buy fine linens and bedclothes and shoes. The salesladies fell all over me and I thought this was because they saw I had cash money.

There were a lot of Catholics in Philadelphia. They had churches much grander than any I had seen built by the Christians in the South. There was one called St. Patrick's. I went to see it on my own.

It was so beautiful. I was a couple of months pregnant, and Cecil was in his classes, and I wanted to see it because it was named Patrick. I took busses, which I found uncomfortable, but I felt I owed it to the memory of Patrick to see the church that held his name. Have you seen it? You nod, but I don't think you saw it as I did. That doesn't matter, I suppose, just like the papers I wrote for teachers that didn't care anymore. Now you look at me though I am criticizing you, but if you will, another cup of coffee. I have weak knees.

Yes, pregnant. It seems so far away, my pregnancy. I never got sick, I never got thick ankles. After two months of no menstrual period, I told Cecil. I remember it very clearly.

I said, "Cecil, I think I am pregnant."

His face went empty, like space and stars, and then his eyes sparked. He grasped my hands and looked me deep in the eyes and said, "Already?" He touched my belly and grinned.

There are a lot of things I didn't care about that perhaps I should have. I never cared much in Nebraska about Cecil's home life, I just knew that he was much more brilliant than his family. I do have one recollection of his mother. She was a big woman, very big, and she never had a look of interest in her eyes. I also remember Cecil's father in one memory. My memory is so scattered, good, maybe even photographic, but out of order sometimes, like a photo album in which the pictures are not time-sequential. I remember his father from one time when I came over to study. Cecil was explaining something about how humans had landed on the moon, how it all had to do with Howard Hughes, and his father looked at him. Cecil didn't see that particular look, but I did. It was like Cecil had just proclaimed that he was spawned from the mailman and a goat.

I am not laughing, not really. This coffee is good. Is it the gourmet?

Yes, pregnancy. I knew soon I would be dedicating my life to a child. Cecil was studying, and he was working in a democratic campaign office for free. Really, the only money we had came from my grandmother and Cecil's student loans.

Cecil talked a lot when we went to bed at the same time. He talked and talked and talked. I did like that about him. It was interesting. I just listened, like I did on the phone when we were young. I often would start listening, then remember a story I had read or a book I had ripped through, but I always caught myself in time to say something that Cecil said was "profound."

"Cleo, if only the city had a better program for helping the homeless. There are all kinds of medicines for the mentally ill now, and the medicines would work for them, but how can we get anything done when all the money is being put into mindless things like advertising for bullshit campaigns?"

I would say something like, "Bullshit campaigns are what create the mentally ill to begin with. Forget the medicines, just shoot two birds with one stone and get rid of the campaigns."

I want to skip forward a bit. I want to talk about one day when I was bored. I had read all my books, and I never re-read books. I had them committed to memory the second the words passed my eyes and they leeched into my brain and veins.

I knew Powelton Village after months of living there. Back in those days, I used to like to walk the streets, trying to become familiar with the culture and layout. I didn't like feeling uncomfortable there, so I decided to try to understand it. My mother's impersonal address was close by. I got up one night, a weird night when Cecil had drank two glasses of brandy and had fallen asleep before me. I watched him slumber, thinking he looked much like a dog sleeping on a chain in a gutter, and I got out of bed. I went to my music box, which had a lock. The only thing in the house that I had locked and hidden the key. Cecil had teased me for this after a week living together in Philadelphia. He had looked at me with mock respect, and said, "All women should carry at least one secret. And I think you should have some, and I don't want to know them." My secret was the piece of paper with the address my mother had given me that hid in my music box. I fingered the lock, but didn't open it that night.

As you know, I always wake before dawn. I awoke the next morning and watched my husband sleep. He had long eyelashes, and they were twitching. Although he approved of my so-called secrets, I still slinked out of bed and made sure the music box was unwound before I opened it.

I looked at the address. Cecil woke up just then, and said, "Enchantress, looking in her secret box. Come to me, Bast."

Bast was the Egyptian house-cat goddess. He liked to call me that. Bast was also a goddess of sunrises. I didn't know that at the time, never having taken any classes on ancient Egypt.

He was at school soon after, and I was touching my pregnant belly. What was in there, I wondered. Cecil was at Drexel, just a few blocks away. He walked. How weird to remember this now, but he was very fit after several months of walking around in Powelton Village.

I unlocked the music box again. It was made of wood, and had a picture of a little boy and a little girl holding hands while crossing a creek. It played the theme to Swan Lake, but I didn't know at the time what the song was.

No, the coffee is wonderful. I'm sorry I stopped talking, but to remember a certain sound, I have to close my eyes.

I went looking for that address that day. It was an apartment building, an ugly one, brick and small. I rang the apartment number's call box. No one answered. I touched my belly and went home.

I was showing at six months. I was never as statuesque as Barbie. You see me as an old woman. No, don't say I don't look old. You haven't looked close in my eyes yet, reporter, even though you know my age now.

I was always short, and short-waisted. Once, one of the college dorm girls called me plump.

When I was pregnant I never wanted to eat. I know that sounds unusual, but I was simply not hungry. I would swallow a nip of Cecil's brandy once in a while. Back then it was debatable whether drinking during pregnancy was bad for the child.

When I was six months pregnant, the doctor I went to see told me that judging by the heart rate of the fetus, I was having a girl. Cecil was very excited, as he was in the room with us when the doctor listened to my womb. Cecil took my hand and said, "I always liked the name Angelica." Angelica sounded nice to me. I thought, maybe she will be an angel among all, teaching and showing people things about themselves that they were unaware of. I could see in his eyes that he had hopes for her, too, though he didn't say what they were. That was probably the closest I ever felt to Cecil.

Cecil worked all the time. He was in classes for five hours a day, and then off to the democratic office to serve the things he believed in. I went there from time to time just out of curiosity. There were a lot of people there that I thought were very intelligent. They all loved Cecil. At that time, he was moving up from a supporter to a political writer.

One man Cecil worked with, Hernandez, was a poor man with no family, but he had invented some household device, and had invested. When his investment paid off, he started pushing Cecil into a good position in the democratic office at a low level. Cecil, still in his master's program, stopped campaigning for others and began to research history and society to a deeper extent with pay, thanks to Hernandez.

We now had more money coming in than just from my grandmother. I was seven months pregnant. That was when I went to the address up the block again, for the second time. I had awoken before dawn, watched Cecil wake and smile almost shyly, calling me Bast, then he was gone and I showered. I went to the address my mother had given me.

This time, when I buzzed up to the apartment, I heard a woman's voice answer. It was high and sweet, a southern accent. Maybe that is why it sounded sweet, and I immediately thought of my mother. I said, "Hello? I am Cleo. My mother gave me this address."

There was a pause.

The front door was released with a buzz.

I went inside and climbed slowly up the stairs to the second floor apartment.

The door opened and a beautiful woman with long, blonde hair and a shapely figure opened the door. At first, I was silent with the shock of a street cat whose sleep had been disrupted by a night shower. This woman was my mother, with longer, rattier hair, but somehow the dry ends of the strands made her more whimsical. She looked like a fairy version of my mother with more...Ah, feminine aspects, such as hips and breasts.

She looked at me with full moon eyes. Then, without a word, she looked down at my belly and touched it. For a moment, she looked as vacant as a bar parking lot after hours, then she said, "Joanie will be jealous." Her eyes changed to the mirth of the mystical creature I had first seen. She reached her arms around me and pulled me into an embrace. She said, "I'm your Aunt Savannah. So great to finally meet you."

The door closed and my mother's sister took my hand. I was in a small apartment, much smaller than my place, and her hand was so very dainty compared to the dump she lived in, like a special china teacup in the middle of a jungle. I smelled jasmine incense, and saw that there was another room. In that room was a bed, a bed without a frame. Just a mattress on the floor, really. In the bed slept Barbie. She was lying on her side, with her back to me, but I knew that figure and hair anywhere. Long, silky, blonde hair, but dirty at the roots. There was the sister I had for many years awoken before and watched sleep after she had come to my bed in the middle of the night when she had some unspeakable nightmare.

She woke up as I stared at her bare back. It was so bony and seductive, much like a model in a magazine nowadays. Then her head turned, and those blue eyes looked at me. Her mouth opened but she said nothing.

She was naked, and jumped out of bed, hair reminding me of when it is all yellow outside because of some strange fog. I embraced that weather, and she said, "You're carrying!"

I want to skip ahead. The in-between moments that mean something to me, I just feel happened in other times. Like feeling...So many things at once and later trying to map them out in a linear order.

Do you perhaps have a nip you could spill into my coffee? It is making me talk too fast, the coffee is. I am feeling anxious. Do you, perhaps?

Thank you, yes, I think whiskey in coffee is just right. Maybe a tidbit more. Thank you.

I can tell you want to know more about when I found Barbie and my Aunt Savannah. Not much to tell at that point. Barbie dressed and we sat in the small living area on the floor on purple and blue cushions and Aunt Savannah made us green tea. I was worried at that time, worried about how they looked at me, how they looked in general. Worried about the smells I smelled, and the small glass pipe that my aunt tucked away under a pillow when I glanced at it. I did ask one question: why were they there?

Aunt Savannah told me that Barbie, whom she called Joanie, had come to live with her a few years ago. At that time Aunt Savannah was living in New York City. My aunt told me Barbie wanted to move to Philadelphia, and in her high, musical voice she told me she liked new places, and that the idea of moving to Philadelphia sounded like fun. Then she and Barbie shared a look that I didn't understand. Barbie said very little that day. She kept looking at my belly with more interest than at my face. She would look out the window as our aunt talked about whatever was on her mind. I was still in shock. Barbie looked so very different and even more beautiful as a young woman than as a child. When our eyes met, she seemed empty, and we were silent in each other's company. Her initial excitement of seeing me again had washed away into an impenetrable sea.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I gave birth to Angelica on February 24th . For the next four years, my life was consumed with baby and I never left the house. After Angelica was born, Cecil and I decided to use birth control. He said he didn't want to overwhelm me with dozens of babies. That was fine with me. Angelica was a hand-full.

I remember those first two years, not much to talk about really. I loved her and nursed her, despite how some people felt about nursing at the time. It felt right to me. I lost a lot of weight in those days.

She was a beautiful child. She had dark brown hair at birth, but over the first two years of her life, it lightened to a honey-brown. It curled and refused to grow past her shoulders. She was a quiet baby. Never complained much. Cecil called her an old soul. The first thing he would do when he came home from a long day was kiss her little cheek and then pet my hair. I believe he was a happy man then.

I had decided I wanted no contact with Barbie and Aunt Savannah. They made no efforts to contact me either. Nobody in our families came to see Angelica when she was born. My grandmother sent a wide array of baby supplies, and my mother wrote a short note of congratulations and asked for a picture.

The first word my Angelica said was "Play-doh." She loved play-doh. Her voice was always gravely, like she was really an old soul with an old voice, like Cecil believed.

In 1981 the Republicans were coming into power. Cecil had moved up in the political world of Philadelphia despite. He often talked about the state of things. I listened, and sometimes played Devil's Advocate. Although I was quite pleased to be with Angelica while he was gone, and to absorb myself in literature when my baby slept, I was becoming bored. Sometimes when Angelica was sleeping I would take Cecil's brandy glass and fill it with nice liquors Cecil brought home for us and sip slowly as I read. I have to admit, it made life seem a little less dull that way. Then when he came home we would often sit at our kitchen table and sip more liquor and I listened to him chat about what he had seen and heard that day. Angelica would sit on the floor and quietly watch, occasionally spitting out some words, repeating the ones we said and smiling wisely.

In 1982, Angelica was ready to go to school. Cecil asked for the millionth time if I wanted to move out of Powelton Village. We had money for a nice place in northeast Philly, but I was very comfortable in Powelton Village then. I didn't want to move. He suggested we get another home, a bigger, nicer place, in the Village.

We did, and moved a few blocks away to a nice, yellow-painted Victorian home that had been renovated by a well-known architect. Cecil went with me the first day I took Angelica to school. We sent her to a private school in the city that was close to where Cecil worked full-time. He was to be the one to take her every day, so I suppose I should say, I went with him the first day of school for our daughter.

I got very lonely those days when she was at school. Cecil cut his hours just to bring her home and spend time with us, but money was a-plenty. He was becoming admired by the political community and had several sponsors. Hernandez had long since been bankrupt and left the country, but at that time Cecil had wealthier backers, mainly from what people might call "new money." He was working as a researcher and speech writer, often telling me how he was glad not to be in a spotlight position, but rather a behind-the-scenes man.

But those mornings and days alone, I read even more books and started reading magazines about music, art, societies around the world. I read in a magazine about Bast. It made me wonder about Fidore, but I never asked Cecil what happened to my mother's favorite cat.

Maybe another cup of coffee, with another nip of whiskey. It tastes awfully nice right now. Thank you.

You ask, what did I do? To relieve my boredom? I started writing my mother when Angelica was about two and a half. I told her about my life and all about my daughter. She wrote back as soon as she got my letters. For a year and a half, we kept in contact through letters.

Around the time when Angelica was ready for school, my mother started writing things that seemed odd to me. In one letter in particular, a year later, she wrote that she was locked in her room because she was a threat to society, and I never got another letter afterward. It was then that I decided to try to find Barbie again. In mother's letters, she always mentioned that Barbie wrote her, too, and that we should be together, that we were family, that we should remember the life we had in Nebraska. I didn't want my mother to know what had, in my mind, become of Barbie. I thought even four years after I had last seen her that she was bad news. How? I don't know, I just knew that I didn't like that little apartment she shared with my Aunt, or the way her hair looked, or the small glass pipe, or anything about the situation. But I knew in '83 that there was something wrong with my mother, and that I had to find my sister and talk to her, to find out what she knew.

I went to their apartment early one morning after Cecil and Angelica left for the day. A woman answered the door. I asked if she knew anything about where my sister and aunt might be. She said she had been living there for two years, and didn't know anything about the people who had lived there before. I sought out the apartment manager, and he gave me a forwarding address in another part of the Village. I went there, knocked on the door, but nobody answered. I had brought a pen and paper, anticipating having to write a new address down. I ripped the paper that I had written down the new address on in half, and wrote, "Barbie, I think we need to get together and talk about Mother. Come see me if you get this note." I wrote my address down. I slipped in under the door, which had a wide crack between it and the hardwood floor of the apartment building's hallway.

I also requested as a P.S. that she come before one. I did not want my daughter exposed to whatever lifestyle my sister had decided to live after I saw the place of her new address. It was smaller, dirtier, and smellier than the last place I had seen her at. I could smell drugs on the second floor.

The next day at 11:30 A.M. my sister knocked on my door.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PARKER

Cleo eyed her coffee cup, then looked up at Parker. She rubbed her face with one hand, and drank from the almost empty mug, draining it. She said, "Perhaps I could just have a little sip more, without the coffee." Her speech had slowed from its even, fast-paced talk, and she looked tired. Parker remembered the smell in his car the first day he had met her.

He looked down at the gray cat sleeping at her feet, feeling both sympathetic and slightly disgusted. He nodded at the cat and got up from the table. He looked at the clock on his stove. It was 4:32 P.M. The fall sky was almost all darkened. He went to his cabinet and took out a small glass that Missy had bought from a restaurant when she went to Italy for an art display of her work. The Italians had taken quite an interest in her sculpture at that time. The glass was small, thin and clear, straight from top to bottom, little more than an orange juice glass, and she had told him that she had such a good time in Europe, and that the restaurant had served her wine in that little glass, wine that dated from 1889. When she had come home and showed it to him, she had said it was the one little piece of her trip that she wanted him to have.

He poured more whiskey than he thought he should have into the glass and returned to the table. Cleo took it without looking at him and drank it all very quickly. She put the glass on the table and slowly shook her head. She said, "I need to rest. I am very tired. Working the memory accurately is exhausting stuff. Do you mind if I take a nap? We can continue when I awake. I just need..." She smiled. He thought she looked happy; her cheeks were flushing like she had pinched them. A curl slipped from behind her ear and touched her red lower lip. It reminded him of Missy.

Parker nodded and told her she was welcome to sleep in his second bedroom. She looked down at the empty glass from Italy. She said, "It has been a while since I slept in fine linens. Perhaps it would feel nice." She looked back into his eyes. "I will take the kitten with me. A sweet purr is the best sleeping pill. I will close the door behind me, but you really should get a litter box. For now, papers will do."

About an hour after Cleo shut the door to the second bedroom, Parker washed the glass from Italy and poured into it a small glass of whiskey for himself. He sipped, and then took the picture of Missy off of his mantle. He placed it on the coffee table, then reached behind him and opened the window. The air was freezing. It made the liquor taste all the better. He didn't talk to the picture as he usually did. He was worried about Cleo still being awake and hearing him. He looked away from the photo, staring at one of the wooden posts of the coffee table, remembering the day he and Missy went shopping for it. They brought it home and she took out her chisel. He went to bed, but when he had awoken the next day, she had carved small wooden mermaids on each of the four posts of the coffee table. She was asleep on the couch, chisel on the floor, like working her trade and her imagination had finally killed her. When Missy awoke, he was sitting on the floor, watching her. She had smiled.

She then said, "This coffee table is now ours."

He felt like it was not theirs at all right then, but just hers.

He felt that way as he looked at it at that moment and sipped whiskey with a homeless woman in his second bedroom. He forgot about Missy then, and wondered about Cleo. He decided to check the messages on his voice mail. He took the phone out of the freezer. He hit the on/off button and heard a skipping dial tone. He dialed his voicemail.

There was only one message, from the Dean. His deep voice said, "Nice trick at lunch today. You have the Network drooling even more. Call me back. They have a very nice offer for you."

Parker tried to read a book for a couple of hours, but ended up falling asleep in bed with his light still on and the book lying across his stomach. He awoke around four in the morning and turned off his light, put the book away.

He awoke at eight with the feeling he was being watched. He looked around the bedroom, but didn't see Cleo. Then he heard a strange rumbling sound and gazed at the foot of his bed. The gray kitten was curled up at his feet, blinking at him, purring. His neck prickled. The cat stood up and stretched, then delicately walked up to his hand and rubbed its head against his knuckles.

"Mahhhh, mrahhh."

Parker pushed the cat away and got out of bed, thinking of Cleo and feeling irritated that she had let the cat out of the second bedroom. He walked into his living room to see Cleo sitting on the couch reading one of his magazines.

She looked up at him with a smile. She said, "Fresh coffee for you, reporter. I figured you'd sleep in, it being a Sunday. I made a pot about thirty minutes ago."

He nodded at her, rubbed his eyes, trying to hide his feelings about the cat being in his bed. "Thanks."

He went to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. He took a sip. It was a little strong for him. He noticed the coffee bag sitting on the counter. She had used the last of it and just left the package sitting out. He sighed and grabbed the bag, opening the cabinet under the sink to throw it away. His eyes met with the whiskey bottle next to the trashcan. It was almost empty. He remembered it being half full when he poured himself the small drink the night before. Cleo must have drunk it. He groaned.

He went back into the living room. The kitten had followed him out of his bedroom and was now sitting in Cleo's lap. She smiled again. He decided not to say anything about the whiskey.

He sat down in the recliner next to the couch. He asked her, "How did you sleep?"

Her voice was crackling like the first time he met her. "I slept fine, thank you." She didn't look like she drank half a bottle of whiskey.

He leaned back into the chair and sipped his coffee.

She was wearing some different clothes of Missy's, a white sweater and a different pair of old blue jeans. She noticed him looking her over and she said, "Luckily she liked baggy clothes from time to time. I found this old pair of jeans in the back of the dresser."

"She sculpted in those."

Cleo closed the magazine. She pinched the denim near her knee. "You are too trusting. I could rob you blind, you sleep so deeply."

"Uh-huh." He looked out the window behind her.

She said, "Don't worry, you'll have your privacy soon enough."

He looked at her again. She seemed happier than she did last night, as though spilling the story of her life was like confessing to a forgiving god.

His phone rang. He got up and walked into the kitchen, answered the phone with a yawn and, "Hello?"

The Dean's voice saluted him, "Good morning. Get my message yesterday?"

"Yeah, yeah I got it." He walked to his bedroom and shut the door.

The Dean told him about the offer the network news was laying on the table. They wanted to feature him on a segment talk piece. It was rather generous, but he didn't need money. Parker asked why they didn't just do their own story and leave him out of it.

The Dean said, "Because you are one famous writer, they want your angle."

"I don't really have an angle."

The Dean chuckled. "Also got an interesting call a few minutes ago. Seems a young woman believes that you found her mother, who has been missing since 1984. Name is Cleo, blue eyes like you described."

Parker blinked. "What was the daughter's name?"

"She said her name was Belle."

Parker frowned. "Did she say how old she is?"

"You have more to this story, don't you? I've worked with you long enough to know that sound in your voice. Same reason you seemed so distracted at lunch yesterday. Something on your mind?"

"Yeah, I do have more." Parker knew the Dean wouldn't blow his story or sell him out. "I have the woman here with me. I'm interviewing her."

The Dean was silent for a moment. He said, "In your house?"

"Yeah."

The Dean made a humming noise, and asked, "How did you find her?"

"I didn't. She found me."

"I see. A second, Parker." His voice sounded far from the phone for a moment, saying, "Sure, Fred, leave it on my desk." To Parker, he said, "Has she mentioned having a daughter?"

Parker lowered his voice, disliking the thought that Fred might have overheard any of this conversation. "Not one with that name. Not yet, at least."

His boss was quiet for a moment, and said, "This Belle caught the story rather quickly, don't you think?"

"Yeah."

The Dean hummed again. "She said she has been looking for her mother for years. Sounds like she has some connections to the media somehow. I asked her how she found the story so fast and she said she has other people helping her look for any information about her mother. Has that sound in her voice, the money sound." The Dean laughed. Parker smiled.

With his voice still lowered, Parker said, "Give me a couple days."

"Okay."

He hit the off button and went back out to the kitchen to hang up the phone.

Cleo walked in and got a mug out of the cabinet. She poured herself a cup of coffee, then sat in the same chair she had occupied the day before. She said, "Shall we continue?"

"Okay." He sat down across from her.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CLEO

Barbie was even thinner and more beautiful than the last time I had seen her. She had a ghostly look about her, and it instantly reminded me of our mother when we lived in Nebraska. She gave me a small smile and asked to come inside.

I took her into the room Cecil and I called the library. It was the only room in the house that wasn't full of children's toys. We had lined the walls with heavy, dark wood bookcases. I was proud of those books. I had read every one.

Barbie asked if she could see a recent photo of Angelica. I found one in the kitchen and brought it to her. She ran her bony fingers over the photo and said, "Very pretty. She looks like Cecil, I think, but has our eyes."

"Yes, she does. You can have that." I asked her what kind of work she did.

"Clerical stuff at an office near here," she answered, looking up from the photo. "Did mother tell you Aunt Savannah died from cancer?"

I blinked in surprise. "No, nobody told me. Why didn't anyone tell me?"

Barbie smiled at me like I was feeble-minded and said, "This family has so many secrets, Cleo."

I asked, "Like what?"

Barbie looked away and said, "There is somewhere I'd like to take you. It's called the Beacon."

"What is that?"

She said, "It's a club of sorts." Then she was silent.

I thought about my aunt dying and nobody telling me. It was a typical thing for my family. I said, "I want to talk about our mother, not some club."

Barbie said, "I think for you to understand our mother you should come out with me. To the Beacon."

"I don't want to go to a club." I was angry that Barbie was being so evasive. "I want to know what is wrong with our mother. Is she sick? In the head, I mean? She wrote me a very odd letter, and even her handwriting seemed different. She sounds paranoid. I haven't heard from her since."

Barbie nodded, examining at the picture of Angelica, and said, "I suppose it would seem that way to you."

I sighed, and asked her if she was living with anyone, if there were any more little details about my family that they had forgotten to tell me.

"I live alone now," she said. Then, "I think you should go with me this weekend. To the Beacon." I had this feeling she was high. I looked over her very carefully then. Her clothes were old, yet strangely stylish. Her blonde hair was clean, and she had curled the straight ends under with an iron. I really didn't want to go to a club and watch my sister get wasted. I said as much.

She laughed then, and said, "I don't drink, Cleo."

I folded my arms and said, "Yes? Really? Then why do you go hang out at nightclubs?"

She shook her head and said, "It isn't a nightclub, really. I mean, yes, they serve drinks, but it isn't that kind of club. You should come see for yourself. Maybe get out of the house. It feels...so lonely in here."

She stood up and said, "Meet me at my place at seven on Friday."

I told her I didn't know if I would.

She said, "Think about it." Then she was gone.

I looked up the Beacon in the phone book, but could not find a listing. I called information, but then again, nothing. I wondered if the place even existed.

When Cecil and Angelica came home that night, I told Cecil about Barbie's visit. His eyes lit up like I'd told him she was getting married and he took my hand and said, "You should go with her, Cleo. You never leave the house. It would be good for you. And besides, I know how worried you are about your mother. I can see it in your eyes, although you don't talk much about it."

I shook my head, and Angelica looked up at me. She said, "I want to meet Aunt Barbie!"

Cecil squeezed my hand. "Really, it's not good for you to be cooped up in here with nobody to talk to all day. Have a night out on the town with your sister. Who knows, you may even enjoy yourself."

On Friday night, Barbie and I were riding a bus into the city. She was quiet, but she also looked excited. I asked her why I couldn't find a listing for the Beacon.

She said, "It's a private club."

I asked, "What does that mean?"

"You'll see," she said.

We got off the bus near South Street and Barbie led me to an alley. I thought it looked a bit creepy, but Barbie assured me that it was safe. About halfway through the alley, I saw a door in the dim light. It was made of heavy wood, and carved into it was a picture of a lighthouse. I could barely make it out until Barbie pushed on the thick wooden handle and the light from within animated the door.

The first thing I noticed was piano playing. I couldn't recognize the tune, and it didn't seem to have any pattern to it. The door opened to a set of stairs going down into a basement. The walls were black, and little hurricane glasses hung high on the walls, each with its own lit candle within. I smelled cigar and cigarette smoke.

I followed Barbie down the stairs to a small bar. The walls were black there, too, but they were covered with a smattering of many different kinds of art and posters. The bar occupied the wall across from the stairs. I saw that there were about fifteen other people in the little room, some at tables, some sitting and standing around the bar. Little white lights lined the ceiling, all of them facing one way - toward the stage. It was not a large stage, more of an open mic stage. On the far right of the stage was a piano, with an old man playing the keys, making the random music that I had heard when I first entered. How did I feel the first time I went in the Beacon and looked around? I felt interest, something nothing in my daily life had been offering me.

Barbie walked to a small, round table with two chairs near the stage. It was then that I saw the doorway next to the end of the bar. A beautiful beaded curtain hung in the frame, and soft candlelight came from within. I pointed at it and said, "What is in there?"

Barbie looked at the doorway and smiled at it. That was her answer. A few of the people nodded to Barbie, and two of them waved and grinned at her. I looked at the bar again, deciding that maybe I would just have a drink or two to relax. Just then a man rose up behind the bar with a bottle of wine. He had been crouched down behind it when we came in, and I assumed he was getting the wine from some cabinet below. He had bleached-blonde hair with thick black roots. His skin was deeply tanned, as though he spent a lot of time in the sun. Just as I looked him over, he met my stare. His eyes, I could never really describe them. Many words come to mind, but the one that probably fits them best is vitality, like the reflection of sunlight off of a wet fern after an afternoon sprinkle on a pacific island.

He smiled at me, and Barbie waved to him. He put down the wine bottle and walked around the bar and came to our table. He was lean, muscular, had a build that perhaps Patrick might have had were he to have lived past nineteen. I admit this man looked nothing like Patrick, but there was something about him that was similar. That cat-like movement, an expression like he would know what to do in any situation.

He pulled up a chair and turned it backwards, straddling it. "Joanie, good to see you, as always." He smiled at her. Then he looked at me again. He held out his hand. "You must be Cleo. Joanie said she was hoping you'd come with her tonight."

"Hello," I said, taking his hand. It was warm.

He said, "My name's Nikki."

Barbie said, "Some people call him Ice, too. He owns the Beacon."

He seemed very interested in me, and I felt a slight flush creeping up my neck. He also seemed excited about Barbie when he looked at her. Like I said, he was very alive.

He said, "Would you like a drink, Cleo?"

"Yes, please." I nodded, and I couldn't look away from his black eyes.

He grinned, "Let me guess. You look like a bourbon or wine kind of a woman, right?"

I said, "I do like both."

"Okay," he said, then stood and walked to the bar. On the stage, the man playing piano was changing his music from its random sweet notes, and the chords were getting more dissonant as the man tickled the higher keys with his right hand. I sat still and listened. It was actually quite beautiful, the music, like a madman with a great, heavy meaning to his crazed words. Nikki came back with my drink. He resumed his position in the chair, and said to Barbie, "Swan was in rare form last night, huh, Joanie?"

She nodded, and her eyes twinkled.

Nikki asked me, "How much has Joanie told you about this place?"

I told him, "Nothing, really."

He said, "You have a nice voice. Do you sing?"

"No, I actually have never tried to sing," I said.

He nodded and I sipped my bourbon. It tasted like I should have been smoking a pipe and wearing silk. I asked him how much I owed him.

He looked confused. "For what?"

"For the drink," I said. "How much money do I owe you? Or can I start a tab?"

He grinned at Barbie and shook his head, then looked back at me. He said, "Everything is free here."

I said, "Free?"

"Yep," he said.

"How can it be free?" I asked.

He said, "Don't worry about it."

I told him I didn't understand.

Nikki said, "Hang around, have a good time. I gotta go fix a couple drinks, see you in a bit."

He went back behind the bar and I watched him chat with a couple of women sitting there. He opened the wine bottle with a quick hand. I wanted to keep watching him. He seemed so very interesting to me, like an old, familiar painting come to life. However, a young woman came out of the room that hid behind the beaded curtain, saw Barbie, and waved. "Joanie!" She walked like a little sprite, and I saw she was wearing ballet shoes. Pink ones. She turned the chair that Nikki had sat in and took her place at our table. She was thin, small, with big brown eyes and light skin, short brown hair. I could smell lavender on her. She took Barbie's hand and said, "How you been, hun?"

Barbie held the woman's hand and said, "I've been okay. You danced beautifully last night."

The woman said, "Oh, work has been busy, busy, busy! Makes me want to twirl."

Barbie gestured to me. "This is my older sister, Cleo. Cleo, this is Swan."

Swan took me in with lightening bolt eyes. She could have been drunk, I didn't know at the time, but she had so much enthusiasm it was hard to think anyone could be like that sober. She took my hand, squeezed it and said, "You look like it's your first time here, am I right?"

I nodded.

She clasped her hands under her chin and propped her elbows on the table. She said, "What do you think of the improv stage?"

"The what?"

She pointed at the small stage with the man playing piano. "That," she said, "is the improvisation stage." She turned back to me. "Do you improv?"

I asked, "Improv what?"

She said, "Oh, anything." Then she laughed. "Has Joanie told you nothing about the improv stage?"

I shook my head.

"Ice built it when he opened this place eight years ago. Anyone can go up there." The tone of her voice rose and fell as she talked, like a television ad for a car sale. "I go up there and I dance, when I feel like it. Some people sing, paint, do spoken word, all kinds of things. Like 88 Fingers up there, he just plays piano forever."

I said, "Why do you all have weird names?"

She cocked her head and smiled, saying, "When someone actually improv-es on the stage for the first time, we name them." She leaned in toward me. "You can tell when someone does it for the first time."

I asked her what she meant.

Her eyes flicked to Barbie and she said, "Joanie here has never ever gotten on the improv stage. She says she can't do it, but everybody can!"

Barbie laughed and tossed her blonde hair, something I hadn't seen in years.

Swan continued, "I danced on the stage for at least three months before I ever actually improv-ed. What a feeling, too. They called me Swan that night, and now that is my name here."

I looked at 88 Fingers, then at Nikki. "Why is he called Ice?"

"Well," Swan said, "I wasn't here when he did it, but several years ago Nikki used to do spoken word. I don't know what he said the first night he improv-ed, but it earned him the name 'Ice upon the Pond.' We call him Ice for short, or Nikki. He's the only one who goes by two names here." She winked at me and said, "Once you get to know him a little better, you'll see why."

I watched Nikki. One of the women he was talking to threw her head back and laughed. He reached over the bar and batted at her arm, which made her laugh even more.

Swan said, "You came on a good night. Fridays, people want to blow off some steam after working all week, and the improv stage is very active. But that's usually a little later."

I said, "I am just here for a drink." I sipped the last of my bourbon, burning my gums. I looked at the stairwell as three men who appeared to be in their thirties came in. One of them was a short, black man with dreadlocks. He saw Barbie and smiled, waving. They came to our table. The three of them chatted with Swan and Barbie. I wasn't really listening, but I do remember Barbie smiling softly. The man with the dreads pulled out a harmonica. He blew into it, then said, "Me and ole 88 got some jamming to do." At the time, 88 Fingers had been playing darker sounding music on the piano, like he had a thought about a dying relative and was putting it down in music.

The men looked me over but nobody introduced us. The man with the dreads walked up to the improv stage and climbed onto it. 88 Fingers didn't look up, but the music changed. It sounded bluesy and a little off-beat. A couple of people called out, "Reed! Reed!" I assumed that was the harmonica man's improv name. The other two men pulled up chairs and our little table was getting a bit crowded for me. They called for Nikki to bring them drinks, which he did, also dropping another bourbon in front of me with a sparkly smile. People in the bar had gotten quiet, and they were waiting for Reed to play his song. He blew a few notes into the harmonica, then bent over and took the shot glass of liquor Nikki had put near his feet a moment earlier. He drank the shot and started playing.

