​Dana pressed her back against the wall of the cave, her chest heaving with the ragged breath of a dragon. Running was a natural reaction when she saw the lunatic in the backyard. His orange jumpsuit gave away his threat, his origin, and maybe his intent. The man looked straight at her through a face covered with mud. She heard him roar, dropped her trowel, and ran like a gazelle.
This cave isn’t good, she thought. It’s the perfect place for a convict to hide. He’ll kill me if he finds me… with just his bare hands. She didn’t believe he’d have a weapon but the size of the man qualified as deadly force. She saw the anger in his beady eyes, even from thirty yards away.
As her breathing slowed, Dana slid down the rock wall to sit on the cold earth. She dared to speak aloud. “I need a cell phone, a neighbor, the police, someone!” Her words echoed in the small chamber like a dead bell at noon. How long should I wait here? What if he’s standing at the mouth of the cave when I climb out?
Her husband Gil would be home in an hour, she knew, and his wife’s absence would alarm him. Dinner, a beautiful roast beef, simmered on the stove. She had set the table with flowers and a sprinkle of confetti, ready to share the good news. Dana was pregnant, after years of trying, after years of crying. Gil would be over-the-top with excitement. How can such a great day go so wrong?
A cold drip on her bare thigh startled Dana. The cave was a wet one, filled with stalactites suspended from the ceiling like accusing fingers. She and Gil had discovered the cave behind their neighborhood on a romantic walk early last month. Its existence wasn’t a surprise; the landscape of East Tennessee buckled in valleys large and small, most pockmarked with small caverns and caves. But this cave is special, she reminded herself. She and Gil had made love on the cold floor and, according to her calculations, that was the day she got pregnant.
Another drip on her thigh, but this one from her jaw. Dana’s tears streamed down her face, scattering among her long curls and dripping from her chin in a flowing river. The tears of fear, she thought. I’ll use that in a poem someday. A published poet with quite a bit of notoriety, at least in the southeast, Dana’s thinking was always in stanzas.
She chided herself. This no time for poetry, Dana! Think! Make a plan! In that instant, a terrible realization struck her, and she instantly knew the premonition was true. She spoke aloud, “He’s in my house! He found Gil’s gun! Oh, please, God, no!” The echo in the chamber seemed to confirm her suspicion. Dana pondered ways to stop her husband from coming home and confronting the man. “Gil! Have a late meeting! Get caught in traffic! Anything!”
The skeleton of a plan came together in her mind. Okay, get out of here. Run down the hill to Ashley Acres, away from the house. Knock on the first door and pray they answer. Right? Right.
She crept slowly, this time avoiding the flows of mud inside the cave, Dana made her way to the mid-summer light. Ten feet from the small opening, she crouched and pressed her back against the wall once again, to listen. She heard birds chirp, the sound of the wind, and if that’s what it was, it swished the tall grass in the field surrounding the cavern. There were no human sounds for the five minutes she stayed on high alert. Dana tiptoed closer to the cave’s exit and soon, her head peeked into the afternoon sun.
Go now! Run! She veered to the left, toward the back of a row of brick houses at the bottom of an ivy-covered slope. Uh-oh, this hill is steeper than I remember, she thought with a start, but determination is the great motivator and Dana’s fear made her a Wonder Woman.
The beating of her heart spread to every cell of her body, driving her legs to run faster. She fell spread-eagle, face-first, running down the slope but lost no momentum, rolling and scrambling to the bottom.
Dana zig-zagged desperately through the toddler toys that littered the back lawn of the red-brick house, reaching the back door in a panic. She knocked with both fists with a frantic rat-a-tat motion. A small boy wearing a stained baby-blue shirt ran to the French door and pressed his belly against the glass. Dana heard his small voice. “Mommy, a lady is here.” There was no response from within the house.
Dana was bent over in exhaustion, praying in silence, when a pain in her abdomen sent her to the ground, writhing. “Oh, God, I’m losing the baby,” she muttered, instantly jumping to the worst possible conclusion. Please, please open the door, little boy!
She shouted through the glass. “Go get your Mommy! I need help!” The boy didn’t move except to slide his belly back and forth on the smooth glass, staring at Dana with wide eyes. In a full-blown panic, she had a thought, maybe a brilliant thought. The door could be open! Get up! Turn the knob!
Still bent forward, holding her belly as tight as she could, Dana reached up to try to knob. It turned. Grunting with continued pain, she rushed through a kitchen and toward what she assumed would be the living room of the house. What Dana found was a shock – a woman, tied to a white ladder-back chair, duct tape wrapped every inch of her thighs, chest, and shoulders, and a final wrap of tape covering her mouth. Dana stood up, holding her belly, as the woman shook her head no.
The room was a mess. A struggle, a fight, she thought, and the stress of danger pounded in Dana’s head, reaching the tip of her nose. Her frantic eyes darted to the dark hall on the far-right wall as she crept toward the woman, trying to be silent. Dana whispered, “Are you hurt?” Hysterically, the woman shook her head no, slinging strings of auburn hair across her face. Her eyes widened as she jerked her head toward the back door. The boy… she means the boy. “Whoever did this… are they still here?” The woman’s head bobbed a frantic yes and Dana froze. Get out! Get help! “Do you want me to take your boy?” Again, a bobbing yes from the captive woman.
Dana tiptoed into the kitchen, put a finger on her lips to shush the child, and took his hand. The toddler jerked away and yelled, “No strangers!” Not understanding it would be the worst thing to do, Dana flashed a stern look and grabbed his hand roughly, sending the boy into a fit of screaming. The fear sent waves of pain through Dana’s belly and she cried out, crouching over and grabbing her abdomen. The boy ran to his mother, wailing. “Mommy! She steal me!”
I have to go without him, she convinced herself. She paused to wipe her tears and gather an inventory of courage. Just her hand touched the knob, a voice behind her boomed, “Well, well! It’s the flower lady from up the hill!” Dana turned toward the voice and the business-end of a Smith and Wesson nine-millimeter. She immediately recognized the gun as Gil’s and her mind rushed in anxious thoughts. And he’s wearing Gil’s favorite sweatshirt!
By instinct, Dana raised her hands in the air, but a stab of pain sent her kneeling to a crouch and her arms cradled her belly. She felt wetness on her leg and assumed she had wet her pants. “Sir, no! Don’t shoot!” she pleaded. Then she saw blood dripping onto the beige tile and collapsed onto the kitchen floor.
When Dana awoke, she was sitting in a chair in the living room, her mouth covered by duct tape. In fuzzy vision, she saw multiple wraps of tape around her shoulders and thighs and felt an odd pull of the muscles in her back and shoulders. Just like the woman, tape held her ankles to the chair legs and her hands were bound behind the chair. She was facing the woman, and beside her, the tearful, taped-down toddler.
Though Dana dreaded to confirm what was happening otherwise, she glanced down to see clots of blood oozing between the wraps of tape on her upper thighs. Sorrow enveloped her and a flood of tears began. Miscarriage… oh, God, please, no! Dana’s heart pounded in misery and pain.
Help! Somebody! She willed herself to concoct a plan, a way to escape and find Gil. He’s home from work by now, he’s seen the table setting and dinner on the stove… and can’t find me. Did he call the police? In a rush of logic, she realized the police couldn’t help, either. They’d never think to find her here and, maybe, they had convinced Gil that his wife had left on her own, ran away with another man or something insane.
The sun had fallen behind the mountain and dusk would cover the valley within the hour. She prayed that the man, the now-armed convict, planned to wait for darkness and leave. Surely he has a destination in mind, she thought. He won’t stay here forever. But if nobody comes to this house, it won’t matter at all!
Her thoughts turned into pleading prayers. Because faith hadn’t been the driving force in her life, she felt pangs of guilt in calling on God now, but perhaps it would help, Dana rationalized. God is my only hope! Her throat squeezed narrow in diameter. But why did he take my baby? She closed her eyes, pressing out tears. Weakness drained her, shrank her heart and the core of her soul.
Dana connected with the other woman with wide eyes. Together, they cried, communicating in a way that words couldn’t equal. She nodded to the blood in Dana’s lap and motioned sympathy. Dana motioned to the boy and did the same. It was fear, and love, that united them.
Dana tried to get inside Gil’s head, anticipate his actions but knew he would never pinpoint her location. How could he know? Snatches of memory of the run to the cave returned, and a thought came in a flash. Maybe she had left a clue… what happened to her gardening gloves? Had she removed them along the way? Lost them in the ivy on the hill? Would Gil, maybe the police, find her Hansel and Gretel trail?
She realized the news of an escaped convict, probably from Harvey Mountain Prison in nearby Harriman, Tennessee, would be on TV and buzzing on the police radar. Maybe they would put two and two together and try to get inside her head, follow her trail, and see this house as an obvious choice for escape.
A phone rang in the kitchen, breaking the silence downstairs. It wasn’t a cell phone but the landline phone on the wall. The woman’s eyes widened, staring straight into Dana’s. Commotion at the top of the stairs startled her, and by the second ring, the man spun into the living room and stomped toward the kitchen. He screamed, apparently addressing the telephone, “Hang up, you sonofabitch!” and Dana heard the hammer of the gun pull back.
After four rings, there was a long, low beep, then a chirpy female spoke, leaving a message. “Lois, I will be a few minutes late but I’ll be there by seven-thirty, no later. I had to feed Elise. She was too hungry to wait. But we’re both looking forward to your yummy spaghetti! See you soon, dear!”
Relief swam through Dana’s body. Somebody’s coming! We’re saved! It was a short-term relief, broken by the sound of the man’s stomping footsteps into the living room. He violently ripped the tape from the woman’s mouth. “Who was that?” he boomed.
“My friend and she’s a cop! She carries a gun!” Dana wondered if it was the truth or a darn-good lie.
Though Dana was facing the man’s backside, she could tell he was glaring into the woman’s eyes because hers glared back at him, filled with anger rather than fear.
“What’s the damn friend’s name?” he demanded.
“Jane.” The woman spit the word at the man and maintained the angry stare.
Taking a step to the right, he ripped the tape from the boy’s face. “Who is Jane?” he screamed.
“Elise my friend,” the boy said precociously.
“Does Jane have a gun?” His gruff voice had risen an octave.
“She shot Daddy in the yeg.”
A noticeable stiffening of the man’s body sent Dana’s fear level spiraling. The gun, in his hand but held low and beside his leg, raised to point to the woman’s head. She closed her eyes but her lips trembled as if held captive in a freezer. “Look at me!” he shouted. The woman’s eyes opened. Fearless, almost calm. “Call her. Call this friend and tell her not to come. I’m untying you but, lady, if you try something, I’ll shoot. And I’ll shoot the kid, too. Understand?”
Tears welled in the woman’s eyes. Lois. Her name is Lois. That’s what her friend called her in the message. Somehow, Dana found it calming to know her name.
The man rushed to the kitchen; Dana assumed he was in search of a knife. While he was out of the room, the woman whispered, “I think I know how to tell her, with a code. Jane can save us.”
In the man’s rush to cut through the multiple layers of duct tape, he nicked Lois’ bare thigh with the knife. She cried out in pain and her son’s reaction to the sight of blood was dramatic and as loud as it could be through the tape on his mouth. As blood flowed, Lois’ eyes widened. She was obviously in pain and Dana tried to communicate encouragement with frantic nodding of her head, up and down in double-time.
Lois limped to the phone as the man held the gun to the back of her head. Dana overheard snippets of the conversation with her friend. Lois asked, “Are you going to be late because of an emergency, Jane?” and paused. “Oh yes, me, and Darren, too. But I have to cancel the spaghetti dinner. Jane, honey, I’ve been tied up all afternoon, couldn’t get to the kitchen.” Another pause, then Lois’ voice rose an octave. “Yes, yes. Exactly.” Short pauses between convincing affirmations, “Uh-huh,” and “Absolutely,” and lastly, “That would be great” triggered hope that her friend had caught on and was asking the right questions.
Suddenly, an exaggerated grunt escaped Lois’ lips, and she rushed through the exclamation, “I’ve got to go! Now!”
The man boomed, “Did you tell her something? Why did you say yes so much?”
“Jane likes to chat. That was all to get her off the phone… uh, sir.”
When Lois entered the room, the man’s gun at her head, she flashed a wide smile. Five minutes later, just as the man smoothed the final piece of duct tape over Lois’ mouth, the door burst open and a woman, Amazon-size, took a marksman’s stance with her gun pointed straight at the convict. He had set his gun aside to re-wrap his prisoner and bounded toward it, jumping between the facing chairs.
“Freeze!” the Amazon woman shouted. Sirens shrieked in the background, increasing in volume. The man stumbled, but reached the gun and twisted to stand, pointing the gun against Lois’ temple. “Don’t do it!” Amazon Jane said.
“I will!” the man screamed, glaring at the confident vigilante. Dana noticed the fear in the convict’s eyes and saw his hand shake. The boy was screaming behind the tape and Amazon Jane glanced at him.
In Dana’s distorted mind, the bullet flew in slow motion, and she saw the criminal fall backward at half-speed. He fired his gun, but the bullet hit the ceiling, showering the scene with sheetrock dust. Her fear brought a heightened awareness, she thought, as she saw the bullet tear every thread in Gil’s sweatshirt, a bullet straight through the printed Tennessee logo in the middle of the chest. In slow motion, blood gurgled from the hole and the man’s arms fell to the floor, limp. The silence afterward was deafening. Even the boy was quiet.
Dana fainted.
She woke up in the hospital with Gil squashed beside her on a gurney. “Hi! Welcome back, my lovely, lovely Dana.”
His goofy smile warmed her heart. With her first thought, she asked, “The baby?”
The doctors had advised Gil to stay upbeat, downplay the disappointment Dana was sure to feel. “We’ll make another baby, sweetie. I’m just glad you’re safe.”
With her second thought, she asked, “Lois and the boy?” Her voice was more like the squeak of an antique door.
“We have new friends, including Jane. And she’s a handy friend to have! A real-life hero.”
“But our baby!” Dana’s wail filled the emergency ward and tears began a trail on her cheeks.
---------------------  11 MONTHS LATER  ---------------------
 
“She’s beautiful, Gil, and perfectly healthy. I’m so happy to name her Jane.”
“We’re blessed with a lucky cave and you, sweetheart. You’re a tough cookie, strong all the way through a difficult pregnancy.”
The baby woke up just moments before Jane knocked on the door of the hospital room. Decked out in her full-dress police uniform, she looked even larger, taller, more like a bad-ass cop. She held a massive bouquet of daisies. “Congrats, you two! Or I should say you three. Now let me see my namesake!”

Wendy Janes lives in London with her husband and youngest son. Taking inspiration from real life, she turns the everyday, the poignant, the surprising and the amusing into novels, short stories and, on occasion, poetry. When not writing, she works as a proofreader and as a caseworker for the National Autistic Society’s Education Rights Service. www.wendyproof.co.uk

​Across the small dining table sits the successful businessman who used to be Audrey’s best friend and confidant. But now Dylan’s expensive aftershave, designer clothes and new haircut have made her big brother almost a stranger to her.
Dylan’s fiancée is making polite conversation with Audrey’s mum. Audrey breathes in the young woman’s familiar light perfume, and admires her carefully applied make-up, perfect lacquered layers of dark hair, and ruffle-front blouse. She wonders, not for the first time, what Helena must make of her and her mum in their tiny London council flat: a plain seventeen-year-old schoolgirl and a dowdy middle-aged widow. Dylan had been as unremarkable as Audrey and her mum when he’d met Helena at university, five years ago. How had Helena transformed the boy into the man he is today? How could someone so sophisticated have fallen for her brother? It’s easy for Audrey to see why Dylan fell in love with Helena.
“We have news,” says Dylan as they finish the remains of Sunday lunch. “We’re going to buy a place together. We’ve found a two-bed that’s on the Tube line. Money-wise it might be a squeeze but as long as we’re careful we can make the mortgage payments.”
Audrey matches Dylan and Helena’s grins as they finish each other’s sentences in their eagerness to describe the house they’ve put in an offer for.
“You’re very quiet, Mum. I thought you’d be pleased for us,” says Dylan.
“If it’s what the two of you want, then I am pleased for you.” Val places her knife and fork side by side on her plate. “But I don’t understand why you’d want to get into debt to put a roof over your head. Owing such a lot of money. It frightens me.”
“Mum, everyone has a mortgage these days. It’s not really a debt. And it’s more than putting a roof over our heads. A house is an investment. We can make money on the property by doing it up and selling it, and then buying another, bigger place. Maybe in time we’ll buy you somewhere.”
“Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Mum,” says Audrey.
“Yes, a nice little house with a garden–”
Val cuts Dylan off. “This home was good enough for your father and it’s good enough for me and your sister.” She stands up and rests her hands on the tabletop. “It used to be good enough for you.”
She clatters the empty plates on top of each other and marches towards the kitchen. Dylan rushes after her with the mustard pot and the salt and pepper shakers.
“I told him to go carefully,” says Helena. “But you know your brother, once he gets enthusiastic about something…” She inclines her head towards the kitchen where they can hear Dylan’s voice going on at length, and then there’s a pause, followed by a short reply from Val.
Helena chats with Audrey about her courses at school until Dylan and Val return with dessert plates, an apple crumble and a tub of vanilla ice cream. They both have smiles on their faces as they take their seats at the table.
Dylan whispers something to Helena, who nods, and somehow they’ve all been returned to the manufacturer’s default setting of ‘happy family’, and while Val is serving out dessert she’s telling everyone for the hundredth time that apple crumble with a dollop of ice cream was Ernest’s favourite. They often have food that her father used to enjoy. Audrey wonders whether her mum makes these particular dishes in order to feel closer to her late husband.
Her mum is hopping from one memory of her father to another, and Audrey never fails to enjoy hearing these stories. They help her make a bittersweet connection with the man who died when she was only two. She wishes she could properly remember him, but has to content herself with a few black-and-white photographs and second-hand memories. Sometimes she’ll lie awake in bed trying to remember a real image of his face, or the sound of his voice or his laugh, but there’s only an empty longing in the darkness.
Audrey loves to hear about how her father used to come into the bakery where her mum worked, to get his daily roll – “usually ham, but sometimes corned beef” – and how eventually he’d asked her out on her sixteenth birthday; their chaste courtship made up of weekend walks in the countryside and evenings at the cinema. Unremarkable, but precious. Like the time they’d watched the second half of South Pacific before the first because they’d got drenched in a shower on the way to the Gaumont, and Ernest insisted her mother go home and get changed into dry clothes so she didn’t catch a chill. Her father, always so gallant. At the end of these stories Val often has tears in her eyes. Audrey suspects her mother regrets having to return to the present.
Often Dylan will join in when the stories are within his memory. Today he’s telling a story from a seaside holiday when he was little.
“Do you remember, Mum, when that seagull swooped down and pinched my sandwich?”
“Oh, you set up such a howl. Frightened away all the other blighters, though.”
“And Dad gave me his sandwich. And I wouldn’t take it out of the bag. So he stood in front of me jumping up and down and waving his arms about to make sure they wouldn’t come back.”
“I couldn’t stop laughing.”
“Was I there?” Audrey asks.
“No, love. It was before you were born. Dylan was no more than five.”
Audrey pictures a curly haired five-year-old Dylan eating his sandwich, sitting cross-legged on the beach, sand lightly dusting his golden skin. She can almost see Val, wiping tears of mirth from her smooth cheeks. And she can imagine a man cavorting on the sand, but his face and body are a blur.
Her mum has hopped to another memory.
“I’ll never forget our visit to Kew Gardens when you were a toddler, Audrey. You still needed your pushchair, but it was a big cumbersome thing, and it was difficult to get it on the train, so we left it at home and your dad ended up carrying you around the whole day. Every time he tried to put you down, it was ‘Up, Dadda.’”
Audrey tries to remember being picked up and held by her father. She ought to remember – the sensation of being held in strong hands, the smell of his aftershave – but there’s a black nothingness where her memories should be. She tries to dismiss the familiar heaviness in her heart. Her place in that family of mum, dad, brother and sister doesn’t exist.
Too soon the afternoon is over and Dylan and Helena are leaving.
“You off out with your friends tonight, Aud?” asks Dylan.
“No, I’ve got a history essay to write, and I want to check over my 1984 essay.” Audrey feels a strong connection to the bleakness of George Orwell’s vision of the future, and not just because it is 1984. The grim streets surrounding the flat, the boarded-up shops on the high street, so many people out of work or working all hours to make ends meet, while only a few miles up the road, posh people in posh houses earn more than enough. It doesn’t seem fair. She dismisses the prickle of conscience at her acceptance of all the gifts Dylan’s new-found wealth provides for her and her mum.
“We did Animal Farm for our O level English exam,” says Dylan. “I was always getting the names of the animals muddled up, but Dad’s notes really helped.”
“Dad’s notes?” she echoes. Dylan and her mum have a habit of dropping these nuggets of information into conversation as if they aren’t of any significance.
“Yes, he had a few Orwell books that he’d marked up with comments in the margins. Didn’t study the books at school though, did he, Mum?”
“No, it was when he was doing his National Service, before we were together. Met up with some political types there–”
“So where are the books now, Mum?” Audrey interrupts.
“Let me think. They used to sit on the top shelf over there.” She indicates the dresser, now covered in knick-knacks. “Can’t say I know where they are now.”
“I used to keep them in the little bookcase by my bed in our room,” says Dylan. “I didn’t take them with me when I moved out, so I reckon they’re still there.”
How could she have missed them?
As soon as Dylan and Helena are out the door, she goes to the bedroom she used to share with her brother, and scans the three shelves that make up the bookcase, and there in the bottom left-hand corner are some old paperbacks: 1984, Animal Farm, Keep the Aspidistra Flying, Down and Out in Paris and London, The Road to Wigan Pier. She opens Animal Farm and sure enough there’s some spidery writing squashed into the margin. She wants to dive in there and then, but the history essay is due in this week and she has masses of reading to do before she can start writing it up. Reluctantly she puts the slim volume back on the shelf and goes back into the living room to get on with her work. But it’s hard to concentrate.
“You’re away with the fairies,” says her mum. “And stop chewing the end of that biro lid. People can choke on those things.”
“Stop fussing, Mum.” Audrey puts the lid down on the dining room table and tries to focus. It’s difficult because all she wants is to curl up on her bed with those books. The sound of her mum’s video is getting on her nerves. She can usually tune it out, turn it into background noise, but tonight stray lines of dialogue and music interrupt her thoughts. However, there’s nowhere else to do her homework, and her mum loves her videos. Old black-and-white films about couples falling in and out of love. Ugh. Ever since Dylan bought her mum the video player and a selection of videos last Christmas, she’s been watching them over and over again.
Her mother’s voice, her essay and those books in her bedroom are all demanding her attention. Audrey tries to block out her mother’s commentary on the film and the decades-old gossip about the stars and the elegance of the costumes. She lays down her pen, knowing what will come next, when her mother says, “Your dad always said I reminded him of Audrey Hepburn. And when you were born a girl, he held you in his arms at the hospital and said, ‘She’s so beautiful. Just like you, my love. What do you think to us calling her Audrey?’” Her mum sighs and returns her focus to the film.
Audrey wonders whether her father would appreciate the irony of having called his daughter after a tiny pretty person, when she’d had grown taller than her mother by the time she was ten. On days like today, her father is such a strong presence in her life. The call of those books is too much.
“Mum, I’m going to have an early night.” She gives her mother a kiss on the cheek, hurries the few steps to her bedroom and closes the door behind her.
Taking all five books off the shelf, she spreads them on the bed, and then picks them up one after another to study the covers. Which one to look at first? She chooses Animal Farm, as that’s the one Dylan mentioned. Some of the comments make her smile, such as the one that refers to the farmer as “Tory bastard!”, and some she can’t decipher, which is really frustrating. There are also lots of questions in the margins about income tax and strike action. She’s surprised to discover that her father had left-wing sympathies, and wonders what he would have thought of her mother voting for Mrs Thatcher in the last two general elections. She reads on, feeling closer to this man she never knew.
 
Over the next few nights she finishes her homework as soon as she can, and then goes to her room to discover more about her father from his jottings in those books. Even on the nights when his comments don’t reveal much about the man, she loves seeing his writing, reading his words. He had passionate views about the rights of workers and the injustices of power, and the more she discovers, the closer she feels to him. She shares the same politics as her father. How wonderful is that? She never knew. How could she?
She doesn’t mention any of this to her mum.
Her mock exams are looming, but she still has to save that last hour of the day to be with her father. There’s one more book to look through. She’s saved 1984 until last, and tonight is the first night of it. As she opens the book, a thin piece of paper falls out. No, not a piece of paper, a flimsy airmail letter. It’s addressed to her father. He must have been using it as a bookmark. The date on the postmark is 1967, the year she was born.
“Dear Ernie” Ernie? She’s never heard anyone call her father anything other than Ernest.
“First of all, many congrats to you and Val on the birth of baby Audrey. Sorry it’s taken me so long to reply. Settling in to a new country is knackering. We thought life at Kirkham was hard, it was a doddle compared to all the hassles Margie, me and the kids have had since we arrived in America.”
Kirkham, that was where her father did his National Service training. This must be one of his mates from back then. She skipped over all the detail about red tape, broken water pipes, no Tetley’s tea and all manner of other issues big and small that assailed this family when they emigrated to St Louis. And then she was devouring every single surprising word:
“Have you talked to Val about wanting to bring the family to live over here?”
They might have gone to live in America? Wow! That would have been so exciting. She might have grown up an American. She’d have been a different person. They’d all have been different people. She laughs at the thought of an American Dylan and an American Val. The laugh catches in her throat as she sees a clear image of her father, robust in middle age; a parallel life of sunshine and happiness flashes into her mind. Still holding the letter, she lies back and closes her eyes, allowing herself to imagine the wonderful life the four of them would have had if only they’d gone to America.
A familiar light tap on her bedroom door, and a “Nighty night, Aud,” from her mum, rips her from a cosy family Thanksgiving, her father just about to cut the turkey.
“Night, Mum,” she automatically calls back and hears the click of her mum’s bedroom door. She sits up and as she continues to read. The warmth of that Thanksgiving returns to comfort her like a blanket around her shoulders, until:
“Honestly, mate, you’ll still have the same problems over here that you have over there, only you’ll just be arguing in a bigger home or in a bigger car.”
The blanket is snatched away. She reads the words again, hoping she’s misread them. Problems? Arguments? What is this man talking about? Her parents didn’t argue. Her parents didn’t have problems. Audrey reads on.
“So she likes fluffy films, a laugh, doesn’t take things seriously. It wouldn’t do you any harm to take a leaf out of her book. You loved her once. Marriage is hard. You can make it work again.”
Audrey allows the letter to fall to the bed, not sure if she wants to read any more. She remembers her mum saying how serious her father was. Audrey had presumed they were well matched in that. Her mum has always taken things seriously, rarely laughs. But the mother she knows now isn’t the same person she was before her husband died. OK, the bit about fluffy films still rings true, but it was a bit harsh of her dad to criticise her mum for it. Her father must have known that before he married her, the number of times they went to the cinema…
She feels defensive of her mum, but at the same time she sort of understands if her father became frustrated with her. Val isn’t what you’d call a thinker. Her mum is happy in her world of soap operas, and talking to her neighbour about recipes and curtain material. Audrey gives an involuntary grimace at those moments during parents evenings at the school when she knows her mum obviously has no idea what the teachers are telling her, and the teachers know it too.
Suddenly her parents have turned into an ill-matched couple, and while feeling critical of both of them, her heart goes out to them too. She wipes perspiration from her forehead, but at the same time she gives a shiver. Maybe she’s going down with something. The taste of onion from the cottage pie her mum made them for supper sits stale in her mouth. She takes a few deep breaths.
Should she read on? Maybe there’ll be some resolution, something to make her feel better.
She picks up the letter again. There’s only a quarter of the page left.
“And as for your Plan B. I know you’re a better man than that. You’d never run out on those two children. Your little boy would be bereft, and that beautiful little girl would never even know you.”
The pain in Audrey’s chest makes it difficult to breathe. She forces herself to focus on the page.
“Must sign off now. Nearly run out of space. If your job is boring, get another one. All kids are noisy, all babies cry, all wives nag. That’s life. If you want to make a change in the world, do it, but stop blaming your wife and kids for holding you back.
Your worried friend
Harry”
It hurts. It really hurts. She can’t think. She can only crawl under her duvet and sob.
The next morning over breakfast her mum is fussing about Dylan’s house move. Their offer has been rejected and they’ve found another property, but it’s in the Surrey countryside.
“Such a long commute to their jobs. And it could take them over an hour to visit us too.”
“Not in Helena’s car!” joked Audrey, wishing she’d thought twice before opening her mouth because the speed of Helena’s sporty car was another one of her mum’s worries. She hurried on. “And we could go by train at the weekends. Maybe stay over. It would be fun. A change of scenery.”
“They won’t get me to move out there, you know.”
“You make it sound like the back of beyond. Surrey is only a few miles out of London. And you know Dylan would never make you move if you didn’t want to.” Audrey sees her chance. “But have you ever wanted to live anywhere else? Abroad maybe?”
“No, I’ve not.”
“You love all those American films. Did you ever think about settling over there?”
“Oh, when you were born your dad had a notion that we should move there. What nonsense. Had a friend out there from his National Service days who made it sound like a paradise. But I said I wasn’t going to drag two little children halfway round the world on the say-so of an old friend of your father’s. Such a nice man he was, can’t remember his name. Sent a beautiful condolence card when your dad passed. No, I soon put a stop to any talk of America. London is my home. Anyway, I could never leave this flat. It would be like deserting your dad.”
 
For the next few days, on the outside Audrey is a normal seventeen-year-old girl going to school, eating, drinking, talking, doing homework, watching telly. But on the inside she’s a baby whose selfish father has left the family home; she’s a toddler who is about to start a new life in America with her reconciled parents; she’s at nursery school, drawing a picture of her family – her mum, her brother, herself, and her daddy who lives a long way away; she’s a five-year-old sitting on her daddy’s lap reading a book while her mother educates herself at evening classes; she’s a ten-year-old receiving an airmail letter from the stranger who is her father; she’s a fifteen-year-old being told by her loving parents that they are about to have another child; she’s an eighteen-year-old, about to start university, escaping to a new life in a different country to live with her father and his new family. The vivid fears and wishes of these alternative lives make her everyday life feel unreal.
Questions keep nagging at her. But the biggest one is the one she can’t ask: could her father still have been planning to leave them when he died? She has to know. She can’t ask Dylan because he was too young to know his father’s intentions. She can’t even begin to imagine the conversation she would have to have with her mother. This is too personal to share with anyone at school. There’s no one except perhaps Harry. That’s assuming he’s still alive and living at the same address. After another sleepless night, she has no choice. She writes to the return address in St Louis, asking after him and his family and updating him on hers. She can’t ask the question outright. Not yet.
Three weeks later she receives a reply. Inside a small parcel is a letter from Harry full of stories about his St Louis family and a few reminiscences from National Service days with her father. There are also two envelopes. One reads: “I hope you like these,” and the other, “I think this is the answer you’re looking for.”
She opens the first envelope, and carefully takes out three black-and-white photographs. There’s one of her father and what must be Harry, in uniform, arms around each other, looking impossibly young and handsome, grinning at the camera. The next one is of her parents standing outside the flat, probably when they first moved in. Her mother looks tiny next to him. Her father looks to be a similar age to Dylan. It’s bizarre to see someone who looks so much like her brother, but isn’t him. The third picture shows the four of them on a picnic rug under a tree. Dylan is sitting beside their mother. Audrey is sitting beside their father and he has his arm wrapped around her, and although she can’t clearly see his face in this one, it doesn’t matter, because he’s leaning over and kissing the top of her head.
She carefully opens the second envelope. Yes, it’s her father’s writing, and the letter is dated 1968, the year before he died.
“Dear Harry
Thank you for your patience with my ramblings. It’s been easier to write than have these conversations face to face. I’ve been more honest and so have you. Therefore, you deserve to hear my decision.
I can’t leave them. I can’t miss out on seeing these children grow. On helping them with their schoolwork, taking them on holidays, teaching them right from wrong, to respect and care for others, and guiding them into adulthood. And I can’t leave Val. She may not be the wife I thought she would be, but her laugh, her lightness, her love for me are things I can’t cast aside.
I’m going to join the local council, and maybe, one day I’ll be an MP, and you’ll read about me in your newspapers.
God willing, I’ll be the husband and father my family deserve.
Yours Ernie”
There’s a world of regret and longing in her heart as Audrey reads her father’s words.
 

Gerri Zimmerman graduated from high school with high honors. In addition, she was inducted into the National Honor Society. Also, she is an artist. For her artistic efforts, she received first place trophies and ribbons.
Recently, after being in the workforce for many years, she had the opportunity to retire. This enabled her to pursue writing a novel and having it published.
Her first novel, Master of Seduction, was the result of her writing efforts, followed by a science fiction novella titled, Ancient Martian Echoes. Additional writing credits are: Alien Fugitive (first appeared in softcartel.com; and Return of the Martian Rebels (first appeared in literaryyard.com.
 