I must say, at first I was not impressed. But as he warmed up, I saw and heard something change. His body started swaying to the beat of the piano and strange sounds came from his instrument. I had never heard anyone play a harmonica like that. I didn't know if I liked it or not. People in the bar started clapping and calling out, "Reed! Reed!" again. Then they got extremely quiet and we all just sat there and watched and listened. I looked around at the people in the bar. A few of them had closed their eyes, like they were tasting German chocolate. Nikki stood behind the bar with his arms folded across his chest. I looked back at the harmonica player. I had thought they called him Reed because the harmonica was made of reeds, but as I watched him sway back and forth, he reminded me of a reed near a lake, blowing in the wind. I thought perhaps the name had more than one meaning.

I listened to him intently. I sipped my drink. I checked out the other people, watching their faces and examining them, trying to figure out their ages, backgrounds, and what not.

More people came in from the stairwell, and I don't know how much time had passed before Reed took the harmonica away from his lips and opened his eyes. He looked like he had given birth. He and 88 Fingers shook hands and the two men got off the stage. One of the women who had come in during the performance climbed up on the stage and sat on the floor with her back to the crowd. She was carrying a canvas, and she propped it up against the back wall of the stage. She mixed paints in a small dish as a few people called out, "Rivers!" She paid them no attention, it seemed, but then all I could see was her back. She began painting quickly with a wide brush. One of the women whom Nikki had been laughing with earlier pulled out a violin and stood on the stage to the left of Rivers. She tuned her instrument as people called out, "Dream Weaver!"

As with Reed, I didn't think her music was very good at first, but then her fingers moved faster and faster and her bow reached out at wild angles and people grew quiet. We watched as one woman painted and another played violin, two artists who would not usually be sharing the artistic process at the same time. I was fascinated, but I was also starting to feel a little bit uncomfortable. I realized I was losing track of time as I watched the performers and drank the strong bourbon.

Swan clasped her hands at one point and tiptoed up to the stage in her pink ballet shoes. She hopped up on the stage, which was starting to seem full. I wondered how she would find the room to dance. She pulled it off, though, to the cries of, "Swan!" and then we all just watched and listened again. She bent down, touching her feet, then put her hands behind her ankles in what seemed to me must be uncomfortable, but she sprang up from the pose and swirled in place on one toe like a top.

There was a time during the performance in which I did not think at all, which was an uncommon feeling for me. I don't even know how long this went on, but Dream Weaver stopped playing, trailing off and stepping off the stage. A man with olive skin and a shaved head got onto the stage with his guitar, plugged it into the amp next to the piano and began to pick notes. Nobody called any name out, but they clapped and whistled. He waved and said into the microphone, "Okay, going to try this again." More cheering. He strummed chords and seemed to be concentrating more than the others had.

I noticed a few people going into the room beside the bar. Nikki was hard at work making drinks and talking quietly with a couple of men at the bar. The woman they called Rivers was painting with a fury, and I strained my eyes to see what she was making. It looked like a tunnel with a light at the end, but I couldn't figure out what it was supposed to be.

A man who had been sitting at the bar by himself drinking wine met my curious gaze. His eyes were very blue, even in the dark bar. He gestured for me to sit next to him. I looked at Barbie, and she nodded at me, and then resumed listening to the men at her side as they chattered. I stood up, thinking I wanted another drink anyway.

I sat next to him. He was wearing ratty clothes and he smoked a cigar. His white skin was dirty, I could see once I was close up. Nikki walked over to us, and asked, "Cleo, care for another drink?"

I nodded and looked back at the man. He said, "Hello, so you are Cleo."

I asked him what his name was. He said, "I have no name."

To be honest, the man's appearance had frightened me enough already. He was a handsome man, but his eyes seemed different from other people, like he had walked out of the medieval times in Europe. I said, "You must have some name."

He said, "No, I left behind my name years ago. Now I have no name."

I asked him why he would leave his name behind.

He said, "Now I am a portal."

I asked what he meant, but he didn't answer. He looked all around me, at my clothes, my wedding ring, my hair. Then he said, "You have a very pure, violet aura. Like your sister, yes."

Nikki put another drink in front of me and said to the man with no name, "Scaring away Cleo already?" Nikki smiled and told me, "This man is quite the prophet, given a nice wine and a Cuban cigar." He laughed and walked off, but I felt a bit more at ease.

The man with no name watched me for a second, then said, "I just wanted to tell you that. That is all." Then he dismissed me, it felt, and went back into a drunken stupor. I shook my head just a little, then took my drink and stood up. Rivers had stopped her painting and carried her canvas, walking towards the beaded curtain. She went through it. A man was taking her place on the stage, hanging a sheet from hooks on the back wall of the stage. I had not noticed them earlier. He held up a machine-like thing and began airbrushing the sheet. Some people called out, "Flames!" I was interested in the airbrushing, never having seen it before, but even more I wanted to know what was in the room behind the beaded curtain.

I was feeling the bourbon. It was quite strong, stronger than the kind Cecil sometimes brought home. I walked to the curtain. I watched the improv stage for a moment before crossing through. A young man with long, blond hair had taken up the piano bench and the man with the guitar withdrew from the stage. Swan was spinning in circles, which seemed impossible to keep up with. I reached out to the beads of the curtain and pushed them aside. The walls of the room were painted light peach, and they wore more of the candles in hurricane-shaped glass and I saw different paintings. There were pillows all around the floor, and I saw about six people sitting on them, talking, drinking, playing cards. I watched Rivers hang her new painting on one of the walls. She turned and looked at me with a smile. She walked over to me and said, "This is where we dry them. I'll take it home once it's dry."

I didn't know what to say, so I just said, "Okay."

She bit her lip and looked up at me. She was very short. She said, "Have you seen that before?" She pointed at her painting.

I said, "No."

She nodded slowly. "Someone here has, and since I've never seen you and I painted that painting, I thought it must be you." She looked over my shoulder into the bar. I shook my head, and she looked back up at me. She smiled and walked back through the curtain as though in a daze.

I glanced at the people playing cards. They were sitting on the floor near where Rivers had hung her painting. I wondered what kind of card game they were playing, so I walked over to them and peeked over a man's shoulder. He was talking to the woman across from him. She looked young, with dark skin and black hair up in a bun. She was listening to him intently. They either didn't notice me or didn't care. I looked at the cards. They were face-up, in some sort of formation, and they had beautiful pictures on them. I blinked a couple times and realized they were tarot cards. I heard the man say, "...and that is why he does not respond to you..." I backed away, and turned around. I looked at the other four people in the room. They were sitting facing each other, eyes closed, and now they were holding hands, like children playing a game. I did not know what they were doing, but one of them, a woman, opened her eyes and looked up at me.

The piano player in the bar started playing music that reminded me of 1920s jazz. It was an abrupt change.

The woman's eyes were like those I had seen of extremely religious people in Birmingham. She nodded at me. I took a step forward toward her without thinking, and she said, "He says to say hello, dear."

"What?"

She closed her eyes and her eyebrows came together. The man whose hand she was holding shook his head and said, "A frightening way to pass on."

The woman who had spoken to me nodded.

That is when I realized it. Barbie was in a cult.

I ran back to the table in the bar where Barbie was lazily smoking a thin cigarette. I leaned down to her ear and said, "We have to leave."

She looked up at me with dull eyes, touched with a bit of sadness, and nodded. She stood up and gazed behind me. I turned and saw she was eyeing Nikki behind the bar. His eyes held some inscrutable secret as he stopped pouring a glass of wine midway. He held up one hand as a slight wave goodbye. He seemed a little sad too, and I didn't know why. It was hard to stop looking at him, but I remembered the people in the peach room behind the beaded curtain and blinked. Then I turned and dashed up the narrow staircase. I pulled open the door and plunged outside. Barbie followed. When the door closed, it was deathly silent, like all the joy in life had been closed off. My ears were ringing slightly, as they often did when I drank a little too much. I turned to face Barbie and held her upper arms. She dropped her cigarette. I said, "Barbie, what are you doing in a cult?"

She shook her head and looked at me with vacant eyes, like I had stolen the fun out of them by dragging her away from the bar. She said, "It isn't a cult."

"Then what the hell is it?" I noticed my words were slightly slurring.

She said in a soft voice, "It is a place where all are welcome, where anything goes. That's all. It's a place where ideas are born and dreams are acted out. A safe place, a haven for lost souls."

I shook her arms and said, "Lost souls! What do you mean, lost souls? Are you trying to insinuate that I am a lost soul? That our mother is? Because that is how you got me here, by telling me I would better understand our mother in some way. But all I saw was madness!"

Barbie looked away from me and said, "Should we catch the bus?"

"Yes," I said, "The bus. And on the bus you will tell me exactly what is going on here."

She said, "What do you mean?"

I started walking toward the sidewalk, and I heard her soft footfalls behind me. I was shaking my head, saying, "Family secrets. That is what you said. I see nothing but a woman who used to be lively and happy and expressive turned dark and mysterious and haunted, you...Changed so much, and now I know how, by these people and their wackiness." I didn't say anything else as we waited for the bus, and neither did she. We sat like strangers as we rode the bus back to Powelton Village. We got off at the same stop, and only then did Barbie talk to me. She actually smiled at me and said, "When you want to go again, I'll look forward to seeing you."

I felt angry at her words, thinking she really must be mad if she thought I would ever go back there. I watched her small frame as she turned and walked down the sidewalk toward her home, and I must admit my eyes watered a bit. For Barbie really did look like a lost soul just then, with the streetlights making haloes of her beautiful blonde hair, and she walked without expression. I thought she looked more like a wisp of smoke than a woman.

When I got home, Cecil had left the hall light on for me. I saw that it was just past midnight. That shocked me. How had so much time passed? I went up to the bedroom and saw Cecil and Angelica in our bed, the nightstand lamp still on. They were asleep, under the covers. I smiled at them, feeling safe. I climbed into bed without undressing and petted my daughter's hair. I looked at Cecil, wanting to wake him and tell him about the Beacon and the life my sister had chosen, but I didn't. They looked so peaceful. I turned off the light and closed my eyes and saw visions of the night pass behind my eyelids. I awoke a few hours later and quietly left my husband and daughter sleeping. I watched the sun rise from my front porch, feeling groggy from the bourbon. I was thinking of Patrick, and then I thought of Nikki.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PARKER

Cleo was silent. Parker watched her with anticipation, but she stayed quiet, staring down at the floor. Parker looked down and saw the gray kitten. It was in a ball at her feet, nothing showing but its head, back and a tail. The tail was curling up on its body like a sleeping, furry snake. Parker had no connection with pets, certainly not with cats, but just then, when he wanted to ask Cleo leading questions, the gray looked up at him. The cat's eyes were not wide and pointed, as most cats he had seen, but lazy, eyelids drooping like it knew everything that was to come, and wallowed in it. It surprised Parker, this feeling expressed in an animal, and it unnerved him.

Then Cleo was staring straight at him. She seemed different, like in the two seconds he had been looking away she had plucked her eyebrows. Her eyes were so bright and wide that he felt something like when he looked at Kathy. Parker was not one to fret over physical attraction, and he was intrigued that a woman in his house looked at him that way. It was a look of desire. He focused, and realized that Cleo was seeing something else, not him.

He glanced at the cat again, and now its eyes were wide, as though saying, "Offer her a drink."

He said, "I have some wine in the pantry." He hesitated, then, "Would you like some?"

She still had that expression, and she was looking more in his direction than at him. This set him more at ease.

She said, "What kind?"

"Missy liked wine. I have pretty much any kind of red you can think of. Pick one you want, too."

Cleo's blue eyes focused deep into his, and he thought that she was back from whatever journey she had been on. She said, "I like all red wines. Surprise me."

Parker got up from his chair, feeling slightly dizzy and thinking to himself...He wanted more from this woman, he just had to give her something in return. He almost didn't like the feeling; he was being manipulative, and he looked at the cat again before opening the pantry. The cat was still in a ball at Cleo's feet, but its eyes were closed. He saw its skinny ribs rising up and down.

He got a bottle of Merlot out of the pantry. Missy very much liked Merlot over all the other red wines. She said it was "stronger, more in touch." Missy always talked more after some Merlot, so that is what he chose. He had the things she had told him ingrained in him, almost as though they had actually happened to him. Like the time she first kissed a boy at fifteen, and how she thought it was like kissing a worm, or the time she told him she loved the way he touched her spine in the morning. They were almost his memories, but he thought she never quite realized the impact her stories had on him.

He took the small glass from Italy out of the sink and washed it. The sound of the water was pleasant to him. He also took a wine glass out of a cabinet. It was one he had taken from a friend in college, a woman named Arlene. Yes, a girlfriend, but he didn't think about that for more than a second. It was blue, and had carved flowers on the side.

He poured some wine into both glasses, and set them on the table, side to side. He gestured at them.

Cleo reached for the one from Italy. She started sipping, then closed her eyes midway through her sip. She held the glass away from her. She licked her lips and said, "Ah, this is nice. Very nice. For this, I must thank you, reporter."

He sipped out of the goblet, nodded at her.

She said, "Shall I continue?"

"Please do."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CLEO

I must be honest, for that is why I am here. I thought of nothing but Patrick and Nikki for the next two weeks. The only other things I thought of were whether my child had had enough fruit and vegetables in her diet, and if she wanted to play or needed help with her homework.

I didn't think of Nikki in a romantic way. I just wondered about him, and I wondered if Barbie was in some kind of relationship with him. The idea drove me mad. I didn't know why.

Something changed in me after my first night at the Beacon. I did something I never did before. I started telling Angelica stories. Oh, how she loved them. She would curl up with me in the den, and I would start, saying something like, "There was once a wicked beast in the woods..."

She would hold onto my long hair, and as I described him, she would say, "Mommy, take me in the library."

The first time she said that I was surprised. I said, "Why?"

She said, "Because that is where the stories are."

I took her into the library. From then on, every time I said something in my "story voice," she would insist we go to the library. I had so many fairy tales to revise for her, and each time Cecil poked his head in to listen, I tried to share it with him, but I always hid the most exciting plot twists when he came in the room. I would exaggerate a character or a situation. He seemed to love it, and the last thing he would do is look at Angelica. He would grin and leave us alone to our stories.

That was an aside, just what came to mind. I'll go back to the morning after my first night at the Beacon.

I went inside. Cecil was making coffee. He smiled at me, walked over to me, and kissed me on the cheek. He said, "Smells like you had a good time last night."

I licked my teeth. They felt coated. I told him I had had an okay time. He took my hand and we sat at the kitchen table. He asked me what had happened.

I told him, "Barbie took me to some strange club. She didn't tell me anything about our mother."

He nodded, and Angelica said, "Grandmother?"

I said to her, "Yes, Grandmother who sends you the presents at Christmas." I gave Cecil a look that I hoped he would interpret as, "I'll talk to you about it later."

I didn't. Talk to him about what actually happened, that is.

This is nice wine, reporter, Did you pick this up downtown?

Anyway, I didn't tell Cecil anything about that night. The reason I didn't is because he said to me later that afternoon that I had a look in my eye, like I was younger, like when we had known each other in Nebraska. It shocked me to hear that, and I knew it was because I was thinking of Patrick. He saw that look as a sign of happiness, and he said that I should do more things with my sister. I didn't want the man I had been married to for so many years to know that I was thinking of another man, a dead man. It doesn't seem like we had been together that long now, but at that age, it felt like an eternity.

In the mornings, I would wonder about Nikki, and at night after my family had gone to bed, I would fantasize about Patrick. It seemed then that I had either known the bliss of true love or was captured by the unknown of the complexity that was another person. I must say I wasn't confused or upset that I had such a duality. I embraced it. It was the only true interest that I had felt I had in ages. It was, well, fun.

I would pick up a book after Cecil and Angelica left for work and school, and I would read a couple lines, then I daydreamed. And at night, I would wait until they were both in bed, and I would lie under the sheets and think. My mind was a wide-open space filled with ideas and desires. It grew very quickly, this state I was in. One who has never experienced something like this might think it should take a long time to develop, but it did not. Something like a fly in the summer seeking a little drop of water takes longer than the imagination does to take hold on something to enrich its life. That is what I felt, and I knew it, and therefore I felt no guilt about my new-found internalized life.

When I spent time with Cecil and our daughter in the evenings, I was lively and expressive. Cecil noted this. He was a very smart and intuitive man, and he said that the time I had spent with my sister had made me feel alive again. When he said the word "alive," I thought of Nikki and his black eyes so full of light. I would just shake my head. What had so infuriated me about Barbie and her life was fading as fast as the stars disappeared in the gaze of the morning sun rising.

The specifics of my dreams and thoughts are not important to what I am telling you, except to explain how I went from thinking Barbie was in a cult, to when I decided to go back to the Beacon. The reason I made the decision to go there again was because my fantasies had dried up. I was getting irritable, and even my daughter mentioned it. Angelica said to me one day when she came home, "Mommy, why are you so angry?"

I told her I wasn't at all angry.

She said, "Did the boogeyman steal your doll?"

Angelica had quite a fear of the boogeyman. Often she would sleep with us, and most of the time when she awoke from some frightful dream and dashed to our room, I would still be awake. She would fall back asleep quickly in my arms as I pet her honey hair and told her a tale. It always relieved me when I heard her breathing deepen and felt her muscles go limp.

So, yes. My imagination went dry and I started getting irritable. It was three weeks after my first visit to the Beacon that Cecil suggested I contact Barbie again. He said, "Cleo, I noticed that you felt pretty good after seeing Barbie. You don't seem to be feeling good anymore. I wish you had friends, and maybe you should go see your sister again."

I shook my head, determined only superficially to hold on to the accusations I had dealt Barbie that night.

He said, "No, really, think about it. I hate to see you like this."

I said, "Like what?"

He ran his fingers through his hair and I thought to myself that I hadn't been paying much attention to him. He said, "You just seemed so much more animated after that night. Maybe it would be good for you to see her again. I'm not saying every night, but maybe you need to get out, have a few drinks. It seems like you're worried all the time. Barbie was always so light-hearted. Maybe that is what you need in your life. I know I can be a bit intense at times with my political talks. Perhaps you need that some of lightness in your life, at least a little."

I had never described to Cecil the weight of Barbie's eyes as a young woman. What he saw as boredom in me was more a lack of inspiration in my life. I didn't want him to think anything else, and I numbly nodded to him, thinking it was a go-ahead from my husband to see a world with which I was both interested in and afraid of. To see a man that also brought about such feelings.

You must be wondering, was it romanticism for a man who reminded me of my first love? What made me not tell Cecil what I had felt that night? What made me keep what I saw as the true intentions of the Beacon from him?

I wondered the same thing for a long time. I know the answer now, but I think it would be better for you to draw your own conclusions.

The day after Cecil told me his observation, I awoke and sat on the front porch, watching the sunrise like I had the morning after my first night at the Beacon. Funny thing that so many poets describe the sunrise. When you have seen it every day, your whole life, it is not a wonder. It is as usual and expected as the need to piss when you wake in the middle of the night. It is just a thing that happens, and happens every day. The beauty and energetic things that so many have described isn't there. The sky gets light. If there are clouds, it is sometimes red or orange. It is very beautiful, but it is normal beauty, beauty you forget as soon as the star peeks over the horizon. In Nebraska, there were no buildings, so I always saw it rise over the fields. In Birmingham, it was a point of interest for a couple weeks because it rose from behind the trees. In Atlanta, from behind the buildings, and thus it was for the rest of my life until now. I would very much like to make a metaphor for the sun rising amidst the buildings, but there is none for me.

It was a Friday. Swan had said Friday was the best night to go to the Beacon, so I was thinking that I might go that very night. When Cecil got up and came down for coffee, I mentioned it to him. "I have been thinking about what you said about it maybe being a good thing for me to see Barbie again. I think I will tonight."

He said he thought it was a great idea.

He had a favorable reaction. I was not surprised.

I did not go to Barbie's home first, and instead I rode the bus, and as I told you, my memory is good; I knew where to go. I stood outside the lighthouse-etched door of the Beacon, the site of so many daydreams in the last few weeks, and felt fear. I thought it was because I had those thoughts, those fantasies, and I did not want them to not come true, like that would shatter my imagination. But I opened the door, and that is because I had also been thinking about the afore mentioned imagination. My ability to see the numerous possibilities in my head and live them out in such a way had also fascinated me. I had examined that thing that is my imagination many times. I knew it could survive something less than it could deliver. I just didn't know at the time there could be more.

I opened the door, and heard the piano. It was scattered and unremarkable, except for the touch of the thing, and the nature of its tones were an everyday thing for me at that point. The sound of it could not be recorded except in the memory. I am no musician, and I have no ear for sound, but I know it has a powerful grip on the memory. Sound and smell, and I smelled the cigar and cigarette smoke.

I was there again.

I walked down the stairs like I meant it. I felt brave.

I was excited.

The first thing I wanted to know was what was happening on the improv stage. I saw 88 Fingers playing on the piano, just as the first time I went in. Along side him was a very beautiful woman. She had deep, ruby-red hair and luxurious limbs. They seemed to bend in every which way. I had never seen anything like it. It affected me at once, the way she had twisted her body into an impossible position. Her head was between her legs, but instead of facing her bottom, it was facing her front-side. I gasped and forgot myself until I next blinked. The rest of the room came into view, and I looked at the bar. I wanted to catch a glimpse of Nikki, but nobody was there.

The room was crowded, smoky and dark. I don't know if I just looked or heard her call my name, but there was Rivers, waving at me from a table near the stage. I walked over. It was then that I saw Barbie sitting next to her, not even looking at me. I sat between my sister and Rivers, and Barbie finally turned her blue eyes to mine. She smiled and said, "Welcome back, Cleo."

I nodded at her with uncertainty. Then I was enthralled with the woman on stage, in just as long as you think an instant is. She had twisted into some other form. It was so graceful and inhuman.

Rivers nodded to me, and I felt a pressure on my arm. Swan was touching me, sitting at the table behind us. She said, "Good to see you, Cleo. Barbie said she thought you would come back."

I saw something in Barbie I had not seen before. Sure, we loved each other as kids, although we fought sometimes. But the look she gave me made me feel more welcome than if Nikki had come up and gotten on one knee and handed me a tasty bourbon.

I wonder what she saw in that moment.

Barbie pointed at the red-haired woman and said, "That is D.D."

I said, "D.D.?"

Swan was still gently holding my arm, and she said, "It stands for Downward Dog, a hatha yoga pose. D.D. does improv yoga."

I watched as she twisted herself into another impossible position. It was breathtaking. Her shoulder-length red hair seemed to have a consciousness of its own. Its sweaty curls were wrapping around her neck and face in an odd formation, like magical fairy fingers.

Barbie was watching D.D., but I felt like somehow she was watching me at the same time.

River's fingertips were moving to the beat of the piano. She caught my gaze without expression except for a bit of light in her eyes. She got up and walked into the room behind the beaded curtain.

She came out of the room with a canvas, and she examined Barbie, then me. It made me uncomfortable. Rivers climbed onto the stage and started mixing paints into her little plastic bowl. Just then a glass was under my nose. A wine glass, filled with a dark red. I could smell the wine, but even more I could smell something like suntan lotion to my right.

Nikki said, "You look like you want wine tonight."

I admired that way he had of making me feel special, different, and I knew at that moment he made everyone feel that way, and it didn't bother me at all.

I heard Barbie next to me say, "Cleo and I have always liked wine, especially plum wine. Right, Cleo?"

Her lips curved. But her eyes were as full and blue and as loving as our mother's. It made my arms fill with goose bumps for a moment, and when I looked back at Nikki, he had turned away with a glance at my arms.

Barbie said, "Nikki likes to go to the beach. That is why he smells like coconut."

I said, "He does? I didn't notice."

"Yes," she said, "And other people here take over the bar when he's gone."

88 Fingers' music changed, and I saw the violinist at the bar tweak her strings. She approached the stage, and then stood in front of it. Some people were talking, some listening, and she climbed up. I heard a few people shout, "Dream Weaver!" as she took her place on the stage. She began to play.

A very strange thing happened just then. I sipped the wine. I watched and listened. I listened for about ten minutes, and I started to see things. I was suddenly absorbed in my imaginings of the last few weeks. It was like I was sitting on the couch in the library with a book limp in my hand. I was in those places that I only went when either nobody was around or I was asleep. The notes she played complimented the feelings I had in those fantasies. It seemed instantaneous, but it must have lasted for some time, because she stopped, and I became aware of my surroundings. I heard the call again from different people - "Dream Weaver!"

I looked around to see what was going on. Everyone seemed as flat as atlases. Then I saw colors. First it was Barbie's blond hair, then the depth of my wine. Then I saw Reed leaning against the wall near us, and he was staring at his harmonica. I thought he was looking at his own reflection. I saw Nikki at the bar. He was looking at something behind the bar, out of my sight. 88 Fingers was gesturing to the blond, long-haired man whom I had heard play piano. They switched out. Reed jumped up on the stage then, and Rivers was still painting. Her canvas looked like fireflies in the woods in the South. Colors seemed so vivid, although the lights were dim. The man with the shaved head from the other night plugged his acoustic guitar into an amp and strummed self-consciously. People clapped.

I saw the flicker of candlelight on the walls beyond the beaded curtain and heard Barbie whispering in my ear, "I'm glad to see you."

I noticed a tear in the sleeve of her blue shirt, and I felt younger than her, and didn't like the feeling. She looked at the table, then back at me. The feeling of being younger than her passed. She said, "Do you have any cigarettes?"

"No, Barbie, I don't smoke."

Swan leaned forward. "I have some menthols. Is that okay, Joanie?"

She smiled at Swan and said, "Sure, thanks."

I said, "Did Aunt Savannah bring you here?"

She turned and said in my ear with a soft voice, "Yes. How did you know?"

I said, "She is the only one I've heard call you Joanie."

She said, "That guy on the guitar is pretty new."

Reed began with a low-pitched whine, and then it began to take shape. I blinked at the sound it made. It was so soft and loud at the same time, like a flock of birds chirping.

Barbie said, "I was wondering. Why did you come back?"

"I was curious," I said. "And I want to know more about what you know about our mother."

Her long lashes tickled her high cheekbones. She said, "Nikki said you would."

"He did?"

She said, "Yes."

I asked her, "Why in the world would you believe him?"

She looked at me shyly and said, "Because he has always been right before."

Reed's harmonica hit what I thought was a bad note. Then another. People called out, "Reed!" I didn't understand why, but looked around and saw several people swaying to his odd sounds. Rivers was painting madly.

Before I realized I had finished my wine, Nikki was beside me, placing another drink in front of me. He must have seen the confusion in my face. He leaned down and said, "Each performer affects each person differently."

I asked him, "Why did you make the improv stage?"

He glanced at the stage and said, "Do you really want to know about that now?"

I said, "Why do you think I wouldn't?"

He crouched down, looking up into my eyes, and he said, "Joanie tells me you have a lot of books in your house."

I said, "You are avoiding my question."

He laughed, and his teeth were white and very straight. It made me think he had had a wealthy upbringing. He shook his head and said, "No, it was just the thought that popped into my head."

I believed him and answered, "Yes, I like to read."

He said, "I do, too. We should compare novels sometime."

It was weird, how he just stared, so unnatural for someone to keep gazing with such interest, but in those surroundings, it felt just right. I said, "What do you want to compare?"

He said, "I like to explore thoughts on art." He pointed at the stage and said, "I get into a lot of different creative notions." He shrugged. "I'm a creativity leech." He grinned and stood up. Once he was looking down at me again, I felt a bit intimidated. I turned to the stage to act like the feeling didn't happen.

He tapped my shoulder and I looked back up at him. He smiled and it seemed to be just for me. He said, "I'll tell you about the stage a little later, when it isn't so busy. Lots of thirsty people here right now." He went back to the bar.

Rivers was just sitting there, staring into her paint dish. Barbie's eyes had that vacant look again. I realized that in her own way, she was getting into the music that the long-haired man and Reed were making. I tried to listen, but my mind was running over everything that Nikki and I had said.

Swan leaned forward and whispered, "I know I asked you this, but I bet you can improv."

I leaned back. "What?"

She pointed at Rivers. She said, "Rivers told me."

I said, "She told you what?"

Swan said, "I heard what you asked Ice." She smiled with the grace of a cloud passing over the moon at midnight. She said, "Nikki believes that improv-ing is a form of channeling. Do you know what channeling is?"

"Channeling is a metaphysical art of contacting spirits," I said like I was reading from a dictionary.

Swan nodded. "Yes. Could be. Joanie said you were well-read."

I asked her, "What does channeling have to do with art expression?"

She leaned towards my ear to where I couldn't see her and said, "Nikki believes, as do most of us here, that through artistic actions we can channel spirits, not just others, but our own."

I shook my head at the sensation of her breath in my ear. I glanced at Reed. He was swaying, and still making odd noises with his harmonica. I leaned back toward her and said, "That is a forward belief."

She said, "Forward? What do you mean?"

I felt irritated, and said nothing.

She tapped my shoulder, and said, "What?"

I shook my head and cleared my throat.

What was I irritated at, reporter?

Okay, more wine is fine, if you think so. I really don't care. But I do like the taste.

Since the performance onstage was no longer as captivating as it was before, I began wondering about the room behind the beaded curtain and what the woman said to me in there last time I had ventured within. She had said, "He says to say hello, dear." They were obviously having some sort or séance, and although I hadn't given things like that much thought, I wondered who was saying hello. Could it be possible that they were actually in touch with spirits? I thought that if it could happen anywhere, the Beacon would be the kind of place such things might be a reality. Dark, small rooms and parlor tricks were mainly what came to mind when I thought of a séance, but in the grip of the bizarre music and assorted odd people, and perhaps the wine, I debated whether or not contacting a spirit world was possible. I wanted to know more. I watched the beads on the curtain sway slightly in the air circulating the room. The candlelight on the other side of the beads made them glow red, a web of a spider from hell.

I felt a prickling on the back of my neck and was certain that I was being stared at. I glanced over my shoulder and the man with no name watched me, holding a finger over his lips. A cigar spun smoke from the astray next to him and it clouded around his head. He shook his head and gestured with his other hand at the beaded curtain.

Reed's harmonica was squealing now, and I couldn't stand it. I felt like I was being swallowed by madness quite suddenly, the kind that makes desperation eat you from the inside. I turned away from the man with no name and half-ran to the exit. Right up those stairs and into the alley and the dark night. As the door fell closed behind me, I bent over and gasped for air. I wished I had my wine glass with me just to calm my nerves. How could it be so quiet out here when I had been surrounded by swirling, insane sounds and smells, lights and faces just moments ago? Had they all been looking at me, not just the man with no name? I leaned against the wall of the building next to the door to the Beacon and breathed deeply. In and out, cool air. My ears breathed too. They inhaled and exhaled as surely as my lungs. I pushed my face into my hands, wishing I could have been stronger. Nothing had happened, not really, but I had lost it. Did it have to do with my imaginings? My fantasies?

Were they all looking?

I sat down. Then, for a moment, I heard the sound again. Was it in my head? A gust of smoke filled my lungs, then the sound stopped again. I felt like crying, but then I felt a warm hand on my shoulder.

He said, "Cleo."

It was Nikki. He had come up the stairs and out into the alley. The sound and smells hadn't been in my head. He had opened the door when he came out, and now he was crouching down next to me, black eyes full of worry.

"Cleo, you okay there?"

I slumped and breathed slowly. I shook my head, but I said, "Yes, I think the drink got to me. Had to get some air."

"Don't let Mister No-Name get to you. I saw him, saw what he did."

I wanted to explain that it felt like he had been reading my mind, how I wanted to go back behind that beaded curtain. How it felt like he had been saying, "Not now, don't go back there now." Instead I said, "I don't get out much." I felt like I had admitted I was weak in some way by saying so. Most people went out. Most people do things. I was not most people.

Nikki sat next to me and said, "Other than here and the shore, I don't go anywhere, either."

I wiped at my eyes, trying to hide the little bit of fluid that had filled my lids. "Why not?"

He shrugged as though being asked why he liked the color red more that the color green. "It's what I like to do." He took my hand, my left hand, the one with my wedding ring on it, Cecil's family ring, and his fingers closed hard over mine. "This place and the stuff that happens here, they can make you feel all kinds of things. I don't need anything else. Maybe you don't need anything other than what you have."

I felt more composed with my hand in his. It wasn't sensual, sexual. It was comforting, although some part of me was wondering why it was so easy like that, like it was supposed to be that way. Like we were two pigeons in a roost on a quiet evening, keeping each other warm with the fluff of our feathers. Tomorrow seemed far away, as did the bus ride to the Beacon. And the sound that Reed had been making was gone from my mind.

His fingers loosened and he fiddled with my fingers as though we were playing a lovers' game. "Tell me about your books."

I smiled softly, and turned my head so he wouldn't see. "I like lots of different books. I couldn't pin any down in particular."

He asked me what I was reading lately.

"Magazines, really. I like culture magazines, ones that tell me about other places, people, art."

He said, "I like to read poetry these days. Old poetry. Never used to be into that kind of thing. My brain would melt if I even read a verse. But now, I'm digging it."

We really were the only two people in the world, and I started to feel a bit inside of me looking for a friend. "Digging it? How old are you?"

"Thirty-eight. You?"

I told him.

"Young bird," he said. "Let me see you smile. I'll say 'digging it' again."

I ducked my head down and covered my mouth.

He tossed his head back and yelled, "Dig it, lady Cleo!"

I started laughing and couldn't stop. I just couldn't stop. He laughed too, and clutched my hand tightly again.

I ran my fingers over the feel of my smile. My lips were cracking on the insides from not having moved them so actively in such a long time. "Why did you come out here?"

"I take care of my people at the Beacon. It's what I do," he said.

"I'm your people now, am I?" I asked, feeling silly saying so. He took the bait.

"Yes, Cleo, you are. And I'm your people, if you want me to be." He leaned forward. "You just have to know that. Joanie must have told you that much about the Beacon."

"She didn't tell me anything," I said.

His eyebrows rose. "Nothing at all?" He tipped his head back, bleached hair tickling his shoulders. "No wonder." He closed his eyes.

"No wonder what?" I asked.

He sat straight and kissed the back of my hand, looking me in the eyes all the while. "We're all crazy here." He winked as though he was letting me in on a private joke.

"Barbie said it was a place for lost souls."

Nikki set our hands in his lap and looked up at the sky between the buildings. "Crazy, lost souls. But you came back, so you must fit in there somewhere. Not such a bad place to be, is it?" He smiled at me, so carefree.

"I am neither, so what is the middle line?" I asked.

He took his hand away and folded both fists under his chin, acting deep in thought. In a fake, professor-like tone of voice, he said, "I believe the clinical term is daisy in a field of roses. Yes, ma'am. That is your diagnosis. Now, just take my little drink here, and you'll be all better by morning." He held up an imaginary glass to my lips and nodded for me to drink from it.

I fake-sipped slightly, feeling both a little silly and a bit like I was actually getting medicine. I pretended to swallow.

He held out a hand to my face and said in a very serious voice, "You were supposed to gargle it first."

"Gargle?"

"Yes, oh yes." He held up the invisible glass again. I dipped my face to it, and titled my head back. I made a poor imitation of gargling.

"Swallow," he said.

I made a big gulping sound.

He settled back against the wall. "Now, young woman, you will feel more like a rose in the morning." He held up a finger. "You won't be a rose, but you'll feel like one in no time. Just a good night's rest."

I felt tired, like I couldn't take any more weirdness. "I should go home."

"Want to go to the shore next weekend? Joanie is going. Or Barbie, if you prefer. But for some reason, I think she would hate us all calling her that."

I couldn't imagine going to the beach with them.

"Bring the husband, if you want. Kids too. We like kids at the beach," he said.

I shook my head, smiling. "I couldn't do that, I hardly know you."

He said, "You know Joanie. It would be fun, I promise. Lots of daisy-to-rose tonic."

"I'll think about it." I stood up.

He stood, too, and smiled down at me. His eyes were taking me in again. "Just let Joanie know. We leave Saturday, come back Sunday night. I hope you come."

I felt serious then. I asked, "Why do you hope I'll come?"

Nikki didn't miss my change in tone. His face softened, as did his voice. "I like you, Cleo. I can tell about people. A lucky and unlucky trait."

It was a blunt response to a blunt question. Most people didn't talk like that. I told him again that I would think about it, and then walked to the bus stop. I didn't hear the door open to the Beacon as I walked, so I figured he watched me to make sure I got there okay, but I didn't look back.

I crept into bed with Cecil when I got home. Angelica had stayed in her own bed and it was just past midnight. Cecil rolled over when I pulled the covers over us, and he mumbled, "Have good time?"

"Yes," I told him. He went back to sleep. Surprisingly, I fell right to sleep, too.

Did I feel like a rose the next day? You better believe I did. I even used a little rose water after my morning shower, and Cecil said I smelled like a delicious garden when he kissed me after pouring a cup of coffee. "It's good for you," he said, "To see Barbie. I encourage it. You should definitely see her more often."

I thought about the trip to the beach the next weekend, thought about asking Cecil what he thought about my going, but I wasn't sure just then that I wanted to go.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

PARKER

"More wine?"

Cleo swung an arm over the back of her chair. "The wine you serve reminds me of that night. I think it brought out that part much more vividly for me."

Parker poured more wine into her glass.

"What about you, reporter?"

He reluctantly poured more into his own glass. He didn't want his memory to get fuzzy on the details, but he could sense that it would put Cleo more at ease this way. "Are you hungry, Cleo?"

"I am used to going without food for long periods of time."

"But are you hungry?"

She twisted her hair and laughed. "I guess I should be happy for your hospitality. Yes, I could eat. What did you have in mind?"

"I could order some Chinese food. I don't have much in the way of food in my fridge."

"I haven't had Chinese in a long time. That would be delightful. Thank you."

Parker called in some Kung Pao chicken and vegetable Lo Mein. Just as he was hanging up, he had another call come in.

"Parker, my man." It was the Dean.

"Hi."

"Got a private moment?"

Parker glanced at Cleo, who was smoothing out the already flat placemats. "Sure, one sec." He walked out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into his bedroom. After he closed the door, he asked, "What's up?"

"Sunday afternoon. You still with her?"

"Yeah. We're talking."

The Dean paused. "You sound a little buzzed."

"She likes drinking company."

The Dean clicked his tongue. "Take care that you are in here tomorrow morning, now."

Parker chuckled. The Dean wouldn't care either way because he knew about Parker's tendency to get completely into his stories with no abandon. "What makes you call on a Sunday afternoon?"

"A few things. First, how'd this Cleo know you wanted to talk to her?"

Parker told him about how Cleo had appeared at his apartment the morning the magazine came out.

The Dean said, "Worry you at all?"

"Does what worry me?

"Magazine came out and four hours later the woman shows up. Weird. How'd she get the news so fast?"

"I don't know."

"Shows up in your car, then she's there the minute you drop a word about her."

Parker grinned and shook his head. "Well, we haven't gotten to the homeless part of the story, but I'm guessing someone told her. It's not like the homeless don't read and have a lot of connections with each other."

"How you know that?"

Parker didn't have an educated answer. "I just figured."

"She bring stuff with her?"

Parker thought of the gray kitten. "Just her clothes."

"When she passes out before you from the drink," he paused, "And make sure that happens, look through her clothes."

"Why?" Parker thought that might break some kind of trust they had built up over the last couple of days.

"Got another call from Belle, the daughter. So-called daughter."

"Yeah? And?" Parker felt defensive, like the Dean was pointing out that he had been too trusting, like Missy used to do.

"Said Cleo had a way with networking. Something about, well." He hummed a little hrmm. "You should talk to this Belle, I think."

"Why? You think she really is a daughter? You didn't sound like you thought that before."

"Just watching out for you. Covering all the bases. Would it hurt for you to at least have lunch with the woman?"

"Why do you think she was so evasive before?"

"Don't know, kiddo. But got to be informed on all leads."

Parker heard a noise in the hallway. Was Cleo listening in on him? "I'll give it some thought, okay?"

"Sure, you're the boss here," he said sarcastically. Parker smiled. The Dean continued, "She say she had any other kids?"

"Not yet."

"What's the name of the first one?"

Parker heard his door shuddering. "I have to go. See you in the office tomorrow."

The Dean was quiet for a minute. "Don't make me have to dictate from a hospital room again."

"It's nothing like that."

"Okay. See you."

Parker hung up the phone and opened his door. The gray cat sat in front of it looking like it had been angry that Parker took so long to open the door. It said, "Mahrraharrah!"

"Okay," Parker told the little thing. "Okay, come on, I'll give you some tuna fish." He walked down the hall to the kitchen with the cat traveling one step ahead of him on its tiptoes, glancing its green eyes back at him every few steps.

Cleo had finished half her glass of wine. She said, "Is he hungry? You really should name him. Cats like having a name."

Parker got a can of tuna out of the cabinet and dug around in a drawer for a can opener. "I don't know what to name it. Him. What do you think?"

Cleo was quiet for so long while he was opening the can of tuna that, as he drained the juices, he looked back at her. Her eyes were closed.

"Cleo?"

She opened her eyes. "Do you have a pen and paper?"

What did she need that for? He said, "Yeah, let me feed it first." He put the whole can of tuna in a bowl and put it on the floor. The gray ate immediately.

Cleo said, astonished, "You don't feed him all that at once! He will puke on your beautiful floors. Cut the portion in half and refrigerate the other half."

Parker scooped up the bowl, with many "Mahhhhhhs," from the cat, and sloshed half of the tuna into another bowl. He set the original bowl down on the floor and opened the fridge and put the rest of the tuna inside.

Cleo shook her head and pointed at Parker. "You need to cover that tuna with something so it doesn't dry out. It could make the kitten sick."

Parker found a roll of plastic wrap and covered the bowl, then put it back in the fridge. "All happy now?"

"I need a pen and paper."

Parker sighed. He got a black pen from a pile of pens in a drawer. He used them all the time. He pulled a small notepad out of the same drawer. "Here. What do you need those for?"

"We are going to find the right name for the cat."

Parker took his seat and drank deeply from his afternoon wine. "Okay, you are going to write a bunch down and we are going to pick one?"

She shook her head and closed her eyes, holding a pen out to a blank piece of paper. "Just wait. Drink. It will only take a minute." She took a sip of wine with her eyes still closed and sat with her pen at the ready for several minutes.

Parker didn't know what to do, but he felt for some reason he should be quiet. The only sound was the cat smacking on the tuna fish. After a time, Cleo began writing on the paper with her eyes still closed. After scribbling for a moment she opened her eyes and picked up the pad. "It says 'Jack.' His name is Jack." She raised an eyebrow at Parker and turned the notebook to face him.

On the pad it said in clear, black cursive, "Jack."

"Okay," Parker said. "We can call him Jack." He thought that was quite a production just to name a cat.

Cleo looked down at the eating cat. She called out in a soft, cooing voice, "Jack!" and made a clicking sound with her tongue. The gray paused in his feast and looked up at Cleo. "Mahh." He turned back to the food and continued to gorge himself like it was his first meal in weeks.

Parker had an uneasy feeling just then, like Cleo had done something in her head that was questionable, and his neck prickled, but Cleo interrupted his thought with, "All cats like that sound, the clucking tongue sound. They always pause and look at that. But now he knows you will call him Jack. Like I said, cats like having names. They like repetition."

Parker sipped from his wine and poured more into both their glasses. He liked what he was getting out of her more now that she was getting drunk, and that little nagging thought that this might be a bad idea tinkered around in his brain. He shouldn't use her weakness to drink, if it was there, to ply information out of her. He shook his head of the thought. She was just a person who could choose to drink or not to drink. It wasn't his fault if she did it. And if she did, he was getting good material out of it. He found Cleo's story fascinating so far.

"What are you thinking, reporter?"

"About Jack. Why he is so nosey."

"Cats are curious. Once they pick a person, they are dedicated. Jack has picked you. No telling why. But he is your cat now. And you need to get a litter box. They like to do business in a clean place, a routine place."

Parker knew better than to antagonize someone he was interviewing. The cat was gone when Cleo was gone. No question about that.

"And he needs fresh water, but I'll get that." Cleo rose and refilled the mug with tap water, set it on the floor. The cat was uninterested.

"Cats don't usually like to be watched drinking water, unless they are very thirsty. Then they don't care."

"Why is that?"

Cleo puckered her lips. "Never been able to figure that one out."

Parker leaned back in his chair as Cleo sat down next to him again. "So, Cleo, did you go to the shore?"

She smiled as though she were looking at old photographs. She said, "Do you like the way I speak?"

Parker said, "I think you are eloquent."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CLEO

I went to the beach, but I must say that the time leading up to it was agonizing. The friendly hand-holding with Nikki that had seemed so innocent and helpful had turned erotic to my imagination. The improv stage gripped some part inside of me and wouldn't let go. The people at the Beacon stalked my every dream. Dream Weaver's violin echoed through all my fantasies. The sound of 88 Fingers' piano playing kept coming to mind during daily tasks, like cleaning. I sometimes smelled cigarette smoke when nobody was home.

I read voraciously. When I wasn't reading or cleaning, I would lie on the couch and daydream. I wanted everything. I wanted to be a daisy in a rose garden. I wanted to be part rose from an invisible drink. I wanted to see Nikki again.

I wanted to find out from Barbie about our mother.

I didn't want to take Cecil and Angelica to the beach if I went.

Cecil thought it was a great idea for me to go off to the shore with Barbie. He didn't know that it wouldn't be just the two of us. "How are you going to get there?" he asked. I told him that I could rent a car, as we only had one. He insisted that I take the car, saying that it would be a waste of money to rent one, that he and Angelica could walk to a store if they needed anything.

Angelica wanted to go in the worst way. She had never been to the beach, or anywhere else for that matter. It hurt a bit to tell her no, but I needed to do this thing, and Saturday finally came. I picked up Barbie at her apartment and off we went.

Being in a car with Barbie for two hours, just the two of us, felt odd, like we were fighting, although nothing had happened. We spoke very little and my mind kept drifting to our mother. I wanted to ask about her, but felt instinctively that it wasn't the right time. I could get to it during the trip, perhaps when Barbie had relaxed. The only thing I remember her saying is that she didn't like being in a car. She flinched a couple of times when cars cut me off, as though an accident actually had happened.

She directed me to an enormous beach house once we were at the shore. "It's Nikki's," she said. The red-head D.D. greeted us at the door, looking as limber and gorgeous as she had on the improv stage. She hugged Barbie and smiled at me over Barbie's shoulder, but I didn't like the look in her eye as she did it. I couldn't figure out what that expression meant.

D.D. led us into a living room where Swan, Reed and a man and woman I'd seen behind the beaded curtain in the séance sat on sofas and on the floor. They waved to us. The man stood and introduced himself as Kurt. He said, "We never met properly, Cleo," and shook my hand.

The woman, looking to be in her forties, said, "I am Astra, dear," and nodded at me.

Nikki came into the room from the kitchen with several beer bottles in his hand. "Cleo! Joanie! Good to see you got here for cocktail hour. I'll grab a couple more of these." He handed out the beers to the others.

I sat on the floor next to Swan, who squeezed my shoulder and told me she was happy to see me. Barbie sat across the room from me. The group resumed a conversation they had been having when we joined.

Kurt said, "I still think you could see the grass."

Astra agreed with him. "Definitely. There is a connection between all living things and undoubtedly the grass could be seen."

Reed shook his head. "But how do you know dreams are connected to other people? I think dreams are independent of others. What do you think, Swan?"

Swan shrugged her shoulders. "I know I have seen some crazy things in my dreams. I guess it is possible that those things exist somewhere, somehow."

Reed smiled at her. "Middle-of-the-road answer."

Nikki came back and handed Barbie and me beers. I was surprised to see her take a sip, since she told me she didn't drink.

Nikki sat on the other side of me on the floor. "What do you two think, Joanie and Cleo?"

I said I didn't know the question.

D.D. sat forward on the couch and eyed me with that same strange expression, like I was a kid playing in her freshly pruned garden. She said, "Nikki asked us what we thought about dreams. He wondered if a person never seen grass in life, could he dream about it?" She had an edge to her voice, like she was from another city, and her grammar was lacking.

It felt like she was demanding an answer from me, but Barbie saved me from my confusion. She said, "Unlikely."

D.D. focused on Barbie. "Why do you think that?"

Barbie answered, "Dreams come from things we have experienced. I am with Reed on this. I think they are personal and independent of others' thoughts."

I blinked several times and glanced at Nikki. He half-smiled and held out his hands. "Had to talk about something."

Astra continued with her thoughts on interconnectedness of all beings, with Kurt as a supporter. I put pieces together in my head. These two had been in the room beyond the beaded curtain having a séance. They must think themselves some sort of psychics, and perhaps that was the type of thinking that could be expected. I listened quietly and sipped my beer, interested in the conversation, but Nikki's closeness was making me warm. I admit at first it was hard to concentrate because of this, and the topic was so far off from any kind I'd heard before that my little mind was having difficulty with the concepts.

Nikki didn't add anything to what they were saying. He sat and listened, like me, and I wondered why he had chosen to sit next to me. Did I think of Cecil and my daughter at home? No, I felt like all those things were the dreams, that home life, the quiet house. Perhaps I could have added a new element to the discussion, but I would never bring that up. Instead I hugged my knees to my chest and my beer was gone rather quickly.

After some time, we went down to the beach, Nikki and Reed carrying a couple of coolers. It was windy out, but that didn't stop the group from tossing a Frisbee around. I watched, not able to remember ever having thrown a Frisbee as a child, and surprised at how well Barbie could handle the thing. Kurt and Astra watched, as well, and I figured they felt too old to be taking part in such an elementary activity. But now that I am old, I can't imagine expending that kind of energy.

Eventually, Swan cried out, "Oh, Cleo, why don't you join us? It really isn't that hard."

I felt a buzz from the beer and the sun and lost some inhibition of looking a fool to Nikki, as I knew my Frisbee throws would pitter out into the sea or hit sand or worse, whack someone in the head. And Barbie looked so happy, pale cheeks flushed and blonde hair blowing in the breeze, I wanted to join her in a game that made her look more alive than I had ever seen her as an adult.

I stood up and walked to Swan, who handed me the Frisbee. She said, "You curl it up under your arm and just give it a little twist with your wrist. Like this." She tossed it to Reed. Reed swung it back to her, and she jumped up in the air to catch it. She handed it to me. "Try it."

I did as she instructed and aimed at Barbie. It skidded sideways and wobbly, hitting the ground several feet away from my sister. Barbie laughed, but not at me. She dashed to get it and threw it back to me. I almost caught it, but as it hit my hand, the rim spun around my fingers and the disk fell.

"Throw it to me," Nikki called out. I tried once more, and this time it soared way over his head. He tried to get it, anyway, jumping two feet in the air, then collapsing dramatically on the sand, laughing. He ran back to get it and threw it my way. It was a perfect throw and I caught it against my belly.

I felt warmth in me as the blood flowed. I had never been interested in exercising, but this felt good, and I was brave enough to toss the Frisbee to D.D., but it swerved to the side and missed her. D.D. ran to get it, but instead of throwing it to me as the others had done, she expertly spun it out to Reed.

The game continued and I got better, but not by much. What matters is that it was fun and I forgot about everything else as I focused on the game. That particular stretch of beach was secluded and once in a while people walked by, looking our way and smiling. Eventually, Nikki stripped off his shirt and ran into the ocean, diving straight away. I watched him swim around and decided it was time for another drink. Reed joined Nikki as the rest of us gathered around Astra and Kurt. Astra pulled some pretzels out of one of the coolers and we all snacked. The Frisbee players talked excitedly, and I listened. They seemed more invigorated after the game, and there were a lot of jokes and much laughter.

Nikki and Reed joined us again and they dried off, sitting on one of the blankets. D.D. pulled sandwiches out of a cooler and handed them out. I can't remember what kind they were, though. Isn't that strange? I remember everything.

Maybe it is this third glass of wine, reporter. Or is this the fourth? I can't remember that, either.

The others took off shirts and pants and laid about in their swimsuits after slathering suntan lotion on their bodies. I felt shy about being in a suit, never having liked showing that much skin, but once I was on my back soaking in the sun, I felt better. I watched Barbie grab a soda from a cooler, her body so thin and frail and white. I wondered when the last time she ate was, before this beach lunch.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, and as the sun dipped low in the sky, Nikki suggested we get ready for dinner.

"Where are we eating tonight?" Swan asked.

Nikki told her he had a reservation at a restaurant nearby. We walked back to the beach house and each of us was directed to our own rooms to shower and dress. Nikki most certainly was wealthy, I figured as I took in the elaborate décor of my room and private bath. Where had he gotten all that money?

We ate in a restaurant on top of a hotel. The east wall was all windows and looked out over the darkening sea. Candles lit the dining area. There was a jazz band and a small, wooden dance floor in front of the musicians. It really was a nice place, something only the wealthy could enjoy. The seafood dishes cost much more than the gas that took me to and from the shore. I gasped when I looked at the menu prices and Barbie whispered to me that Nikki would pay for all of us.

I silently listened to the chatter of the others, feeling out-of-place, but grateful for the lessons my grandmother taught me about eating in places like these. Only Nikki and Barbie had the same training and the others were full of elbows on the table and napkins next to their plates instead of on their laps. They talked about things they had done in the past, a few improv stage stories, some jokes. They seemed to be having a fine night, like time was standing still and they did this kind of thing regularly.

After we finished eating and the plates were removed, a woman took the microphone on stage and began singing a slow, sultry tune with the band. Reed stood and held out his hand to Barbie and off they went to the dance floor. D.D. nudged Nikki and he grinned at her. They joined Barbie and Reed.

Astra and Kurt fell into a quiet discussion that I couldn't hear, and Swan watched the band, but I watched the dancers. Nikki and D.D. were talking and laughing as they moved, Nikki occasionally dipping D.D. or swinging her around in an exaggerated way. Barbie and Reed held close to one another and Barbie twirled one of Reed's dreadlocks in her hand. He pulled slightly away from her and kissed her lips so softly that it almost seemed like a first kiss, but I knew it couldn't be. They were familiar with each other in an intimate way; that could be told in how they moved together.

Swan leaned to my ear and said, "They seem like they would be such a happy couple."

"They aren't happy?" I asked.

She answered, "They aren't a couple."

I watched Barbie and Reed a little longer, feeling confused.

Swan added, "Since Ice's wife died, he's never taken to another woman. She really was his only true love."

I realized then that Swan was talking about Nikki and D.D. I said, "I didn't know Nikki had been married. How did his wife die?"

Swan told me, "She was murdered. They never caught the person who did it, either. Ice was devastated."

"How terrible," I told her, and watched Nikki twirl D.D. around and catch her in his arms. He wore a charming smile, unaware that his life's deepest tragedy was being spoken of a few feet away.

"It's where he gets all his money. His wife, Diane was her name, was very rich. It's how he keeps the Beacon open and running. It's how he does all of this for us." She gestured around the room. Swan continued. "D.D. has been in love with Nikki for years, but he won't go to her. He stays true to the memory of his wife. It's sad to see that he won't let go."

I thought of Patrick clearly, his hazel, shining eyes, his smooth movements. I could remember every detail that I had ever noticed about him. The way he breathed slow and deep, like he was always relaxing on a mountaintop somewhere, proud of his climb to the peak, taking in the beauty that his work had earned him. Then I thought of how his hand felt in mine, the sound of his voice calling me "Beautiful." Did Nikki live with a ghost as I did? But I had let go. I had married and had a daughter.

Swan interrupted my reverie by saying, "So I am sure you can understand why he is interested in channeling with the improv stage and in readings at the Beacon. He has always been trying to contact his wife, but I don't think he ever has. If it happened, nobody has ever told me about it."

I nodded. I could understand that desire, but I felt at that moment there was a simple reason Nikki had never reached his wife; it wasn't possible.

After we left the restaurant, Barbie and Reed walked hand-in-hand back to the beach house and the rest of us trailed after them. I was feeling a bit tipsy from the wine at dinner, and I could tell the others were, as well, except for Barbie, who hadn't had anything alcoholic to drink. They laughed and Nikki even sang "She Bop" with an Irish brogue. It was off-season at the shore, so there weren't any people watching us to find us an odd lot. And we were that.

More drinks were served back at Nikki's beach house, but I was tired and over-stimulated. I went to my bedroom and slept almost instantly, regretting that I was letting this opportunity slip away from me because my body couldn't last anymore.

I woke very early. The clock told me it was 4:30 A.M. I dressed in comfortable clothes and prowled into the living room, afraid I might wake someone in the quiet hours before dawn.

I heard a voice in the dark say, "Up already, Cleo?" It made me jump, but I recognized Nikki's voice. I squinted through the darkness and made out a man's form sitting on the couch.

I asked him, "What are you doing?"

"I couldn't sleep," he said.

I asked him why he wasn't watching TV or reading, and why was he just sitting there like that, in the dark?

He told me, "I was lying down, but I heard you coming. Do you always wake up this early? Or is it because you went to bed before the rest of us?"

I explained that I had never woken after dawn as far back as I could remember. I added, "But I was very tired last night. I don't usually have so much activity in my life." It felt weird talking to him in the shadowy room; it made him seem less human. I made my way to an end table and turned on the lamp. Nikki shielded his eyes with one hand and squinted, smiling at me.

"Never sleep in? I couldn't do it." He stood up, bleached hair falling over his eyes as he looked down at me, and said, "Take a walk with me on the beach. The sunrises here are fantastic."

I said I needed my shoes, but he assured me that I didn't. "We'll stick to the dry sand," he said.

The beach was chilly and the sand felt like it was nibbling on my toes. There was no moon, and as it was a small beach town with no city lights, the stars were shining above and reflecting on the waves. "It's low tide," Nikki said, and we began walking north.

I couldn't think of anything to say, and we moved silently, with only the waves to whisper its company to us. It felt right, natural. It seemed like we should be holding hands.

When the sky over the sea started to pale, Nikki suggested we sit down and watch. We had walked so far that there were no buildings nearby anymore, just the two of us. We sat close and I pulled my arms around myself to keep warm. Nikki had his knees up and elbows resting on them, a manly pose, and he kept his eyes on the horizon as though he were about to see the sun rise for the first time.

I asked, "How long have Barbie and Reed been together?"

"She hasn't told you?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Barbie and I don't talk about things."

"You sound more like brothers," he said. "I can't remember how long those two have been an item. I don't have a great concept of time."

I asked him what he meant.

He picked up a handful of sand from between his feet and let it sift through his fingers. "I haven't for a while. I get days confused, my sleeping is sporadic."

"Any reason why?" I asked, but I thought I knew what the answer would be, and I was right.

"My wife died and ever since then, I just kind of float through the hours, like I'm the ghost and she's the one who's still alive." It was a blunt answer and his demeanor changed slightly, as though conversations of such a serious nature were rare. I didn't see the cheerful beach-going bartender, but rather had a glimpse of Ice upon the Pond for the first time.

I hadn't spoken his name out loud since it had happened, but I said, "My first love died in the war. His name was Patrick." The soft breeze picked up my words and carried them away as though I had never said them. Could I really be talking about him? I had buried that truth so deep inside me that it seemed not to be mine at all, but some secret dead with an ancient civilization.

Nikki dropped the rest of his sand and took my hand. "We have so much in common, then." He looked at me, saying, "I knew we did before we even met, just from Joanie talking about you."

I asked him, "Did she tell you about Patrick?" Saying his name again felt almost embarrassing, my hidden desires of my daydreams expressed in the inflection my voice gave to it.

He shook his head. "Just a feeling. You never get over it, do you?"

I didn't answer, and the hand holding mine felt like Patrick's hand, that rough tree bark, though Nikki's hand was soft. Here we were, touching again. He was so casual about it and it seemed just right to do it. I didn't think of Cecil. It felt innocent and so did I.

After a moment, I asked, "What do you think about the grass and dreams? From the conversation yesterday?"

He squeezed my hand and let go, and resumed fiddling with the sand. The sky was very light and the sun would peak out at any moment. "I think it's possible to see the grass in a dream because our imaginations can come up with anything. I agree with Swan on this one."

When Swan had said it, it sounded so "middle-of-the-road," as Reed had commented, but when Nikki said it, it was a well-grounded assumption.

The tip of the sun shined its yellow flash out to us and Nikki's dark eyes twinkled with it. I noticed circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, but he was smiling at the sun and I almost expected him to wave at it, like an old friend. The serious moment was gone and he was back to his cheerful self.

"Butter-rum pancakes, you think?" he said. "I make great butter-rum pancakes."

I asked what those were.

"You'll just have to see." He stood up and held out his hands to me, then pulled me up off of the sand. I brushed myself off and we walked back to the beach house. He talked about cooking and baking as though he were a talented chef, and after we returned and I had my first bite of the pancakes, I could see that he was. The others woke up one by one and helped themselves to the breakfast feast. After everyone was fed, they talked about going back down to the beach for the rest of the morning. I said, "Barbie and I should be going."

Reed kissed Barbie's cheek. "See you tomorrow night?" he said.

She nodded.

Kurt nodded at us, and Astra said, "Safe trip, dears."

Nikki told me he hoped he would see me back at the Beacon sometime soon. He hugged Barbie, then me, and over his shoulder I saw D.D. frowning at me. No doubt she was jealous of how Nikki was treating me, but we had a bond now, one that I doubted she could understand. And the compassionate part of me hoped she would never understand that kind of pain.

About halfway through our quiet ride home, Barbie broke the silence by saying, "You and Nikki seem to get along well."

I nodded, glancing at Barbie. "As do you and Reed."

She smiled softly. "Reed," is all she said.

I decided it was as good a time as it would ever be to ask about Mother again. I phrased it simply enough. "Tell me about our mother. What do you know?"

She shook her head and picked at her fingernails, which were short and ragged. "I don't know if you'll understand. Well, I didn't know, but I'm starting to think that you might. Now, anyway."

I said, "Now that what?"

She said, "Now that you have opened your mind a little bit."

I pursed my lips. She thought I was close-minded, and that irritated me, but I pressed on. "Please, tell me what you know."

She sighed. "It's complicated. Our father, you know." Then she was quiet again.

I said, "What about him?"

"He wasn't a vet, Cleo," she said.

"What do you mean?"

She stopped messing with her fingernails and looked out the window. I couldn't see her face as I kept glancing at her. "He was a psychiatrist, Mom's psychiatrist."

I clutched the steering wheel as though it would give me strength. I didn't understand. I said, "How could that be? I mean, what are you talking about?"

She continued. "You said you were worried about her letters. Didn't you ever wonder about her allergies? I mean, come on. Really. Mom's been sick for years, or so the family thought. They sent her to doctor after doctor. Dad was the only one who got through to her. But they fell in love and moved away, made a new life together. Of course the family was furious at Dad for taking advantage of her, that's how they saw it."

My driving was probably shaky at best by this point. "But how can that be? How could Dad be a vet if he was a shrink?"

She said, "Dad had all the regular medical training and his dad, our grandfather, had been a vet. Dad knew his stuff. Mom and Dad just went to a small town that wouldn't ask questions and he opened a vet office. You know the rest."

I rubbed my face, and then asked, "Well, what is wrong with her? With Mother? Are you telling me she is crazy?"

Barbie explained, "Well, she's paranoid about everything, you see. Dad was okay with her having a quiet little life and staying in a place she found safe. He thought that was a good treatment for her. And Cleo, they really did love each other, you know that, right?"

"Of course I know that," I said. I thought for a moment about my mother and her letters, how I had known there was something like that going on. But the part about my father really threw me. "Why didn't anyone in the family tell me any of this?"

She said, "They're ashamed of it. Can you imagine Grandmother," her voice changed to sounding a little bit like she was actually in one of her monumental arguments with the woman, "Letting people know her daughter was mentally ill? That she ran off with her psychiatrist? Think about it. What would people say? That's what she was thinking. Big, prominent family in Birmingham. It would be scandalous."

I asked, "But how did you find out?" I paused. "Aunt Savannah told you, didn't she?"

She said, "I figured some of it out myself. Our uncle wasn't a vet, so that was a clue that some lies had been told. Aunt Savannah just filled in the blanks."

I wondered how I couldn't have seen it, and said so out loud.

Barbie faced me. "You seemed to die after Dad did, Cleo. After that, you just didn't look for anything anymore."

We rode in silence until we were back in Powelton Village and when I parked in front of Barbie's apartment house, I asked her, "Why did you think it was so important for me to have, as you say, an open mind? Why couldn't you just tell me about it all?"

Barbie rubbed her forehead as though trying to figure out if she could say what she wanted to. I suppose she decided she could because she told me, "Maybe Mother isn't crazy, Cleo. Maybe there is something to it all."

I asked, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, the things I've seen and felt at the Beacon...There's more out there than we think," she said.

I felt anger in me, but tried to keep it under control so that Barbie would keep talking. "I take it you know more than I do about what Mother is going through, exactly."

Barbie squinted into the sunlight and rubbed her forehead again. "She has told me a lot of things. She was afraid to tell you, thinking you wouldn't understand. But I've decided that something about what she goes through is special, not dangerous. Maybe she is, well, special. Gifted."

I couldn't keep the anger from showing anymore. "Special? The woman couldn't leave the house for at least a decade. How can that be special?"

Barbie shook her head at me. "I guess you couldn't understand, with your perfect little life and all that."

I almost yelled at her. "I understand that all of you are crazy! That's what I understand."

She rolled her eyes and her shoulders slumped. "Oh, Cleo." She got out of the car in slow motion, and I pulled away from the curb before watching her enter the door to her apartment house.

I was livid.

CHAPTER TWENTY

PARKER

Parker watched Cleo drop her fork into a Chinese food carton. She said, "I am feeling so sleepy from the wine and food. Would you mind if I just...?" She pointed behind her at the living room. "A little nap on the couch and I'll be okay."

Parker's head was swimmy from the drink, as well. He could use a break. "Sure, go ahead."

"You should put this food away, or Jack will get into it."

She was off-balance getting up from the table, but she made it to the couch. Parker sighed and put the leftovers in the fridge. He went into his bedroom and picked up a book. He figured it would take at least a half hour for Cleo to fall into a deep sleep, then he could take the Dean's advice and go through the few belongings Cleo had.

He skimmed over the pages of the thriller in his hands, glancing over at his alarm clock every few minutes. The book's contents didn't seem thrilling at all, after the day he had, and the prospect of going through Cleo's clothes without getting caught was making him edgy.