Gerri Zimmerman, Author
www.facebook.com/gerri.zimmerman.5
www.linkedin.com/in/gerri-zimmerman  

A brief, but sharp, high-pitched sound erupted from the gilded birdcage. Lenora Greystone tapped the cage gently with her gnarled finger.
“Hush, my sweet. All is well. All is well. Be quiet today, my pet.”
For some reason, every bone in her blue body ached on this quiet day. She grumbled quietly to herself as she pushed back some stray strands of her glorious white hair. Then, she took a deep breath through her life-saving gills. This action temporarily cleared her sleepy brain. Getting old was hell as far as she was concerned.
To take her mind off her pain, she turned her head to look at two specific pictures that hung on one of her living room walls. The pictures were of the two most important men in her life.
She ran her fingertips over the frames of both pictures carefully as her eyes watered. She dabbed at her eyes with one finger to flick a tear from her cheek.
“I will not think of either one of you. I will not! Not today, anyway.”
Tearing her eyes away from the pictures, she began to study a tiny pale yellow flower, which she found in a pocket of her dress. With her gnarled, crippled fingers she caressed the soft petals of the flower. She found herself straightening her bent body with determination to try to forget the past.
She decided to direct her thoughts to the flower. She had trouble picking the flower this day because lately she had difficulty bending over and getting back up. She had become stiff with age. Damn it, anyway.
Not long ago, when this unique flower was in full boom, it had large petals. This amazing flower had been a creation of nature. Very few flowers grew on Titan, and those that did never lived very long—as Titan's tainted, toxic atmosphere did not condone plant growth.
This particular flower definitely brought back memories of him and of the rare flower he had given her. She had told herself once again that she wouldn’t think about him. She had lied to herself as she usually did. Her thoughts usually strayed to him, no matter what distraction she used.
Her love and admiration for him never wavered over the years and never would. How could she ever forget him? She couldn’t, nor did she want to—not really.
She realized she was not quite finished admiring her flower, however, as she began to inhale and savor its mild floral fragrance. It saddened her that this creation of nature had to die, but then, everything and everyone eventually died.
She contended memories should die too, but they didn’t. They merely faded, but could be resurrected, if desired. Did she want to resurrect the past?
She tried to stay in an upright position, but her weary body resisted. Still, she was able to watch a small fire burn in her ancient stone fireplace. Occasionally, a small eruption of flames would shatter her concentration—not that her concentration was that good anymore.
Her light brown eyes strayed to a small piece of wood that had dislodged from the main fire. She watched the spent wood as it glowed, smoldered, flickered slightly, and then burned completely out. The fire was dead, and burning embers remained.
However, her love for him and the other had not burned out completely. She still thought of them and about them. Those flames still burned in her mind and in her heart. They were very special men in her life. Those memories didn’t die, and never would. She wouldn’t let them.
In her mind, “he” was Prince Dames Morloch, a great leader of Boron, and a very compassionate man; and there was “the other”—Jupiter’s Human Rights Diplomat, Raoul Langley. Dames and Raoul—they had been the only exciting men in her life. The only two men she loved deeply.
To see them once again would please her. That was unlikely, however, as they had each gone separate ways.
Her memories plagued her and begged to resurrect themselves, and so she stopped fighting, and let them flow. She closed her eyes, and the flower fell from her hand and floated down landing quietly onto the mud floor.
The now cold fire seemed to spring to life once the flower landed. Her breathing slowed, and sleep took over, taking her back to a time was she young and duty bound.

 
#
The Past—Many Years Ago…
Young Lenora Greystone held in her capable hands a small picture of Prince Dames Morloch. Protecting him and his family is her assignment. She would soon meet them.
On a nearby table was a small picture of Raoul Langley. She had met him some time ago and believed him to be a good friend.
Today, she hoped to see the prince and his family when she entered the city of Boron. Raoul would not be with her this day, because he went to Jupiter to conduct a fraud investigation for the State.
Her eagle eyes took one look at the prince and had no doubts that he clearly represented royalty, through and through. She found she was also smitten.
The prince was tall, dark, and very handsome with sexy stark blue eyes. He stirred Lenora’s blood as no other man had—not even Raoul.
God knows, Raoul had told her repeatedly he loved her and that he wanted to marry her. She had lost count of the refusals she gave him because he wasn’t the right man for her. She told him he was a friend, nothing more.
She entered the gates of the booming village of Boron and mingled with the throng of residents who awaited the arrival of the Royal Family.
She knew when the Royal Family arrived, because the residents of Boron expressed their excitement with hurrahs and hoorays. The noise was deafening.
She spotted the prince’s Chief of Security, Jackal Corab, who flanked the prince. Both stood in a hovercraft decorated with red and white banners, various sized balloons and the name of the Morloch Royal House boldly displayed on front of the hovercraft.
She observed the prince as he waved his arms excitedly to the residents of Boron. These were his people—the people who adored him and who wanted no other to govern them.
His people returned his wave in droves. It was obvious to her they adored their leader. Hell, she adored him too.
She noted the wife of the prince, Princess Zeta and their son Crown Prince Makial, stood in attendance. Makial was the splitting image of the prince. There was no denying parentage there.
The prince’s security team, which consisted of a trained security staff of forty men, surrounded the Royal Family. Their weapons were high-powered stun guns and concealed knives.
When the prince was in the palace, his security team numbered well over one hundred armed men. Even though the people adored their leader, he had enemies. Protection of his family was his priority.
          The prince reached out to the people of Boron by shaking their hands when he could. He did this once a year and enjoyed himself immensely.
          She watched as the prince glanced at his wife and son and took note that his smiled changed to one of stiff and unyielding. It is apparent to her that the marriage was not a happy one.
Quite unexpectedly, her psychic senses kicked in. She was overwhelmed with fear for Dames' who was in imminent danger. When she experienced this overwhelming type of fear, she knew she must take immediate action; and she did just that.
She propelled herself forward through hordes of residents and headed directly toward the prince.
She was taking a big chance that his security team might take her down before she could reach him. She was, however, more than willing to take that chance, even if it meant her own death.
When she reached the prince, her training took over. She shoved him to the ground and shielded him with her body. Lying on top of him, however, gave her a feeling of intimacy, which made her feel uncomfortable. She reminded herself that this was her job. Thoughts of intimacy were subdued.
She saw his blue eyes glare at her in anger and astonishment. Lenora couldn't blame him for being angry. To have a woman knock him down was unthinkable. To have a woman protect him would be embarrassing. Better he be embarrassed than dead.
#
The prince noticed the trademark of a psychic on the woman—a tan circle at the center of her forehead. He knew he was safe. His body relaxed. There was no need for him to take drastic security measures.
Though he knew he could have her put to death for physical contact to a member of the Royal Family, he wouldn’t. There had to be a reason for what she did, and he would find out what it was.
The prince watched as the woman’s light brown eyes twinkled at him. Did she know what she was doing to him? Did she enjoy tackling a man? Could she feel his hard groin? She had to. That must be why there was a light shade of red on her smooth cheeks. She must be as flustered as he. Good! He found he was enjoying himself immensely at her expense.
He had to admire her agility, for she was lightning quick on her feet and knew how to wrestle a man. Second, she was an exciting woman, if exciting was the word to use.
This psychic disabled him with finesse. Rendered incapable of moving was a new experience for him. He decided, rather quickly, he did not want to move. It felt good to have her right where she was—in fact—too damn good. Granted, this was not the most dignified position to be in for a prince. Right now, it was all right with him.
Based on the weight of her trim, lean body, he would guess she was of medium build and weighed no more than one hundred thirty pounds approximately.
This unknown psychic intrigued him as no woman had in many, many years. He would know more about this female very soon.
He could see a look of desperation and fear clearly plastered on her face. She was still holding him down with her body. He knew she was about to speak to him. A slight grin developed on his smooth dark blue lips. It would be interesting to hear what this unique and mysterious woman had to say. How would she justify her present position to him?
He watched the mysterious woman’s eyes darken slightly as she scanned the immediate area. She was taunt as a bow, yet in command of her faculties—whereas, he was not. If she could read his mind at that moment, she would know that she had best remove her body from his; or he was going to embarrass himself.
Slowly, she lifted herself from his prone body. She had been quite aware of his physical response to her position while protecting him. She felt sure he was aware too.
As the prince began to get up from his reclining position, she saw him give his security people an at ease signal.
Phew! She was safe from imprisonment for the moment, but she had to think fast. Her primary thought was how was she going to explain to the prince that someone wanted to murder him. The shadow of death had been in his aura.
In addition, how should she handle her own reaction to the closeness of his body to hers? She had never experienced this strange feeling before.
She was in one fine mess, and only she could get herself out of it—at least, she hoped she could.
#
In the Vicinity of the Prince and his Entourage
The damn psychic beat them to it. Morab was going to have to come up with a good reason for not killing the prince when they had had the chance, which had been a scant few seconds before the psychic had entered the picture.
Because Morab and Nico failed to murder the prince, as planned, the princess would be very angry with them.
Morab was not worried, however, as he knew how to appease the princess. Sex was her true weakness. He was passionate for her. He would satisfy her sexual appetite as soon as she cooled down
Morab was very ambitious; and knew if he bided his time, that one day he would stand beside her as her husband. Then he would be just as powerful as she.
Morab and Nico crept away from their hiding spot and made way to meet with the princess.
#
Dames rose from his confined position to tower over this strange woman who knocked him down. He saw her stand tall and knew she would not be intimidated by his height or by him.
They faced each other as adversaries—eyeing each other for any weakness. A battle of wills was at play.
He elected to negotiate a truce by extending his right hand to her. His hand engulfed her  small and capable hand—the very same hand that had saved his life this day.
She was an attractive woman. Then his attention focused on her tan birthmark. It was the size of a silver dollar situated in the middle of her forehead. This, coupled with her wraparound black streak in her white hair, clearly labeled her as a Jupiter psychic.
The star shaped lapel pin on her shirt indicated that she was a class ten psychic—there was none higher. This also meant she was very talented and very capable of protecting.
His priority was to find out why she attacked him. He had a security team. He wasn't aware of additional security in the form of a psychic.
The answer to his question must occur behind closed doors. He knew where interrogation would take place. Yes. He had the ideal place in mind.
He had her follow him to a small stretch of park benches. He motioned that she sit down, which she did.
"You have just saved my life. I did not feel I was in danger; and my security team apparently saw nothing. Explain your actions. And, while you are explaining, tell me who you are?"
"Very well. The Psychic High Council on Jupiter hired me to protect you from a possible assassination attempt. When I saw danger in your aura, I had to take action right away.
“The Council didn’t want you to know too early of the assassination plot. As to my identity, I am Lenora Greystone. I was born here, in the city of Boron.”
"Perhaps I will look into your background. Then, again, maybe I won't. Provide me with your background."
"Only my mother survives. She lives with her second husband in a small cottage on the outskirts of Boron.”
"What is it like to be a psychic?" he queried.
"Most challenging. My life and those I protect require me to be on guard at all times. This takes a toll on one’s health, but a short vacation a few times a year helps. And there are monetary rewards, which will give me a comfortable retirement package."
His eyebrows arched slightly. "I gather when one is a psychic, they might consider it a curse."
"Yes! At times, it can be.” Lenora answered, which was true.
“I gather your job is hard on relationships,” he stated, knowing the answer before she spoke the words.
Lenora closed her eyes briefly. “Dedication to my job is too demanding on a relationship.”
He hadn’t realized a psychic’s dedication ran so deep and was so ingrained in that species.
“Don’t you want marriage and children?” he asked, clearly interested in her and her response.
She said calmly, “Of course I want those things. My mother was able to marry and give birth to me, but at great cost.”
Puzzled, he queried, “At great cost?”
“Yes. My father was not a psychic, you see. After a few years of marriage to one, he couldn’t handle it. He left us. Later, she married a psychic, and she is now very happy.”
“She still loves your father. Am I correct?”
“Yes. Yes, you are. Her husband understands, he says. He wants her no matter what, you see. He loves her to distraction.”
The prince decided to change the subject.
"Will you, your mother and her husband accept my invitation to come to the palace and meet my family? We, as a family, should thank you."
Lenora was startled. She never expected an invitation to the palace. One did not turn down an invitation from a member of the Royal Family.
"I accept the invitation on behalf of my mother and her husband, but I must choose the day and time.”
"So be it, Lenora, saver of my life. Send a messenger to the palace with your response to my invitation."
Then he reached for her right hand and put it into his huge ones. Looking deeply into her light brown eyes, he commented, "Until next we meet, friend."
Then he placed a feathered kiss on her hand. She felt warm and pleasantly at ease.
She pulled her hand from his very slowly and watched him as he walked away. The prince’s security team filtered the area and followed him to his next destination, wherever that might be.
#
Dames walked in an opposite direction from Lenora. His chief of security, Jackal, walked with the prince with the pomp and circumstance due his position.
“She’s good at what she does.”
Jackal mumbled something and Dames chuckled.
“Don’t worry,” stated Dames. “You and your men will still guard my family. She, however, has another assignment. You will assist her when necessary.”
Jackal nodded his assent. Dames noted Jackal’s stiff posture, which reflected his resentment and frustration.
He trusted Jackal implicitly, but he would await his orders before doing anything that wasn’t in his best interest. He couldn’t inform him just yet that it would be a long wait before he gave Jackal instructions to have the psychic investigated.
Besides, he had already concluded an investigation into the psychic’s credentials wasn’t necessary. He trusted the psychic right away, but not because she was a psychic. He found he genuinely admired and liked her. This was highly irregular.
As he strolled with beside Jackal, he didn’t listen to what was said. Instead, his thoughts dwelled on psychic called Lenora. She liked him; he sensed it. She had put herself in dire danger to protect him. True, this is her job, but he sensed there was than protection involved, much more. He could feel it.
He suspected she already knew who it was that wished him dead. There were rumors in the confines of the palace that one or more persons wanted him dead. He had his own suspicions but dared not voice them out loud.
#
A security guard greeted Lenora as she entered the palace. The guard escorted her to a large antechamber.
Until Dames elected to enter the chamber, she had time to look around. The room had a small stone fireplace. There were also numerous medium sized pictures of Titan.
When Lenora heard a crackle and pop, she quickly turned her head, her eyes darting back and forth for a possible intruder. Since she found no intruder, she resumed her view of the fireplace.
Snap, crackle and pop erupted from the fire. The flames were hypnotic. As a result, she found she could mentally relax without much effort. She watched the burning embers as they began to change colors. They went from bright red and yellow to grey and then black.
She hadn’t heard Dames enter, because her thoughts were wandering.
She wrapped her arms around her torso in an attempt to absorb whatever warmth from the fire was left. For a brief moment, she felt safe, a feeling she seldom experienced. When she felt this calm, she often became extremely sensitive to vibes in the air.
Dames had indeed arrived. Her psychic senses could feel him. Alas, he had entered her temporary sanctuary. She turned to greet him.
#
Upon entering one of the palace’s meeting rooms, Dames found Lenora. She seemed to find one of the many palace fireplaces interesting. It was more than that, he concluded. Lenora was absorbed. He wondered why. This, however, gave him some time to observe her.
She was a beautiful woman. She wore her hair ultra short. The traditional psychic horizontal black hairstreak at the crown of her head clearly stood out.
She was dressed in white, which not only emphasized her blue skin but also the slimness of her body.
He found that she no longer looked at the fireplace, but was now looking directly at him. She stood rigid; her body as taunt as her stance—it was as if he had given her an order not to move. She needed to relax. He was going to help her do just that.
However, as he got closer to her, the stiffer she became. Perhaps he should consider a different approach. Therefore, he walked slowly around her. Then with a wave of his hand, he indicated she should sit down on one of the cushioned chairs placed by the fireplace.
He noticed her mother and husband had not come with her. He wondered why.
“Your mother and husband could not come?”
"No. My mother was not well, and her husband was on an assignment. She begs your forgiveness.” Lenora lied. Her mother refused to come and said her husband was on business.
"Of course. Perhaps they can come another time. I’m glad you remembered to call me by my given name. Come, let us begin the tour."
He did not touch her, but she walked beside him as if she belonged at his side. How was he going to handle the attraction he had for this uncommon woman. He would decide that later.
He directed her to a large ballroom.
"There have been many social activities in this formidable room. Recently, visiting dignitaries from Jupiter came to see how I run the palace and manage the people. They have returned to Jupiter with a different viewpoint every time. Amazing, isn't it?"
"Not really. They do not live on Titan. It would be difficult for them to see what you do. For instance, when you had our much needed hospital build, I understand various dignitaries scoffed at the idea. They did not believe it was possible. Yet, you accomplished that. That was a monumental undertaking. My people admired you and your staff on your achievement."
He looked at her in utter amazement.
"Is this true? Do they think highly of me?"
Lenora nodded in ascension.
“My people greatly admire and respect you. They want no other leader.” She stated with conviction.
"Then, I am going in the right direction, the positive direction. This news pleases me." Now, let us proceed to other anterooms and a few of the bedrooms."
Lenora didn’t feel comfortable with the word bedrooms.
"I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but," she began, when he interrupted her train of thought.
"Call me Dames, please."
"Very well, Dames. I accepted your gracious offer to meet with you at the palace to discuss today's threat. It is important you and I discuss this with you. Someone wants you dead. There is an assassin at large in our great city. Can we go somewhere where we will not be overheard, even by your security team?"
Dames thought about Lenora's suggestion and concluded that she was sincere, and that she had his best interests at heart. A private discussion was in order.
“Very well.” Dames said. Where could he take Lenora that might be private?
The anteroom was small but welcoming with its warm green carpeting, a wood burning fireplace, two sofas and a few cushioned chairs.
He sensed she was still not comfortable. His mind raced to think of something, anything that he could do to remedy this situation. Then, he had the answer.
"May I offer you a drink of our tonic water? Or, would you prefer some food?"
His blue eyes turned a deeper shade of blue, if that was possible. He was a handsome man; but he was off limits!
“No. Thank you!” she answered.
Still, he wasn’t happy with this setting either. Perhaps he should take her to one of his hydrocarbon lakes. It would be quiet there.
Various types of floral surrounded the modified hydrocarbon lake. It was very peaceful setting for a quiet meeting.
“Please sit down on this bench. She did, and he could tell by her demeanor that she was a little more comfortable than before.
He picked a small yellow follow from the palace garden and handed it to her.
While sitting comfortably, she held the flower that he gave her.
She inhaled the flower's subtle fragrance and closed her eyes. The flower smelled similar to that of a rare Titan spice. It was intoxicating.
He hovered nearby and found that she stirred his senses, as no other woman had, not even his wife. He realized he was looking at an extremely rare flower, as rare as the flower she held in her hand. This flower, however, must be cultivated carefully.
It suddenly came to him that he could give up his empire for this woman. He could not seriously consider this, however. He owed allegiance to his ancestors, his people, and especially to his son. After all, she was a commoner. Royalty never married commoners.
Dames motioned Lenora to stay where she was. He took this time as he paced slowly around her.
“This is my favorite private place. I come here when I can to sort out my cluttered mind. Notice the smoky haze over the flowers. There is a feeling of sereneness and tranquility. Are there times when you can do this too?”
Lenora set her fragrant flower on her lap. “I seldom have the time to relax, let alone think. I must always be on guard! For instance, when I knocked you down, I saw someone aim a weapon at you. I saw it here.” She pointed at the top of her head.
“He has an accomplice. You know these people. They reside in your residence. One of them was about to fire his weapon at you. It was my job to disable you, in order to save you from injury.” Lenora did not say Dames would die, but Dames read between the lines.
Who would want to murder him? Why didn’t Lenora give him names?
          Eager to know who it might be, Dames was anxious, yet apprehensive. Dare he probe further? Hell! Yes! He and his son’s life were at stake.
          “Do you have names for these individuals? No, never mind. You would have given them to me.” he said.
          “That is correct. I regret that I do not yet know their names. I would describe them to you if they hadn’t worn skin masks. I’m sorry, but their identities are not available to me at this time.”
          “Skin masks?” questioned Dames. “Then how can we or you find the assassin?”
          Lenora remarked. “I will find out who they are and who hired them, Your Highness.”
          Dames glared at Lenora. Lenora coughed discreetly and amended her last statement. “Apologies, I meant, Dames.” Then, she blushed.
          “They? There is more than one? You must protect my son at all costs. I am indispensable; he isn’t.” Dames stated. He would brook no argument from her.
An attempt on his life was one thing, but if his son was in danger also, then this was unacceptable—utterly unacceptable.
Dames said calmly, “How will you handle this? My son is the heir to the throne. Nothing must happen to him.”
Lenora took a moment to compose herself, and to think more clearly. Then, she said, “I will survey the palace grounds. I will look for a weak area or areas that is inconspicuous. Please understand me, it’s not that I believe your security team is not doing their job. However, I may see something that your security team might overlook. I will connect with your security chief, and he and I will see to it that additional security be added where necessary.”
Quickly Dames answered, “Excellent! This is a beginning.”
With each word he spoke, he crept closer to Lenora. He was tired of keeping his distance away from her.
Dames wanted to kiss her. It would be one small transgression. He could live with that.
When he was close enough, he held Lenora’s hands. Then, he placed her hands on his masculine chest and said to her softly. “I am going to kiss you. Do you have any objections?”
“Well, I don’t think…” she didn’t get to finish her sentence because he kissed her anyway. She was lost. The kiss was brief but it told her how he felt. Now, it was her duty and obligation to tell her that the kiss was as far as she could go. However, she couldn’t seem to say the words that needed saying because she wasn't able to utter them. She was speechless.
She pushed him away gently. “Dames,” she said breathlessly, “This can’t go any further. It can’t. You do understand.”
She turned her back to him and made her way quickly out and away from the palace.
Dames felt bereft as he watched her leave. He wished she hadn’t pleaded with her convictions, but she was right. He just hated to admit it.
Dames wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t try to kiss her again or that he wouldn’t attempt to seduce her. After all, he was a man with wants and desires. Damn, he found when he was near her, he had difficulty controlling his lustful thoughts. She was a temptress. What was he to do?
#
In the distance, Lenora’s faithful friend Raoul watched the prince and his beloved. He also saw the prince’s security chief and vice versa. When their eyes met, they knew they shared a rare intimate moment with the prince. They also knew they would say nothing about it to anyone.
Raoul felt betrayed when he saw her kiss the prince. As preordained, however, soon she would come to him. It couldn’t happen soon enough as far as he was concerned.
#
A Short Time Later
          After Lenora departed, Dames went into the palace gardens. Scattered throughout the gardens were rare oak trees. Rich green leafy foliage was in in abundance. Rare cactus stood proudly with their prickly surfaces on display for all to see. Rare flowers displayed their petals in brilliant shades of red, yellow, and orange. A few birds chirped happily in their private domain.
The palace botanical gardens provided atmosphere conducive to thinking when one had a troubled brain. As he strolled through the gardens, he realized he was deeply concerned about Lenora’s welfare. Besides, guarding the royal family put her life at risk also. He found that thought most unsettling.
This was also a time of reflection for him. He missed Lenora already. If only she wasn’t so damn alluring. He couldn’t change what she was, but he could appreciate her and her extraordinary talent from afar, like a besotted fool. Though he wasn’t a fool, he sure as hell felt like one.
          The day had been long, longer than he had anticipated. Just as he was about to leave the gardens, he saw his wife enter the gardens. What in the world did she want?
#
          Zeta sauntered toward her husband. When she was close enough to him, she puckered her lips while touching his chin with her manicured fingernail. She knew this irritated him. She enjoyed his discomfort.
          She felt his distaste at her touch as he grabbed her hand and pushed it away. She smiled at his rejection of her charms.
She commented, “So, a psychic has been hired by our home planet’s security administrative section to protect us—from what, pray tell. You have always had enemies. Surely, our security team can handle any threats.”
          Dames responded, knowing she had her sources of information, just as he did, “It is believed the assassins will attempt to murder me or our son, or both. I hope that the psychic will find them. Her name is Lenora Greystone, in case you haven’t already heard. Our security team will assist her.”
          She said sarcastically, “I know her name. Tell me. Did you enjoy your episode of intimate contact?”
          “Hold your tongue, woman!” he stated bitingly. “She was doing her job. That’s all there was to it. Don’t make something cheap out of what happened. You should thank her that she saved my life.”
          As Zeta turned to leave, she said, “I should thank her? I think not!”
#
Zeta knew damn well what was going on. The elimination of her son and Dames must happen soon. Her hired assassins must accomplish this. She must rule as foreseen by a trusted soothsayer long ago.
A psychic was not a person she thought she would have to deal with, especially a beautiful one.
Maybe her contacts could eliminate Dames, her son, and the psychic. If she paid them enough, they would do anything.
She would have to revamp her plans to now include the psychic. She found herself giddy with excitement. She was confident that very soon she would be head of the realm.
#
          Raoul saw Lenora leave the palace. He hurried to be by her side. When he finally caught up to her, she stopped in her tracks. She stopped so suddenly that he almost knocked her down.
          Surprised at seeing him, she said, “Raoul. What are you doing here? I thought I saw you—and here you are. It is a good thing you didn’t sneak up—I would’ve decked you.” She stated with a slight grin on her smooth glossy lips.
          A slight blush stole over Raoul’s face. He had been following her, and saw the prince kiss her. He was guilty of eavesdropping. Should he admit it to her? Hell, no! He’d be a fool to do that.
          He said, “I rather suspected you’d spot me. When I was very sure it was you, I decided it was time we talked.”
          She countered, “I know you better. Tell me the truth.”
          No way would he tell her the truth. Besides, she would deny that she loved him. She’d been denying the sexual attraction for years. One day soon, he would prove to her just how strong the attraction was.
          Lenora heard him, but also heard unfamiliar sounds emanating from her surroundings. In fact, the sounds were that of—muffled footsteps. Instinctively, she reacted by pushing Raoul down onto the hot, hard ground, knocking him out temporarily.
Before she could take the next step, however, she felt pain at the back of her head. She, too, fell onto the hard and unyielding ground.
#
          Morab and Nico stood over their victim. The princess wanted the psychic dead. His next step would be to put a knife into her body.
Morab took his knife from its sheath and plunged it into her back. One down, two more to go. He started to whistle.
“Let’s go.” He said to Nico who had cringed at what his friend had done, but knew it was necessary if they were to live another day.
#
          Raoul wakened slowly. After massaging the back of his head, he spotted Lenora as she lay nearby. He dragged himself to be at her side.
          When he spotted the knife protruding from her back, he felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. She couldn’t be dead.
He pulled the knife from her back and turned her over. He checked for a pulse, and breathed a sign of relief when he found one.
He said to her as he lifted her into his arms, “You’ll be all right my love. Trust me.”
          He saw her eyelids flutter open. As she attempted to speak, he said, “Easy, my dear. Someone hit me on the head, and thought they had murdered you. I haven't the slightest idea why. I’m taking you to the hospital.”
          Lenora responded. “I’m so glad you are here, Raoul. I must get better right away. I must protect the prince and his son from assassins.”
          He said with puzzlement reflected in his voice, “Murder the prince and his son? Why, for heaven’s sake?”
          “I’ll tell you all later.” She said and fainted.
#
          Twenty-four hours later, Lenora was released from the hospital.
          She couldn’t rest even at Raoul’s insistence.
          She recalled arguing with Raoul. “I must get back on the job. I can’t afford to take a rest.”
          Raoul countered, “You could’ve died from your injury. You must rest.”
          She said, “Well, I didn’t die. I’m going back to work. Now!” and she did. She left Raoul shaking his head in disbelief.
#
          Dames couldn’t believe Lenora was on duty. Presently, she was conversing with Jackal about a few security measures she felt she wanted him to implement.
          Dames interrupted her discussion. “Lenora. I wish to speak with you. Now!”
          To Jackal, he stated, “I’ll talk with you later.” Dismissed, Jackal left immediately.
          Lenora and Dames were now alone with no security in place. He was livid that Lenora had returned, but more concerned about her welfare.
          Jackal had told him of the assassination attempt on her life and that Raoul had saved her. He couldn’t thank Raoul enough.
          Dames said, “Please sit down on this bench.”
          Lenora sat down willingly. She was tired and didn’t feel well. She knew she shouldn’t be working but felt obligated.
          Dames walked casually around her. He didn’t know what he could say to make her go to her home and rest. He decided to use, therefore, his power as a prince.
          He stopped in front of her. Her eyes were semi closed; her lips were dark blue, instead of light blue; and she slouched while sitting.
          He put his hands on her shoulders, which forced her to look up into his face. “I order you to go home and rest. Jackal will take over while you recuperate.”
#
          Lenora wanted to argue with Dames. However, she felt lousy. He exerted his power as the prince, and had the right to do so. She acquiesced.
          She lifted her weary body from the bench while he helped her by holding one of her arms. She lost her balance and fell toward his chest. When she looked up into his handsome face, she almost reached a little further to kiss him.
          She quickly regained her balance. Bowing her head, she said, “You are correct. I will leave now. I will connect with Jackal while I rest.”
          She glanced back at him to see if he was watching. He was.
#
          He glanced at her retreating back as she walked unsteadily away. He had wanted to kiss her when she had been so close. When she pulled away, he almost… He wouldn’t think about that now.
          Lenora’s wellbeing weighed heavily on his princely responsibilities as he walked to the security chambers in the palace.
#
          Raoul had an opportunity to visit Lenora. As he made his way to her residence, he wrestled with his feelings about her, which would never change. He loved her and wanted her. The fact that he had almost lost her reinforced his feelings.
He knocked on her door and heard Lenora say, “Enter.”
#
          Lenora sat up in her bed when she saw that Raoul had stopped over. She had to thank him for saving her life.
          “Please sit down.” She requested.
          She lifted one of Raoul’s hands and put it against her cheek. “Thank you for saving my life. I can never repay you.”
          She added, “Dames has commanded that I rest at home for a time.”
          She noticed Raoul was quiet, too quiet. What could be wrong?
          She released his hand and asked, “Raoul. Say something. Anything. I’m worried about you.”
#
          Raoul pulled his hand from her grasp and held her tightly against his hard chest. Her lips called to him; and he wasted no time in claiming them.
          Her mouth tasted like honey. She didn’t fight him or the kiss. He felt hot and groaned as he heard her whimper. She wanted him. He had prayed for this response, and now he had it.
She wrapped her arms around his neck. It was kiss for kiss now. There were no holds barred.
Then, out of the clear blue, she withdrew from him. She was breathing heavy as was he. She had almost been his. That was close—too close for comfort.
His lips were as swollen as were hers. He wasn’t angry with her, merely frustrated. He turned his back to her in order to calm his emotions. He took deep breaths and shuttered.
He stated, his back facing her, “I almost lost you. I couldn’t live without you.”
Turning to face her, he noticed tears cascading down her cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“It tears me apart to say this to you, but I don’t love you. I’m sorry.” The tears continued to flow.
He handed her his handkerchief and stood. He looked down at her tear-streaked face and said calmly, “I know this. Perhaps one day you’ll surprise me and tell me you’ve fallen in love with me. I look forward to that day. In the meantime, is there anything you need?”
Lenora responded, as she handed back to him a sopping wet handkerchief, “Your friendship is all that I need.”
With slightly moist laden eyes, he replied, “You will always have that.”
#
Inside the Royal Palace
          Morab informed Zeta of his prowess that day. He had killed the female psychic.
          She yelled at him, “What about my husband and son? Their demise means more to me than some idiotic psychic. Well? No answer. You and your partner had better do the job you were hired to do, or I will get someone else to do it. Now, get out! I must think.”
          She observed that Morab didn’t budge.
          She reiterated, “Get out!”
          He replied, “Not until you calm down.” He sat down.
          Zeta would’ve physically shoved him out but thought better of it. Besides, she had to think. She could do that whether he was there or not.
She thought that maybe she could do the job herself. No, that was not a good idea. Someone might recognize her, unless… Perhaps she should wear a disguise—maybe that of a peasant. No. A peasant was too far beneath her. Besides, she wouldn’t know how to act the part.
          After discarding numerous ideas, she decided her best disguise would be that of a dressmaker. With the appropriate facial skin mask, no one would recognize her. What a brilliant idea, she thought.
          She noticed that Morab was watching her closely to see if he could figure out what she was thinking.
          “My dear,” he said. He knew she did not like endearments.
          She gave him a glacial glare. He flinched. Would he ever learn her moods?
          Morab said, “I did what I thought necessary at the time. Next time, I’ll have them eliminated—both of them! Tell me you won’t attempt anything on your own. I don’t want you to put your life at risk. You mean too much to me.” He almost had her in his arms as he inched closer to her.
          She wanted to wring his neck. Instead of having him beaten, she might ease her frustrations by having sex with him. Morab was always ready to make love. In addition, this diversion would take her mind off other things.
She sauntered around him, teasing him in increments with the sway of her hips. Once she saw the bulge in his pants, she all but attacked him.
She wound her arms around his neck, pulled him closer, and bit his right ear. “Shut up, you fool.” She said. She bit his other ear. “No more talking. Make love to me. Now! I command it.” She stated.
          He needed no further encouragement. He was hot and bothered. She was a vixen, and he was most assuredly her slave. Besides, he wanted to make love. Commanded to do so made him feel wanted—at least for the moment.
#
The Outskirts of the City of Boron
          Lenora was feeling better and ready to return to work.
Until she was on the job full time, she invited Dames to her small abode, situated on the outskirts of Boron.
          She would never reveal to him why she invited him—that of additional personal protection while he dined.
          Lenora had just set down a plate of cooked food in front of Dames and watched his handsome face go through many contortions. Then she produced a hearty laugh, which brought his head up quickly.
          He looked at her and said, “May I ask what you find so amusing. Do I have food on my nose or something?”
          Lenora was still laughing. Finally, she composed herself and sat down. “I’m so sorry.” She said with a slight mischievous tone of voice. “But, you see, the look on your face was simply priceless. I knew my efforts were not what you normally ate in the palace. I just wanted you to see how I lived and what I eat.
“My people are happy and we can be happy with very little, you see. Whereas, you are used to the better things in life. Things my people and I do not require. We live different lives. I simply want you to see another side of the people you rule.
“The meal I prepared for us is a common meal of eggs, crispy bacon, whole wheat toast and fresh fruit. It is very good and healthy. Please try some of it. If you don’t like it, I am prepared to cook something you would like. Please indulge me”
Before Dames would take a bite of her meager offering, he said, “A food taster must taste my food first.”
          She picked up a fork and responded to his statement. “Sorry, Dames. I am the official food tester for this meal. Don’t you trust me? Think about it. I must protect you, not murder you. I need the money.” She smiled at him and saw his taunt expression soften.
          He deemed her statement had merit. He had been born rich and was indeed unaware as to how poor people survived the rigors of life. He was getting his first lesson.
          He countered with, “My apologies. I guess I didn’t think this situation through. Of course, what you say is correct. I don’t normally eat what you have prepared, at least not quite the way you have made it. That is, what I am trying to say is…” He didn’t finish because he decided the food might taste good. After all, one should try different foods on occasion. This was the occasion.
          He took one slice of bacon, glanced at it, and then put it into his mouth. He bit down. Crunch! He was overwhelmed with the taste, let alone the texture of the meat. It was delicious. He would have to instruct the palace cooks on the proper preparation of bacon. Lenora must tell him how she prepared it.
          He ate the rest of the meal, dabbed his lips with a napkin she’d provided and looked at her. She had just completed her meal. She began to pick up the dishes when he put one of his hands over hers. She glanced at him warily. He was so handsome.
          “Stop now.” He said. “The food was delicious, but I wish to talk to you about why I am here with you. You have always been skittish when around me. Yet, right now you seem completely at ease. Explain, please.” Dames wondered why she had invited him. Both knew his security people were in the vicinity.
          She knew he wanted the truth above all else. Lenora set the dishes down on a counter and said, “Let us go to my living room where I can speak to you. You'll be more comfortable."
          “Very well.” He commented and followed her to the next room. He hoped she would let him kiss her. He so wanted to feel her lips against his. He also needed her in his arms. He hadn’t been with a woman in a long time.
          “Lovely!” he stated, and he meant it. The room was small but reeked of welcome. Near a medium sized fireplace, a long green sofa rested. This was inviting and cozy. Dames relaxed.
The walls were a light tan, and there were a few floral paintings on each wall. There was no carpeting on the floor, however. He could hear his and her footsteps, something he never heard in the palace. She was right when she stated he was used to the better things in life. He decided she should have better things, too.
          Just before they sat down, Dames stated, “Some day, if you will allow it, I would like to give you something for this room.”
          Suspicion was in the tone of her voice when she said, “What kind of something were you thinking of—if you don’t mind me asking?”
          He replied, “I can’t tell you. It must be a surprise for you.”
          She said, “All right. I will look forward to a surprise gift from you.” Lenora motioned with a slight of hand that they sit on a sofa
#
          Dames never thought he would feel so relaxed, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He watched Lenora as she placed a long pant encased leg onto her sofa. His groin reacted accordingly. He shifted slightly in order to accommodate his enlarged penis. He wanted to touch her leg, but thought better of that. She wanted to keep their relationship business—he must try to accommodate her wishes. It wasn’t going to be easy.
          She said, “I wanted you to relax a little before I spoke to you about the previous assassination attempts. I know your security people are in the area as well as mine. They will keep their distance while we talk. What I have to say to you is disturbing; and I do not want your security people to be aware of what I already know, at least not until you and I talk. Then, I will talk with your security chief in due course.”
          Dames sat a little straighter on the sofa. He was now tense and concerned. His
          Dames said, “You have found out who is trying to murder me.” Anxiously, he waited for her reply.
Lenora stood and walked over to the fireplace. Placing a hand near the now tepid flames, she glanced back at him, then back to the flames.
          “Your wife has hired two men to eliminate you and your son.” She had said it, though she didn’t like what she said. She kept staring at the flames until she felt comfortable looking at him.
          Dames was stunned and rooted to the sofa. He couldn’t move. He felt as if a ton of chains were keeping him rooted where he was. Was it possible that his wife would hire someone to…it was unthinkable.
Why would she want to murder him? She dared to include their son. Impossible! He shook his head a few times. It was inconceivable. And yet… There were times when he suspected she might want to do away with him. She had grown to hate him, as much as he hated to admit. If hate was strong enough, there was no telling what someone might do.
          Dames bowed his head as if he were in prayer. He wondered if a prayer would do. Silently, he offered one asking for protection of his son. He didn’t care about himself.
          Lenora turned from the fireplace and walked over to Dames. She placed her soft hand on his left shoulder. Her touch made him feel better. It was then, when he looked up at her, that he saw genuine concern etched in her earnest expression. She cared more than she could tell him—he was sure of this. He must not allow his personal feelings complicate their lives, at least, not at this time.
          “Lenora.” He said and lifted her hand from his shoulder. Her hand went automatically to her side. “I believe you. Do what you must.” He said, resigned to the inevitable.
          Hurriedly, she responded. “I plan on meeting with Jackal in about an hour. He and I will work on a plan. Once we decide on how to proceed, I will let you know. Trust me.”
          Dames started to walk away from her, then stopped and turned around. His sexy eyes glanced back into her soft eyes.
“I await your next visit at the palace.”
          Before he closed the door to leave, he said, “My cook is going to hate you for changing our menus.” He grinned and closed the door.
#
No sooner had Dames left than Lenora saw Raoul approaching. All thoughts of Dames faded at the sight of Raoul.
She had to speak with him. After all, he had saved her life. What better time than the present.
Besides, Dames had mentioned in passing that he was heading back to the palace. He would be safe there, for the time being, that is. She knew Jackal and his security team would be on guard.
Raoul was very close to her now and was extending his arms. She noticed he was about to grab her shoulders.
Hurriedly, before he could kiss her, she placed her hands against his hard chest. “Raoul. It’s good to see you.”
He kissed the tip of her nose, chuckled, and shook his head from side to side. He knew she was avoiding his personal greeting. Damn the woman anyway. Therefore, he decided her tactics were not going to dissuade him. That her hands were on his chest was a challenge he couldn’t pass up. It was all the encouragement he needed to do what he intended to do in the first place.
He forcibly pushed her arms to her back, kept them there, stared deeply into her eyes, and kissed her passionately.
Lenora groaned. Damn but Raoul knew how to kiss and where. She melted. As soon as he felt her go slightly limp, he released her arms. That was his mistake.
#
Once he released her arms, she took advantage. She gathered her strength and shoved him away. She was so forceful that Raoul, caught completely off guard, fell hard onto the ground.
The stunned look on Raoul’s face tickled Lenora to no end. The undignified position he was in was humorous. His legs were sprawled and his arms were barely holding him up. His wavy hair had come down to the top of his eyebrows.
“Here,” she said and reached for one of his hands. “Let me help you up.”
Life had become too complex. She was going to have to make it simpler. She would have to tell him what he would not want to hear, but must be said.
“Come with me. I’d like to talk to you.” She requested.
Raoul stepped back from Lenora and cocked his head to one side. His arms, no longer extended, were at his sides. He had come close to planting a sensuous kiss on Lenora’s sexy lips, but she stopped him with one hand and a throw to the ground. She was good at that.
One day, he would not permit him to stop him from anything he wanted to do. He was getting that desperate for her touch, her kisses, and her love. He was a lovesick fool.
Once inside her home, Raoul sat down on one of his favorite chairs. Lenora wandered over to a large window that was nearest to where Raoul was sitting. She glanced back at Raoul and saw that he watched her intently. She did like him. She liked him a great deal, which made it more difficult to say what she must.
She turned back to gaze out the window. “Raoul,” she said, without turning from the window. “We must talk about Dames.”
Sarcastically, Raoul said, “Ah, yes. Dames, the prince of our domain.”
Lenora caught the sarcasm in his voice. She fully understood. “Yes, he is that.” She stated with conviction. “I love him. However, I have a job to do. I cannot and will not allow anyone or anything to hinder my job. This includes you, and Dames.”
Since she hadn’t turned to view his expression to her statement, she missed the painful expression on his smooth face. Nor did she see his shoulders slump.
“I see. I’ll see you soon” He got up and walked out without saying another word.
Lenora heard him leave. She turned to see the door shut. She had never felt so terrible in all her adult life as she did at that moment. She had hurt her friend and believed there was no way to repair the damage.
#
Raoul missed the tears that flowed down Lenora’s pain stricken face. He had left because he felt there was no need to tell her again that he loved her.
He decided to take on another assignment—an assignment that would take him to Saturn.
This would give him time to think about his future with Lenora—if there was one.
#
          Lenora met with Jackal and decided the best plan to apprehend the princess and her accomplices.
          They were in a private chamber at the palace with Dames in attendance.
          Dames paced the carpeted floor. His mind wandered to the uncarpeted floor in Lenora’s home. He had had a good time dining in seclusion with her. He so wanted to repeat that event.
          Lenora said, “Let’s sit, gentlemen. I have a detailed drawing of the palace gardens which I would like to discuss my plan of attack, as it were.”
          Jackal elected to voice his thoughts. “As I understand it, Lenora tells me she wants you and your son in the palace gardens tomorrow at 6 PM. Word will be released that the two of you will be there with minimum security because that have been no recent attempts on your lives. This invites the assassins and the princess to try to assassinate you and your son. We doubt they will pass on this.
          He added, “My men and Lenora will be placed strategically in the gardens and will disable the assassins as soon as they make their attempt to kill you and your son.”
          Dames asked, “You say disable. What exactly does that mean.”
          Lenora and Jackal glanced at each other.
          Jackal elected to answer. “They will be shot, with the exception of your wife. She will be placed under house arrest.”
          Dames got up and paced the carpeted floor once again.
          Finally, he said, “No. I want them apprehended. They will be tried by the people and sentenced accordingly.”
          Jackal huffed, “But…”
          Dames huffed back, “No buts. I command this.”
          Jackal, Lenora and Dames dispersed. What else was there to say?
#
          The palace gardens were in full bloom. Fragrances from various flora species permeated the air.
          Corab, Nico, and Zeta were crouched near prickly bushes. They anxiously awaited the arrival of their victims.
          Zeta was confident Corab and Nico would finish their job this evening. It was just going on six when they heard voices.
          Corab and Nico secured their weapons and were ready to take their victims down.
          The noises grew louder. The tension had Corab and Nico sweating where they squatted.
          Then—all hell broke loose!
The garden lights went out.
Shots fired.
Then—it was deathly quiet.
 