When the cat hopped on his bed without a sound, Parker jumped and dropped the book on the floor. He groaned and gave the cat an evil eye, then pushed it off of the bed. It jumped back up anyway and dashed to the other side of the mattress, out of Parker's reach.

Parker heard the thing start purring as he grabbed his book off the floor.

"Cat," he muttered, settling back into his position as though he were a feudal lord allowing a peasant to loiter on his grounds.

He waited an hour. Then another fifteen minutes. He went to the end of the hallway as silently as he could and peeked around the edge of the doorway to the living room. Cleo was lying on her side with her back to him. He listened, but didn't hear anything. He decided she had to be asleep, and walked into his second bedroom. Her clothes were in a pile on the floor at the foot of the bed. He crouched down and stopped, listening once more. Nothing.

He pulled apart the sweaters and wrinkled his nose at the smell coming from the clothes. It was like gym sweat and rotten milk. He didn't see anything in the shirts, so he pulled out a pair of blue shorts she must have been wearing under her skirt. He felt in the pockets, and in one found a small brass house key. He fiddled with it, wondering what door it opened. He put it back in the pocket.

He picked up her skirt and something heavy fell out from the folds and plopped on the floor. It was a zip lock bag full of amber fluid. Puzzled, he picked it up and turned it over in his hands. Balancing it carefully so as not to spill any of it, he pried open the bag and was hit by the strong scent of whiskey. So, he thought, that's what happened to the rest of my drink.

The phone in the kitchen started ringing. Parker almost dropped the bag in surprise.

He cursed, and quickly sealed the bag, stashing it back under Cleo's skirt. He rumpled up the clothes and dashed to the doorway. He heard Cleo say from the living room, "What is that ringing? Don't they know it is the middle of the night?"

Parker called out to her, "Go back to sleep, I'll get it."

He was covered in a light sweat when he reached the receiver. In a quiet voice, he said, "Hello?"

"Parker, got your magazine today." It was his father.

"Hi, Dad."

"Why are you whispering?"

Parker speed-walked back to his bedroom and shut the door. Talking normally, he said, "Oh, was just taking a nap, sorry about that."

"A nap at six at night? You might as well just go to bed, or else you'll be up until three in the morning."

"I'm okay now, was just dozing."

"Well, okay, then. Just wanted to say I really liked that article, but you weren't very nice to that poor woman."

"I know, Dad, that's why I wrote the article."

"You should have tried to get her some help. People like that are just asking for help."

"I know. I was being thoughtless."

"What would your mother say if she were alive and knew you were going into strange alleys and getting mugged? Does your job really require you to take those kinds of risks?"

Parker rubbed his closed eyes. "I'll be more careful in the future."

"You said that last time something like this happened. Seriously. You have to be more careful."

"I will."

There was a pause, then his dad said, "But it was very well-written. I have to admit, I'd be curious to read what this woman's story is if you find her."

Parker kept his eyes closed. "Yeah."

Then there was a howling in the room and Parker's opened his eyes, spotting the cat at the closed door. It yowled again and pawed at the door, looking back at Parker. It must have followed him inside.

His dad said, "What is that sound? You have an animal in there?"

"Yeah, just this stray cat." He opened the door and the cat dashed out as though escaping a pit of hell.

"A stray? You get its shots? Those things carry disease, you know."

"Yeah, I'm getting its shots this week."

"I never knew you to have a pet. What made you get this cat?"

"Well, it's freezing here in the city and I felt sorry for it."

"That's a nice thing to do. Just make sure you get those shots."

"I will."

"Okay, then. How is everything else going?"

"Good, Dad. Really good."

"Good. You take care of yourself, now. Okay?"

"Okay, you too."

"Talk to you later."

"Bye."

It was the usual five-second conversation with his dad that he always had every couple of weeks. Since Parker's mother had died, his father had become more critical and distant than he used to be. Parker sighed deeply, realizing he had been barely breathing throughout the conversation. He felt lucky that he hadn't gotten caught going through Cleo's clothes, and wondered again about the house key. Did Cleo actually have a home?

He pondered over the story Cleo was telling him. That her mother was mentally ill made Parker's eyebrows rise.

He decided not to think too much about it all until he had heard everything she had to say. He tried to read again and once nine o'clock came, he had a pounding headache from the wine. He got a glass of water from the kitchen, sipped, and then peeked in at Cleo. She was still sleeping in the same position.

He went to her and tapped her shoulder. "Cleo, go lie down in your bed."

She mumbled, "Fine here, reporter."

"Your back will hurt in the morning."

She rolled over and slowly stood up, head down and hair falling so that Parker couldn't see her face. She shuffled to the second bedroom and dragged the covers over her as she dropped into bed.

Parker went back to his own bedroom and spotted the cat crouched in the corner on some torn paper near the window. It wasn't nearly enough to catch the cat's waste. "Cat!" he hissed, and grabbed it up before it could poop all over his wood floor. The little thing twisted in his grasp, oddly purring. Parker carried it into the living room where Cleo had left a pile of shredded magazine in the corner, but it was soggy and filled with small droplets of feces. He put the cat down and said, "Just wait, hold on a second."

He got a wad of toilet paper from the bathroom and quickly ripped it up, replacing the disgusting magazine pages and throwing them in the kitchen trash. On returning to the living room, he saw the cat sniffing at the toilet paper like it was full of wonders. "Go ahead," Parker said to it. "Do your thing there."

He was surprised that the cat tentatively walked over the toilet paper, testing its footing with each little paw step, still sniffing all the while. It looked up at Parker and hummed a simple, quiet sound, as if to say, "Privacy, please?"

Parker went back to the kitchen and washed his hands a few times, feeling dirty from handling the soiled magazine pages. His head hurt more now, and he gulped down the glass of water he had left sitting on the counter. He got some aspirin from a cabinet and took a couple with another full glass of water, then looked in the corner of the living room at the toilet paper. The cat had done its business, and Parker scooped it up, muttering curses as the smell hit him. He flushed it, washed his hands again, though they had not gotten dirty, and put more toilet paper in the corner.

"Mah."

The cat was standing next to him, watching with great interest.

"What do you want now, Jack?" He drew out the cat's given name sarcastically.

The cat held up its tail and walked to the kitchen.

"Oh, food. Right." Parker retrieved the rest of the tuna from the fridge and put it on the floor for the cat, who ate at once as though it was his first meal the whole time he had been in the apartment. It surprised Parker that he felt a little bit of satisfaction in seeing the skinny gray chow down so heartily, that he had provided the stray with another day of life, a good life, even. It was similar to the feeling he'd had earlier; he felt like a master being kind to a lowly servant.

He fell asleep within minutes of putting his head on the pillow, and did not dream.The next morning he showered, shaved and met Cleo in the kitchen. She pointed at the mostly full coffee pot. "I made a brew. I hope you like cinnamon. I like to sprinkle a little over the grounds."

The coffee tasted interesting, Parker thought, and he looked for signs of a hangover in the early bird sitting across from him at the table. She seemed to be fine. Parker's headache, however, had continued. He told her, "I have to go into work. Feel free to stay here, if you want."

She rubbed the rim of her coffee mug. "So you want to hear the rest, after all I have told you? Not getting bored?"

"Not at all." He stood up and got some money out of a drawer, wondering if she had already known where he kept his cash, if she had gone through everything he owned at this point. "Take this and get a litter box. There's a grocery down the street on the corner." He paused, and then grabbed a few more bills. "And get some food for yourself and the cat."

She took the money and put it in the pocket of her jeans...or rather, Parker's jeans that she had put back on. "Jack has really taken to you. He was asleep on your bed when I woke up and peeked in at you." She waved a hand. "Don't worry, I was just looking for Jack. I'm not a weirdo who watches people sleep." She sipped her coffee. "You know, sleep is a very vulnerable state to be in. Nikki told me that once. He said he thought that might be why I never sleep past dawn, that subconsciously I keep myself safe by being awake before anyone else is."

Parker chugged down the last of his coffee. "Then why does that cat sleep all the time?"

Cleo smiled. "He feels safe here, of course. Why are you in such a hurry? You barely tasted that coffee."

"I'll be late." He wouldn't be, but he didn't feel like arguing about his personal habits with her. He liked to keep a fast pace; it kept his mind sharp.

"Okay, off you go then. When will you be back?"

"Don't know. Sometime in the afternoon. I'll tell my boss I have some investigating to do for my next piece and I'll be home earlier than usual." The Dean would probably push him out the door as soon as he got there when he heard Parker didn't have the homeless woman's full story yet, but Parker had to get some writing done for the next issue. It would be a little fluff piece, but that is all he had time for, and he needed a breather.

Surprisingly, the Dean didn't disturb Parker's morning routine until close to noon, when he knocked on Parker's door and came inside his office with a worried look on his face. "That Belle's here, Parker. Says she won't leave till you talk to her."

Parker sighed and leaned back in his chair.

The Dean continued. "Kathy told her you weren't here, but this lady says she'll stay till tomorrow, till forever until you talk to her."

Parker stood up and put his computer to sleep. "I guess I better see her, then."

The Dean lowered his voice. "You still got Cleo at your house?"

"Yeah, I don't have the full story yet."

"What are you doing here, then?" He looked at the ceiling and held out his hands like the sprinkler system had turned on. "You have to get the rest. This story's gonna grab people. It'll be a hit for you."

"It's not like I can get out of the office without this Belle woman seeing me."

The Dean hummed a sour note. "She might not know what you look like."

"I think if she's this persistent, she's probably found that out from the Internet or something."

"That Internet, no privacy for anyone anymore. But good for us, right?"

Parker put his hands on his hips. "I'll spend just a few minutes with her. See what she has to say."

His boss shrugged his thin shoulders. "I'll show her in." He left the door open on his way out and unfortunately Fred took the opportunity to fill out the doorway with a smirk on his face.

"Townes, you got a stalker, looks like." His lips curled up on one side like half his mouth was just dying to add something more derogatory.

"Hey, Fred. Nothing like that. She thinks she knows the homeless woman I wrote about."

Fred leaned on the doorframe. "The one that's got network attention? I don't know how you do it."

Parker knew he was being egged on, but he couldn't help but ask, "What do you mean?"

"You took an experience that was just a little out of the ordinary and made it an overnight success piece. Kudos to you."

Parker acted like he hadn't noticed the sarcasm. He knew it would irritate Fred. "Thanks. Well, you know. I try." He gave Fred an aw-shucks smile. Fred's smug face unsettled for a moment, angry that he had missed his mark, that Parker wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Fred glanced to his right and waved at Parker. "Looks like your vying visitor is here." He left without another look.

The Dean escorted a beautiful young woman into Parker's office. She had a lean build and dark brown, wavy hair that seemed to have that curls-tamed look that many women try to do to naturally curly hair. Parker thought it was a shame that women did this; he thought Missy's natural ringlets were adorable and sexy at the same time. But it was Belle's eyes that really caught his attention. They were Cleo's, no doubt about it. The same brilliant blue jay color and curly eyelashes frame that he had been looking at for three days. He held out his hand to her, trying to hide his recognition. He didn't want to give anything away until he had heard the rest of Cleo's story. After all, he hadn't heard why Cleo had abandoned the child and now lived on the streets. As he lightly shook hands with Belle, he remembered the house key he had found in Cleo's shorts and questioned it once again.

He put the thought aside as he said, "So you're Belle, the one who won't leave."

Behind her, the Dean passed a hand over his mouth to hide a grin. He said, "I'll leave you two alone." This time, he closed the door behind him.

Belle sat in the chair across from Parker's desk, crossing her legs, then uncrossing them. She seemed to not know what to do or say now that she had the chance. Parker felt a little pity for the young woman and opened the conversation just to put her at ease.

"Didn't mean to unsettle you with that comment about not going away. It is pretty unusual to have a situation like this."

"Yes, I imagine it is." Her voice was girlish, high-pitched, a little scratchy. It didn't match the fancy cream-colored pantsuit she was wearing. "Sorry to come off so pushy, but I'm sure you have met my mother."

"How did you pick up the story so fast?"

"I'm a regular reader of your magazine. I love magazine articles. My father says I got that from my mother, that she was always reading magazines. Umm..." She seemed to lose her train of thought.

Parker broke the uncomfortable silence. "If it was your mother I met, why do you think talking to me would help anything?"

She leaned forward, crossing her legs again. "I don't know this city. I'm from Philadelphia, caught the first plane I could get once I read about her. I figure you could maybe show me where you live. She must be somewhere in that area. I could go looking for her."

"Well, if you read the article, you can see she is almost impossible to track down."

"Well, yes." She looked away from him and rubbed her manicured hands together. "But maybe if word got around that her daughter was looking for her, then she might, I don't know, make an appearance."

Parker couldn't imagine this china-delicate woman trolling the streets and asking all the wrong questions and ending up mugged like he had. He shook his head. "Listen, I don't know if this Cleo is your Cleo. Why don't you give me your number and I'll call you if I learn anything more."

Her eyebrows crushed together in frustration and she gave him a pleading look. "But you must know more than what you wrote. You can't write every little thing in a magazine article. Isn't there some detail, some little thing you could tell me so that I could find her?"

He felt guilt tug at him, knowing he could say, "Well, she's at my apartment house-training a stray cat right now. Want to come over and say hello?" Instead, he told her, "I'll give it some thought, see if I can remember anything else." He paused, curiosity making him ask one little question. "What does your father think of all this?"

Belle covered her lips with a fingertip. "I haven't told him anything about it."

"Why not?"

She lowered her hand and said, "It hurt him so much when she left. You know, he's never married again. He says he's still married to her. Never even dated. She was – is the only one for him."

Parker could see that it wasn't just a daughter's desire to reunite with a lost mother driving Belle. She wanted answers for her father, as well.

One more question, Parker thought, then he should drop it in case she got suspicious. "What's his name?"

Unfortunately, her eyes narrowed, catching on that something wasn't being said. "Why? Did she say something about him?"

"Not at all," he lied. "I'm just curious. As you must have been able to tell from my article, I'm very interested in her and where she came from, why she lives on the street."

She relaxed back into the chair, but seemed deflated, her second-long hope balloon popped. "Dad's name is Cecil Huntington. She just left, you see. I don't know why, and neither does he. All we got was a letter in the mail and it didn't make much sense."

"What did it say?"

"She had a mission, it said, and she had to go through with it. Then she said she would know if her mission changed. Dad never explained it to me, what he thought it meant. I was just a kid. I only remember her being happy."

Silence, then Parker told her, "I'll let you know if I hear anything."

She stood up, digging through her purse. "Here's my business card. I'll write down the name of the hotel I'm staying at and my room number and you can call me if you think of anything else. I'll be here for a week, looking around." She scribbled on the back of the card and handed it to him. "Thanks for actually seeing me. You have no idea how much it means to me to know she is alive."

"No problem." He stood and walked her to the door. She smiled up at him and left.

The Dean was in Parker's office within minutes of her leaving, as though he had been spying on the closed door the whole time. "So? What she say?"

Parker closed his door and leaned on his desk. "I think it really is Cleo's kid. She looks a lot like her, and she's from the city Cleo says she's from. And the father has the same first name as the man Cleo said she was married to. Cleo never told me her last name, but now I have one. At least now I can do an Internet search, but I doubt much will come up."

"Interesting, interesting. But now you go home and get the rest. Don't come back till you do."

"I don't have a computer in my house. I need the Internet to try to figure a few things out."

"Give me the name. I'll snoop, call me later when you get a private moment. But you, go." He opened the door and pointed to the hallway.

Parker smiled. "Okay, okay, Boss." He told the Dean Cecil's last name.

When he entered his apartment thirty minutes later, he was hit by the sweet smell of cornbread cooking in his oven. The cat rushed to greet him as though Parker had been gone for weeks.

"Mah. Maaaahhh!" The gray rubbed his cheeks on Parker's shoes. Parker thought it was gross that an animal would want to do such an unsanitary thing and get shoe muck all over its face.

"Smells delicious, Cleo," he called out, tripping his way over the cat to the kitchen. Cleo was sitting at the table reading one of Parker's magazines. She held up a finger, finished a sentence, and looked up at him with a bright smile. He couldn't help but think about Belle and was glad people couldn't read each other's minds.

"One good thing I learned to cook. I'm also baking a quiche. I hope you like sausage."

"Love it. When will it be ready?"

Cleo glanced at the microwave timer. "You made it right on time. It will be ready in a couple of minutes. Boss let you off early, I see."

"Yep." Parker sat across from her and examined the magazine. "That was from my first year at work for them."

"You were a good reporter from the start, I can see. I have been checking out all of your early articles. Your writing voice is different than your in-person voice. But I imagine all those kin with the written word are like that, you think?"

"Maybe. The people I know at the magazine don't talk like they write."

"It has to do with having time to think about what you are going to say, I believe. Wouldn't we all like to have several minutes to work out even the slightest utterances?"

"Cleo, just curious." He didn't want to arouse suspicions again, but Belle was in the front of his mind. "Did you have any other children?"

She smiled and closed the magazine. "You are jumping ahead in my story. You have to wait and hear it all out."

"I'm just really curious."

She brushed her long hair off her shoulders. "It wouldn't hurt to tell you that Angelica was my only child."

Parker guessed that Cleo must have made up the name for some reason. She hadn't made up Cecil's or her own. Or, Parker thought, it was possible that Belle was Barbie's child or some other relative claiming to be Cleo's daughter. He couldn't figure out why Belle would do that, though.

The timer beeped, demanding that they eat. Cleo took the quiche and cornbread out of the oven and told him they needed to cool. "Meanwhile," she said, "Shall we continue?"

Parker folded his hands on the table. "By all means."

Cleo paused, looking at the kitchen pantry door. "It seems fitting that we continue with a drink, if you don't mind. We really should keep the mood."

The idea of another wine-filled day made Parker's head pound a few times, but he knew it would make her more open in her storytelling. "I'll open another bottle."

After they had plates of egg pie and cornbread and two pungent glasses of wine before them, Cleo began speaking once more of her past.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CLEO

Where was I? Oh, yes. Barbie had told me about Mother's mental health history, about the hidden identity of our father. The family secrets. I was angry that she suggested things might not be as straight-forward as they seemed on the surface.

When I got home from the beach, Angelica hugged my knees then ran out of the room and wouldn't speak to me. Cecil told me she was ticked that I had gone away overnight and hadn't taken her with me.

"You have a little sunburn," he said.

"We sat on the beach for a few hours yesterday," I told him.

He asked if I had a good time.

"Yes, we did. It was nice," I said.

He kissed my forehead and said, "Then why do you look like you want to slap someone?"

I told him what Barbie had revealed to me. He listened thoughtfully without interruption. When I was finished, he said, "I always thought it was something like that with your mother, back in Nebraska. How she wouldn't leave the house, the tight look on her face when I came over, how it took some time for her to relax."

I was surprised. "You knew all along?"

He shook his head. "I didn't know anything. It was just a hunch. Listen, Cleo. Don't let it get you so worked up."

I told him, "What makes me angry is that nobody told me until now. So she's mentally unstable. What's the big deal? Why all the secrets?"

He said, "Like Barbie said, big family in the area, wanting to keep it hushed. It's probably as simple as that. Or maybe they thought you knew, had figured it out or had been told. Families with secrets don't exactly talk about them over dinner."

"That's true," I conceded. I didn't tell him about Barbie's last comment, about how she thought there was "something" to Mother's state of mind. I would be revealing the Beacon to him if I talked about that. I didn't want Cecil to know about the Beacon. It was my secret, my own little thing that was all mine and had nothing to do with my ordinary life with my family in Powelton Village.

Cecil took my hand and said, "If you need to know more, write your mother a letter asking her about it. Or better yet, why don't you go for a visit? We can afford it. I'm sure they would all like to see Angelica." I heard a little bitterness in his voice, knowing how we both felt that nobody in our families had even seen our daughter.

I rubbed my crispy cheeks and thought this over. I didn't think a letter would do any good. But maybe I could do something, get some real help for my mother if I went down there. After what happened with her other psychiatrist – my father – I assumed they might be keeping her from getting proper care. Thus the strange letter and no further correspondence since then.

I told Cecil, "I couldn't take her. I could go, but I don't want Angelica exposed to whatever is going on down there."

Just then, Angelica decided she had forgiven me and she ran to me and climbed on my lap, tears in her eyes. She said, "Love you, Mommy. You promise to take me with you next time?"

"I promise, baby," I told her.

I booked a flight for a week from Sunday and called Grandmother to tell her I was coming. She didn't sound surprised, but did ask why I would come "without any reason." I told her it had been too long since I'd seen my family and I was feeling nostalgic.

She said, "Well, you are always welcome." She asked if I was bringing Angelica, and I told her that my daughter was too afraid to fly. I would be coming alone. She told me they would send a car for me at the airport.

The rest of the week while Cecil was at work and Angelica was at school, I read all the time. My thoughts were so wrapped around my mother, trying to remember clues from my childhood, that I didn't even fantasize much. I thought about Nikki only when I was trying to fall asleep, remembering our conversation on the beach and his friendly hand-holding. Now that I was away from those moments when he had done it, it seemed unusual for a man to hold a married woman's hand like that. I reminded myself that, at the time, it wasn't odd. It felt just right, like reassurance through body language that we were becoming great friends and that there was nothing to be afraid of when we were together. Really, though, did I have any inkling what it meant to him? I had no idea. Each time I thought of it, I pushed back my doubts as far into the back of my mind as I could, like I did with being self-conscious about my weight whenever I was plump, and tried to focus on believing what I wanted to, that what it felt like at the time was what had happened.

At the Beacon on Friday night, with 88 Fingers hitting all 88 of those keys, the young, shaved head fellow strumming on his guitar and Reed and Barbie sitting next to me deep in a conversation, I was relaxed and a bit drunk. Nikki had been feeding me red wine again, and as you can see, reporter, it may very well be my great weakness. Nikki could tell it brought down my inhibitions. I wanted to talk to him, but he was busy; it was crowded, even for a Friday. Swan was spinning on the stage in her pink ballet shoes and I had nobody to talk to so I just enjoyed the show. I felt more comfortable than I had on my previous visits. I suppose the beach experience made me feel more like one of the crew.

Nikki took a break at one point when he brought me another glass of wine. He smiled at me and touched my hand, which made my heart flutter a little. He asked, "Have you ever had a tarot reading?"

I glanced at the beaded curtain as it gently swayed almost in time with the music.

"Yeah," he said, "It's what they do in there sometimes. Astra is doing some readings. Since you're comfortable with her, think you'd give it a go?"

I said, "I'm not exactly comfortable with her. I only met her once." But I was smiling and with the drink and the bizarre frenzy of music and Nikki grinning and holding out his hand to me, I nodded and he led me behind the beaded curtain. I was a bit displeased to see D.D. sitting in a corner with her eyes closed and fingers held in little circles on her knees. I recognized the pose as one of meditation, but her eyes flashed open as I was watching at her and they turned to tight spikes when she noticed Nikki holding my hand. Her eyes snapped shut, but the corners of her mouth drooped down.

We sat on some pillows on the floor next to Astra, who was shuffling cards and telling a young man not to worry too much about something in her reading. She said, "It will work out and it won't hurt as much as you think it will, dear."

The young man nodded thoughtfully and thanked her for her time.

"It's what I do," she said with a modest bow of her head, as though this gift of foresight she was exercising could never be understood by the sightless.

"Astra, Astra," Nikki sung her name. "What about Cleo, here? I don't think she's ever had her future read. What do you say?"

Astra smiled at me and gestured to the pillow across from her, shuffling her cards. "I thought I'd be reading your cards someday."

I moved to the pillow she wanted me to sit on and she handed me her deck with a sense of reverence. Nikki explained that the cards carry energy of all who touch them. I didn't know anything about that, but I held the cards with as much delicacy as I could. The deck was much larger than an ordinary deck of cards. Nikki and Astra watched me.

"What am I supposed to do?"

They both laughed, Nikki patting me on the shoulder. Astra said, "You shuffle them, dear. And try to clear your mind. Once you think you are done, give them back to me."

I shuffled awkwardly, like I was handling a deck made of jagged glass. A card dropped out, face down. I reached to pick it up, but Astra dragged it to her knee. "When a card falls out, it could be a significant influence."

I pushed the cards around in my hands a few more times, and then handed the deck to Astra. Whereas this room behind the beaded curtain once held an uncomfortable suspicion that it was full of charlatans, now that I was a focus of it, I was completely curious.

She laid them out in front of her face-up. I saw cups and swords and cards with names like "The Hermit" and "The Emperor."

Astra hummed to herself. I barely heard it over the music in the next room. Among other things, she said, "You have many Major Arcana cards here. This is a time of great significance for you. Let me tell you what I see." She touched the sideways card reading "The Emperor" and said, "You have a man in your life who has great power over you. It is your greatest influence at the moment. And this Hermit card, it shows that in the past you have withdrawn greatly. I feel a presence with you here now, the same one I felt when I read Joanie's cards. Your father, she said. Usually a spirit passed comes to help interpret a reading, you see. But, dear, these cards show of a great change coming your way in the future. It is very interesting that the Magician is showing as who you are at the moment. This means you are getting messages from beyond, like from your father. And yes, dear, his presence is very close to you. I feel there is another..." She closed her eyes a moment, and then opened them. "But a change is coming for you, a whole new way of looking at things, at life. Now," she reached for the card I had dropped, "We see what this is all about." She turned it over and the card showed a man in a noose. It read, "The Hanged Man." Astra's eyebrows shot upward.

"And this as a greatest influence. Another Major Arcana card, how rare is this? But don't you go thinking this card is literal. Many do, dear. This card shows that something under the surface of your very existence is about to come out. You will have to sacrifice something to continue on the path you are now on."

She fell silent and exchanged a glance with Nikki while I looked over the cards. She then scooped them up and started shuffling.

Nikki said, "Well, what did you think?"

I took a deep sip of wine. I thought some of it was interesting and could have relation to my life, but it was also vague. However, seeing that picture of the man in the noose unsettled me. I didn't know why then. I told Astra and Nikki that it was an unusual experience. I thanked her and she smiled that same smile she had given the man before me.

Now I felt much better about the room behind the beaded curtain. There wasn't anything bad or hokey about it. It was just a room, after all. I stood and examined one of Rivers' newer paintings of a road in the country. Nikki stepped up next to me. "Not so scary, was it?"

I answered, "I didn't think it would be scary, just, well. I don't know what I thought."

"Sit with me and finish your drink." We sat on pillows away from Astra, who had started another reading for a middle-aged woman. Nikki asked D.D. if she minded watching the bar for a little while. D.D. stood up and left the room, her expression nonchalant, but I could just feel her jealousy with every perfect step she took, and her red hair in the candlelight looked like she had set it on fire.

We talked of many things, Nikki and me. I don't remember exactly what, but the night passed quickly, heads bowed together and much joking and careless touching. His bleached hair was getting so long that it tickled his eyes and he repeatedly flicked it away with a head toss. He told me about his life and I told him some of mine. I'm sure you don't want to know all the details of his history; some things are best left out. But suffice it to say he was as charming as ever and he kept a smile on my face with his antics. I felt like I was having the college experience I should have had and I didn't want to say goodnight to him, but as the music had died down to only 88 Fingers playing soft jazz, I knew it was time to go. We both stood and Nikki kissed his fingertip, and touched my nose. "Come back next week?"

I smiled and left, loosing my footing from the drink and the thrill of the night on the narrow stairwell to the door.

Barbie was waiting at the bus stop when I arrived and she nodded at me. "You stayed later than before."

I told her I had a wonderful time.

She said, "I heard Astra gave you a reading. She was excited about it."

"Oh, really?" I said. "How so?"

Barbie shrugged her thin shoulders. "She always gets excited by new readings. She's pretty good, don't you think?"

I told her I thought it was vague.

"Keep it in mind for the next few days, see what you think then," she said.

The bus pulled up and we boarded. Halfway home I broke the silence by telling her I was going to visit Mother. She picked at a loose thread on her shirt and said that she figured I would after what she had told me. She said, "Who knows what Grandmother is doing to her. It's good that you are going. I would, but I just don't have the money."

"I could buy you a ticket," I said.

She shook her blond head and made a face like I had offered to buy her a plate of raw liver to eat. "I never want to see that old witch of a grandparent again if I don't have to. Not even at her funeral."

"Barbie, she's not that bad," I told her, but Barbie would not listen.

I flew to Birmingham on Sunday morning and a driver picked me up and took me to my grandparents' mansion. Nobody greeted me when I first went inside, so I set down my suitcase and looked around. I found a note on the kitchen table that told me my grandmother was at a lunch date she couldn't miss and Grandfather was on one of his hunting trips. So much for a long-awaited reunion. I went upstairs, feeling miffed that nobody was here to meet me, hoping I would find my mother in the same room she occupied when I used to live there.

The door was closed. I knocked softly, feeling like I was a prowler in the huge house. I heard movement on the other side, then my mother's voice. "Who's there? Who is it?"

I said, "Mother, it's me." I tried the doorknob, but it wouldn't turn. "Unlock the door."

"Cleo?" she said.

"Yes, I came to see you. Didn't Grandmother tell you?"

She lowered her voice so that I could barely hear her. "Nobody told me. Go away. I can't open the door."

"Why not?" I asked.

"I'm locked in here, like I told you in my letter. Only my mother can come in."

I was stunned to see that she actually was some sort of prisoner in her own room. I said, "Grandmother isn't here. Nobody is, except the servants. Do any of them have the key?"

It seemed she had walked away from the door because I barely heard her say, "Go away." Then all was silent.

I went back to the kitchen and made myself some coffee and waited, flipping through a home decorating magazine that was on the table. What was going on here? I couldn't concentrate on any of the words on the pages. My mother's voice had sounded like her throat had a belt around it, so weak and strained. As I was sifting through my confusion half an hour later, I heard someone come in the front door.

"Cleopatra, I see your suitcase. Where are you?" Grandmother called out from the front hallway.

"In the kitchen," I called back.

She came in carrying a bag from a department store and gave me a stiff hug and a kiss on the cheek. "So good to see you again, after all this time. I picked up a dress for Angelica while I was at the mall." Out of the bag, she pulled the ugliest, frilliest pink dress that even a doll would have reservations about wearing. "She can look like a Southerner for some special occasion. I see you made coffee. Just what I need."

We sat at the table together and sipped coffee as my grandmother filled me in on what all the family in the area was doing. "Now, tell me all of what you have been doing."

She had made no mention of my mother at all, and I wasn't going to let that pass, as all the while she talked I was burning with anger about my mother's imprisonment. "I went to mother's room. She said you locked her in there."

Grandmother's face pinched and her eyes flicked to the tabletop. A touch of pink flared up under her blush. Her eyes met mine again. "Cleo, you know I wouldn't do that. She actually told you I had locked her in her room?"

"I tried the doorknob," I said. "She told me only you could go inside, that she couldn't open it."

Grandmother sighed and looked out the kitchen window at the cloudy day, losing the fake charm she had when she came into the room like dropping a Mardi Gras mask when it came time to go to bed. She rubbed her coffee mug with long, delicate nails. "She can open it. She has the only key."

I clenched my mug and gritted my teeth. "What?"

"Oh, please. Don't make me repeat myself, you heard me just fine," she said.

I told her, "It's an expression of surprise."

Her face sharpened more still, holding pink a prisoner in her cheeks, like she was thinking about taking a belt to my rear like she would have done to her own kids when they were growing up. "Do you think I am proud of this? I can't do anything for her. She won't come out, no matter what. She's as good as a horse with four lame legs."

I stood up with so much force that my chair fell over behind me. "She's my mother! How can you say that?"

Grandmother stood too, but slowly, and I heard her knee joints crack. She braced her hands on the edge of the table and quietly said, "There will be no outbursts. I expect that kind of attitude from your sister, but not from you. Now, pick up that chair and sit down."

I didn't know what else to do but comply. Once I was seated and my breathing had slowed, she also sat down and sipped her coffee, staring at me all the while. "What do you know about your mother?"

Trying to steady my voice, both out of an old fear of her and knowing that I needed information and therefore had to play her game, I told her what Barbie had told me, leaving out the "special" part.

"Well, that's about the gist of it," Grandmother said. "She refuses care. I have tried to bring doctors to her, since she won't leave her room, but she won't talk to them." Her tone softened. "It's like having a ghost in the house, I tell you. We try to keep it quiet, but word has gotten around after all these years. It's humiliating. And it's not just that. You must know I want to help her, but I can't unless she helps herself."

I asked her if she thought I could do something to convince Mother otherwise.

Grandmother looked out the window again. "Nobody can help her."

I told her, "I can try."

She kept staring out at the beautifully landscaped backyard. "She wouldn't even let you in her room."

I said, "She lets you in. Why don't you ask her to open the door? I'll just keep quiet behind you."

She slowly pushed her coffee mug away and stood up, looking down at me. "She's nothing like how she used to be. Hide your surprise. It will upset her."

We went up the stairs and to Mother's room. My grandmother knocked on the door. "Sandra, let me in. I need to talk to you."

I heard mother's choked voice say, "I don't want her to see me like this. Tell her to go back home."

Grandmother's voice fixed stern, commanding a child to clean her room or do the dinner dishes. "Open this door, Sandra and see the daughter who has flown all the way here just to talk to you. It isn't proper to act like this."

Silence, then, "Just for five minutes. Is she with you now? Oh, God, has she heard all of this?"