 
#
          Some one turned on the garden lights. Jackal stood next to Dames. Dames had his arm around his son, Makiel.
Lenora, with her weapon drawn, stood over the bodies of: Corab, Nico and Princess Zeta.
          The only words Lenora remembered saying to Dames were: “They gave me no other choice but to take them down.”
#
          Dames tried to contact Lenora, but found out that she had left for an undisclosed location.  There was no way to contact her.
          He tried to reach Raoul, but he was on assignment on Saturn.
          This left him with the only person who was most important to him—his only son, Makiel.
          One day, however, he vowed he would find Lenora. If it took him 100 years, he would find her.
#
The Present…
          Dames and Raoul, now older and wiser, walk side by side.
          They agreed to share what time they had left with their best friend, Lenora. Once they found out where she had been hiding, they made a pact to see her together.
          They could see her house in the distance. Their palms began to sweat, as they got closer.
They wondered what she would say when she saw who had come to visit her this day. Would she let them in after all this time?
#
          Lenora heard a knock at her door. She couldn’t imagine who could be visiting her.
          Since her door was always unlocked, she said, “Come in.”
          Dames and Raoul entered Lenora’s home to find her sitting in a decrepit couch. She didn’t get up, so they walked in.
          Dames and Raoul walked over to where she sat and kissed her on her forehead.
“Don’t get up.” Dames said.
          “We missed you.” Raoul remarked.
          Lenora, with all the love she had for both of them was reflected in her eyes and her trembling voice.
“I’m so overwhelmed that I can’t get up to greet you. I have missed you both. All I can say is: Welcome to my home, my friends. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
          Laughter filtered the home of Titan’s renowned psychic, Lenora Greystone. She is a rare woman, clearly loved and respected by two distinguished men.
          She didn’t know what the future held for them, and she didn’t care. All that mattered now was they were together once again.
 