Grandmother said, "Of course not. I know how you act. It would make her feel terrible to hear you say such things. I'll go get her and you unlock the door." She put a finger to her lips to let me know to keep quiet. As we waited, I heard the door unlock with a brassy click. I reached for the doorknob, but Grandmother stopped my hand, squeezing my wrist so hard that my fingertips throbbed. After another moment passed, she let go of my hand and knocked on the door. "Sandra, I have Cleo with me. Might we enter?"

"Yes," she called out from what sounded like the other side of the room.

I opened the door to a dimly lit room. Red, red was everywhere. Red walls, red fabric-covered furniture, red carpet. The lampshades were red too, and cast a red haze over the whole room. The red drapes were closed to the cloudy day outside. There was a strange, herbal scent filling the place, like I was in a church.

Mother sat in her four-poster bed with the red down comforter tucked around her hips. Her long blond hair hung limply around her head in different, uneven angles, like she had cut it herself with a pair of pinking shears. I walked in, watching her stony face, and was transfixed by what I saw. She made Barbie's lost soul appearance look like that of a trendy teenager. She was so thin that she made not a dent in the mattress she rested in, and her red shirt hung off her shoulders like she was a kid wearing hand-me-downs. Her face had been eaten quickly by time, lines in all the wrong places as though her skin hadn't seen the things the rest of us see as we get old.

She clenched the blanket tightly, eyes darting over me, examining me as closely as I was watching her. I heard the door shut behind me. My grandmother had not followed me inside.

I walked slowly, feeling like if I made a sudden movement, she might hide under her covers. I sat on the bed and took her right hand, noticing that she still wore her wedding rings on her left. Her hand was clammy and cold, bony and fragile, and I had the feeling she was turning into a living skeleton.

I said a simple, "Hi."

"Cleo," she said, "You look...Beautiful. You've lost weight."

I told her that chasing a kid around would do that.

My attempt at humor escaped her. She only kept staring, looking for something that can't be expressed in words.

"Mother, I came because of your letter. Barbie told me about our father, well, about everything," I told her.

Her claw of a hand slipped out of mine and she resumed twisting the comforter. "Your father is a good man. Never let anyone tell you differently."

"I know that," I said. "I came to get you some help."

She smiled oddly, like I had said I liked her new hairdo, which I didn't. "I see now."

I didn't know what she meant. "What do you see?"

"You are like us, like Barbie and me. Like us."

I was even more confused. "I don't know what you mean."

She said in that tight voice, "You are in touch with the others. The ones very few know about or see or hear. I can see it so clearly." She beamed pride as though I had told her I'd won the Nobel Prize.

I said, "You should see a doctor. This isn't right, you hiding in this red room and never seeing anyone."

She kept smiling. "Red is my favorite color. I'm happy here, the way things are. I have plenty of company from the others. Don't worry about that. They are much nicer and more interesting than the living see-ables."

I said, "The what?"

She giggled and waved her hand at me as if I'd made a joke. She told me, "I can be with your father all the time. He's here now. I know you can see him. Right over there." She pointed a spindly finger at an empty red chair, but her face fell into the strange patterns of lines again. "He's not there now. You chased him away."

I was desperate to get her help at this point and said the first thing that came into my head. "You should come live with us, with me and Cecil and Angelica. You could be happy there. I could get you the kind of help you need." Grandmother obviously had let things get too far, what with her horrible humiliation.

Her eyes bulged and her mouth hung open. "With you? With you!" Rage filled her face as quickly as a faucet unleashed of its water. "You left me! How can you think I would ever come with you?"

"Mother, wait –" I said, but she cut me off.

"You both left me with her and him! You don't give a – a – anything about me!"

"What are you talking about?" I tried to get in, but she started screaming.

"Her, of all people, how could you have done this to me? First your father, then Barbie, then you, of all people! I knew I could trust one person never to leave me, and you did it. You did right after that wedding to that Cecil. You're nothing to me anymore!"

I raised my voice to be heard. "I haven't left you at all. I'm right here, look." I tried to take her hand again, but she jumped out of bed and pointed at the door. I hadn't been able to tell with the blanket over her legs, but she wasn't wearing any pants, just red underwear.

"Get out, get out, getoutgetoutgetout!" She screamed for my grandmother, who opened the door and took my shoulders and dragged my numb and shocked body from the room as I protested weakly over my mother's screams that she had it all wrong, that I was there to help.

I was shaking from head to toe and we could hear her screaming, "Get out, all of you!" over and over all the way to the kitchen, where the sound was blocked by the angles of the huge house. Grandmother seemed tired, and had an I-told-you look about her. She sat back in her seat at the table and said, "So, now what do you want to do, Cleo?" She gazed at me with indifference, and I knew I was not welcome there anymore. I had a return fight on Friday, but it was clear to me that I couldn't stay more than another minute.

I told her, "This isn't over," and I walked to the front hall, grabbed my suitcase, and went outside. The driver was waiting for me, either knowing all along this would happen or had been given instructions by someone else who did.

At the airport I forked out the extra money needed to catch the next fight to Philly and called Cecil to tell him to pick me up.

Angelica was in the car with us on the ride back from the airport, so I couldn't talk about what had happened. Surprisingly, she wasn't angry with me. It was late at night and we were all tired. I slung my suitcase on the floor of my bedroom and put Angelica to bed, telling her in as kind of a way as I could muster about the rolling green hills of Birmingham and imitating the Southern accents. She said she thought the accents sounded funny.

In bed, I told Cecil all of what happened.

He responded, "What is she talking about, these others?"

"How do I know? She's crazy, and she needs to be in a hospital or something," I said.

He said, "You really offered to have her live here?"

"Oh," I said, "I guess I should have asked you first."

"No, it's not that. I would welcome her here, you know that," he replied. "It just surprises me."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you seemed to want nothing to do with your family all this time," he said. "I've been surprised at how much you see Barbie, to be honest. You two were so different as children."

I nodded and he put his arms around me, stroking my back. Of course, he didn't know that it wasn't Barbie I was spending all my time with. It was the Beacon and Nikki that kept me out late and coming home drunk. I closed my eyes and surprisingly fell asleep.

The next day I drank coffee on the porch and watched the sun rise, thinking about everything that had happened the day before. I ran it over and over in my mind, trying to figure some way I could have made it go better. Maybe I should have played along and said I saw the "others" too. Or I should have resisted Grandmother from pulling me out of the room and stood my ground until my mother had stopped screaming, then really got to the root of what was going on. How could my mother accuse me of leaving her? All children grew up. Could she really resent me for that? It never came across in her letters. What could I have done differently to have helped her?

When it was time to wake Angelica up, I went to her room, but she wasn't there. I found her in my bedroom and she had opened up my suitcase and was running her hands over and over the pink, frilly dress Grandmother had bought her. The old woman must have stuck it in there when I was in Mother's room, knowing I would be leaving after the visit.

"Mommy, it's so pretty. Is it yours?"

"No, baby," I told her. "Your great grandmother bought that for you."

"Me! It's mine?" She grabbed it to her chest. "It is so so so pretty. Can I put it on?"

Cecil got out of the shower as Angelica was dancing around the room in her new dress.

"What's that?" he said, towel around his hips.

"Grandmother bought it for Angelica," I told him.

Angelica sang out, "I'm a princess! Look at me, Daddy."

He gave me a look over my head that commiserated with me how atrociously an eyesore the thing was, then said, "Well, aren't you the belle of the ball?"

"I'm the belle of the ball! Can I wear it to school, Daddy, please?"

I answered for him. "You have a uniform, Angelica, you know that. You can wear it when you get home. Okay?"

She wore that dress out, I tell you. She wore it every day. We wouldn't let her wear it in public, but putting that thing on was the first thing she did anytime she came home. She would say, "I'm the belle of the ball!" and we couldn't call her Angelica when she was wearing it, only Belle. Eventually, it was all she answered to.

You are opening another bottle, reporter? There's still a glass in the old one. No, not complaining. Not at all. I'll just refill with the last of the bit that is left.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The next weekend I went to the Beacon with Barbie on my mind, rather than Nikki. She was seated at her usual table, smoking a cigarette and watching Dream Weaver fiddle along to the music of some new piano player. It made me a little lightheaded, as Dream Weaver always did. A drum set was on the stage, and a young man kept a nice tempo.

I sat next to Barbie and she nodded at me, and I had the feeling she already knew what had happened in Birmingham. Nikki fed me a glass of white wine for a change, with a wink of familiarity that made me warm as though I'd already taken a sip.

I said to Barbie, loud enough so she could hear but not so loud that others would, "Don't you want to know what happened at Grandmother's house?"

She blew out a thin stream of smoke into the already smoke-filled room. "Mother wrote me. I got the letter today."

"What did she say happened?" I asked.

"That she was embarrassed, that's all." Barbie watched the improv stage as Dream Weaver hit impossibly fast strokes of her violin.

I waited for more, and then prodded her. "Did she say exactly what happened?"

"It doesn't matter," was her answer.

I felt irritated at Barbie's blasé response. "Don't you even want to know my side of the story?"

"I can figure out your side from what she said. You told her she needed help and she flipped out. Isn't that about right?" Barbie said.

I grabbed Barbie's thin arm and she tensed. Maybe I squeezed too hard. I said, "She's out of her mind. She says there are these 'others' that she can see and she thinks you and I can, too."

Barbie shrugged out of my grasp and turned her blue gaze on me. "I was thinking all this time you've been spending up here, you would have learned to open your mind more. But I can see you haven't." She propped the elbow of her smoking hand on the table and took a long drag, examining me over her shoulder. "Why do you keep coming back?"

A million lies came dashing to my rescue, pushing each other to scramble for the front of the line. I decided to stay close to the truth, for it felt like she was seeing right into my soul in the way that only one who has seen your first childhood attempts at lies can do.

"At first, it was to find out more about Mother from you," I said. "Then Cecil told me it was doing me good to get out each week and see people, have a good time." Then I said something I didn't even like to admit to myself. "I'm a bit of a hermit."

She kept up that penetrating look. "Why are you a hermit, Cleo?"

I felt uncomfortable and wished she would quit with that interrogating expression. I was the older one. I was supposed to have that sort of control over a sister. I stuttered, not knowing how to answer. Finally, I said, "I guess I just don't like many people. I prefer to be alone or with my family."

"But not lately," she added.

"Yes, lately." I was getting angry.

"But you come here once a week now. You went to the beach. You're not so much a hermit as you think," she said.

"Being out of the house once a week for a few hours is hardly a blooming social life," I told her.

She stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray and said, "No, it isn't. But maybe you are like Mom. She never goes anywhere, either. You think of that?"

I opened my mouth to fight her observation, but closed it. Instead, I said, "I have a family who I talk to and interact with every day. She has Grandmother who talks to her like she is a raving lunatic ten-year-old. I guess I can see some parallels between Mother and me, but it isn't the same thing. We don't have the same reasons for our solitude." I changed course away from me and back to Mother. "What are these 'others?' Has she told you? Are they spirits, or something like that? She said she sees our father."

Barbie said, "She sees spirits, that's right. So what?"

I said, "You believe her?"

"Of course I do." She shook her head and said, "Really, I thought you would have figured all this out by now."

"Figured what out?" I was staying all worked up. It seemed like all our conversations took me to the verge of screaming at her.

Barbie watched Reed replace Dream Weaver on the improv stage and he revved up his harmonica with a flourish of odd-sounding notes, a pied-piper ready to lead all the children to the stage. I hid my dislike of Reed's style.

She said, "I'm not a clerical worker. I'm a spiritual guide. I can tell from your expression you think I'm as nuts as you think Mom is. But you have to understand. What you have or don't have isn't the issue. It's what you do with it that is. Mom lives in that world instead of ours. I decided to be a go-between, to help people that I can."

"For a fee, I assume," I said.

"Don't be sarcastic," she said. I tried to hold my tongue from more derogatory comments after that because I wanted to hear all she had to say. She had paused to see if I would argue, but I put on my best listening carefully face and she continued. "You wanted the truth and I'm giving it to you. Our family comes from a long line of seers. Aunt Savannah traced the history back a few generations, looking for people like us and people who might have been institutionalized. They come from our grandfather's side. You see, if you don't know how to control the ability, then it can drive you crazy. And people who don't see, don't know it's real. And it is real, can't you tell by being here?" She gestured around the room.

Reed's playing was fits of high notes and squealing screeches. It sounded like how I felt inside, that my family did have a history of something special, but this psychic business wasn't it. However, I kept composed because I had Barbie talking and didn't want that to stop. "Go on," I told her.

"Go on about what?"

"What exactly are your spiritual services?" I asked.

She examined me, looking for the doubts I was hiding behind my curious mask. "I can tell you still think I might be crazy like Mom, but I'm not. Basically, when someone comes to me, I help them get in touch with their loved ones who have passed on to the other side. I charge a very small fee, just enough to get by on. I could charge much more, but I don't believe in that. I would rather just do it for free." She leaned toward me, seemingly convinced that I was buying into what she was saying. "And sometimes I do, if the person who comes to me doesn't have money and the spirit of the person they are looking for is with them. I can tell. Then I do it for free." She leaned back and lit another cigarette. I noticed the smoke shaking in her hand. I realized then she had been nervous about telling me all of this.

It was even more difficult to keep my thoughts organized with Reed's unsynchronized music. Whatever the situation was, Barbie believed what she was telling me, as much as Mother had been telling me the truth about what she saw.

I had never given much consideration to these things at all. I rarely thought about death because it made me think of Patrick's death and that of my father. Was it my place to tell Barbie that she was all wrong, that such things weren't possible? I watched Reed sway back and forth as the piano music altered to a blues pattern. Reed changed his tune right along with it, making the room feel like it had just dropped off a cliff and landed in a delightfully cool pool of water below under the stars. I conceded that what Barbie and my mother believed could be real, yet I knew I didn't think it was.

The people who frequented the Beacon were obvious believers of this sort of thing. I listened to Reed and the piano player make something beautiful out of nothing. No sheet music, no plans. They just meshed and got some vibes from each other and made a cohesive piece of music. Though I had rarely heard Reed play anything quite as melodic as this, he obviously knew his way around his silver box.

How did these people improv like they did? I could see now when people were thinking it through and when their actions came to them spontaneously. Could improv-ing actually come from some sort of gift or sight or special ability? Or could it just be that they knew their arts so well that their minds could work out the actions without any forethought?

People called out "Reed!" and "Magic Man!" to the two players on the stage. The musicians didn't seem to hear the small crowd and continued on in their trance, making a swaggering sound that neither slowed nor sped up, and never a sour note played. D.D. hopped onto the stage and tucked arms behind her knees, eyes closed and hair falling to the stage floor like red satin. I glanced to the bar to see if Nikki was watching, but he wasn't there. The man with no name was staring right at me, and nodded. I quickly turned away.

People called out, "D.D.!"

She balanced her body on her hands and spread her legs out in both directions above her and held the pose for an impossible length of time without the slightest tremor. I didn't want to watch her, but I couldn't stop. The blues continued to build and build, like another cliff was going to fall out from under us all. The shaved head young man who played the acoustic jumped up and plugged his guitar into the amplifier that sat near the piano. Instead of the soft, string-strum he usually played, out came long, loud electric notes that hit every surface of the place and bounced around, echoing. The music went faster and louder, the young man picking notes with an inner force in his fingertips, and then the band exploded into music and rhythm. D.D. fell back on one leg and flipped over, back onto her hands. The energy level of the room was on fire.

Everyone in the Beacon stood up at once, screaming and clapping, and one person called out, "Dynamite!" Others caught on to this, and they began chanting, "Dynamite! Dynamite!" The young man with the new name didn't seem to hear them. People danced together and chairs and tables were pushed to the edges of the room so that a makeshift dance floor was in place. I went with the furniture to the edges of the now packed and thrashing, swinging dance floor and watched. A new improver had been born.

Even I was tapping my foot when Nikki touched me on the shoulder and handed me a glass of white wine. "What do you think?" he shouted over the music. The harmonica and the guitar were trading electric licks that sounded like a lovers' heated argument that would resolve itself in bed.

I told him I thought it was fascinating.

"When are you going to try it?" he asked.

"Improv-ing?"

"Yes." He grinned down at me. The roots of his hair had grown out so much that half his hair was bleached and the other half black. He flicked a strand from his eyes as he waited for my response.

"I don't do anything to improv with," I told him.

"Everyone has something." He smiled and told me to enjoy the show. I thought he would walk away, but he stayed with me, watching with an expression of supreme satisfaction; this might be what he lived for.

Even Barbie was dancing, up in the front with her eyes closed and hands in the air. She had a delicate, slow-step to her moves. I guessed that was getting down for Barbie. I probably wouldn't see that again, I remember thinking.

I came home late and drunk again, and the next morning Cecil had a word with me about it. He told me he still thought it was great that I was getting out of the house, but could I just not drink so much?

I asked how he could know I drank heavily the night before, and he told me I smelled like I was still drinking the next morning. I made a mental note to brush my teeth and shower first thing and eat mints all morning. I didn't tell him about Barbie's choice of employment. I think it was because it might leak information to him somehow about where we went, what we did. Also, I didn't know what to make of it. I didn't want to criticize her anymore. However, my mind told me it was a cruel thing to do, to pretend to read fortunes and get messages from beyond the grave. Either that, or she was delusional. But my heart told me there might be something to it, especially after watching Dynamite improv for the first time, feeling the reaction of the crowd. This debate between head and feelings raged on all week, pushing my daydreams aside. On Thursday, I figured there was only one way to decide my opinion on the matter. I would have to try the improv stage.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

PARKER

Someone knocked three times on Parker's door. He said, "Go on."

Cleo cocked her head to the side. "Aren't you going to answer it?"

They heard, "Mahhhh," from the doorway. Jack was interested in the strange sound of fist on wood.

Parker shook his head and said, "They'll go away," as the knock came again.

Cleo sipped from her wine glass. "Afraid the neighbors will know you are indulging," she tapped the glass, "In the middle of the day?"

"I don't know any of my neighbors. Continue with your story."

"Mahhhh-brrrrahhh!"

Whoever it was rapped a third time. Cleo sipped again and looked away from him with tight lips. She wasn't going to talk until the knocking stopped.

"Okay, one sec." He left the kitchen and went to the front hall. He nudged the cat aside and opened the door to see Loretta Jones in a navy blue business suit and smiling like she knew everything that was going on inside Parker's apartment.

"You have a loud cat, Mr. Townes."

Parker shoved at the cat again with his foot to keep it from running out, and entered the hallway of his apartment building, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here? How do you know where I live?"

"I came by to make you an offer. About that story you wrote."

Parker took a deep breath to keep from yelling at this intruder. "I told you I'm not interested at the moment. What I can't figure out is why you would come all the way to my private home and badger me about it."

Loretta smiled again. "Well, it's not really that private, now is it?" Her news report voice was completely gone.

Parker's eyes narrowed. He heard Jack howl at the door behind him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I happened to be in the neighborhood earlier today and saw a woman leaving your building. I thought it was very interesting that she matched the description of Cleo in your article. I also found it intriguing that she came back with groceries and a litter box. What do you think about that?"

Parker came up with an excuse as quickly as he could. "Probably someone in the building just happens to look like her. It means nothing."

"Mahhh," from the other side of the door.

Loretta licked her lips. "Is that a new cat?"

"Had him for years. His name's Jack."

"You've had a half grown kitten for years? I would like to know where you got such a strange breed." She put her hands on her hips like she was putting her guns in a holster after firing a bull's eye.

Parker rubbed his face. "What do you want?"

"I want to interview you about your story. It's making a buzz in the media. It's not such an unusual story, perhaps, but it's the way you put everything in words. People want to know more. I want to know more." She smiled sweetly at him, reminding him of a prom picture face.

"And if I don't?"

"Well, I hate to reduce myself to threats, but I happened to meet a nice young woman yesterday. She's looking for her mother, who disappeared two decades ago. She happened to mention your name." She tapped her lips. "I think you know the rest of what I am saying."

Parker folded his arms and leaned against his door. Thankfully, the cat had stopped yowling. If Loretta told Belle that Cleo was at his house, there would be all kinds of problems. Mainly, he wouldn't get the rest of his story. On top of that, Belle would be furious with him for not telling her that he knew where Cleo was, and Cleo would be horrified to have her daughter walk through Parker's door. Sure, he didn't know what happened to make Cleo leave her family behind and move to the streets, but he knew instinctively that bringing Belle to her could have a devastating effect.

His anger at the newswoman in front of him almost bemused him. He had used such tactics plenty of times in getting a good story. Maybe he was just a reporter like Cleo said, and not a writer at all. But he wouldn't think of pushing a reunion that wasn't consensual, and he would put all his money on Loretta Jones doing just that for a story. And Parker would never, ever steal someone else's story. How could Loretta have figured out...Then it hit him. Fred had been in the Dean's office when they were on the phone talking about Cleo being at his house. It had crossed his mind briefly when it happened, and the sleazy writer was trying to sabotage his story.

Parker was furious, but kept his cool as he said, "What exactly do you want?"

"I want to interview you tomorrow on the nightly news, exclusively. And I want you to tell me the whole story, or else today Ms. Huntington might get the phone call she's been waiting for almost her whole life." Loretta knew she had him, and every angle of her gym-worked body showed it.

Parker would never give that interview. This was his story. Obviously, Loretta knew something about Cleo that he didn't, such as who, exactly, her family was and what this could mean. The implications were completely obvious to him. He deduced in his head exactly how much longer Cleo had to give him the rest of her life story. It would have to be a late night. He told Loretta in his most humble voice, "What time do I need to be there?"

"Four. And if you don't show, what will your readers think when they find out you could have helped this poor woman reunite with her family? That would be hard on your reputation."

A shiver ran up Parker's spine at this. He valued his audience, but even more than that, he hated threats. "I'll be there."

She held out her hand. He shook it loosely. "You won't regret this, Mr. Townes. It will help both of our careers." Then, thankfully, she left. He watched her go, not able to believe how hardnosed she was.

Parker went back inside to the kitchen, the cat trailing after him. Cleo asked, "What was that about?"

"A neighbor complained about the cat meowing too loudly. Don't worry about it."

Cleo poured herself another glass of wine. "You seem bothered."

"Having neighbors complain about a noisy cat that I didn't even want can do that."

Cleo waved her hand as though it held a magic wand and smiled. "You wanted him. You just don't realize it yet. It's lonely here. You need that cat. Besides, these walls must be paper-thin for someone to complain about our little Jack. Here, a refill for you."

Parker's head was hurting from two days of wine drinking, but he knew that Cleo wouldn't open up enough without a drinking buddy. He thought of the zip-lock bag he had found in her clothes. Was she saving it for later?

He took a sip, trying to hide how small it was. "Mind if I make a quick phone call?"

"Not at all. Jack could use some attention."

"Okay, thanks." He got the phone and went into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He wondered what Cleo would do to give the cat attention. Pet him? Feed him more?

Parker was put through to the Dean's office within a minute of waiting. The Dean greeted him with, "Guess you're calling to hear what I found out. Didn't want to call and interrupt in the middle of, well, whatever it is you're doing over there."

"Thanks, I appreciate that. What do you know about the family?"

"A lot of money here. A lot, I'm saying. The husband is high up in politics in Philly, got a mansion and all. Never remarried. Wife disappearing is the only smear on his impeccable record. Your Cleo's family in Birmingham's loaded, too. Cleo's uncle was in politics, famous around there. Whole family is. Including the daughter who disappeared. Big rewards offered to anyone who found her years ago, but looks like it's pretty much forgotten now. Family in Birmingham wanted to have her declared legally dead, but the husband wouldn't go for it."

"I see," Parker said. "I have a little problem." He told the Dean about Loretta's visit.

"Damn," said the Dean. "You got to get this story finished. This Cleo sounds like she doesn't need that kind of media attention. Get the story, get her out. Then you're clear."

"That's what I was thinking. If Cleo's gone, then Loretta has nothing on me, even if she took pictures."

"Cleo showed up in your car. Likely, you can say she lives in the area and you had nothing to do with it."

Parker paused, and then said, "Do you think that will work?"

"Listen," said the Dean, "You know I was all for the network attention on the magazine, but not if it's extorted like that. I protect my writers from that kind of abuse. You do what you need to, and I'll back you."

"Thanks."

"It's nothing. But get your story."

"Working on it."

Parker went back to the kitchen. Cleo had a shoestring and was bobbing it in the air in front of the cat, who batted at it with his paws, whiskers wildly poking out and eyes dilated like he was drugged.

Parker sat down across from Cleo. "Just had a few things to take care of. Work-related stuff."

"I hope you don't mind that I took this lace from your shoe. You can buy another one. Cats love shoelaces and he probably would have torn yours up eventually, anyway." She dropped it on the tile and the cat pounced on it, rolled on his back, and chewed on it as though it might get away. "You need to put your shoes away from now on. He'll chew all your laces if you don't." She stood up. "I think I'll heat up a little more quiche. Do you want some?"

His stomach was turning from all the wine. "Certainly."

Once the food was on the table, Parker said, "On we go?"

"There's not too much left, reporter."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CLEO

The idea of my improv-ing seemed easier after a glass of bourbon on the following Thursday. I was worried that Cecil would bother me about having an afternoon drink again, but he kissed me deeply when he came home and told Angelica, who was now Belle, to play in her room for a while. After we made love, he tapped my lips and told me I should cut down on the drinking in the afternoon. But, he told me, he did like how it made me more, well, excitable. All was well, and Friday came.

I had two glasses of wine before I caught the bus to the Beacon. As Cecil had done the last two times I went to the Beacon, he asked if I wanted a ride. I told him that Barbie and I had fun riding the bus together, that we got to talk more that way. I told him that if he drove both of us, it wouldn't be the same with him listening in. He asked, "What secrets do you two have that I can't know? Well, I guess I'll have to refer to my own advice about it. All women should have secrets."

Once at the Beacon, with 88 Fingers tinkling a new-age sound and Swan delicately dancing on stage, I found Barbie at her table and sat with her. She said, "You look different."

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," I told her.

"What about?" she asked, seeming casual, but I could tell she was curious. She must have been wondering what my brain had processed about all she had told me.

"What you said, all the things I've seen lately. Real brainstorming, if you must know," I told her.

She propped her elbow up on the table and took a slow drag from her cigarette. "What did you come up with?"

I impulsively grabbed her cigarette and took a puff. I didn't cough like they always do in movies when people who don't smoke take a drag. It tasted horrible, though, but I blew it out like I always had done so. I handed it back to her.

She said, "Have you already had some drinks?"

"A couple," I told her. "I need some courage."

"Why?" she asked.

"I want to try to improv tonight. On the stage," I explained. "I think I'll certainly need courage for that."

She arched an eyebrow and half-smiled, and I couldn't tell if she was surprised. "Most people end up wanting to try. What made you want to?"

I couldn't explain how I was curious about all she had told me, or about how affected I was by Dynamite's breakthrough with improv-ing, or about how I wanted some kind of personal experience to form an opinion about spirits and whether or not they could be perceived, much less be real. Instead, I said, "I don't know how I am going to improv, though. I have no artistic inclinations."

Barbie looked at the stage. "That wasn't an answer to my question, but maybe you could ask Nikki. He has good ideas about what works for different people."

As though summoned by mention of his name, Nikki appeared with a glass of bourbon and put it in front of me. He squeezed my shoulder with familiarity and Barbie told him I was thinking about improv-ing. I took a quick, deep sip of the drink, trying to hide my embarrassment at Barbie's blatant statement.

He grabbed a seat next to me and took my hand. "Are you serious? That would be awesome. What are you going to do?"

I hoped the flush from the bourbon would hide my anxious blush. "I don't know, but Barbie suggested I ask you what I should try."

"Oh," he said, and held up his index finger, indicating that I had to wait. He hopped up and went behind the bar, grabbed something, and came back. He plopped down a spiral-bound, blue notebook in front of me. He flipped the chair around and straddled it, pointing to the notebook. "You can write."

"But I've never written anything before, not like what you mean," I told him.

"You wrote in college," he told me.

"Those were essays, not stories." I shook my head. "I just don't know."

Barbie said, "Cleo could use some special liquid inspiration, don't you think, Nikki?"

Nikki snapped his fingers on both hands. "I have just the thing. You're almost done drinking that bourbon anyway." He shook his head and grinned at me as he stood up, like I was about to jump a motorcycle over ten buses. His excitement was electrifying. As he went back to the bar, I wondered why my improv-ing wound him up so much, but then I remembered how he looked gratified, like life had meaning after all, when Dynamite got his name.

He climbed back onto his chair, putting a bottle and another bourbon in front of me. "This is an over twenty-year aged Evan Williams bourbon, and I just opened the bottle for you. Go ahead, take a sip."

The bourbon tasted like expensive perfume smells on a beautiful woman. It went down smooth and I felt good when I licked my lips.

"What do you think?" Nikki asked.

I told him, "You should have a glass and tell me what you think, yourself."

He grinned. "Thanks for the offer, I think I will." He turned to Barbie. "Joanie? Want a glass for a special occasion?"

She answered, "She hasn't done it yet. And besides, she needs a pen."

"Two glasses and one pen, coming back this way in a sec," Nikki said, and hopped off his chair once again, leaving the bottle.

Barbie rolled her eyes, but smiled. "I guess I can have one glass."

"Why don't you drink?" I asked her.

She said, "Sometimes it makes the spirits too loud for me."

It took me a minute to understand what she meant, but I grasped it. I supposed then that I should get used to her talking about the "spirits" now that I knew her secrets, or at least secrets she had kept from me. Maybe she openly talked about them to the other people she knew like she had just done to me.

Nikki returned and got back on the chair, arms folded over the chair back, and poured two glasses. Barbie took a dainty sip and thanked Nikki.

"Yes, Nikki, thank you," I told him. After all this time, had I yet thanked him?

He said, "I love special occasions," and held up his glass. We clinked in celebration and all sipped.

I glanced back at the bar and saw Dream Weaver pouring some glasses of wine. I asked Nikki if Dream Weaver was bartending tonight.

He said, "I asked her to, told her we have a new prospective improv-er and I needed to help her get the guts to go through with it." He flicked his hair out of his eyes and explained that there were some people who were instantly interested, and others who were hesitant. "Some people come in here thinking it will come easy, some people saying they are afraid, but think they might have a skill at it. You are in the second group, there."

"But I don't have any idea if I'll have a skill at it," I told him.

"Then why do you want to try it?" he asked.

Yet again, I was road-blocked as to explaining why I needed to do this thing. Instead, I took another sip of the glorious bourbon, aged over twenty years. "I can't say," I told him, finding it harder to lie outright to his dark eyes than it was to Barbie.

He didn't push the subject. He just put the pen on the notebook. "When do you want to try?"

"Maybe when there are more people up there and I've had this drink. I don't know," I told him. Then I surprised myself by asking, "Do you ever improv anymore? I've never seen you do it, but hear that you did spoken word."

He drank deeply, like he was trying to put off answering, and said, "Not much anymore. No inspiration. Someday I'll do it for you, though."

"Why no inspiration?" I asked.

His face changed to the expression he wore when talking about his dead wife. "It's harder now. I'm not in the right place." I felt a tingling at the intensity of his gaze, like he was scrutinizing what kind of person I really was, and he liked what he saw. That same way of making people feel special, there it was. "I think you are, right now. I gotta tell you, this is going to be a good experience for you."

How easily he deflected talking about himself back to me. 88 Fingers took a break and the long-haired man took the piano bench. A woman I had never seen before got on stage and took the microphone. She explained to us that she was "Danny's friend," and I assumed the long-haired man's name was Danny. She started singing about a lost love to complement his jazzy style, but I could tell neither of them was improv-ing. Her voice was beautiful, though, and I listened to her while Barbie and Nikki talked about an artist in Philadelphia who had recently had an exhibit.

As I drank the bourbon, I felt like I was among family, all three of us made me feel like we were a blood-related team, something I hadn't felt since my father died. I felt my body warm and before I knew it Nikki was pouring two more glasses for Barbie and me, and he topped his own off.

As the night wore on, Swan danced for an endless time and D.D. showed up, got on the stage, and made poses around Swan, as though they were two figures on a German cuckoo clock. The sight was magnificent, like they had been built of the same platform materials and wound by a master clock maker. D.D. would stand in a fighter's position while Swan swung around her in twirls and dancing arms at her waist. They seemed like they were a part of the music, a physical part of which the ears could not hear, but didn't need to imagine anymore. They twisted and turned in an erotic display of sanctity, if there is such a thing, and Danny's friend couldn't keep up the words of her song to match the singularity which had been born from Swan and D.D.

I was jealous of D.D., but in a languid way, as she posed no threat to me since Nikki was beside me chatting up my sister. They invited me into their conversation, but I demurred every time by glancing down at the blue notebook and fingering the pen. I was in what kids now call a zone.

I was going to go up there. I just needed one more drink, perhaps. A divine inspiration at best. Nikki kept the bourbon flowing and the music got louder. 88 Fingers had taken up the keys again and Dream Weaver had stopped pouring drinks and was tuning up her violin. It is all so hazy, remembering that night. The drink was strong, and I started feeling confident, like I had just gotten to the top diving platform of an Olympic-sized pool and I was going to jump. I was climbing onto the improv stage, literally stumbling, but it felt natural. Anyone coming onto the improv stage must stumble, I thought.

I heard classical music in my head, Debussey, Clair de Lune even though the music was something else. The singer had vanished with the long-haired man. All became silent to me, and I sat on the stage facing 88 Fingers' back. All music and sound seemed gone to me except the sound of that piano, that Debussey piece. I was in a movie, I was in someone else's daydream. I was cross-legged on the improv stage with a notebook and pen in hand and couldn't hear anything but that song. Where had I heard it before?

I remembered those late nights when my grandfather played it. Was that where the music came from? It got so loud in my head that sitting was uncomfortable, but I sat just the same and opened the notebook and wrote. First I doodled, then I don't remember what happened. I was in an ocean, a being allowed to live there by the laws of the sea dwellers, for just a moment or so. The floor stopped being hard, but liquid instead, and I heard the keys of the song delve me deeper and deeper, and now I was a fish. I could breathe under water and see everything that was there. Swimming fish and corals and starfish and sharks and whales. We were all swimming together, in a dance of sorts, all connected to that song. The sun shown in on us, then the night and its moon gave us scant life. I was spinning, seeing it all. All of us, together in the water. Playing out a song and all the meaning that people might put it to. Music and experience flowing from every finger. I could hear nothing else and didn't know any time. I was gone, and wasn't even writing. Where was I? Just gone, in some long-dead musician's head. Why the musician that my grandfather so adored?

I didn't think about that. I just heard it and sipped my aged bourbon. All the people on stage and off floated around me and I was very safe. I was so safe, and I felt welcome like never before, eyes on me, but they were all fish eyes. They couldn't blink, just look and offer a bulging cheek.

I was swimming, and there was nothing but the blue water and the way it looked underneath. I actually was in a haven for lost souls, and I was one. I was comforted by it. Lost souls aren't really lost, they just haven't found home yet. I might have been finding it then, a home for my soul, which might be lost at that point, and then the piano in my mind shifted and draped itself on me over and over again. I could see the room around me. It was full of watchers, the nameless man and Nikki and Barbie. Swan was still forming herself around D.D. on the stage, and 88 Fingers made some kind of music. There was Dynamite about to plug in his guitar.

I was in Clair de Lune. It was taking me away deeper in the sea and I was following it with my pen in hand. There it was, the pen. I was part of this moment, not just a bystander. It felt like the only time I was in that position. I was swimming, just a swimming fish, a glimmer of light from way up there in my eyes. What happened up there, above the surface? What world was there? Was I happy where I was deep in the sea? I looked to the mollusks and they only sat on the sand. I looked to the fish and they swam with the motion of purposefulness. I was with them, but alone. Alone as usual, but there was something in my hand. A piece of paper in front of me.

The world came back. I was at the Beacon and my name was Cleo. My sister was in the crowd. I had a bourbon in my hand. I fell back against the wall and breathed deeply. I dropped the pen on the stage.

Nikki was at my side and then I was in a seat next to Barbie. Barbie said to me, "I think you have improv-ed."

There was music of the Beacon again. Then I don't remember anymore.

Next thing I knew, I awoke on a soft couch. I rolled over and Barbie was looking at me, sitting on the floor near me. She said, "Feel a bit better now?"

"What?" I said.

"Blue Pen," she replied with a smile. "Do you feel better?"

I felt horrible. I was in a small room with heavy drapes hiding the light before dawn. Barbie said, "I'll close down shop for, well, today."

I sat up, spinning. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, today is special."

My body felt like it was dying slowly from a poison. I said, "What are you talking about?"

"Of course, you don't remember," Barbie said. "Most first time improvers don't. But we rode the bus home. You don't recall any of it?"

I rubbed my face, confused and feeling horrible, like my body was killing me from the inside. "Barbie, no time for nonsense. Cecil will be worried to death. Am I in your house?"

Barbie reached out and touched my arm. I realized it was naked, as well as the rest of my body. "Barbie, what happened to my clothes?" I asked her.

"You took them off when you came in, saying something about Bast," she said. "What is Bast?"

I fell down on my arm in the soft couch cushions. I ached. "Call Cecil, he must be worried." I gave her the number and she went to another room to call.

She came back and sat on the couch. She stroked my curly hair, and I thought of how she had teased me about it when we were children. "You don't remember anything about being called the Blue Pen?"

I didn't, and closed my eyes, enjoying the feeling of Barbie's pointy fingers on my scalp. When I opened my eyes again, the light behind the drapes had filled out to a full sunrise, and then I fell into a deep sleep.

It was night when I awoke, and again I tried to figure out where I was and what had happened to my clothes. It all eventually came back to me and I found my pants and shirt in a pile on the floor. I dressed and went out into Barbie's living area. She was cooking, stirring a pot on the stove and I could see that the oven was on.

She smiled at me as I came in. "Want some water?"

I sat down on the floor near the kitchen linoleum, rubbing my face. "I must have blacked out last night. I can't remember anything after I got off the stage. I barely remember being on the thing."

She took the pot off the burner and set it aside, got me a glass of water and sat next to me. "I have some chicken baking and just made carrots. You'll feel better after you eat."

I asked her what Cecil said when she called.

She told me, "He sounds just as nice as he used to back in Nebraska. I told him I'd take good care of you, that you drank a little too much. He was okay with it, don't worry."

"My daughter will be wondering where I've been all day," I said.

"Kids adapt to a new situation much easier than we adults do," she said. "I'm sure Cecil kept her company. You being gone for one afternoon won't upset her."

I thought of how Belle wouldn't talk to me when I came back from the shore and cringed internally. I drank the water and complained about my headache, then asked, "What did you say I was called?"

Barbie's eyes lit up. "They called you the Blue Pen. It wasn't until they'd all read what you wrote, though."

I asked, "What did I write? I can't remember."

She told me, "You wrote such sad and beautiful prose about a woman dead in the ocean. Dream Weaver said her niece drowned and was sure you wrote about her."

I shook my head. What nonsense, was my first thought.

Barbie said, "I can tell by your reaction that you think it was just drunk rambling, but it wasn't. I could tell when you were up there that you were improv-ing. Tell me, what did it feel like?"

I tried to remember exactly what it had been for me up there on the small stage. I told her, "I heard Clair de Lune, like Grandfather used to play. It was a good feeling, I do know that." I kept the part about the sea and the fish to myself.

Barbie patted my shoulder, saying, "I wish I had an art and could try improv-ing, but I figure the feeling I get when I channel spirits is pretty much the same thing. Seriously, Cleo, you wrote such sad words. That's why you got the name. There wasn't a dry eye in the reading room."

I asked, "The reading room?"

"Yeah, you know. Behind the beaded curtain. Nikki hung your writing on the wall in there for everyone to read."

I felt immediately embarrassed. All those people looked at my wasted scribbles. Oh my. "They really thought it meant something?"

"Don't be self-conscious. You really shouldn't be at all. It was good writing, very powerful. It was true," she added, as though that explained the one answer to all of my black-out questions. A timer went off and Barbie prepared two plates of chicken and carrots, bringing them to me and putting them both on the floor.

We ate sitting there, and for once I didn't feel the discomfort I usually felt in adult Barbie's presence. I was still hung-over, and attributed it to that, but some other part of me realized that it was probably her. She had changed towards me. I was now in the club, part of the secret, a coconspirator in the game of getting through life in an alternative way.

After I was halfway finished with my food, my stomach cramped like I was about to give birth for a second time. "Oh, I don't think I can eat anymore," I said.

Barbie told me, "Just take little bites on and off for about twenty minutes. You really need to get your strength back. That was strong bourbon Nikki gave us."

"Aged over twenty years," I muttered.

She smiled. "He really likes you. Not in a weird way, don't worry. I've never even seen him get together with a woman. He thinks of you as a kind of soul mate."

I rubbed my cheeks and asked, "Now, how would you know that?"

"Well, for one, I can just sense that type of thing. But he also told me that, you know?" she said.

"No," I told her, "I don't know."

"You feel the same way," she said, pointing her fork at me. "Soul mates aren't necessarily lovers. Like, for example, we're soul mates with our mother."

I asked, "Then why do people always say soul mate when referring to a lover?"

"It's just over-used," she explained. "When it's between two people romantically it's actually called twin flames."

"Oh," I said, thinking about saying something sarcastic, like, "Where did that jewel of wisdom come from?" But looking at Barbie so comfortable with me, after she obviously took care of me all night, the urge to push a confrontation left me. I said, "I puked last night, didn't I?"

"Again, don't worry," she said. "It wasn't till we were here, and I helped you. I felt a little sick, too. Strong stuff, but it was worth it. I could see so much more about what you go through on a daily basis last night when you were improv-ing."

I guessed those special senses were what she meant. They were enhanced, she thought, when she drank.

"I should be getting home," I told her after a nibble of carrot and suppressing another vomit.

"I told Cecil you'd call him to pick you up."

Cecil was not happy when he came to get me. Neither was Belle. He said he had been worried all night, not having been able to fall asleep. When I hadn't come home by two in the morning, he just paced all the rest of the dark hours deep in disturbing imagery of all the awful things that could have happened to me. I apologized, and he said it was okay as he rubbed my knee in the car, that he was glad that I was safe. Belle, in the backseat, wouldn't even say a word. Cecil said that if I got that drunk again I should call him and at least let him know I was alright. I agreed humbly.

Humble as I felt that night, the rest of the week I played the part while thinking, thinking, thinking. I couldn't stop thinking. My brain was one tidal wave after another of thought, and each whoosh of water brought me closer and closer to wanting to be a part of that thing that people at the Beacon lived for. One day, I was Cleo, and later in the afternoon, I was the Blue Pen. I imagined how I might have looked, madly scribbling on the improv stage, then I wondered about what I had written. I could have gone to the Beacon any time that week and read it, but that would compromise my fragile position with Cecil and Belle. I needed to keep Friday nights as a usual thing, or else my secrets would be discovered. What were those secrets? They were that I had a world of my own that excluded them, that had nothing to do with them whatsoever. That I had people in my life whose names my family had never heard. In my dreams, I heard 88 Fingers on the piano and saw great oceans shifting and changing eternally. I was a part of those seas. I had a place.

I often thought of Patrick. I hated to admit it, and would never have done to anyone out loud, but I wondered if it was possible to contact his spirit. I found myself washing out a coffee pot, reorganizing my closet, dusting the library...and pondering if Barbie really could contact the dead. Could she talk to Patrick for me? Then, following on that, if I had improv-ed, could I contact him myself? Then I would ask, if I had improv-ed successfully, why didn't he come through rather than Dream Weaver's dead niece? Of course, after those thoughts I would chide myself. It was all wacky at best. It was drink and delusion and hope for touching our dead that drove these people. Was I these people?

My inner skeptic made life's new shine dull, like I had plunged a fresh, craftily-smithed sword back into the fire it was forged from. I was torn, to say the least. My family had no idea because I played like I always had, but the cloud of my not coming home that one night hung over the entire week. Sometimes I could even smell it, and it was cigar smoke from the man with no name, Barbie's cigarette puffs, scents from the candles in the room behind the beaded curtain, the reading room. I was in inner turmoil, and I knew when Friday came that the relief of going back there on a reasonable basis in the context of my family's opinion was probably too great too hide.

Cecil offered yet again to drive me, and again I demurred. I rode the bus downtown to the Beacon, eager to read my own writings that had given me an improv name at the Beacon. Anxious that my intrigue would be disappointed. Looking forward to seeing Nikki, and yes, prepared to ask Barbie about Patrick. I had made big, perception-changing plans for the night.

I walked down the candle-lit, dark stairs of the Beacon with a squeezing sensation in my chest, like I was about to move from Nebraska all over again. I could hear 88 Fingers and smell the smoke.

When I came to the bottom on the stairs, nothing seemed different at first, but then heads turned and I saw people looking at me and whispering amongst themselves while they examined me. I stood there, not sure what to do. Barbie wasn't there yet, and I didn't know where to sit. Nikki was nowhere to be seen and Swan was dancing on stage. I decided to sit next to the man with no name at the bar. He held his corner like the cloud of cigar smoke marked his identity and personal space, and he greeted me with a metallic eye. I said nothing, hoping the stares would stop, and after a moment they did. I was dying to go in the reading room and check out my drunken improv-ing.

The man with no name touched my shoulder and said, "You did well last week. You know that, right?"

I shook my head and told him I didn't remember much of it, feeling another riptide of anxiety hit me.

He said, "You did well. You and your sister, gifted. I can see it all, you know. Of course you know. I told you, and you have not forgotten. I know."

I nodded to him just as Nikki walked out from the reading room and came behind the bar, grinning wildly at me. "The Blue Pen has returned!" he said, clapping his hands together once. "And what would the Blue Pen like to drink tonight?"

His words made it all so ordinary and comfortable, his demeanor was such that everything that had happened was almost expected of me, and that I was the same person to him.

"I'll have whatever you are serving," I told him, unable to hide a self-conscious grin of my own.

"No more of that bourbon left, Pen. But I know how you love red wine," he said, and uncorked a bottle sitting on the bar behind him. He poured and put the glass in front of me. "Don't let no-name make you get all weird-feeling. No-name has that effect. On you?"

I glanced at the subject and his face was stone. I told Nikki, "I feel okay. A little nervous tonight." It felt good to be able to say it aloud to someone who would understand, and I knew he did.

He said, "You haven't even read what you wrote yet, have you?"

I took a sip of wine, pleased that he was a mind reader. "I admit I am curious."

He said, "Sorry the bourbon was so strong last week." He winked and I knew he wasn't at all sorry. We were in on a joke together and I let the day of hang-over suffering slip away from me.

"Where's Barbie?" I asked.

Nikki told me he hadn't seen her. "Strange for her to not be here yet. But Reed isn't, either, so there you go."

I nodded in understanding. He urged me with a flick of his hair to come to the reading room with him. I took my glass, tipped it to the man with no name, and followed Nikki to the room behind the beaded curtain.

My blue notebook hung on a nail next to one of Rivers' paintings of a meadow. He took it down and handed it to me. In a low voice so that none of the few people surrounding Astra could hear, he said, "I'll leave you in private with your wine to look it over. I have to say, I am quite impressed. Your improv name suits you." He touched my hand slightly as he handed me the notebook, casually, but almost sensually. Was I seeing too much into a simple gesture? He left and I sat on a pillow and opened the notebook.

It was my handwriting, but the cursive strokes seemed more fluid, like they had been penned by a poet. I cannot tell you what it said now, but as I poured over the three pages, I felt confused. I couldn't possibly have written it. There were strange phrases and references that I didn't know. Yet I found myself sad at the tone, not just sad. Nostalgic, envious of the writer's poignant view of the world. I knew I couldn't have written it. But I had, there were witnesses. Was it possible that the notebook had been switched? Had my pages been ripped out and someone with my handwriting put something different in there? I even checked the metal spiral binding to see if there was a paper edging from having pages torn. Nothing.

I closed the notebook and put it on the floor. I felt silly hanging it back up, like I would be broadcasting to the others that I thought it was worthy.

When I went back into the bar, Barbie and Reed were sitting at the usual table. Swan was with them, done with her dancing. Dynamite was tuning his guitar to the piano and the shy singer woman from before was holding the mic, looking petrified.

Barbie greeted me with a hello and Reed nodded to me. Swan grasped my arm and congratulated me on my improv-ing the week before. She said, "We all knew you had it in you, but wow! That was fantastic. I cried when I read it. I am so happy I was improv-ing when you did it. We improv-ed together!"

I smiled and sipped the last drip of wine from my glass and Nikki, on cue, put another drink in front of me. He asked in a low voice so the others couldn't hear him over the music, "What did you think about what you read?"

I told him it seemed like I couldn't possibly have written that. "It is weird. It is in my handwriting, but I just can't see how..." I trailed off.

He knelt down next to me. "Don't feel weird about it, Cleo. It's just a thing, you know? I can tell you take things seriously. Just let it flow, have fun with it." He pointed at the stage, saying, "Do it again, we all loved it."

I thanked him, for the compliment, for putting me at ease, and for the drink, determined to thank him for everything since I'd so long neglected doing so. "I would like to try again, to see if it was a one-time thing, to be honest."

"It's nothing," he told me, "Once you've got it down. Never see people stumble a second time." He squeezed my hand and told me he had to get drinks for some thirsty people.

As Dynamite started a slow wail on the guitar, the woman at the mic set out some sultry tune that seemed to have been in her head for a long time. It was becoming easy to me to see when someone was improv-ing or not. She wasn't.

Reed took up the stage next to 88 Fingers and polished his harmonica, then made little filler trills between the woman's breaths. Barbie leaned toward me and asked how I was feeling.

"Good," I told her.

"I was wondering," she said, "Since it's your first time back since you improv-ed. Do you feel different?"

I felt entirely different, and I told her I was surprised at what I wrote. I said, "I've never even had thoughts like that, Barbie. I can't decide if it was the drink or not." I hadn't spoken so frankly with her before then, not since I had told her about holding Patrick's hand at the fair. I was surprised at how good it felt, and the question I was determined to ask her about Patrick burned in my mind like a sin.

She smiled, saying, "You did so good. You're skilled. I'm so glad we can talk about it now. I have to admit, it was hard to talk to you before, but now you understand, don't you?"

What could I say? I didn't really understand the question, but I said, "It's all so new," and settled with that.

She smiled again and lit a cigarette. "Are you going to improv again tonight?"

I said I didn't know. The night went on and I drank and watched and listened, Nikki fueling me with red wine. The players on the stage switched up a few times. D.D. showed up at one point and she was the only person in the place who gave me a bum eye. She didn't get on the stage right away. Instead she went to the reading room with a drink.

I was tired of her attitude with me, though she had never said anything. It was all in her posture, her expressions. I knew she resented me for having Nikki's attention. Feeling buzzed and brave from the wine, I went behind the beaded curtain and found her sitting on a pillow reading my notebook. I sat next to her, saying a greeting. She appeared nonchalant about looking at my writing, but I saw a flush in her pale skin. I was self-confident, not wanting any enemies, prepared to explain to her that I was married and that Nikki and I were only friends.

I asked her, "Why do I get the feeling you dislike me, D.D.?"

Her red eyebrows shot up and her lips curved upwards. "I don't dislike you, Blue Pen."

I was surprised that she used my improv name. "You give me looks," was all I could come up with.

"Oh, that." She settled back into the pillows, averting her gaze down to the notebook. "You improv-ed well. Ice said you would, someday. He can tell about people. I wasn't as convinced, but you proved me wrong."

I bit my lip, not knowing what to say. I was certain this attitude was over Nikki's attention to me.

She said, "I'm just protective," as though that explained it.

"What do you mean?" I said.

She sighed and stretched out her luxurious legs, dropping my notebook on a pillow. "People come in here all the time. Ice thinks they're the greatest thing. Especially women. I guess I was wrong about you, after reading this. After all, we did improv together. I could tell you were for real. I seen it myself." She was saying the words, but she didn't look at me. Her tone was casual, like it was everyday conversation, nothing to her. My instincts were confused. Her words said those things, but her body said she thought I was a speck of dust floating around one of the hurricane-glassed candle flames, and at the same time her cheeks stayed flushed and her eyes glimmered with a personal satisfaction, like she had dealt me a deep, hard blow to the gut.

I didn't know what to say, but it was obvious that I needed to say something. I decided to react to her words rather than her body language and told her, "Okay, I just don't want anyone mad at me for something, especially when I don't know what it's for."

She made a shushing sound and said, "Mad at you? That's silly. Why would I be mad at you?" Her eyes pointed at me, stabbing at me, demanding camaraderie and delivering accusations.

I shrugged, not knowing what this woman was about. A game player, I wondered? Or was I just reading her wrong?

I glanced back at her as I left the reading room. She was hanging my notebook back on its nail on the wall, expressionless.

I improv-ed again that night after several glasses of wine, fully enjoying hearing, "The Blue Pen!" called out from the audience. I had similar sensations as the last time, but I could remember more. I saw desert scenes and it seemed my vision would zoom in and out of the landscape in my mind. I could see a scorpion's stinger, then aerial views of a brushy, sandy ground below me. I closed my eyes and wrote, Swan dancing beside me and 88 Fingers jamming on the piano on the other side of the stage. I really don't need to describe it anymore. I think you get the point of it, reporter. As with the last time, I tossed the pen and notebook aside when I was finished and joined Barbie at her table. I don't remember much more, as I was quite drunk, but Nikki kissed me on the cheek when I left and told me to come back sometime during the week if I wanted. He said, "We're not just open on Friday, you know."

Barbie walked me home uncharacteristically chattering, but I couldn't make out a lot of what she was saying. I was grateful for the arm she lent me so that I could keep my balance. I had a hard time getting the key in the door, and once inside I waved goodnight to Barbie.

Cecil was waiting for me in the library, clutching a glass of whiskey. "It's after two," he said. It looked as though he were floating to the right in my drunken vision, like a star you can't quite see when looking right at it, but rather you have to look to the side to catch a glimpse of its shine.

"I'm fine," I told him. "Just a little tipsy."

"Where do you two go?" He sounded as though he was trying to be patient, like how he was with Belle when she wanted to paint and he didn't want to clean up after her.

"I told you," I said. "To clubs."

"Which clubs?" He set his glass on the coffee table.

"Just clubs," I answered, and left the room, trying to climb the stairs. I stumbled and clutched at the railing to keep myself from falling, but Cecil was suddenly there taking my shoulders.

"Not so fast," he said, and led me back to the library, setting me down in an armchair. He crouched in front of me and looked up into my eyes. "I want to know where you go. Name a club you go to."

In the seriousness of the moment, my haze sharpened and he stopped spinning. I said in my most self-righteous tone, "Why are you hounding me about this? You practically begged me to hang out with Barbie. Now I'm doing it, and you are getting on me about it like I'm some teenager who missed curfew."

He held my chin and said, "Name a club."

With him staring so hard into my eyes, I couldn't lie and besides, I was too drunk to make up a name. I said, "One is called the Beacon."

"The Beacon," he repeated. "Where is it?"

"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Somewhere downtown. I just follow Barbie." My ability to lie was coming back. "I couldn't get there in my own."

"Okay," he said, standing up. He walked back to the couch and reclaimed his drink, settling on the cushions. "And tell me, Cleo, how is it that you pay for the drinks that get you so loaded on every time you go to the Beacon?"

That was the last question I thought he'd ask. Why hadn't I ever thought of it? I muttered to myself.

"What was that?" he asked.

"Barbie pays."

He shook his head. "Barbie doesn't have that kind of money."

"How would you know?" I said.

"I picked you up from her place. She has no money, living there. So let me ask again, and tell me the truth. Who's footing the booze bill?" He looked both frustrated and scared, like he didn't know me at all and was just realizing it.

"What is it you're accusing me of?" I asked, trying to sound calm. I really wanted to not be having this conversation.

He looked away and rotated his shoulders, taking a deep sip of drink. "Is there another man, Cleo?" His voice sounded weak, like it didn't ever want to have to say those words and now it had.

"Oh," I said, getting it. He thought that I had a man on the side, taking me out every Friday and getting me drunk and who knows what else.

"What does 'oh' mean?" he asked.

"It's not that at all. I mean, the place we go to, the Beacon. The drinks are free." I actually giggled, but he didn't like that at all.

He clenched his drink and his ears flared red. His voice was quiet and angry as he said, "Do you think I'm a fool? There is no club that gives away free drinks. That's just ridiculous. Tell me the truth."

I held up my hands and told him, "That is the truth."

He rolled his eyes. "You could come up with something better, really. Like you stash away cash. That Barbie really does have money, but chooses for some reason to live in squalor. That your grandmother sends us money that you pocket. But a bar that gives away free drinks...It's another man, isn't it?"

Nikki really wasn't another man, not in the sense that Cecil meant. Sure, I thought about him a little too much and yes, I enjoyed his attentions more than a married woman should, but I was telling the truth when I said, "No other man."

He leaned his elbows on his knees and breathed deeply. "So you are telling me that you go to a club where you get all your drinks for free. Why?"

"Everyone there does," I answered.

"Oh, my God. You really do think I'm an idiot." He rubbed his face.

"No, it's for real," I told him.

"Okay," he spread his empty hand out. "Take me there. I want to see if I can get free drinks."

I didn't ever want Cecil into that part of my life, that new life I was making outside my home, my secret place. The place where I was going into a trance and writing strange things and getting socially rewarded for it. Wasn't his knowing the name enough? "I don't want to."

"Why?" he asked. "Is it because you're, I don't know, lying?" He dragged out the last word.

"No, it's just that it's my place," I tried to explain.

"What does that mean?"

"Well," I said, "You have work. You go to work and have a life at work. That is your place. I have a place too, it's just not work. It's mine, though, and I don't want anyone to go there with me."

"Except for Barbie," he added.

"Well," I said, "Barbie took me there. So I guess it is our place."

He stood up so fast that some of his drink spilled on the table. "Work is not fun, it is not my place. Here, home is my place. You," he pointed at me, "Are not going back to this free bar unless you take me with you. End of discussion."

As he left the room, I yelled at him, "You have no right to tell me what to do. I can do whatever I want. It's my place! And I'm not lying!" but he was gone.

When I got into bed ten minutes later, Cecil was on his side facing away from me. I could tell he wasn't asleep, but I had lost my anger and fell into a slumber almost immediately.

I woke up a few hours later, made coffee and took an aspirin for my headache. I sat on the porch and watched the sun rise as I sipped the strong brew, thinking about the fight I'd had with Cecil. He'd think I was nuts if he knew about the improv-ing. Was I nuts?

It all seemed crazy to me at first, then intimidating, but now that I had done it, it felt like nothing had changed. It was like sex looming over an adolescent virgin's head, and once it happened, the big deal was gone and it was just another part of life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I hadn't asked Barbie about Patrick. It was one of the things I meant to do. Patrick still hung on the fringes of my dreams and seemed like he was always there, somewhere in my mind, no matter what I was doing. It had been that way since I met him. What would my life have been like if I'd never known him? Would I be in Philly? Would I have married Cecil? Would I have Belle? Would I ever have gone to the Beacon? All the events of my life seemed guided by the one person who was forever gone, like some mystical plan. But why did he have to go so soon, so young?

Cecil came out to the porch after the sun had risen and kissed me, crouching in front of me like he had the night before, but without hostility. "I'm sorry," he said. "That's all. Let me make you some breakfast. You look like you feel awful."

"I do," I told him.

Around eleven in the morning, as I was helping Belle with her math homework, the phone rang. Cecil yelled from another room, "I'll get it."

We continued with one plus twos and such until Cecil came into the room a few minutes later. He said, "Barbie's on the phone for you." He looked displeased.

Once I was on the phone, Barbie said, "I figured you'd forget. You were pretty drunk last night when we talked about it."

"About what?" I asked.

"About Patrick. We were supposed to meet at noon today at my place. I was going to contact him for you. I was calling to remind you." She had a sweet sound in her voice, welcoming. So I had covered that task the night before, but now I was embarrassed. What had I said?

Reading my silence, she said, "It's okay, nothing to worry about. It's normal to feel weird about it. Can you still make it?"

"Uh, sure," I said. "I just need to finish helping Belle with her homework."

"Belle?" she asked.

"Angelica, sorry. She changed her name because of this awful dress grandmother picked out for her. Now she's Belle."

"A lot of name changing going on, yeah?" she said, and I could hear her smile over the line.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," I told her. We said our goodbyes.

I told Cecil and Belle that I would be going to Barbie's after the math was done. Cecil's sweet mood had definitely soured, and he left the library to parts unknown without saying anything.

Barbie opened her door wearing soft, flowing clothes and a pink crystal around her neck. So out-of-touch with the vibe of the early '80s, and nothing like anything I'd seen her in. She stepped out into her building's hallway and locked her door.

I asked, "Where are we going?"

"To my shop," she replied.

I followed her back onto the street and we walked in silence down a couple of blocks to a store-fronted area. One of the shops had a sign that read, "Readings by Joan," and the red-curtained window had a painting of a hand on it. How had I never noticed it before?

"This your place?"

She nodded and unlocked the door. Inside it was dark, but as Barbie turned on lamps, I could see that the walls were painted a deep maroon and that the area we were standing in was a lobby. "I have my own reading room, like they do at the Beacon. Mine is a little more personal." She gestured at the soft-looking red chairs against the walls. "My clients can wait here if I'm with someone. I'm usually open all day on Saturday. It's a good day for business. But today I posted that I wasn't open til one on the door."

She led me to another dark room where she turned on a few lamps. It was cozy, with beige walls and gold-embroidered trim along the ceilings. "Rivers painted those," she said, gesturing at the trim. There were several vases of fresh cut lilies and daisies on small wooden tables that held the lamps. In the center of the room were a soft, pale armchair and a plush sofa of the same shade across from it. She said, "I explained it all last night when I walked you home, but I doubt you remember it. In here I do my readings. My clients sit there," she pointed at the sofa, "And I sit in the chair. That table in the corner, I pull that out if they want tarot. Otherwise, this is it." She turned to me. "Do you like it?"

The room was as grand as a palace compared to where she lived. I told her, "I am surprised at how nice it is in here. Very cozy."

She smiled and I realized she had been nervous about showing it to me. "I'm glad you think so. I want all my clients to feel welcome, because they all are." She gestured at the sofa. "Have a seat. I need to smudge the room."

"What is that?" I asked.

She took a short stick of what looked like thick grass out of a drawer from one of the little wooden tables. "I use this white sage to clear the room of all its energies. You see, a place picks up people's energies and carries it. It needs to be cleared. This does it." She lit the ends of the white sage on fire, and once it was burning, blew it out. The ends stayed lit like incense and smoked heavily. "I did this yesterday before I closed up, but today I want to make sure everything is right."

She waved the grass around the doorway, then around the furniture and all through the air. It smelled strange, almost familiar, but I couldn't place the scent. Then she ran it around my head and up and down my body. I couldn't help but say, "I need to be cleaned of energies too?" I hoped I had kept the sarcasm out of my voice. I really was quite intrigued with all of this, but I thought it was all so, well, campy.

"All people carry the energies with them. The sage helps clear things," she explained.

I decided not to argue. I still had a headache from the night of drinking.

Satisfied after covering me in smoke, she sat across from me and set the sage on a table next to her, still burning. "Don't worry, it'll go out," she said. She folded her hands in her lap and eyed me carefully. "This is all new to you, and I know you aren't exactly a believer, but you do have the curiosity and, whether you like it or not, a gift. Anyone who can improv like you has the gift of insight. As I said last night, it's in our family. What you do with it is what really matters. Like Mom. She lets it control her life. Then there are people like at the Beacon. Most of them let it be what it is and not let it take over everything they think or do. And then there are people who have the gift and block it out, like what I think you have been doing your whole life."

I nodded, not having anything to say. I didn't have a gift of any sort. I didn't believe I saw spirits, nor had anything otherworldly ever happen to me.

"I get the feeling," she said, "That you think you aren't special, but you are. You see, this is what I chose to do with my gift. I make a living from it. I could make more money, really, but I chose to make just as much as I need to get by on. It's like a musician who plays a local club network doing solo gigs. It's just a talent put to work for me. Do you get it?"

She seemed like she really wanted me to get it, to approve and understand all at once. I remembered why I was here, and I nodded again. I would see for myself shortly if she could actually contact Patrick's beyond, and said as much with, "About Patrick. I feel strange about it now that I'm not loaded. I don't know why I even brought it up last night."

She lit a pink candle on the table next to her, saying, "You're curious. I know how much he means to you. He means a lot to me, too. I can't explain why right now. But what I need you to do is to close your eyes and think of him. Lean back, relax."

I closed my eyes and sunk into the soft sofa. I tried to think of Patrick, but the smell of the white sage kept assaulting my senses. Where had I smelled it before? Then I remembered Mother's room and my eyes popped open. "Mother had this sage in her room," I said.

"Yes," Barbie said, glancing at the smoldering grass. "I suggested it to her and sent her some, since she has such fears of the bad spirits. I send her some each month. I don't think it helps. She invites them, in a way. But, you see, as you start to relax, you'll think of all kinds of things. Try closing your eyes again. Don't worry about anything. This is a safe place."

I closed my eyes and tried to relax. She told me to think of my favorite memory of Patrick, so I thought of snuggling with him in the hayloft in the barn. His rough hands, that dark bruise on his cheek. The way his voice sounded when he called me, "Beautiful."

Barbie said, "He's here, Cleo. Don't open your eyes, keep the concentration."

I opened my eyes anyway. I didn't see that anything had changed. I said, "Do you think you see him?"

"I sense him. I'm not like Mom. I don't see them, I just know they are here. If you close your eyes and concentrate, you can feel him too. I promise," she said.

I closed my eyes and let the sounds of the street outside filter out of my senses. I edged out the smelly herb burning on the table. I thought of the candle Barbie had lit. It looked like the one I had brought up from the house to the hayloft all those years ago. I breathed deeply, but nothing happened.

She said, "He wants you to think about that car ride you took, on the way back from the fair. Think about that, then maybe you'll hear him."

I said, "I thought you were supposed to talk for him, or something like that."

"I do that for most of my clients," she said, "But like we talked about last night, I can teach you to talk to him on your own. That was the plan, you see?"

I didn't remember that at all. I began shutting out all the sounds and smells again and focused on that car ride. Why would he want me to think of that?

She said, "Tell me what you remember."

"We talked about Janis Joplin and the war." My voice sounded soft. I so rarely talked about him, though I thought of him so much. It was a tender subject to speak aloud about.

"What else? He says there is something else."

I said, "He told me I need to get in a little trouble when he dropped me off at home."