THE END
​

​Great smelling food made my mouth water. I kept my eyes closed for a little longer. The spices reminded me of holidays I had been on. The smell of the meat took me to barbecues we had had in the back garden when there was the rare glimpse of sun. I took one hearty breath in and as I let it out, I opened my eyes to see a table full of all the food you could imagine. It was like christmas on steroids. All on a long wooden table, like one you see in medieval pictures. I felt like I was at the last supper — although I was in the middle, so clearly there were some major differences. I sat back in my chair and looked around the table to see all of my friends and family — I swear I hadn’t seen them for such a long time. It was amazing to have them all here, with me, now. I began to smile. And I could feel my eyes begin to well. Everyone was having a verbal tennis match; I couldn’t get a single word that any of them were saying. It didn’t matter though. In between breaks I could hear the voices of my friends and that was all I needed. My stomach soon reminded me of why I was there. It wasn’t to enjoy the company of others, oh no, it was to eat all the food I could. In the middle there was a large chicken, or turkey, a bird of some kind anyway and I reached out and ripped off one of its legs — feeling a little bit like a barbarian as I did it, I enjoyed it. I turned it around in my hands for a moment, watching the light glisten off of the crispy skin. There was no point in waiting anymore. I brought it to my mouth and took a great big bite and immediately began to choke.
          I flung myself forward. My right hand around my neck and my other slapping my back — I must have looked like a mad man. A constant stream of sand flowed out of my mouth. And once it petered out, I reached in and scraped all the remnants out with my finger nails. It was grim. There is nothing worse than having sand in your mouth — well, there probably is, but it is pretty bad. I was gagging for water. My mouth was as dry as a desert. I looked around me to see if any of the bottles I had had anything left. One by one I picked them up, shook them about and hopelessly poured the last drop onto my tongue, which evaporated instantly. It was pointless to say the least. Although that didn’t stop me. I ransacked each and every bottle. I threw the last bottle down onto the ground and its emptiness echoed in my ears, reminding me of how hollow it was. My head hit against the wall behind me; waking up my headache that had persisted to reside in my head.
          The wind continued to fly through the narrow alleyway where I sat, bringing the sand with it; coating me in a fine layer of dry dust. There was no getting away from it. Acceptance was the only way. It was clear that I was back where I started. No banquets or feasts where I was. No friends or family to surround me. Nothing but empty bottles of water and a mouth full of sand whenever I slept with my stupid mouth open. My fault really, I guess, you would have thought I had learnt my lesson. Of course though, I hadn’t. From the market stalls, in the centre of the town, wafted the smell of exotic foods — clearly what had inspired my dream. Again my mouth began to water as I fantasied about the foods that they would be selling, or at least the foods that could be made with whatever they had. The smells only added to my predicament. Luckily, I could find some solace in the smells of the dirty animals and people who were walking on by. Not forgetting to mention the general stench of the city, that shouldn’t go amiss. My rumbling belly quickly turned into a churning sickness. Considering my situation, I felt no pain in losing my appetite. My friends’ voices had been lost in the crowded alleyway and were by the mundane mutterings of the people going by. I understood nothing. Not because it all merged into one, but because I had no idea what they were saying. Every so often the sound of a distressed or screeching animal would cut through whilst it flapped its nostrils. To top it all off, there was the sound of multiple tellies that were in every single shop opposite me, and they were also in the flats above; blaring out their nonsensical crap to the brain starved population. The dream was truly over and all that surrounded me was a reminder of what I am missing.
          There was no doubt of what time it was. The sun was high up in the sky, directly over head, making sure that it hit me with every bit of heat it was able to produce. I was sweating like nobodies business— and trust me, that is an understatement. There was no point in moving from my spot since along the entire alley the sun reigned supreme. There was no shadows to hide under and there were no clouds in the sky to defend my honour. I was alone in this battle, and it was certain I was losing. Half of my clothes were laying on the floor, either underneath me or my things. The clothes that I had on had pretty much fallen apart at the seams, with a number of holes dotted about the place. This, you would think to be a blessing, a form of ventilation: it wasn’t. All it did was allow the sand underneath and stick to my sweaty skin. It was a pain. The winds, that were channelled through, gave me some relief, for a brief moment, since along with them came a wave of sand, which, once again coated me. None of this was helped by the fact that I had no water. Despite all of this, I knew all I had to do was sit through it and endure whatever was coming my way, because at nighttime, when all of the market stalls were closing up, they would each pass by me and give me anything that they couldn’t sell. So, the lack of water and food was my own fault. I was never the best person when it came to rationing, and I was paying for it.
          Something tapped my left leg. I looked down to see a football that was falling apart, some of the inner orange ball showing. As I looked around to see where it had come from I noticed a boy dressed from head to toe in white, long shirt, thin trousers and a square skull cap looking hat. He stood on the spot, staring back at me stunned, clearly having no idea what to do. His reaction made me chuckle since there was no reason for him to be as scared as he was. I picked up the ball and with all of my efforts threw it back to him, trying my best to miss the people who were passing on by — of course, some of them were terrified of a crappy leather ball and jumped out of the way, as you would expect. The ball though rolled to his feet. Without looking at it he turned away and carried on through the alley. Between the people he ducked and dodged as he kicked the ball from one foot to the other — I am pretty sure he thought that everyone was a defender and they were all in his way of the goal at the end of the alley. After getting bored of passing numerous defenders who didn’t seem to put much effort into the game, he flicked the ball up and started to bounce it; keeping it in the air for as long as possible. People began to shout at him as they walked by, shooting daggers out of their eyes as they stared at him, shaking their heads and hitting the air once they were completely passed and safe from being hit by the airborne ball. However, the boy carried on, keeping his focus on what he was doing, content with doing his own thing.
          The good times could only last so long. A man fumbled the ball as he tried to grab it out of the air. The boy stopped immediately and stood up straight. He turned to look up at the man in front of him. The man’s eyes tightened as he shouted at the boy; his voice cut through the noise of the city. All life in the boy’s body left him and his shoulders dropped; his head followed. Once the man saw the boy’s eyes had left his, he wrapped his bony hand around his face, shaking the boy’s head as he shouted and screamed at him. When he was done, he threw the boy’s head out of his grasp and threw the ball onto a nearby roof; walking off and leaving the boy standing there, motionless, slumped on the spot. The man rejoined his friends, who had been waiting for him further down, each of them patting him on the back, laughing and looking back as they walked passed me.
          Using the wall I pulled myself up. My arms shook as I pushed against the coarse wall. My legs were tensed and all they want to do was cave in on themselves and fall back on the floor. My teeth were clenched; my eyes closed, beads of sweat ran down my face; burning underneath my skin — it had been a long time since I had done anything strenuous and now it was showing, that and the lack of food and water. Once I was up I fell against the wall, panting, keeping my eyes closed. My body began to sway a little, and colours swirled in front of my eyes. I slowly breathed in and out, counting the length of my breaths, waiting for the reeling sensation to be over.
          I opened my eyes. The world span slightly, but it was nothing that I couldn’t handle. I began to walk over to where the ball had been thrown, keeping my hands out in front of me as I wobbled from side to side, stumbling across the cobbles. Once I was on the opposite side of the alley, and further up by the boy, I looked up at the roofs to see if the ball had been pushed to the edge by the wind: it hadn’t. Clearly, I needed to remember which house the man threw the ball onto — from my experience, it was never usually where you thought it had landed anyway, meaning there was no real point in thinking to hard. I crashed against the side of the building and looked at the flat wall for a moment, trying to figure out how on Earth I was going to get up. All that there was was a small circular window, with a sill a couple of centimetres thick, meaning it was going to be a task and a half to climb up. Annoyingly though, I didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter. I placed my foot onto the wall and rested it there for a moment. My fingertips gripped onto the window, giving me a nice burning stretch in my joints. I whispered 1, 2, 3, and threw myself up. Both legs flailed in the air, hitting against the wall, each trying its hardest to grip onto something. They didn’t. I fell to the ground, a bit out of breath, with the world around me completely white. I couldn’t give up though. I waited for the world to regain its colour before pushing myself back up onto my feet and giving it another go.
          Again I placed my fingertips on the edge: my foot rested on the wall, I breathed in, counted and launched myself up. As soon as I was in the air I threw my foot up and onto the window sill, pushing me up further; I reached out to grab onto the edge of the roof. I made it. On the other side of the roof, the ball hit against the side, rolling up and down as the wind pushed it against the edge. My arms and legs were shaking as if there was an earthquake going on. The tips of my feet were beginning to slip — I kicked the window once or twice each time they did. Putting all of my weight onto my shaky arms, I pulled myself up and rolled onto the roof and onto my back. I spread out like a star. I tried to gather up the energy to get onto my feet, but it was long gone. Instead, I rocked on my back like a turtle until I was on my belly. I shimmied across the roof and over to the ball. It tried to escape my grip, making me want to scream, however, I grabbed it and wrapped my arm around it. At the edge of the roof I looked over. There was no way I was going to be able to climb down. I was for sure going to lose my footing or my legs were going to cave in. My head fell once I thought of my only real option.
          I threw the ball down, not caring if it hit anyone. Bit by bit I rolled myself off the edge, holding on for dear life. First, my left leg dropped down, dangling, putting me off balance, nearly overtipping me completely. Next to go was my right leg. This nearly took me out. I managed to hang on though. Finally, I was hanging there, over the side of the building. There was not much space between me and the floor so I let go — underestimating the gap completely. When I hit the floor, my legs — at long last — caved in. My chin slammed into my knees and my jaw crashed shut. I was knocked back and bounced over to the other side of the alley. I slumped into a ball, trying to breathe, my throat grumbling with each breath. My body ached. I could feel my feet tingle; some blood ran down my arms and my head began to throb. All I could do was lay on my side and try to regain some composure.
          Once my breathing normalised I began to count each breath. Taking in long breaths and letting them out very slowly. A voice came from above me — having no idea what they said. As I looked up I saw a figure all dressed in white. ‘No bother,’ I mumbled before placing my head in my hands and laying back on the floor.
          I carried on focusing on myself and my pains, ‘English?’ his high pitched voice pieced my ears, ‘you speak English?’ There it was again.
          Using my right hand I pushed the ground away from me. I rubbed my eyes incessantly before opening them and trying to focus on the boy. It was all a blur still, ‘Yeah, I speak English.’
          He bowed, ‘thank you for ball.’
          ‘No problem.’
          We stayed in silence for a moment. He began to roll the ball around in his hands and I tried to focus on who was in front of me, other than a white robe.
          ‘What you do here?’ He asked.
          ‘Nothing, anymore.’
          ‘Why you…here?’
          ‘I am trying to earn some money.’
          ‘What?’ he said as he crouched down, turning his head towards me; I moving slightly away.
          ‘I try to get money,’
          ‘You need money,’ he shouted in my ear, ‘what you sell?’ he reached into his pocket, I could hear the change getting shaken about.
          ‘Nothing,’ I waited, ‘nothing for children.’ I shouted as I waved my hand, persuading him to stop.
          The jangle of the coins stopped, ‘why no for children?’
          ‘It just isn’t.’
          He stood back up and looked away into the distance before walking off and over to where I had been sat. I saw him kneel down and move my things around, the bottles scraped against the floor, and then I heard a rattling noise.
          ‘What in orange bo…’ He stopped and looked away. His head turned around as he watched the people in the alley stop everything that they were doing and walk away in the same direction.
          He knelt down and put the bottle back down next to me, ‘I go now. I be back to help, later, yes?’ I could feel his smile.
          ‘Don’t worry about it.’
          ‘No, I help.’ The football fell to the ground and he began once again to hit it between his feet as he made his way through the sea of defenders who were all walking away from where I was. Slowly, I crawled along the floor until I was back with my things. The alley was soon empty. There was no more chatter in the streets, all that I could hear was the occasional animal in the distance. I rested my head in my hands and closed my eyes making the most of the peace that I could.
          When I opened my eyes I was shivering. The streets were completely empty and all of the shops were shut. Along the alley candles were lit. The moon’s glow only made it so far into the streets, creating a blue night above — some of the stars were out, more would have been if it wasn’t for the candles. Despite the cold I stared up at the night sky and lost myself for a moment. My rumbling stomach reminded me of my hunger and with that came back my thirst. Luckily for me, a couple of the market venders had dropped off bits of food and a couple bottles of water whilst I was asleep. First though, I pulled my jacket out from underneath me and popped it on. As I looked down at the feast of cooked meats, various vegetables and fruits, I rubbed my hands together and blew on them to warm them up. It was time to dig in and get rid of any hunger pains. I couldn’t wait to begin.
          As I tucked into my midnight feast footsteps echoed down the alley. I thought nothing of it. It was normal — of course. They began to pick up speed. They began to get louder. I looked left whilst I necked a load of water, but nothing was there. I looked right, but still nothing. The bottle cracking as the air gushed back. I took another bit. It was like the footsteps were coming from someone next to me. From left to right my head shot back and forth until they stopped and I saw at the end of the alley, someone stood dressed in all white completely still, with only his white shirt moving in the wind.
          I couldn’t see for sure, but I was positive that it was the boy. I tried my best to focus my eyes, squinting them to get a better look, however, it didn’t make much of a difference. ‘Hello,’ I shouted — couldn’t think of anything better to say. I waited for a reply but nothing came. The idea of shouting again crossed my mind, but if they didn’t reply the first time, what was to say that they would reply the second? Instead, I put the food down on the pieces of cloth that were beside me, took another swig of the water and placed my hands against the sandy wall to pull myself up. My legs were totally stiff as I got to my feet. I almost fell back down. I stayed against the wall for a moment, rotating my feet and hitting my thighs to try and help. As I looked up, I watched the boy turn to run away. His left foot rotating on the spot as he lunged to the side, pushing himself way. My legs weren’t back with me yet.
          Against the cobbles my feet dragged. My arms were held out, using the walls every time I lost my footing, which happened more often than not. I could feel the food and water dance around my stomach, getting sloshed about with each step. Despite this, I carried on following the foot steps, shouting out every so often, but getting nothing back. My feet started to fly in front of me, pushing off the ground, propelling me forward. My arms left my side and straightened up, leading me towards the echoes. I was back with it, the food was still sloshing about, but my body was no longer dead, that was the main thing. Around each corner I saw his foot hang in the air, thinking I was getting closer, that I was catching him up, only for him to be miles ahead as I got round.
          The night started to get darker. The air was cooler, thinner. The candles that lined the alleys were being blown out, two at a time. I looked up to see the moon covered by a dark cloud. The stars had been lost to the dark night sky. I could no longer hear his footsteps. They were no longer leading me. Instead, I could hear a squadron of boots behind me, marching in unison. I needed to keep going. I knew that if I followed the alley, followed my gut, that I would find where I needed to go. I dropped my head, and tried to pick up speed. Within minutes I was out of breath, my feet scraping against the floor, my arms flailing at my side. I kept my eyes in front of me, willing me to keep going, knowing that I did not have much further to go. The boots were getting closer though. I daren’t look back.
          Around my ankles I could feel a cool breeze. I looked down to see wisps of black smoke wrap around my ankles; spiralling up my calves; pushing up my legs. I kicked my legs in every direction; breaking their grasp. I focused my mind once again. Straightened my arms and leaped from one cobble to the next. However, it was not to last long. The smoke wrapped itself around my ankles once again. Running up the inside of my trousers. Though the holes in my jacket it sneaked in and curled around my arms. I tried to break free, but this time, I couldn’t lose its grip. It had me. The cool wisps wrapped tighter around my legs and around my arms. It reached in through and covered my entire torso. Its grip got tighter. I gasped for air, as each bit of oxygen was being forced out of my body. The smoke raised me into the air, pushing me through the maze, blowing out any candle that was still lit. I kicked and punched. I tried to let out a scream. Although, I couldn’t, and only choked instead. The night became pure darkness and the marching boots faded away.
          Before I opened my eyes, I could feel the cool uneven cobbles against my face as it rested in the cracks on the floor. My forehead was pounding. I took a deep breath in and got a mouth full of sand. As I picked myself up, to give myself a little more space, a sharp pain ran up my arms from my hands, forcing me back down. Under the moonlight I could only see the dark scratches on my palms and nothing more. A throbbing pain came from my knees. I rolled over and sat up. My trousers were more or less in shreds around my kneecaps. Some strands were stuck to my legs. I tried to pull them off, but each strand was determined to stay stuck, sending sharp pains through my legs each time I tried. I gave up in the end. I brushed some of the sand from off my face, although again, not all would come off and I looked up at the moon. It was no longer hidden.
          I looked up to see I was in the market square. There were shops around the sides — closed now of course — flats upstairs and a couple of arched alley ways leading you out on each corner. It was all a dark pale blue, kind of like being under the ocean. Except for the boy. He stood in the centre; not moving, planted on the spot. His white shirt was swaying in the gentle breeze, but that was all. The best I could, I picked myself up and walked over to him, making sure I did not scare him away. With my right hand I reached out, wishing him to come closer, ‘it is going to be alright,’ I kept repeating — I had no idea what else I could say. As I began to get closer, I saw that he was staring out into the distance, never blinking. His mouth was completely straight, as was the rest of him. No emotions, only his wide open eyes. I moved to make sure I was in his eye line, although I couldn’t tell if he was looking at me for sure. But it made me feel a little bit better about the situation. One step at a time, I pulled myself closer, making sure I was a little huddled over, not wanting to look like too much of a threat. He raised his arms. They completely covered his face. His high pitched screams were deafening. The crack of a gun shot flew through the air. Blood splattered out from his chest; knocking him; shaking his body. Another shot cracked. His head was knocked back. His whole body fell to the ground. He was now completely lifeless.
          A drone of voices surrounded me. From one alley to the next, I saw a sea of people, all dressed in long black shirts, some with hoods, others with hats, others with nothing covering their heads or faces at all. Most had their hands held out, as if they were ready to receive something. Through the drones I heard cries, wails and screams. As they moved in towards the boy, I began to walk backwards, through the parted crowd, my head going from side to side, watching all of the people descend on the lifeless boy who laid on the cold ground. The drone became louder the closer they got. All of them muttering in total unison. I couldn’t make a word out of it. They repeated the same words, same sounds, over and over again, as if chanting a prayer. A woman pushed her way through the crowd. Her screams raised above the chants and the other cries of the people. Beside the boy she fell to her knees. Dropped her head into his chest; crying out louder than before. She clung onto his shirt; rocking him on the ground before holding his head in her arms and hugging him as tightly as she could, continuing to rock her and his body. Slowly her eyes looked up. She saw me move away from the boy. Her eyes met mine. Her lips quivered. Her eyes were tight together. Her body was shaking all over. I could feel my mouth open and close involuntarily, making the sign of the cross endlessly, not knowing why, but not able to stop. Around my ankles and wrists the smoke began to ravel itself round again. I did not shake it off. I let it carry on up my legs and along my arms. I was lifted into the air and pulled away. Our eyes locked.

Emilio Iasiello is the author of the recently published middle grade fiction book, The Web Paige Chronicles.  He has written two other books, a collection of short stories entitled Why People Do What They Do, and a nonfiction narrative, Chasing the Green. In mid-2018, he published his first chapbook of poetry, Postcards from L.A. He has published poetry in several university and literary journals and written the screenplays for several independent feature films and short films and has had stage plays produced in the United States and United Kingdom.  He currently resides in Virginia with his family.  More information can be found on his website, https://emilioiasiello.com.