Quiet for a moment, then she said, "Yes, but there was something else."

I thought deeply about that ride. I then remembered it so vividly that I could smell the fresh air of farmlands and feel his leather jacket. I heard him say, "I like to listen."

My eyes opened again, for he was surely in the room. I looked all around me and the room seemed smaller and cryptic. "Did you hear that?" I whispered.

Barbie shook her blond head. "What did you hear, Cleo?"

I leaned back and rubbed my ears. "He said..."

Barbie interrupted, "You don't need to tell me. It was what he wanted you to know, not what he wanted me to know. He just wanted me to tell you to think of that night."

"I don't understand," I mumbled. "I heard him, his voice. But it was just a memory, right?"

"I don't know," was her response. "Let me ask." She closed her eyes, and then opened them. "He said you heard right. Now, he says, you need to do what you've always wanted to do. He said it would make sense to you."

He wanted me to talk? He wanted to listen? Then I realized that was the truest thing I wanted, ever wanted in my life. I wanted to talk to him again. Then I started crying.

Barbie joined me on the couch and held me in her arms while I bawled. She handed me a tissue. Where had that come from? I assumed she must have them stashed away for people like me. I used it and another before I stopped my tears. Still sniffling, I asked, "Why was he so important to you? You were a beast after he died."

"I can tell you now," she said in a soft voice. "Patrick and Dad, they were the first, you see? They both came to me early. Mom knew, that's why she was the way she was. And now you know, and it feels so good that you do."

I teared up again because I heard him saying it over and over: "I like to listen, I like to listen."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

PARKER

A tear ran down Cleo's cheek, but she didn't look sad. She grabbed her drink, sipped, and wiped the tear away. "So you can understand how things changed for me in that moment, reporter?"

"Yes," Parker said. He glanced at his microwave clock. It would have to be a very late night and he needed to keep her talking until she was homeless. How could he do that? Loretta's smirking face before she walked away stuck with him. He had to be on his game. But still, he couldn't imagine kicking Cleo out without telling her why. She had just unloaded one of her most personal and life-changing moments, and he was worried about another one for her just over the horizon if things didn't play out right.

"Why do you look at the time, reporter? Don't think I didn't notice."

He rubbed his mouth, thinking, and said, "Barbie said she couldn't tell you just then why Patrick meant a lot to her."

"Yes." She sipped from an empty glass, so he refilled it for her.

"I can't tell you why I looked at the clock, not just yet. But I will."

"Do you have a deadline on my life story?"

He half smiled, feeling more drunk than tipsy. "You could say that, but I can't tell you why. I want to be totally honest with you, but now's not the time. I will tell you, just later." He hoped that would satisfy her.

"You don't have enough wine for the rest of my story."

He looked at his empty glass, then at the empty bottle. He stood to get another out of the pantry, but Cleo said, "They are all gone."

"How do you know?"

"I peeked," she said. "Let's go down to the grocery and get another bottle."

Parker paused with his hand above the doorknob of the pantry. He couldn't be seen with her, not if there was a snoopy Loretta hiding in the shadows taking pictures. He thought of the bag of whiskey in Cleo's clothes. That might tide her over, but then he'd have to admit to looking through her stuff.

"What is it, reporter?" she asked.

He turned back to her. "We'd have to go out the back way."

"Back way?"

"Yeah, the fire escape. The way you came in."

She had a look of caution in her eye, then sadness. "Are you afraid of being seen with me?"

He created a story fast. "I want to adventure after all this drinking and hearing your life story. I want to see things from your way. Let's go down the fire escape then through the alleys. I bet I won't get hit on the head with a bottle while I'm with you."

She covered a smile, and said, "Well, you do have a flare for the dramatic, I suppose. The fire escape will be much easier in jeans." She rose from the table, stumbling just a bit, and walked to the living room. Parker grabbed all his money out of the drawer, noting it was still there.

"Wait," he said. "We need coats. It's freezing outside."

He got one of Missy's faux fur coats and gave it to Cleo, who turned it around in her hands before saying, "Oh good. It's fake. I was worried I'd picked the wrong man for the job for a second there."

Parker said, "Missy wouldn't wear dead animals."

"Missy," she said, putting the coat around her. "What kind of name is that?"

Parker knew he'd had too much to drink when he said, "The kind you love and never forget." He knew it wasn't just the drink, but the openness that Cleo had given him into her own experience made him feel a bit like opening up, too.

"Missy the twig must be very special. I like her already. You should get her back, I think. But there is another time for that discussion." She opened the window and popped out the screen.

Jack jumped up and started out the window as Parker pulled on his jacket. Cleo grabbed him and handed the purring, twisting bundle of fur to Parker. She said, "Hold him until I get out, then you climb out, then put him back inside and don't let him follow. You need to learn these rules for an indoor cat. And you don't want him to go out in the city at all, my. Cats are lucky to find someone like you. If he went out, he'd most likely die an early death."

Parker held the wiggly cat as Cleo climbed out the window. Then he angled and twisted so that he could get out onto the fire escape while holding the gray. He dropped Jack on the couch and quickly closed the window so that he couldn't run out.

The fire escape was rickety at best. He had last been up here when he got the extra key under the aloe plant, but now the swaying and swing of the thing made him dizzy. He'd had way too much wine. He clambered down the stairs after Cleo, anyway, and they made it safely to the ground.

"Now," he said, "We go that way." He pointed to the end of the alley that led to the other side of the block.

Cleo said, "You told me that, but I didn't really believe you. You want to go the wrong way to get to the store? It's right up the corner. There's more to this sneaking around."

"Secrets," he told her with what he hoped was a whimsical smile.

She tossed her curls and said, "You have me totally intrigued. Tell me why."

"When you're done your story, I'll tell you mine."

She pursed her lips and almost argued, but much to Parker's satisfaction, she turned and walked into the alley.

They arrived at the other side of the alley and entered the street. They walked all the way around to the grocery.

The store's lights were brighter than the sun and more abusive, and Cleo's age lines showed prominently. She looped her arm through his and he had the fleeting thought that he was in a movie with a "broad." If only she were wearing real mink and had a feather boa.

"Why are you laughing, reporter?" she asked him.

"I guess I'm a little drunk. Let's get this over with."

They went to the wine section and Parker looked over all the red wines. An older woman in the same aisle gave them an odd look, as though to say, "Weird people, stay away."

In truth, Parker was talking rather loudly, choosing the wine by price and by name, saying, "Anything called Smithsonian should make us that way, you think, Cleo?"

Cleo, still clutching his arm, giggled on and on. She said, "That woman thinks we're lovers, drunk lovers, look." She pointed at the horrified woman, who ran off without picking up a bottle of drink.

"Shhhh," Parker said. "We have to be low key."

This only made Cleo giggle more, which turned into both of them belly laughing and trying to cover it with hands and snorts.

They paid more than Parker had ever paid for wine, and he wondered why he had grabbed all his money in the cash drawer for this. The cashier looked jaded, and Cleo and Parker's giddiness made no impression on her whatsoever.

Once outside, Parker told her, "We have to go back the way we came."

"Why? More conspiracy? One would think you are the one who is a crazy homeless woman rather than me."

"Trust me," he said, and gathered her arm into the nook of his. They found the right alley after a moment and climbed the fire escape stairs like it was an old game. They got out of the cold and plopped the two pricey bottles of wine down on the couch. Jack sniffed exuberantly, like he had discovered a possibly dangerous creature. They sat on the floor of the living room, both out of breath and laughing.

"Why is this so funny?" Cleo asked.

"I don't know," Parker said, "But I want to see if the price on these wines was worth it."

Cleo calmed down after a moment and said, "You are avoiding the secrecy angle, but I'll let it go for now." She stood, almost fell, then grabbed the wine and went to the kitchen. Parker followed, grinning at what, he did not know.

Cleo uncorked a bottle and poured some into Parker's glass, turning it quickly with a twist at the end.

Parker asked, "Why did you do that?

"Do what?"

"The twisty thing?"

"Oh, that is what Nikki always did. Learned it from him. You twist so none spills down the side. Good waiters do the same thing."

Parker had been to plenty of good restaurants, but never noticed this at any of them. Had they been doing it all along?

Parker poured Cleo's full glass of wine down the sink, and she laughed even harder, like he was miming it. He said, "You need this good stuff," He washed the glass from Italy to get rid of all the grimy fingerprints that had accumulated, and poured her a fresh glass, with a twist. He settled down next to her in his chair.

She said, "I had no idea you'd be this fun."

"Neither did I."

"Maybe Missy should see this side of you." She smiled and tipped her wine glass at him. He held up his glass, saying, "What are we toasting?"

"Fire escapes and love," she said, tapping his glass with a clink. They both drank, Parker thinking it tasted much better than what they had been drinking. A little part of his brain that collected alcohol data told him that as the drinks go on, they always taste better, but his current situation told him that it really was premium.

"Okay," he said. "I want to hear the rest. Tonight. Let's stay up until all of this," he gestured at the wine bottles on the counter, "Is gone. Deal?"

Cleo rolled her head around as though watching an invisible fly. Straightening up, she said, "It's a deal."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CLEO

The several months that followed aren't interesting in little details, but overall things began to change. I continued going to the Beacon, improv-ing every night with success. People loved me there, and asked if I could focus on writing about their loved ones who had died. I always tried to do this, but what came out of my pen was never what I expected, nor whom it was about. I started going on Wednesday nights, too, and sometimes I would write for an hour before I threw down my pen to the sound of, "Blue Pen! The Blue Pen!" from the audience. Barbie had certainly relaxed around me, and now she often talked about her work. There was still a little strain between us, which I imagine is always there with sisters, but overall she was very supportive of my improv abilities. Yet she seemed sad still sometimes, and I never knew why.

Nikki and I talked every time I went there and we were becoming very close. The attraction that I had for him had mellowed into a kind friendship, like the fine wine he so often served me. I opened up to him with details about Patrick, and he told me all about Diane, how much he had loved her and how he could never love another woman for the rest of his life. He had such vibrancy in his ways, but when he spoke of her, his black eyes watered and dulled, and sometimes the light from the candles in the reading room looked like dying stars dancing in those eyes. I don't think I've ever had a better friend than Nikki, and told him as much. He took my hand and kissed my cheek, saying he felt the same way.

I often tried to improv and contact Diane for him, but she never came.

D.D. gave me those ambiguous looks more and more when Nikki would ask her to watch the bar while he sat for a chat with me. I could feel her dislike as strongly as I could smell the smoke in the little bar.

My social life was driving Cecil and me apart. He couldn't understand, he said, why I had to drink so much, why I didn't tell him more about what I did with Barbie when I went out, why I seemed so spaced out, as he put it. He especially didn't like it when I drank during the day when he was at work. What had once been foreplay became something of a mostly unspoken strain between us, but I could feel his judging eye on me each day he came home and we rarely went to bed together at the same time at night.

I tried talking to Patrick in my head, but never heard his voice like I had at Barbie's shop. This made me sad, because I wanted so much to hear him again. I dreamt of him almost every night, but the dreams were distorted and strange, such as chasing his shadow through a cornfield or trying to climb the ladder to the hayloft, but in slow motion so that I never reached the top. I needed to find a way to reach him, if it was possible, and everything that was happening to me at the Beacon was telling me it was.

Then came the day everything changed.

At home that week, on a Wednesday just into the new year, I decided to try a little experiment. Still confused by my experience with Barbie and baffled by my ability to improv by writing without knowing what I was writing, I kissed Cecil and Belle goodbye in the morning. Cecil was still acting strangely around me, and I knew he believed I was lying about the Beacon and about there being no other man in my life. He wasn't talking as much as usual, avoiding too much eye contact. I let it go – he'd just have to deal with it, I figured.

I had eaten more than I usually do at breakfast so that I wouldn't have an empty stomach, and around nine I began to drink Cecil's whiskey. I put a tape in our new tape player, some jazz that Cecil liked, and put a notebook in my lap, hand with pen poised above the paper. Nothing came to me, so I drank more and read some magazines.

By noon, I'd had quite a few drinks and it was strange being altered so early in the day. Sure, I'd had drinks in the afternoon plenty of times, but not like this. I was dancing in the library and giggling at my own thoughts. I had the urge to call Barbie and invite her over, but since she didn't like to drink, I decided not to.

Around one, I tried the notebook again. Cecil and Belle would be home in a few hours, so I had to give my experiment a try.

I gripped the pen like it was hope, itself. I suddenly felt self-conscious, despite the drink, but I wanted to talk to him so badly. Out loud, I said, "Are you there, Patrick?" My voice sounded weak and trembling. I felt adrenaline pump through me and my drunkenness ebbed a bit. I closed my eyes and listened to the music.

After a moment, I looked down at the notebook and the word, "Yes," was written there. I didn't remember writing it. I was stunned, like a piece of the sky had just fallen outside my window in a blue, jagged chunk. Was I doing this thing? Was he really here?

I took a deep sip of whiskey to calm my nerves, then closed my eyes, gripped the pen, and said, "I miss you."

Some time passed and I opened my eyes and looked at the paper. The words, "I miss you, too," were written there, in my handwriting. Again, I couldn't remember writing at all.

Closing my eyes again, I asked, "Is this real?" I was shaking in this strangeness. When I looked down, the word, "Yes," was there.

I said, "I don't believe this. Tell me something to make me know this is true."

I closed my eyes, and in a few minutes opened them to see, "My brother tried to save me. I was scared. Now I'm not scared."

My vision blurred and I put down the notebook. I sprawled out on the couch and whispered, "Can we talk like this?"

I didn't hear anything. I waited for a long time. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I heard was Cecil coming in the front door. I sat up fast, dizzy with a bitter taste in my mouth, and grabbed the notebook, intending to hide it. I gasped as I looked down at it and the words, "I like to listen," had rounded out the last line. It was my handwriting, but I couldn't recall even sitting up to do it.

I stashed the notebook under the couch as Belle ran in and jumped on my lap. "You smell bad," she said, pinching her little nose.

Cecil came in after her and with one look at me and the half-full glass on the coffee table, his face tightened. He told Belle to go to her room.

She said, "I wanna see Mommy. Mommy, I wrote 'cat' today in cursive. Wanna see?"

Cecil's said in his seldom-used serious voice with her, "Belle, now."

Belle knew that tone and did as she was told.

Once she was gone, he sat next to me on the couch and gripped my face in both hands. "How much did you drink today?"

I heard my own words slurring as I said, "A couple, that's all."

"You look and smell like you had the whole bottle," he said. I tried to squirm out of his hold on me, but he gripped harder. It didn't hurt, but I felt interrogated. "What is going on with you, Cleo?" He sounded desperate. "Why are you acting like this?" He let go of my face. "What about our daughter? She shouldn't see you like this. What the hell are you thinking in there?" He tapped my head. "Talk to me, please."

I rubbed my face and stood up, facing him. "It's nothing. I just went a little too far today."

He stood, as well, taking my hands. "There is something going on. I don't know what it is." His voice was quiet. "But you can always talk to me. I hate seeing you like this."

"Nothing, Cecil," I told him. I wanted to leave the house, run down the street and hide in some bushes. I couldn't talk to him about Patrick or the Beacon or any of it. It would be revealing that I was a totally different person than the one he knew.

His tenderness and worry turned sour and his voice grew stern, and he used the same tone he had used with Belle. He said, "I won't stand for this drinking and whatever else it is you're doing. You're done." He left the room and went to the kitchen. I heard him pouring something down the sink, so I followed to see what he was doing. He had emptied the rest of the whiskey bottle into the drain and was opening a bottle of brandy.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Getting rid of it. All of it. There won't be any in the house for you to do this again," he said, dumping the brandy into the sink. It made glub-glubbing sounds as it poured. "And no more going out."

I was burning under my skin, a rage and desperation filling me. He was trying to control me, something he had never physically done before, but in that moment as the last of the brandy went down and he uncorked a bottle of red wine, I realized he'd always been doing it, controlling me. He was subtle about it, saying it was okay for me to stay home all the time, taking Belle to and from school, allowing me to spend time with Barbie only as a reward, not from some desire to see me happy. It was a way to act like he was not keeping me a prisoner from life, giving me that little bit of freedom. He was a keeper, nothing more. Patrick wouldn't have done this. Neither Nikki nor Barbie or any of the people at the Beacon would do this. He wanted me tucked away in the house all by myself acting a certain way for the rest of my life, like a little toy wife, a possession.

I grabbed the wine bottle from him as he was pouring it out and took a deep swig, then spit wine in his face as he tried to get the bottle back from me.

He bent over and rubbed his eyes, saying, "Jesus, Cleo, that burns."

I threw the bottle on the floor, but it didn't break. Wine flowed out in all directions, a red lake in our kitchen. I screamed, "It's my life!" then made a run for the front door.

He scrambled after me and slammed his body against the door, barring me from leaving. He held my shoulders and, face dripping with wine, said, "Calm down. You have to calm down."

"I don't have to do anything you say anymore. I am not your slave!" I yelled at him, shaking off his grip and hitting him lightly on the chest. "Let me out."

"No," he said, trying to get a hold of me again. I fought him as he said, "You can't go out like this. It's not safe. Please, listen to me. Be reasonable."

"Not safe," I echoed, ripping his hands off me every time he got a grip. "It's just another one of your little tricks. Not safe. Next you'll say that I should think of Belle. You have all these things you do. Not today, Cecil, now let me out of this house." I started hitting his chest as hard as I could, and he held up his hands.

He said, "Fine, do what you want. If you are this violent, you shouldn't be in here, anyway. Just go. Go wherever you want." He backed off from the door and I opened it and dashed out into the late afternoon sun. Once in front of the house, I looked to see if he was following me. He had closed the door and was nowhere to be seen.

I straightened up and started walking to the bus stop. I always had a twenty in my pocket. I rode the bus to the Beacon's stop and walked to the club, feeling both a burden of pain and a feeling of ultimate freedom. I stopped in front of the lighthouse-etched door and pulled on the handle. It was locked.

I didn't know what time the place opened. After all those months, I'd only been there late at night, so I sat down on the ground next to the door and waited. Soon the sun set and nothing had happened, but I was freezing, since I had run out without a coat. As the drink wore off, the cold air had me in a huddle with my body. I waited some more. After what felt like an hour, I heard someone coming down the alley. I looked to see who it was – Swan carrying a piece of cardboard. Her face was sullen and she wasn't wearing her ballet slippers. She watched the ground as she walked and didn't notice me until she was right upon me.

"Blue Pen!" she said. "What are you doing out here?"

I stood up and shook my head, saying, "I don't want to talk about it. I just had to get out of my house."

She slumped her shoulders and her mouth drooped like I had told her what had happened in my house.

"What is it?" I asked.

A tear spilled out of her eye and she shook her head. "Oh, it's just awful, Blue Pen. Just, just awful." She held up the cardboard and I saw it was a sign. It read, "Closed until further notice."

"What is this about?" I asked.

Both eyes were filled with tears as she pulled tape out of her purse and hung the sign on the door. "It's Ice, it's just terrible. I can't believe it. He didn't do it, I just know."

"What are you talking about?" I said.

"They've arrested him," she told me, rubbing her cheeks to rid them of moisture. "They said he killed her, Diane, but I know he didn't. He would never have done that. He loved her."

"What?" I said, unable to believe what I was hearing. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you heard me right," she said, shaking her head again. "I can't believe it. His lawyer called me, you know? To let me know to close the Beacon, to tell me what happened. It's all too much."

I touched the sign and, it having been a few hours since I drank the whiskey, I was completely sober at this news. "Where is he?" I asked.

She said, "In jail, of course. In jail, behind bars. That nice, generous man who had a most horrible thing happen to him. His wife, murdered. Now he's being blamed for it, after all these years. He didn't do it, you know that, right?"

"Of course I do," I said, still stunned. "How do I get to the jail?"

"You're going to see him?" she asked.

"I have to. I have to hear what this is all about." Like Swan, I knew he couldn't have done it, but cops didn't put people behind bars for no good reason, did they?

She gave me directions via the bus route and walked me to the bus stop, head still down, shoulders slumped like she had just turned ninety-five in the last few hours. She said, "You tell him we love him and that it will all work out, okay?"

I told her I would and I made my way through the bus system to the police station. After some finagling, I was led to his cell. He sat in a room with a few other men and he had his head down. His black roots spread across his head like a dark angel's hand and he was as still as a marble statue.

"Nikki," I called out to him. He slowly raised his haunted eyes to me, and I had never seen him looking so empty.

"Pen," he said, and stood and walked to the bars. I held my hand out to him and he grasped it, squeezing tightly. "I didn't do it, Pen. Cleo. You know I didn't. I loved her."

I touched his face and asked, "How did this happen? What do they have against you?"

Tears filled his eyes. "It was D.D. She told them I confessed to it."

"They put you in jail for that? That's not really evidence, is it?" I said.

"I had told her all about what happened. Only me and the police know it. And the killer, of course. But she gave them all the details when she told them this crazy lie, so they believe her. There were no other leads, you see, and they had interrogated me dozens of times after the murder. They've always thought I did it, just couldn't prove it. Now they think they have their proof, and she told them about the Beacon. They're closing it down, too. Said it was illegal, what we're doing. I don't know how it is. How did this happen to me, Cleo?"

I grasped the bar with my free hand. "Why would she do this?"

He shook his head, shaggy hair tossing about. "I don't know. I have no idea. I thought we were good friends."

"I never liked her," I told him. "She gives me strange looks. What is your bail? Can't you get out?"

"No bail at all," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Where does D.D. live?" I asked.

"I don't know."

"What is her real name?" I said.

He said, "Her first name is Camilla. That's all I know. I really don't know anything about her private life."

I rubbed his knuckles, and even they seemed broken like the man in front of me.

He said, "I can't talk anymore. How could anyone think I would do this to her, to Diane? She was the most precious thing in my life, still is. I have to lie down, or I'll be sick." He stumbled across the room and practically fell into the corner and curled into a ball. Seeing him like that was killing me.

I had to find D.D., but how? I had no idea where she lived. I said to Nikki, "I'll find out what I can."

He murmured so softly that I barely made it out, "Thank you, friend."

I sat on a bench outside the jail, shivering, and watched people come and go, trying to figure out what to do. Camilla was an odd name, and since she did improv yoga, it could be assumed that she was a yoga instructor somewhere. I supposed I could call all the yoga studios in Philly and ask for a Camilla. I figured there could be dozens of yoga studios in the city. How could I narrow it down? Was her first name really Camilla?

I called Barbie from a pay phone and she answered on the third ring. "Cleo, what's wrong? You sound upset."

I filled her in on what was happening. "Do you know where D.D. can be found?"

Barbie was silent for a long time, and then said, "Oh, this is awful."

I said, "Nikki said her first name was Camilla. Do you know where I can find her? I have to talk to her about this."

Barbie sighed into the phone. She said, "She came for a reading once. We talked for a while. She said she was a yoga instructor, but I can't remember the name of the place. It was her place, like she was the owner. Hmmm."

"Think, Barbie," I told her.

"It had yoga in the name," she said. "The Yoga something. Something, something. What was it?"

I waited impatiently for her to recall and she finally said, "Yoga Zen, that's what it was. Yoga Zen, I'm pretty sure."

"Okay, thanks, Barbie," I said.

She was quiet for a moment, then said, "I don't think he did it."

"Is it even a question?" I asked.

"Well," she said, "It is odd how Diane never comes through in readings. But some pass on to a place where they can't be reached. And some just never want to be reached."

I told her, "I can't believe you're even considering that Nikki would do something like this."

"You're probably right," Barbie said. "I just know there are secrets everywhere, you know? Good luck finding D.D. I'll meditate on this."

After I hung up the phone, I looked through the phone book for Yoga Zen. I found a listing in northeast Philly. I would need a car to get there if I had any chance of seeing D.D. that night.

I sat back down on the bench and tried to figure out how to get to D.D.'s studio. I could go home to get the car, but I didn't want to see Cecil or explain to him what I was doing. I didn't have enough cash with me to get a cab. What could I do?

I'd never stolen anything in my life, but just then I noticed someone pull up to a metered parking spot and get out of his car. He didn't have anything in his hands, nor did I see him put anything in his pocket. I watched him rush up the stairs to the police station and go inside. I walked over to his car and peeked in the window. The keys were in the ignition. I figured it might be some sort of fate, at least I reasoned that at the time, and I hopped into the driver's seat and took off down the dark, busy road. I cranked the car heater.

I made it to the right neighborhood in thirty minutes and began searching for the street. It was getting late and I wondered if Yoga Zen would even be open. Eventually I found the street and cruised down it looking for the studio, finding it pretty quickly. It was lit up, the windows covered in light blue curtains so that people couldn't see in. I parked in front at the curb and went to the door. I read a sign that said it was open until nine. I figured it must be almost that time, and I went inside.

There was a young girl working at the desk just inside the door. She smiled at me and said, "Hi, how are you?" in a thick Philly accent, "you" sounding like "yew."

"I'm here to see Camilla. Is she here?" I asked.

The girl said, "She's in the middle of a session, but she'll be done in about ten minutes."

"I'll wait," I said, and I sat in a cozy chair and examined the yoga mats and incense on display for sale across from me. It was a long ten minutes, and it was like waiting in an airport.

A stream of women came out of the door to my right when the workout was over. They all looked happy and serene and I could smell a sweet scent coming from the workout room, like vanilla and spice. I waited as they perused the yoga goods and made their ways out the door. Once they were all gone, the girl behind the desk said to me, "I'll go get her for you."

I waited with shaking hands, worried about how this would all go down.

D.D. came through the door with a curious look on her face until she recognized me. Then she held up a graceful hand and said, "I have nothing to say to you."

I felt anger but I suppressed it for the cause. I told her, "I just want to hear your side of things."

"How did you find me?" she said, cheeks flaring as red as her hair. "Never mind," she amended. "I just want you gone." She pointed at the exit and went back through to the workout room. I followed her and pushed on the door so she couldn't close it.

"D.D., I need to know. Talk to me," I said, trying not to sound like I thought she was a lying snake.

She released her side of the door and I stumbled as I fell into it. The studio was clean and soft-looking, with burning incense and candles all around. The walls were ivory and the wood floor had a shine that rivaled a newborn's eyes. She walked to the center of the room and turned to face me, then sat cross-legged on the floor. Her cheeks were still red, like she had eaten a chili pepper. "You won't believe me if I tell you, Blue Pen, but if you want to listen to the truth, then have a seat." She gestured at the floor across from her.

I did as she suggested and folded my hands in my lap. She put her palms on her knees and straightened her back, looking like she was still in session with her clients, but her dark eyes were full of fire. "What do you want to know?" she asked in a smooth voice.

"Everything. Why you did this to Nikki," I answered.

"I didn't do anything to him. I just couldn't keep his dirty little secret anymore," she said.

"You really believe he killed his wife?" I asked, trying to sound unbiased.

She blinked slowly and breathed deeply, then said, "I was tired of watching him be everyone's hero, including yours, when he done such a terrible thing. And him playing with people, like you, like he did with me."

"I don't feel like Nikki was ever playing with me, as you say," I told her.

"Of course you don't. He's good at what he does," she said.

I shifted uncomfortably on the hard floor. My ankle hurt from being pressed on the wood. "Tell me what happened."

"Why should I tell you?" she said. "You're not going to believe me. He has you all fooled."

I watched her silently, waiting her out. Her cheeks were back to their perfect pale hue and she slowly let her hair out of a bun, watching me all the while without blinking. Once her wavy hair fell around her face and tickled her shoulders, she smiled at me. "You poor thing. I'm doing you a favor. You just don't know it."

"Then enlighten me," I said.

She put her palms back on her knees as I shifted again, and I sensed that she was glad that I was so uncomfortable sitting on the studio floor while she was right at home. "You didn't used to be the star, you know," she said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She said, "I been at the Beacon for five years. I seen the good ones come and go. When I first started improv-ing, Ice was all over me. 'Let's be friends,' he'd say. He'd hold my hand and kiss my cheek and treat me like I was a goddess. I was taken in by all of it. I was who you are now." She puckered up her lips and blew a kiss at me, smiling afterwards. I felt the usual general weirdness that came with any contact with the woman. "After about a year," she continued, "He came onto me, and I loved it. We were lovers, secretly. Nobody at the Beacon knew anything. We told each other everything about our lives. I thought I knew him better than anyone. And one night while we were tangled up in bed in the afterglow, he told me about how he did it, how he killed her. He did it for the money, he said. Diane was a rich bitch. Those were his words, exactly. I didn't care. I had him, and he would never hurt me, or so I thought."

I changed legs and watched her, trying not to react until I had everything I wanted from her.

She said, "He stabbed her to death, and you know he didn't even get himself an alibi. He was clean about it, made it look like a break-in. He said she was awful to him, that he could just kill her and get all her money and live good for the rest of his life." She raised her eyebrows. "What do you think about that? Tell the truth."

I said, "Why did you turn him in?"

"You have to answer my question first," she said with a little smile.

"I don't understand any of it," I said, wanting to scream that she was a liar and I knew it.

She said, "He stopped fucking me around the time you showed up. I knew he was into you, he was going to do the same thing to you that he done to me. You're the new star, and he made you one. He was just biding his time till he could fuck you, too, then leave you high and dry when the next sweet, unknowing star came onto the scene. You know," she said, leaning toward me, fingertips twitching, "As soon as Joanie told him about you, and Astra said you and Joanie must be the most gifted readers because of that family thing you have, he was drooling about it. Kept talking about it in our pillow talks. He'd built you all up in his twisted little mind. That's when he stopped coming to see me after the Beacon closed each night. Then, here comes Joanie with her innocent big sister, and wham. He changes your life, makes you feel all special and I know you know what I mean. I seen it all the time when you been at the Beacon. And he just stares at you with all this lust every time you improv. He used to look at me that way."

She paused and looked me up and down. I said, "And?"

"I don't know how he got off watching you scribble in a book," she said.

By this time I couldn't keep quiet anymore. "He's just a friend to me. I'm married, D.D."

"Yeah?" she said, cocking her head and grinning like we shared a joke. "How's that marriage been going since you started coming to the Beacon?"

I thought of Cecil's face dripping with the red wine that I had spit on him.

She said, "I can tell what your answer is. Listen, I'm not telling you all this to make you feel bad. I just know what you're going through, believe me. After I seen him doing all the same things to you as he done to me, I had to come out before you really got hurt. I'm actually protecting you." She leaned back and shook her head back and forth, making her hair tumble to life again, and I knew she knew the effect of beauty it had, but it was so odd that she would want to appear glamorous in the middle of this dark conversation. Typical, but ever-so-strange.

"Now," she said, "You probably still don't believe me. Even as the women came and went and he paid them special attention, he was still only fucking me. But then they were never as good at improv-ing as I was. But go figure Ice and his fascination with your mind. He just loves all your writings, and I seen him reading through them over and over every night. And he was done with me, you get it?"

I said, "You're right. I don't believe you."

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply in and out several times. I didn't know what to do, feeling awkward and uncomfortable until she opened her eyes. She said, "Don't worry, I did you a favor." She patted my hands. "You better believe it, 'cause it's the truth."

My brain worked fast. If what she was saying were true, then she would have no reaction to what I said next. "What if I told you we already slept together?"

At this, her eyes bulged and her nostrils flared, and her fair skin deepened again. She stood up and shouted down at me, "Liar, you little bitch." She pointed at me. "I know you're lying."

I gratefully stood up too, but feared this beast-woman D.D. had instantly become. "I'm not lying. We're lovers," I said as calmly as I could.

She slapped me across the face, hard, and I fell back onto the floor. She stood over me with a hand balled into a fist, like she was about to jump on me and beat the demons out of me. Instead, much to my stinging cheek's relief, she pointed at the door and screamed, "Out! Now!"

I scrambled to my feet and ran out the studio door, not looking back. The girl at the desk had wide eyes as I slammed out the front door. I ran to my stolen car and drove off as fast as I could.

I drove around, certain that D.D. was lying about all of it. Why, you might be asking? Because of her reaction that we were sleeping together, how she responded to my lie. I quickly figured out the truth out of what she had told me. She had obviously been in love with Nikki, but he didn't return her affections. When I told her I'd been intimate with Nikki, something she'd never been able to achieve, she knew it had to be a lie because he'd never touched her. And if he had been with me, it would be the ultimate insult for her.

I had to be sure, so I headed back to the police station. I parked several blocks away and left the keys in the ignition, just as all had been when I'd stolen the thing.

It was late and I had to plead to get to see Nikki again, but the officer on duty let me in and I found Nikki still in the corner on the floor in a ball. His eyes were open seeing some things in his own mind, but what, I cannot imagine.

"Nikki," I said, and one of his cellmates laughed.

His eyes rolled over to me.

I said, "Come here, I need to talk to you."

He slowly stood like all his joints ached and he met me at the bars. "You're back, Pen," he said.

"I saw D.D. and she told me what I think is a pack of lies. How well did you know her, truthfully?"

His eyes were so dull, his body so limp of its usual vitality. "We used to be really good friends, but we grew apart. I even talked about Diane to her. She never talked about herself. I don't know much about her at all, or why she's doing this."

I told him, "I believe you, you know that, right?"

"It doesn't matter," he said. "Tomorrow they're taking me to a prison until my trial."

I said, "It does matter that I believe you. Look at me."

He reached out and touched my cheek. "You're right. It does matter that you believe me. I'm sorry. It matters more than anything, but I'm screwed. She'll testify, I have no alibi, and she knows all about it, the murder details. I'm screwed."

I took his hand and asked, "What can I do?"

His eyes brightened a bit as he said, "I know they closed the Beacon, but you can keep it alive. I don't know how, but you can find a way to keep the spirit of it alive, at least. You have the truest gift. You can do it, please, Cleo. Pen. That's all I live for, and I want to know that what happens there will go on."

I kissed his hand for once and told him I would do everything I could to keep the Beacon going.

When I left, I didn't know where to go. I didn't want to go home, though I hated to think what Belle would feel when Mommy didn't come back. But Cecil would make me a prisoner again. I could go to Barbie's, but instead I thought of all the people at the Beacon and how they no longer would have a place to go. I rode the bus to the Beacon and went to its door. I sat on the ground, and each time people came looking to go inside, I told them what was going on and that I was going to find a new place for us all. I said, "I'll tell Joanie, and she'll tell you," using Barbie's Beacon name so they would know who I was talking about. When the young woman who tried to improv singing came by, she gave me a flask of gin from her coat and thanked me, saying how awful she thought the whole thing was.

I drifted off to sleep in the alley after downing the gin and telling the last few late-nighters what was going on.

When I awoke, it was freezing, despite the coat and a dirty blanket I found over me. Then the greatest shock came when I saw the sun was already out. The sky was bright and lit, and I had slept right through a sunrise. I stared up at the little bit of blue sky between the buildings of the alley and said, "Late."

I heard rustling of clothes next to me and turned. The man with no name sat next to me and was staring at me with his intense attitude. He said, "You did well. I watched you and you did well. It's your path. I've been waiting for this."

"What do you mean?" I asked, feeling sick to my stomach.

"You took all this and kept us going. Your aura is pulsing with white and violet. It is time to change. You are going to lead now, and leave all you know behind." He handed me a bottle in a brown bag. "You need strength and perseverance."

I sipped from the bottle, and it was a nice red wine. I smiled up at him, then said, "I want to help."

"Course you do," he said. "And you are helping. Once you're feeling up to it, I'll take you somewhere safe, somewhere you can keep things going. You're safe with me."

My mind was empty and I sipped the wine again, listening to the sounds of the city day going on outside the alley. I was cold, but as I drank, I warmed up. I watched the little snippets of people's lives as they crossed the entrance of the alley, and I knew I was no longer a part of that world. I was in the shadows now. I was a shadow.

I drank more of the wine and the man with no name said, "You will be okay. I see how good it feels to you. We will go when you are all done."

I finished the bottle and then stood on uneasy footing. The man with no name held my elbow and led me down the other side of the alley, where I'd never been before. We walked through many such alleys and I thought that there must be a more direct route to where he was taking me, but I didn't care. He lit a cigar at one point and puffed as we walked. After a time we came upon a run-down building and he opened up a side door and gestured for me to go inside.

I walked over the threshold and into a dark hallway. He took my elbow again and led me down the hall to a door at the end. He opened it and I saw a courtyard between buildings in the middle of the city. And there they all were, waiting, sitting on the ground talking amongst themselves, and silence fell over them when they saw me. Swan, Rivers, 88 Fingers, Dream Weaver, Dynamite, the girl who'd given me her coat earlier, many others. But, of course, no D.D. They whispered, "There she is, the Blue Pen. The Blue Pen."

Then I saw Barbie and Reed watching me with quiet eyes, seeing me for the first time. I was home, I felt, and we gathered in a circle and I told them what had happened the day before, after I left my house. I didn't tell them about Cecil, just all that went down from when I saw Swan to when I last passed out at the door of the Beacon. Then I let all of it go as they discussed what could be done to help Nikki. As they talked, the man with no name told me, "Stay with me, if you care to. I will make sure you are safe, for you can clearly not go back to your life. I can see you think that."

I said, "I need to talk to Barbie."

"Of course you do," he said.

I gestured to Barbie to come to me, and we went to a corner of the courtyard. I asked her, "What is happening?"

She said, "You're realizing your potential. You need to go home and tell your family that everything is okay."

I shook my head. "I can't go back there."

She was quiet, studying me. She said, "What about your daughter?"

"I can't go back there," I repeated.

Barbie embraced both my arms and stared deeply into my eyes with her blue ray gaze. "You have to go home to her. You can't leave her. Cleo, don't do what Mom did. Don't let them control you."

I rubbed my face all over. It was dirty and it felt good to be dirty and cold, for that is how I felt inside thinking of Nikki in a prison for a crime he didn't commit, how I felt for all these people who had come here looking for a place to go, for someone to carry on the spirit of the Beacon, as Nikki had called it. I embraced her arms as well.

I said, "I can't do both and I never want to go back home again."

"Don't do it like this," she said. "It's not the right way."

"What is the right way?" I asked her. "Your way? You don't know what my private life is like. I don't even have one, except in my head. This is where I belong, making these people who accept me have a place to go. I'm not going home, ever again. And you never tell anyone where I've been. Barbie?"

She looked sad, like I'd disappointed her. "You want me to look your daughter in her beautiful eyes and say I don't know where you are?"

"You won't have to," I said. "Only Cecil will seek you out. Lie to them all."

"I can't do that," she said.

"Why not? You've been hiding yourself all your life. I'm asking you, as a sister. I can't go back home. Here is where I belong," I said.

"Why?" she asked, her face full of tension.

I whispered, "I woke up after dawn today. There is a reason for it."

She said, "Now you're seeing into things that aren't there."

"I've never woken after dawn, you know that," I said. I let go of her arms and repeated, "You know that."

She didn't speak for a long time, and said, "I won't tell, but I won't be a part of watching you go the way Mom did, either."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean I won't be a part of whatever you all decide. I'll go my own way from you," she said. Then she hugged me and our bodies were so close that I felt her warmth through her coat. "I love you, sister," she said, and then she and Reed walked out of the courtyard and out of my life forever.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

PARKER

Parker's ears were ringing from all the wine, and since Cleo had fallen silent, he felt the need to put on music. His stereo was in the living room. "One sec," he said, and went to find a good classical music CD. He popped in jazz instead, Miles Davis. He came back to the kitchen to see Cleo smiling with her eyes closed. He said, "You like the music?"

"Love it," she said. "I needed to hear some music. All these days, and no music. Makes me chill out." She was slurring.

"So what happened after that?" he asked as he uncorked the second bottle of wine.

"You wanted the story of why I was homeless, and now you know it."

"You never went home?" The cork came out with a bloop.

"Never."

"But what happened with all of the Beacon people?" he asked as he poured them both some wine.

She opened her eyes. "We continued on with our improv-ing, different people bringing alcohol. We moved around a lot. But the sad news is that Nikki was eventually convicted. He died in prison."

She had said it so casually that Parker, in his drunkenness, had almost missed it. "He went to prison and died?"

"I don't want to talk of all the details of how his trial went. It was sad, but Diane's family thought he did it, too, and had his assets frozen, so Nikki didn't get the best defense he could. I never saw him again, except in newspaper articles about the trial. I guess D.D. had some information that only the killer would know, things the police hadn't told even Nikki. I wondered sometimes if she had channeled it from Diane's spirit somehow, maybe she had actually gotten in touch with her when all the rest of us never could through some master. We all watched religiously for news about him. He didn't die until a couple of years ago. Heart failure. I imagine that it was a broken heart that killed him, and I know he knows I carried on the Beacon's tradition."

"So you did talk to him," Parker said, sitting down next to her.

"Not in this life, but once he was gone, we conversed quite a bit."

Parker took this in. His inner skeptic was crying out in pain, but he said, "So where have you been for the last twenty years?"

"I've been spreading the word to cities all around the country. There are little Beacon communities everywhere, each group improv-ing and keeping the spirit alive."

"What about your family?"

"They kept looking for me, but nobody I had contact with and who recognized me would ever tell. It's very underground, I guess you could say." She rubbed her forehead as if it hurt.

"Need some water?" Parker asked.

"No, no. I just need to use the restroom again. I'll be back in a moment." She drank the whole glass of her wine in a few swallows and almost fell when she stood. Parker jumped up and helped her to the bathroom, hoping that as she closed the door she would be okay.

He went back to the kitchen, wondering about the story he had heard over the last few days. It was more than he could ever have hoped for and he realized that Loretta Jones must know about this "underground" that Cleo was talking about. He remembered what Kindred had said about her, that people wanted her to write about them. He thought about the name Kindred, and was certain it was an improv name.

He remembered the beating he got in the Knockout Alley, and thought they must have been people protecting Cleo...But where did Parker really fit in? She had woken past dawn in his car and now was spilling her guts to him? Something didn't work, but then he heard her retching in the bathroom. He felt a pang of guilt for getting her so drunk. He had merely been sipping all night while she downed the drink between moments of her life revealed. The guilt was both that he took advantage of her alcoholism to get her to talk, and that he wanted more of the story still. Maybe he was as ruthless and reckless as Missy thought he was.

He wondered to himself, did he really believe in the supernatural existence that was Cleo's life? He had all the usual questions about the unknown as the next person, but he didn't think that Cleo was a medium, or that there were such things as mediums, right away. He usually thought that psychics were delusional at best, con artists at worst, but Cleo seemed to really believe what she said. He wanted more for the end of his story, and he needed it tonight before Loretta Jones tried to steal it from him tomorrow.

Was he ruthless? He did care about Cleo and didn't want anything bad to happen to her, but his style was to report unbiased. That is what, he believed, made him a popular writer. He portrayed things without a slant to the best of his abilities. He wanted to keep that up with this story, but he felt crunched at the moment. If Loretta got his story, she would make it all the ways it wasn't. She would use the poor, crazy woman angle. Or the amazing power of one woman to change the homeless people's lives angle. There would be some angle. Even the rich people's schizophrenic kid found angle. He didn't know what the media leech would do. He didn't want her to have any bit of it, but he was realizing that she did have at least some of it somehow.

He heard Cleo turn the shower on and Parker felt another pang. Was she okay? Maybe she'd gotten puke on herself. Maybe she just needed to bathe after talking about all that stuff. He probably shouldn't have plied her with so much booze, he thought again, and his own head spun a bit. He was more of a one or two drinks a night kind of a person. But he was also a do whatever it took to get a story kind of person. He had been shot at, had his car vandalized, and lost in a jungle for different stories in the past, and it seemed like giving Cleo booze wasn't a big deal comparatively. Now he wondered. Had he done something inherently bad?

He sipped on his wine, trying to write sentences in his head about what Cleo had told him. He thought of some good ones, accenting her experience, but then he felt bad exposing her. He needed to know why she had come to him, he decided as he emptied his wine glass. How had she found his article so fast? Sure, she was a magazine reader when she lived with Cecil, but was she still? Then he wondered about her power with these underground Beacons. Maybe they had all been on the lookout for her. His imagination ran wild.

The shower was still running after thirty minutes and he started to worry. Had she fallen in the shower? He looked at the cat curled up next to the pantry. Jack was sound asleep.

More time passed and Parker decided to go check on Cleo. He went to the bathroom door and knocked, but got no response. "Cleo?" he called out. Nothing.

He turned the knob, grateful that it was unlocked, and opened the door to the smell of feces and the sight of a human combusted.

Her jeans were on the floor in a hand towel, both covered with shit. There was crap all over the floor in little diarrhea puddles around the toilet and running over the tub rim. The smell was noxious, like a clogged sewer. He covered his nose and breathed through his mouth. The toilet was covered in dark red puke strewn from the lid to the base of the thing.

The shower curtain was half drawn, and he could see Cleo's legs at the end of the tub. She was lying down inside. He delicately stepped through the feces and pulled the shower curtain back.

Cleo was on her back, shirt still on, but without pants or panties, and the water was washing her belly and legs. Her eyes were closed.

"Cleo," he said loud enough to be heard over the sound of the shower. "Cleo, you okay?" He knew she wasn't, it was just the first thing he thought to say.

She didn't even stir. Parker looked over her legs, seeing little spots of dark matter on her thighs. He grabbed a washcloth and began to wipe her down until she was clean. He turned off the water and grabbed a towel. He paused, then pulled off her shirt and threw it in the pile where the soiled jeans and hand towel were. He turned off the shower.

"Cleo," he said, "Sit up."

She moaned, but did nothing.

"Cleo, please, I need to get you to bed." He tugged on her arms. She slowly rose from the pressure and folded her naked legs under her. Parker dried her off as well as he could, and took special care wiping around her closed eyes. He then grabbed her under the arms and hoisted her up to a standing position.

"Open your eyes and watch where you step," he said as he guided her feet over the rim of the tub. She acted like a puppet and followed his commands, eyes slit downward as she tried to avoid the piles of human waste on the floor. He led her from the bathroom to the second bedroom and told her to sit up on the bed. Her naked body slid to the side and she closed her eyes again.

Parker dug through Missy's clothes in a dresser and found a pair of loose flannel bottoms and a T-shirt with the tower of London on the front. He held her up as he slipped the T-shirt over her head, pulled her wet curls through the neck hole, and strung her arms through the sleeves. Then he dragged the pants up her legs and lifted her up against his body as he yanked the flannel over her butt.

Once done, she slumped back to her side, mumbling something that he couldn't understand. He dragged the quilt from under her limp body and covered her with it, then put her head on a pillow. He took a deep breath as he looked down at her, all safe and warm. Did she have alcohol poisoning? Should he call an ambulance?

He decided that she had most likely been this way before and that there was no need for such action. He felt yet another touch of guilt in realizing that it was his need of an ending to his story that kept him from taking medical action.

He cracked the bedroom door when he left and went to work on cleaning the bathroom. It took him thirty minutes to finish it all, and it was a nasty task. She had obviously shit herself when puking.

He deserved cleaning duty, he thought as he climbed down the fire escape and dropped the trash bag full of the soiled clothes and paper towels into a neighboring brownstone's trash bin.

It was hard to climb back up, but ever thoughtful of Loretta Jones' watchful eyes, he would take no other course.

He peeked back in on Cleo to see if she was okay. She was on her side, breathing easily. That didn't satisfy him, and although he had already had too much to drink, he poured himself another glass of wine and sat on the couch. He sat in silence, since the CD had stopped playing, and sipped. Jack hopped up on the couch and curled up next to him. Parker, anxious over the night's unfolding, grabbed Missy's picture from the mantle and set it on the coffee table. He knew Cleo would never wake and he could talk freely to her photo.

He said, "Maybe I went too far this time, Missy. She's a good person. I've enjoyed our time together. But what do I do with it? Do I write the story? How can I let her out, seeing what she did tonight...to my bathroom, to her body?"

Jack perked his ears up to Parker and gazed at him with round eyes. Missy's beautiful face did not reveal any answers.

"I have this Loretta Jones breathing down my neck. I hate over-used metaphors, but she's doing it."

He sipped as the phone rang, and he jumped, sloshing some wine onto his coffee table. He ran to the phone, worried that Cleo might be startled and start puking again.

"Hello?"

"Parker." It was Missy.

"I was just thinking about you," he said.

She said, "I called you earlier today."

"I wasn't home."

"She answered."

"She?" he asked, confused.

"That woman. Who is she?" Parker could hear barbwire in Missy's voice, and it quickly came to him that Missy called when Parker was at work. Cleo must have answered the phone.

"Oh," he said, not wanting her to think he had another woman, but also not wanting Missy to know he was housing a homeless woman in the name of a story.

"Who is she?" Her voice sounded tired and worried, like she had spent all day thinking about it.

"Why did you call earlier?" Parker asked.

"Does it matter?" Parker could imagine her pointy chin poking out as she tried to contain her anger, and he felt a thrill. She was jealous. That was good news for him, wasn't it?

"I've been drinking tonight," he said, not knowing why that was his answer. He figured that it was to explain the sound of his voice, which must be different than usual.

"With her?" Missy said. Her tone was tight.

"Yes," Parker said. "I was drinking with her. But it's a story. Missy, I really need to talk to you about all of this. I need your advice."

"Who is she?"

"What did she say to you when you called?"

"She said you were her portal. What the hell does that mean?"

Parker rubbed his lips. "Will you help me figure out what to do?"

Missy paused, then said, "Okay," in a tight voice, like she didn't believe him.

Parker told her a short version of what happened, spending the most time on how he needed to protect Cleo from Loretta Jones, and wrapped it up with her defecating and puking all over his bathroom. He finished with, "I don't know what the right thing to do is."

Missy said, "You know what I think?"

"What?"

She sighed. "Parker, I was really jealous when she picked up."

He felt a grin creep over his lips, but he covered by saying, "I'd love to know what you think I should do."

"She's in need of help. Call the daughter."

"What?" Parker's smile ebbed.

"She can't take care of herself. Call the daughter and tell her what's going on."

Parker sipped his wine and fought the urge to explain how that would make him have to drop his story, but then Missy surprised him.

"I know you want to have the story, but think. If you can reunite them, then there is a good story for you."

"I'm not into a story with an end that I made happen," he said, meaning it.

"It doesn't end there, for them. Just for you. And that will come through in your story."

He thought about this for a moment. It was true, he decided, and he said, "I have the daughter's phone number at her hotel."

"I know. You already told me that."

"I did?"

"Parker, just call her. Tell her to come over early tomorrow. There will be some discomfort, but if this Cleo is as whacked as you make her sound, then maybe she needs help."

"She isn't whacked." He thought of her shitty handprint on the wall of his bathroom as he scrubbed it off.

"You should help her. That's all I'm saying. And it will still be a story of you helping her."

"Dammit Missy. I don't want to write that I'm some hero. I just want to –"

She cut him off, saying, "To hell with what you want to do to make some art in writing. She's sick and you need to help her."

"Then why did you say it would be a story of helping her?" His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears.

"I said that because she needs help and I thought that was what would get through to you, Parker."

He sat down on the couch, closing his eyes. "You think I'm so shallow about my job that you had to use my wanting to get a story to make me do the right thing? I know the right thing, Missy. I know it." He hung up on her.

He held the phone, hoping she'd call back. She didn't, and he leaned back on the couch. Jack gave him more curious eyes, and Parker dug in his pocket and pulled out Belle's card. How could he let Cleo go back on the streets after what he'd seen?

He read the number off the back of Belle's card out loud, as though that would make a difference. He dialed the number, thinking of how Cleo's legs looked sticking out from behind the shower curtain. How could he let her go with any conscience?

A sleepy voice said, "Hello?"

"Belle," he said. "It's Parker."

"Parker from the magazine?" Her voice sounded more alert.

"Yeah."

"What are you calling for this late?"

"I want you to meet me at my place at seven in the morning. I'll have Cleo here."

He could hear her shock. "At your place? You have her?"

"Not now," he said, "But I will by that time."

She paused, and said, "You will?" in a weak voice.

"Why do you want to find her so badly?"

"She's my mom. I need to...see her, talk to her."

"Be here at seven." He gave her his address, and after he hung up, he felt relieved. Had he done the ever-elusive right thing?

Parker looked in on Cleo one more time before going to bed. She was still lying on her side, sleeping deeply. He said to her, "I hope you don't hate me tomorrow."

He went to his own bed and couldn't fall asleep. She might leave. She had told him what he wanted to know. She might be embarrassed by her performance in his bathroom. He decided to go back out to the living room and sit on the couch. Once there, he thought to turn on the TV, but he didn't want to wake her. Now, sound seemed more delicate, like he was dealing with a baby. He went to the kitchen and made some coffee, and once it was done he poured a cup and sat on the couch and read his thriller. At every unexpected turn of the novel, he checked in on Cleo, and she was asleep. He was still nervous, and after drinking one pot of coffee, he made another.

Around four in the morning, he wanted to call Missy and apologize for hanging up on her. He fought the urge, but he knew she was right about what he should do, and that was why he was doing it. He checked in on Cleo again, and she was snoring softly, like how Jack purred.

Jack was interested in why the person was up all night. He kept wandering around and coming up to Parker on the couch, giving him a rumbling "mah," then rolling around on the floor, purring. Parker kept reading his thriller throughout, but couldn't follow it. The coffee was making him edgy. It was four, shouldn't Cleo be awake?

Just before sunrise, he heard her groan from the second bedroom. He sat at attention, like a soldier waiting for a war call. He waited, but Cleo went to the bathroom first and spent a long time in there. He hoped she wasn't giving an encore of last night's performance, but as the sky lightened, she came out and walked into the living room, rubbing her eyes. She was wearing the clothes she had come in, the long, black skirt and purple sweater with the brightly colored fish on it.

"Reporter," she said, "What are you doing awake?"

"Couldn't sleep."

"That wine get you like it got me?"

"I can't go to sleep when I've drank too much," he said.

Cleo sat next to him on the couch and he scooted over. She slung both arms around the back of the couch and said, "Jack must have been very curious about a house with a person awake in it all night. Did he keep you company?"

"Him and the book I'm reading."

She eyed his coffee cup. "I need some of that. To be honest, I don't remember anything but you helping me to the bathroom." She rose slowly and went to the kitchen, like a sick sloth, Parker thought. He wondered if she remembered more than that, but he wasn't going to call her on it. She came back with a steaming mug and sat next to him, saying, "I forgot to tell you. Your woman called yesterday when you were gone. I could tell she didn't like the sound of another woman in the house."

"She called late last night, too."

"That really why you're up all night?"

"She has that affect on me," he said.

"Patrick kept me up a lot of nights, but oddly, when I was thinking of him, I never could sleep, yet felt rested in the morning."

Parker was exhausted, but didn't say so. He answered with, "I talk to her picture. That one, there." He pointed at the photograph that he had put back on the mantle.

"And she called you last night," Cleo said. "She must have known."

"She sounded jealous that a woman answered the phone yesterday. Why did you answer my phone?"

"I thought it was you calling."

"Why?"

She seemed stumped to answer and after a moment and a sip of coffee, she said, "You seemed a lonely fellow."

"I'm not lonely," he said as quickly as he thought it. "Just miss her."

Cleo looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. "And did you tell her that?"

"No," he said. "I hung up on her."

"Why?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You said you'd spill your secrets once I'd told you my story. Now it's your turn."

Parker glanced at a clock on the mantle. It would be fifteen minutes until Belle came. He said, "I write stories. I try to write them without a slant, without bias."

"I would think you are still drunk."

"I don't usually drink as much as we've been doing."

"What are you hiding?" she said, touching her hair.

"You don't remember anything about last night before you passed out?"

He saw her wrinkled skin turn a darker hue. "I know you saw me naked. Believe me, a woman my age doesn't want to be seen naked by a young man. Not only is it embarrassing, but it will disillusion you as to what will come to pass for you when you are my age."

He wondered if she remembered anything else about it. He recalled the smell, that awful smell, and didn't feel bad anymore. He said, "Make another quiche, Blue Pen."

She grinned, then laughed, holding her belly. "You call me the Blue Pen? That is just great, I have to tell you. But I can't make another quiche. There aren't enough eggs,"

He glanced at the clock. "I'm hungry, woman. You're a good cook. Anything you can make?"

"Let's go have some breakfast somewhere."

This wasn't what she was supposed to say. She was supposed to be excited about cooking something. Parker told her, "Nah, I don't want to go out. Let's just sip coffee, then."

Cleo's blue eyes changed like a shutter had been put over their color. "Something is different."

"What do you mean?"

"You keep looking at that clock. Now you want me to cook."

Parker looked at the clock again, but there was a knock at the door. Belle was early.

He touched her shoulder and said, "It's what I think is for the best, Cleo."

Her lips parted, but the question never came.

Parker went to his door and opened it to a perfectly groomed Belle wringing her hands and biting her lip. She said, "Is she here?"

Parker gestured to Cleo, who had stood up and had covered her cheeks with her hands.

Belle took one step inside, but stopped, like she'd been pushed from moving further by a strong wind. "Mom?"

Cleo started swaying and Parker grabbed Jack as he made a run for the open doorway. He held the gray as it twisted and purred. He closed the door.

The two women stared at each other until Cleo broke the tension by walking over to Belle and touching her hair. "You're more beautiful than in pictures," she said.

"What pictures?" Belle said.

"In the paper last time I was in Philly. All that work you do for the homeless." Cleo let go of Belle's hair. "With him."

"With Dad?"

Cleo's sense of wonder dried up and she turned to Parker, her face filling with rage, like he had tried to choke her.

"Why did you do this to me?" She hissed out the words. "This isn't how it was supposed to go. You were supposed to help me." She looked like she had when he insulted her in his car that first, unforgettable morning.

"I am helping you," he said. Jack went completely limp, purring stopped, and he watched Cleo.

Cleo pointed at him, fingernail almost hitting his nose. "You don't know what you've done."

"Mom," Belle said, "You are with me now. It's safe. You need to come with me."

Cleo turned back to Belle. "With you? Where? Why would I do that?"

Belle was a little taller than Cleo, and she held her mother's shoulders and looked down into her eyes. "Please, I've been looking for you for years. I've heard about you, but could never catch up. Nothing bad will happen if you just come with me, please. Mom?"

Cleo bowed her head and rubbed her eyes, and Parker could see dampness on her cheeks. She shook her head, muttering, "Not like this. I was never supposed to see you again." She pulled back from Belle and glared at Parker again. "Look what you've done. This isn't what was supposed to..." She sniffled and rubbed her eyes again.

Parker let Jack slip out of his hands. "What was I supposed to do, exactly?"

Cleo's hands shot out, but didn't touch him. "Not this!" she yelled, her voice coming out scratchy and hoarse, like she had used every bit of fight in her to explain with those simple words.

Belle took Cleo's arms again and said, "Come on, Mom. We have to go."

"Have to?" Cleo asked, the fight going out of her as fast as it came.

"Yes, I have a car outside. Come with me, please. You're safe now."

"I've always been safe," she said.

"Come."

Cleo lowered her head and allowed herself to be led out into the hallway. She looked back at Parker with one last expression of hatred. He had completely betrayed her confidence.

Parker was beat, wondering if he had done the right thing, after all. What had Cleo really wanted from him?

He took the dirty brown blanket Cleo had come with off of the chair back in the kitchen and almost threw it out, but decided to toss it in the washer, instead.

He went to bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

When he awoke at two in the afternoon, Jack was rumbling by his feet at the foot of the bed. "Cat," he said, his voice sounding strained.

He got up, Jack trailing after him, and made some coffee. The gray begged him with loud, "Mah-Mahhhh," for food, and Parker gave him half a can of tuna.

He couldn't keep this little beast, and he got Belle's number again and called her.

"Parker, hi," she said, answering on the second ring and recognizing his voice.

"How is she?"

"I can't really talk right now."

"She left her cat here. Can you pick it up? Or should I bring it to you?"

She said, "Oh, that little gray kitten? I can send a driver to pick it up, sorry about that."

"Nothing to apologize for."

"Okay, I'll send him now. Thanks again, you have no idea what this means to me."

A man came about twenty minutes later and Parker handed over the wiggly cat. The man said, "No carrier?"

"No, she brought it as is."

The man perched Jack in the crook of his arm and said, "Have a nice day," sounding displeased that he had to chauffer a loose cat.

It was close to three, and Parker remembered that Loretta Jones was expecting him at four. Now, he thought, came the fun part.

He called the network she worked for and asked to speak with her.

"What is this regarding?" the woman asked.

"I'm supposed to be interviewed by her today. Name's Parker Townes."

"One moment."

He waited, listening to some awful music, and then Loretta's voice came on the line.

"I hope you're not calling to bail out on me, Mr. Townes."

"You're a mind reader."

"You know what this means. I'm calling the daughter if you're not here. I meant my threat."

"Already did that for you, Ms. Jones."

Silence on the other end, then, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"We had a nice little family reunion this morning. Surprised you didn't know about it already."

More silence. "I'm still doing the story."

"Good luck with that," he said, hanging up on her. It was his day to hang up on women, he thought, as he whistled to his empty apartment. He grinned as he stripped off his clothes and took a shower. He'd be going into the office late to get started writing the story, but there really was no time like the present.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Parker's article was a hit. Loretta hadn't done the story, after all, and his piece was fresh and new and exciting, or so he was told. The Dean was thrilled by the response the article was getting and told Parker he might get yet another award. It secretly pleased Parker that the Dean said this in front of Fred Schnieder, who pinched his lips together and left the room.

On his way home from work the Friday following the weekend the article came out, Parker was in high spirits. Missy was coming to visit tomorrow, and who knew what would happen. Since Parker had taken her advice about calling Belle, Missy had called about once a week and they had mostly nice conversations. After she read the Cleo article, she called to say she would fly out for a few days, and maybe they could do some serious talking. Admittedly, Parker wasn't as interested in the talking as much as what he hoped would come after it.

Once at his apartment door, he slipped the key in the lock and turned, but there was a looseness in the feel of it. His door was unlocked. Had he forgotten to lock it?

He slowly opened the door as a gray blur came running at him. He blocked its approach with his feet and slammed the door behind him, stunned to see Cleo sitting on his couch.

"What the hell?" popped out of his mouth before he could think.

She was wearing a new pair of black pants and a soft-looking green sweater. Her clean hair was pulled up in a ponytail, black curls cascading out around her shoulders.

She said, "I read your article." She smiled.

"How did you get in here?" Jack started rubbing against his legs, weaving a figure eight in between his frozen feet.

"With your key. I had to return your belongings."

"What do you mean?"

"Come in, don't just stand there."

He slowly walked toward her like there might be a snake in the room.

She patted the couch next to her.

He sat down, saying, "You look nice."

"Thanks. I like a compliment. Here's your house key." She dropped a brass key on the coffee table. A mental "oh" rode through Parker. The key in Cleo's blue shorts had been his, stolen from him in Knockout Alley. She continued, "I pitched the car key, hope you don't mind. They were all just protecting me, you know. The people you talked to, the ones that jumped you in that alley. And I really shouldn't refer to your cat as a belonging, I suppose."

"He's your cat."

"He's your cat, missed you like crazy."

Parker watched Jack rub his face on one of the mermaid-carved legs of the coffee table, not sure what to say.

"In your article," Cleo said, "You wanted to know why I had picked you to tell my story to, that you felt there was more to my intentions, but would never know. I'm here to fill in that last little gap for you."

"Wait," Parker said. "Where do you live now? You're all dressed up."

"I live with Belle, at the moment. I've seen them all again, and that was harder that I ever thought it would be. Especially Cecil. They all think I'm a whacko, of course. They want me to take medicines and see doctors. All except for Barbie."

"You've seen her, too?"

"She still has her little shop down in Powelton. Mom's dead, died from cancer. And my grandparents."

"So you're off the streets."

"That part of my life is over, thanks to you." She didn't sound bitter, just matter-of-fact, as though mentioning graduating from high school.

"Do they know you're here?"

"Well," she said, eyes shifting to Jack, "I borrowed the car without asking or explaining where I was going. Is it theft if it's your daughter's car?"

"What about Cecil?"

"Oh," she waved a hand. "I guess he forgave me for spitting wine in his face. I don't want to talk about seeing him again, except to say I was still angry with you when it happened. He's done well for himself, you know."

Parker did know. He'd done his research on the family while writing his story.

She said, "You're right that there was more to our chance meeting. I had been studying you. I had read your articles for a year. Your name caught my attention as much as your writing."

"My name?"

"Parker Townes. A lot like Patrick Downes, don't you see? This is what Belle's doctor would call my 'magical thinking.'" She grinned. "But I really liked the way you wrote, and I figured that I could get you to spread the word about the Beacon lifestyle, get more people into it." She looked at Jack as he hopped onto the couch and curled up between them, spreading and closing his claws on the fabric. She stroked his purring head. "It was an accident that I slept past dawn in your car. I had already slept in it a few times, but then there was that morning. I knew it meant something, because the only other time I slept past dawn, my life completely changed. I figured after it happened that my life was ready to change again, and it did. Just not in the direction I was expecting. On the streets, then off. I was very angry at you, but now I understand that this was the change that was coming for me, not the other things I had envisioned." She patted his hand. "I can do this, though."

"I'm glad you're okay." He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"That's all for us, I'm afraid. I have to get back to Philly before they all think I ran away again."

"What about Barbie? What was it like seeing her again?"

Cleo stopped petting Jack and leaned her head back, closing her eyes. "She doesn't think I'm crazy, at least." She opened her eyes and looked at Parker. "Do you?"

That was a question he didn't want to answer. "I mean, what happened when you saw her again, exactly?"

"Your story's over and you are avoiding my question." Her eyes watched him, awaiting a jury foreman to declare her innocent or guilty.

"I just report. I don't make judgment calls."

"Ah, yes. The unbiased angle. The no-angle angle. Clever, reporter." She stood up, saying, "Now you keep this cat. He picked you, and that is a great honor." She waved when at the door and walked out, closing it gently behind her.

Jack gazed up at him and let out a soft, "Mah."

The next morning, Parker got out of bed, tripped on a hungry cat, almost fell, and made his way to his bathroom to shower. After the refreshing hot stream of water, he toweled off, excited beyond words about picking Missy up at the airport in a few hours. Jack was sitting on the bathroom windowsill, still as a rock, watching something outside. "What do you see, cat?" He put the towel around his waist and peeked out the window.

He saw birds fluttering about on the sidewalk below. People walked to and from, all wrapped up in the freezing weather. From a distance, all the cars looked clean and well-kept. Sunlight was filtering through the street, making the brick buildings a beautiful color. Parker tried to come up with the right adjective to describe the hue, but nothing came to him. He watched a little longer, curious as to what the little kitten found so fascinating. To someone on the street, it would look like a ritual of a man and his cat who always took the time each morning to look around and greet the day with fresh eyes.

The End