​Jack stands in front of the auto parts store.  It’s a small shop with a service garage attached to the side.  There are two other garages in town and this is the third.  Jack has never had his car serviced here and knows now he never will.  He sees three men standing beside the open hood of an old Dodge Shadow and a fourth actually working on its engine.  He looks at each man trying to match his face with the bits and pieces his wife -- now ex-wife -- Mary has told him.
He presses his face against the side of the building, peering past the corner.  The brick is cool against his cheek.  One of the mechanics, a Hispanic, sees Jack and motions to his friend who turns, squints for a moment, then shrugs.

Jack’s fist tightens.  Despite everything, one thing remains certain.  One of these grease-stained men is Winston, the man Mary has left him for.
The men continue talking.  They don’t pay Jack any more mind.  They smoke cigarettes and joke with one another.  Someone says something funny and they all have a good laugh.  Jack watches them a little longer then walks inside the store.
An old guy stands behind the counter flipping through a flier.  When the bell above the door dings, he looks up at Jack.  He moves his jaw around then returns to turning pages.  Every so often he jots something down on a pad of paper.
Jack heads down one of the aisles.  There are various car accessories -- floor mats and rubber cleansers -- as well as a wide assortment of strange chrome gizmos Jack has never seen before.  He stops to check out prices, and once in a while so he won’t appear suspicious, removes a package from its hook.  He compares it to another brand, pretending to read the back before he returns the item to its original place.

He retrieves an orange comb from his back pocket and goes over the sides of his head.  He looks at himself in a rack of rear-view mirrors and sees his tiny image reflected in the entire row.  Once on one of those nature shows, he saw the world as viewed from the perception of a common household fly.  It’s vision was peculiarly honeycombed.  Each eye was composed of thousands and thousands of individual blurry facets.  Supposedly, this gave the fly the ability to decelerate the activity around it to such a degree, that even the sharpest movement was reduced to slow motion.  Jack thought it a horrible way to look at the world -- your worst nightmare multiplied and perversely distorted over and over again.
Jack stares at one of his images.  He inspects his hair line, running his fingers along the tender ridge, stroking the fine hairs he finds there.  He checks one side, then the other, gently testing the follicles.  Then he digs into the thickness in the back.  He pulls and tugs as if to reassure himself of something.
***
 
            For the past few months Jack noticed that he was losing his hair.  Someone down at work had made a remark one day and when he went home, he examined his head in the bathroom mirror, rubbing the individual hairs between his fingers.  He even went so far as to scrutinize the brushes, distinguishing between Mary’s long blonde wisps and his own brown-grey streaks.  He’d hold one up to the light trying to determine the exact point where the thickness stopped and the thinness began.  One day shortly after he found the comb, Jack laid a white sheet of paper on the table and scrubbed his head furiously.  Then he counted how many hairs that had fallen out.
Mary came in from the kitchen drinking a glass of iced tea.

“What the hell are you doing?” she said.
He shook some more.  He pointed to the paper.
“See?  Do you see?  My hair’s falling out.  It’s just coming undone.  I’d be lucky if I’m not completely bald by the end of the year.”
He pointed some more.  Mary snooped the paper.
“What are you talking about?  I don’t see anything.”  She took a sip of her drink. You’re obsessing again, Jack.  You always obsess over everything.”
He snorted.  “I obsess if I have something to obsess about.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jack ignored her and turned his back to the paper.  He nudged the fine strands with his finger, pushing them around the white background.  He could feel her eyes boring through him.  She slammed the glass down hard enough that Jack flinched.
“For crying out loud, you get something in your head and you won’t let go.  You’re worse than a goddamn pit-bull, you know that?  How many times do I have to say it?  You’re not losing your hair.  I’m not having an affair.  End of story.”
She stormed out of the room.  Jack stared at the doorway then put his head down on the table.
 
***

Last night, Mary came over with the papers.  He had a bottle of bourbon and two glasses ready and poured them both drinks.  They had bought the house together, but she hadnt been around for a while.  They did a little talking.  There wasnt much left to say.
When the time came to finalize them, Jack put down the pen.
“I’m not signing these,” he told her.
“You have to,” she said.  “You can’t afford a lawyer and neither can I.  Come on, Jack.  Don’t you get it?  This way it’s fairer on everybody.  I don’t want your things.  I don’t want you.”
Jack said nothing.  He again shuffled through the papers in his hand.  It was more for show than anything else.  He hadn’t read a word, not with her staring at him like she was.  He laid them down.  Then he removed something from his shirt pocket.  It was the comb.
“Oh God,” she said.  “What are you still doing with that?”
Jack looked at the comb.  He didn’t know why he still kept it, the one shred of evidence of his wife’s affair.  It was the same comb that Jack had found in the bathroom -- his bathroom -- when he came home early from a sales trip last month.  He remembered every detail perfectly:  walking into the bedroom, finding the bed in shambles, the sheets torn off the mattress as if picked up and discarded by a tornado.  The whole scene looked like something out of a pulp detective novel -- the lamps knocked over, books and magazines scattered, everything tossed in a random senseless order.

Too tired to think, he went into the bathroom to wash eight hours of traffic off his face and that’s when he saw it -- sitting on his side of the sink.  The comb.  It was a horrible looking thing, bright orange, a couple of teeth missing on one end.  It was something a child might use.  He picked it up and inspected it in the light.  He brought it to his nose, smelled it.  It made a strange noise when he ran a thumb over the remaining plastic bristles.  This wasn’t a comb he had ever seen before.  And then that feeling started.
“I’m going to see him,” he said.  “I want to see him first, okay?  I have to.  Then maybe later.  After.  Who knows?”
“Why on earth would you want to do that?  What could that possibly accomplish?”
“I want to ask him something,” Jack told her.  “Is that all right?  Can I do that at least?”
“Ask him what?  Why would you do that?  It’s over, Jack.  I’m not proud that if happened if it’s any consolation to you.  But it has.  You seeing Winston isn’t going to change that.  It isn’t going to change anything.”
She argued some more. She taunted him, called him names.  She said some mean, unkind things.  Jack didn’t say much.  He let her do most of the talking.  She folded her arms across her breasts and swore up and down.  Finally, when he didn’t respond, Mary threw her glass against the wall where it shattered, sending shards everywhere.  Some even hit his right check. But Jack didn’t even notice.  He sat hunched over, holding the comb tightly in his fist as if that was the only thing that made any difference in the world.

The old man keeps looking up from his flyer.  He clears his throat once or twice, then hacks it up into a handkerchief.  He eyes Jack uneasily.  He doesn’t sense his purpose here.  Jack senses his apprehension, his confusion even.  But he doesn’t realize that Jack isn’t interested in cup holders or spark plugs or any of this junk.  He’s merely putting on a charade, an act.  He’s getting his thoughts together.  Figuring things out.
Down another aisle, he pretends to browse through air fresheners.  His fingers run over the different scents -- vanilla, pine, cherry, green apple.  There are different designs as well, one for each sign of the zodiac, a Grateful Dead symbol, a bunny, a unicorn.  But the shapes hold as little interest or meaning for Jack as do their odors.  One freshener is as good as another is as good as another.  But that wasn’t always the case.  Sometimes it mattered.  To some people it mattered.  And if you really wanted to get down to it, what was really important here was what scent did Winston have in his car?  That was the real question, what he really wanted to know. What kind of air freshener, if he had one at all, would a man like Winston have?
***

There was a time last summer -- how could he forget? -- Hank, one of the older salesmen from work found out his wife was seeing someone else.  Hank was an older man, heavy around the mid-section, nearly balding.  He wore suspenders as well as a belt.  He had been with the company for years.  He walked into Jack’s office one morning and started bawling his eyes out, just like that.  A complete break-down.  Didn’t even bother with the door.  People who passed by saw the whole thing.  Jack didn’t even know Hank that well.  It wasn’t like they were buddies.  Sure, they had shared an account or two, and had traveled together a few times on business, but Jack didn’t feel like he really knew Hank, at least, not in this way.  He didn’t know what to do so he stayed behind his desk while this near-stranger spilled his guts out all over the floor.  Jack recalls thinking how pitiful he looked -- hunched over, fat jiggling, his head buried in his hands, tie askew, sweat staining his underarms.  It was a sight.  He couldn’t get over how pathetic Hank seemed.  It was like every flaw was heightened -- his obesity, the liver spots on the back of his hands, everything.  Eventually, he had to be helped out of the room by a couple of co-workers.  Jack wished he could have said something that might have made a difference.  Finally, when Hank left, one of the secretaries popped her head into his office.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
But Jack just shrugged his shoulders.

Two hours later, Hank left work for the day.  The next morning, his office was cleared out by Enrique, one of the mail room clerks.  Jack leaned against his door frame as boxes were carried out and stacked in the hallway.
When Enrique noticed Jack watching him, he nodded to the empty room and shook his head.
“Bitches, man.  Am I right?  Bitches.  But what you gonna do?”
***
When he finally confronted her, Mary told him everything.  It was like she couldn’t get it all out fast enough.  Jack just sat there as she related the details.
It started over a drink and a few games of pool.  The story was about a month ago when he left on his Northeast regional sales trip, Mary went out with a couple of her friends, Betty Patzelt and Gail Bernstein.  They ended up at Pancho Villa’s, a small Mexican restaurant not too far from the auto parts store.  It was a small place with sawdust sprinkled over the floor.  On the walls were murals of bull fighters and pretty senoritas with roses between their teeth.

Anyway, as things would have it, Betty was divorced and Gail had just been dumped by her new man.  So, the girls had some issues to talk about, male-bashing or whatever.  They got there in time for Happy Hour.  Time passed.  One thing led to another.  They started in on a third pitcher of margaritas.  That’s when Winston walked onto the scene.  A regular cowboy, complete with hat, boots and tight denim jeans.  The girls had stopped talking. Someone nudged someone else, pointed, made a comment or two.  He went up to the bar and ordered a bottle of Dos Equis.  Mary was very specific about that -- Dos Equis -- dark, heavy beer.  Later, it was Gail who bought him another round.  Then Betty beat him two out of three games of pool.  But it was Mary who ended up taking him home.
Jack recalls sitting there at the table, barely able to move.  He couldn’t find his anger anywhere.  He kept pouring himself more to drink as Mary rambled on.  Winston was sweet.  He treated the way a woman should be treated.  Winston understood her feelings.  Winston gave her things that Jack never did.  Her voice melded into one fluent hum.  He watched her expressions change almost with every word.  Her hands moved around a lot.  Finally. when she was finished, she threw her hands on her hips.
“Well?  Aren’t you going to say something?  Anything at all?”
Jack stopped listening.  He scrubbed his head furiously with both hands.  Then he inspected the table top.
“What on earth are you doing?” she said.
Jack nosed around some more.  He looked up at her.
“My hair,” he said.  “Do you think I’m losing my hair?”
 
***
He bends over to look at some anti-freeze.  There is a bright yellow sign with the word “Sale!” in thick, black lettering.

Jack picks up a bottle and holds it in his hands.  He wonders if its heavy enough to smash a man’s skull.  He envisions himself bringing it down hard along Winston’s temple.  He even practices the motion, grabbing the bottle by the handle, slamming it into the place right above the ear.  He then considers that he might need several hits, so he practices a second and third, dishing out a real licking. If for nothing else, he feels good for the imaginary beating.
“Mister, are you here to buy something or just act all crazy?”
Jack turns.  He forgot all about the old man behind the counter.  He replaces the anti-freeze and turns around.
“I’m just looking.”
“Well, look harder.  This ain’t no crazy house.”
Jack considers why he’s here, if his reasons are strong enough.  If the confrontation is really worth the effort.  He stands in the middle of the aisle with his hands at his sides as he makes up his mind.
The old man looks him over when Jack walks to the register.  The man is around sixty.  He wears a faded red mesh baseball cap with the auto parts store logo on the front.  The name patch on his shirt says, “Carl.”

Jack thinks he recognizes the old man from somewhere, but for the life of him, can’t put his finger on it.  He studies the old man’s face a while before he realizes that this is the same man who this past August played Bimbi the Clown for the children at the church carnival.  Jack has to close one eye to picture the weathered face covered in white and red make-up, and a blue costume with bright yellow frills around the neck instead of greasy coveralls.
“Can I help you with something?” Carl asks.
“No.  Yeah.”  Jack pauses.  “I’m looking for Winston.”
Carl’s face changes when he hears the name.  He glances down at his hand and picks at something in between his teeth with his thumbnail.  Then he inspects what he’s dug out.
“Winston, eh?  What you want him for?”
Jack rubs a hand across his mouth.  He shifts his feet once or twice.
“It’s important.  I want to ask him a question.  It’s -- It’s a personal matter.”
Carl looks at him again.  Different this time.  He makes a noise in his throat.  Jack wonders if he knows, if the whole goddamn place knows.  Then he thinks about the men laughing outside and his stomach gives a slight jolt.
“All right.  Wait right here.  I’ll get him.”
Carl turns around and shuffles in back.  He has a slow manner about him as if it takes a great amount of energy for this man to gather up speed and move.  The doors swing back and forth.  Jack thinks he hears something.  He puts one hand on the counter.  He puts one on the counter and the other he runs through his hair.

Jack realizes he knows almost nothing about Winston.  All he really knows is what Mary has told him.  She has built him up so much that all that Jack has is this grand sweeping image without any details.  Is he a big man?  What color hair does he have?  Is he muscular or wiry?  He wonders if he’s ever seen Winston.  He tries hard to recall the face of every person that has worn a cowboy hat, but just shakes his head.
Once a long time ago at summer camp, Jack met a kid named Winston.  He was a tall and slender almost to the point of frailty with pimples all over his nose and chin.  He had red hair and dark freckles.  Jack knows this isn’t the same person, couldn’t possibly be.  That Winston was from Maine or somewhere up north.  But when Mary finally told him the name of the man she was leaving him for, Jack couldn’t help but think of that same gangly boy.
Mary doesn’t understand why Jack has to see him.  She’s afraid that Jack might do something foolish, and Jack knows she’s right to think that.  Sure, Jack wants to kill him, or at least feels like he should.  But he also knows that killing is just a feeling, just as momentary and fleeting as other feelings, like love.  Thing is, there are intangibles to be considered.  Little details that help people make sense of things.
He looks in his hands.  Like this comb for instance.  What kind of person carries a comb like this?
***

Jack drums his fists against the counter.  It’s taking too long.  He looks at the Miller beer clock on the wall.  He wonders what could be keeping him.  He looks through the gap between the door and the frame.  There is movement outside.  People walking back and forth.  He cannot help but think about the men in the garage.  He wonders if that old guy has told Winston to beat it.  Told him that old Mr. Nasty has come to thrash him within an inch of his life.      
Jack looks up as the door swings open.
“You asked for me?” the man says.  He looks at Jack with a curious expression as if trying to find a name that matched Jack’s face.
He is much older than Jack has expected, a good five or six years older. He has this rust-colored bushy moustache with a few grey hairs interspersed within.  There’s a mole below his right eye and a paunch that pushes against oil-stained coveralls.  What’s more, he’s almost bald on top -- just a few wisps of light colored hair.  Jack imagines a cowboy hat with a wide brim covering all the right places.
“I’m Winston,” he says again.  This time when he speaks, Jack notices a couple of teeth missing.  There is a long silence.  “Is there some sort of problem or something?”

Jack doesn’t say anything.  What is there to say?  His fists unclench themselves.  His fingers stretch out across the counter.  He notices that his nails are rimmed with dirt.
That’s when he realizes that he isn’t going to kill Winston, or beat him, or even lay a finger on him.  In fact, he has no animosity for this guy any more than he has for any other stranger.  He just doesn’t have it in him.  The anger doesn’t exist.  The sad truth that he knows now is that he just doesn’t care.
“Is this some sort of joke?  You want to ask me something or not?”
Jack stops, looks back at the bewildered man.  He has absolutely no idea what he should be feeling or how he should be feeling it.  He digs the orange comb out from his back pocket and holds it in front of him.  He notices a glimmer of recognition Winston’s eyes and then a twitching.
Jack thinks of something to say.  There is more to it than all of this.  He opens his mouth.  He tries to convey this to Winston but nothing comes out.  He keeps trying until he loses all train of thought.  Then thinking better of it, he turns away and heads out the door.

​ 
 
 
                                                                Part 1
 
                                                                       1
Marty wasn’t chasing the American Dream. He didn’t want a big house or a fancy car. All he wanted was his family with him. And he’d do whatever it took to keep them around.
This dog is getting old, though, he thought to himself.
The Golden Retriever was sitting next to the arm of his recliner, where he always was whenever Marty plopped down into the chair. Spike’s tongue would hang low and he’d pant even when he hadn’t moved in quite some time. But the dog was nineteen years old. They got the damn thing right before Brooke was born. It’s amazing the pup lasted this long.
Marty had one hand on the remote and the other on the dog’s head. The only time he’d need a free hand would be when he had an itch in his scruffy beard, or some sort of tickle in his long, brown hair. Other than that, his feet were kicked up, especially this time of day, and especially on this rare occasion when his wife was in the kitchen preparing dinner.
Since Brooke left for college a few months ago, Lauri has had too much time on her hands. What the hell am I going to do with myself? she’d asked him so many times in the weeks following the moment they’d dreaded for years. Without her only child to care for, she had…what, Marty? After eighteen years of Brooke being number one, it was going to flip back to him again?
Yeah, right. Lauri knew that wasn’t going to happen, and so did Marty.
Marty gave Spike a little tap on the head which drew the dog’s attention away from the TV. “You ready to see Brooke again?” Marty whispered to the dog. “You miss her, boy?”
Spike’s response was to continue the open-mouthed pant without a change of expression.
“She misses you,” he said to the dog before looking back to the TV. “She sure does.”
Brooke was on her way back—the first time back since they saw her off to college a little over eight weeks ago. The dinner Lauri was making was due to the special occasion: Brooke’s return. The kitchen wasn’t anything fancy—the apartment complex itself wasn’t much, but it was home. Before Brooke took off, they’d sit around the old wooden table telling stories about each other’s day. Regardless of individual moods, dinner had always brought out happiness in each of them.
Marty couldn’t wait for tonight.
And he wouldn’t have to wait long. Within minutes, Brooke was walking through the door.
 
                                                                       2
Brooke’s long, blonde hair was caught on the shoulder strap of her duffel bag, and as she lowered the bag to the ground, she bent at the waist to set it free. Throwing the mane back over her shoulder as she stood straight, she said, “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, Sweetheart,” he said, slowly moving out of the recliner. The slowness wasn’t due to lack of effort, but lacking physical ability. Marty had been aging quickly, certain that binge-watching TV on his recliner wasn’t helping put a stop to this trend.
Marty grabbed her bag from the ground after embracing her in a hug. He turned and tossed it on the love seat—a love seat, full couch, and recliner cluttered the living room in which no one visited and only Marty and Lauri now occupied. After tossing the bag, he noticed Spike hadn’t moved.
“Hey,” Marty called with a smirk. “Don’t you even notice who’s here?”
Spike looked over but didn’t move. The tongue was out and the pant continued, but there was nothing else coming from the dog.
“He must be going blind now, too,” Marty said to his daughter, who laughed. “Come on. Mom’s in the kitchen.”
They walked between the love seat and the recliner to get to the kitchen. On their way, Brooke reached out to pet the dog and once again received no response. The dog sat and watched TV like a deaf, old man. “Apparently he’s numb now, too,” Marty said. Brooke knew how old the dog was, but it must have hurt her a bit to see Spike not having any reaction to her being there after so long.
“What’s up with you?” he whispered to the dog as she walked on. Spike looked over at him and his tail started wagging. “You’re acting weird.”
Mom and daughter embraced in the kitchen. Lauri told Brooke how good the timing was. “The food is just about ready,” she said. “Why don’t you two go have a seat and I’ll bring it right out?”
“So tell me all about school,” Marty said to Brooke. “How’s it going?”
“It’s good. Finally starting to make some friends.” She looked at her dad and smiled. “Other than that, nothing crazy.”
“No parties?”
“No, Dad,” she said with a smile.
He spent what felt like minutes looking into her eyes, trying to read them. And then he asked again, sternly, “Brooke, have you been drinking?”
“No, Daddy. Not a drop.”
Marty’s tone caught Laurie’s attention and she chimed in from the kitchen. “She told you once already—”
“I’ll ask the goddamn questions!” He slammed his palm on the table, shushing the crowd. Even the TV in the other room seemed to go on mute.
Once he gained his composure, he said in a much calmer tone, “Drinking is bad, honey. I just want you to know that.”
Both Laurie and Brooke remained quiet. Laurie walked back and forth between the kitchen and dining room, bringing out the rest of what she’d cooked. And once she sat, they all began digging in, quietly asking one another to pass certain dishes. Conversation would come back, but it just wasn’t quite ready yet. Before they could pick it up again, they’d be interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Who the hell could that be? Knocking on the damn door at dinnertime.”
 
                                                                      3
Marty walked over to the door and pulled it open. The chain was still hooked up and the door came to a quick halt. Marty didn’t remember him or Brooke setting it after she’d walked in, but at this point he was glad it was still intact. Through the slit in the door, all he saw was the shit-eating grin he saw more often than he’d liked.
“What do you want, Eric?”
“Hey, man. Got a minute?”
“No, I don’t. What do you want?”
“Come on, man.” His salesman grin grew wider. He even looked like a salesman, dressed in his business wear, stopping on the way home from work as he usually does. “Just one minute.”
He always did this. Pushy as hell and not taking no for an answer. Recently, Marty had been caving easily and letting him in just so he would leave quicker. And though it went against his every desire at this moment—Brooke home from school and dinner on the table—Marty knew the fastest way to get him out of there would be to let him come in and say what he had to say.
“Make it quick,” Marty said, closing the door to unlock the chain and then swinging it back open.
Marty took a few steps back to let him in but then stopped. Any reasonable person would have taken this as a sign of a border—this is as far as you’re welcome—but not him. No, Eric walked in with wide eyes, looking around the place as if it were a mansion he’d just been invited into. Get on with it and get out, is what Marty wanted to say. But instead kept it a bit more respectful. After all, his family was there watching.
“So,” Marty shrugged. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, man. Just stopping in to see how you’ve been.”
“How I’ve been?” Marty turned to look at Lauri and Brooke at the table.
“I see Spike’s still holding in there,” Eric said and pointed to the dog sitting on the floor, ignoring the fact that Marty had an answer to his previous question.
“Yeah, he’s doing good. But Eric, can’t you see I’m a little busy right now?” He turned his body and gestured toward the table without taking his eyes off the man.
Eric looked at him a little wide-eyed, as if confused. But confused about what? Whether or not they had just started eating or were about to end? Was he considering hanging around until after the meal? Or, even worse, was he trying to invite himself to stay?
“You have to go,” Marty demanded.
Eric’s demeanor switched and he became apologetic. “I’m sorry, Marty. I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off without finishing.
“Well you did. Brooke comes home for the first time in weeks and you just invite yourself over.” He shook his head and walked to the door, opening it, holding the knob—the telltale sign for Get the hell out.
“Sorry, Marty.” He walked toward the door.
“Yeah? Maybe say sorry to them, too. That’s pretty rude.”
Eric turned toward the table and looked for longer than Marty wanted him to. He finally waved and said sorry. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said. And then he was out the door.
“Sorry about that,” Marty tapped his head with his finger as he walked back to the dinner table. “Sometimes I think that guy’s not really altogether upstairs.”
 
                                                             Part II
 
                                                                    1
“Oh, good morning, Mr. Ellis.”
Vivian worked the front desk of the Sure Smiles Nursing Home for over fifteen years. If there was anyone that was more familiar with Eric, you’d be hard-pressed to find them. Mostly because if there was one person who knew him and his situation better, they wouldn’t admit it. Eric was typically met with eye rolls and a specific mumbled curse word.
Vivian was there to greet him this morning and he was grateful she was.
“Good morning, Vivian,” Eric said. “How is she?”
“She’s good,” she said. Her eyes and tone were like that of a nervous child fumbling with lies to their parents for the first time. “Having a really good day. Been having a really good few days, actually.”
He understood that comment very well: She’s been having a good few days so don’t come in here fucking anything up for us.
It’s not that he liked annoying the staff here—after all, they were the caregivers for his mother—but he had something he needed to take care of. They rolled their eyes at him because it had drawn on for eighteen years without a positive sign, but he’d go another eighteen if he had to.
“I just need to talk to her for a bit.” He walked up to the receptionist desk and then right around it without breaking stride. He knew the deal here. “I won’t be long.”
Oh, but those days when Eric told them that were the worst, and he could see the despair all over Vivian’s face: You’re going to set her off, aren’t you?
As a matter of fact, ma’am, I am.
She certainly didn’t want him to go back, but she must have frozen up because Vivian said nothing else. Eric walked right on back into the “Open Room,” as they called it.
 
                                                                       2
It was just as a majority of his visits went, where staff and security—big, burly guys who outweighed the patients here by about four-to-one—stood in some corner of the room waiting for the chaos to occur. They knew it would, it was just a matter of when.
“Mom?” Eric said. “You doing OK?”
Mom just stared into the soundless TV hanging from the wall—Good Morning America or Kelly Ripa or one of those morning shows. Closed captioning came across the screen but there was no way she could read it from where she was sitting. The TV was on, and she was looking right into it, but she sure as hell couldn’t have been watching anything. Her mind was gone. Elsewhere. Thinking of some distant memory or place and probably wondering if it was real or not.
“Mom?” he asked again. “Can you hear me?” He leaned closer to her, hanging halfway over the small, round table that separated both plastic chairs.
This had been happening for all eighteen years she’d been in here: No responses. Eric always tried to be sincere and to plead with her, but none of it ever worked. The only times he could ever get a rise out of her was when he mentioned Marty’s name. And that was what the staff—those security guards and nurses waiting impatiently in the corner—knew he was here to do today.
“I want to ask you a question, Mom.” Eric pulled out his phone and started recording his mother. “Can I ask you a question, Mom? Do you know where you are?” He kept recording, turning his phone around periodically to show his own face in the film. “Do you know why you’re here?”
No response. The plethora of questions did nothing to faze her. It’s only what he did next that brought her to life.  
“What about Marty, Mom.” He looked over at the staff members in the corner. They were all looking back at him now. “Mom? Do you remember Marty?”
 
                                                                        3
The security guards didn’t need to drag him out, or even grab him by the arm and direct him out. He was going. That piercing, chilling scream was enough to drive anyone away. But for her own son to have to listen to it drove him mad. Mostly because there might have been a way to stop it.
“I’m sorry,” Eric said.
Walking behind him were two nurses and two guards, all wearing white.
“I feel like one of these times this is going to work.” They ignored him but he kept going as he was escorted through hallways and into the lobby. “One of these times it will. She can’t spend the rest of her life in here because of what happened. It’s not fair to her. It’s not fair to me.”
As he hit the sliding glass doors leading him out of the office, he turned to apologize once again. It really wasn’t his intention to give them the extra work of caring for his mother in a maniacal state. But they’d lost their ability to empathize with him. In their eyes, she was here for life and Eric just couldn’t get that damn thought to stick in his thick skull.
As the doors shut to separate Eric from the staff members, one of them yelled out, “Just stop coming back.”
It was official: they’d had it with him.
 
                                                             Part III
 
                                                                    1
“Are you sure you can’t stay?”
It had only been one night, but Brooke had to leave—her studies, she said. “Dad, college is a lot more work than high school,” she’d told him. Marty wouldn’t know because he’d never gone, but he believed his little girl. He just hated to see her go.
“Sorry,” she said, grabbing her duffel bag with enough stuff to last her a week. “I feel like midterms just passed and I already have two tests to take on Monday; I need to go to the library to study.”
“Alright, well have a safe ride, sweetie,” Lauri said to her daughter. “Make sure you call me when you get back.”
They were about to give their goodbye hugs when a loud knock at the door broke up the peaceful moment.
Marty hated that damn door. He hated hearing the sound of fists wrapping against it. He hated it because it startled him, but mostly he hated it because he always knew who was on the other side of it.
He answered, cracking open the door, chain in its lock again.
It was Eric.
Marty shut the door.
 
                                                                      2
“Come on, Marty.” Eric’s muffled voice came through the door. “I really need to talk to you.”
“You always need to talk to me.”
“But this time I really need to talk to you.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Come on, just let me in. I’ll be gone in two minutes.”
Marty hesitated, turned to his wife and daughter who were standing in the middle of the living room, Brooke with her bag over her shoulder and Lauri with her arms crossed. Spike decided he wasn’t going to say bye to Brooke, and curled up nice and snug by the foot of the recliner.
After a deep, aggravated breath, he opened the door wide. Come on in, Eric. Make yourself at fucking home. You’re not being a nuisance right now or anything.
“Thanks,” Eric said.
“Yeah.”
“You want to take a seat, Marty?”
“You want to maybe say hello to my family first? I think it’s pretty rude not to.” Marty looked over to his wife and daughter and shook his head: What’s wrong with this guy?
“Oh.” Eric turned. “Hey, guys. I’ll just be a minute.”
The only thing Marty could notice was that Eric was looking about five feet to the left of where Brooke and Lauri stood when he said hi. At that moment, he told himself he was cutting the guy out of his life. What a quack.
Eric turned to Marty. “Want to sit? I’ll be out of here in no time.”
In no time. Marty sat and started the timer in his head.
 
                                                                    3
“Do you know where you are?”
“What?”
“Do you know where you are?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Right now, at this very moment, do you know where you are?”
“Of course I do.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m inside my fucking apartment. Annoyed. And you’re about to leave.”
“I will,” Eric said. “Soon. As soon as you tell me who I am.”
“You’re annoying.”
“Not what I am. Who I am.”
Marty took a long, deep breath and tried to figure out what the hell he was getting at. And then he stared at him. They were friends. Of course that’s who Eric was—he was Marty’s friend. Why else would he show up here as often as he did, uninvited? He’s a needy friend, for sure, but a friend.
Right?
Now Marty was second-guessing himself. Come to think of it, he couldn’t really remember how the two met. He couldn’t remember why they met or even when. So how was it that Eric came to be so dominant in his life?
“We’re friends,” Marty managed to say. But it came out as more of a question than an answer and Eric could smell it.
“We’re not friends.”
Marty paused, hoping for more but nothing came.
“No?”
“No, Marty. You and I are not friends.” He pulled out his cell phone. What the hell was he doing? He pressed a few spots on the touch-screen and then flipped the camera around to show Marty. “You remember her?”
“No.” The answer came out shaky and way too fast.
Eric let the video run for a few more seconds and then the audio could be heard. The voice coming from behind the camera sounded like Eric’s. And then it was confirmed when his face appeared on the screen.
“Hey, Mom,” Eric within the video said to the old, battered lady who sat in silence, zoned out. “When was the last time you heard from Marty?”
Something had triggered the old lady in the video. Her eyes opened and even more importantly, they filled with life. She looked over at the Eric within the camera and began to scream.
Marty turned away. What the hell is he showing me this for? But Eric stood and followed his eyes with the phone screen.
“Look at it,” Eric said. “This is our mother. Our mother. This is what you’ve done to her.”
 
                                                                   4
“Why the hell are you showing me this…this crazy woman screaming?”
“Don’t you deny it.” Eric was still standing over Marty with his phone in Marty’s face. “This our mother. And you’d better damn well admit it.”
He couldn’t. And he told Eric why. “My mother died a long time ago. Cancer.”
“Bullshit. Bullshit you fucking coward. This is your mother. Look at her,” he pushed the phone closer to Marty’s face, “and tell me this isn’t your mother.” The woman in the video was screaming, wailing almost. It was more of a painful scream than a mourning scream. “Look at her and tell me.”
He looked closer at the woman he slightly recognized and said to Eric, “That’s not my mother.”
“Bullshit!” Eric pulled the phone back and hit a button on the side to send it to sleep. The screen was now black but he pointed to it once more and said through gritted teeth, “This is our mother, and you’ve ruined her life. You can’t cope with fucking reality and you’ve ruined her life. My kids will never know their grandmother—never be able to sit on her lap or hear bedtime stories—because you’re too much of a chicken shit to cope.”
Marty can still hear the screams, but he won’t succumb.
 
                                                                    5
“It’s time for you to leave,” Marty said, standing from the couch.
Eric had quickly raised from his slouched position once Marty stood. They met eye-to-eye and Eric asked him why.
“Why? Listen to yourself. You come in making these crazy accusations…” He turned to Lauri and Brooke and said, “I’m sorry. He’ll be gone in a second.”
Eric shook his head, turned up his palms and asked, “Who the fuck are you talking to?”
“Who am I talking to? Can you not see my family standing right here? Are you that damn selfish that you can’t even see them standing right here, waiting for you to leave?”
“See who?” Eric asked. He walked over toward Brooke and Lauri where standing and started spinning in circles with his hands out. “Who do you see? Who the hell is here?”
Lauri and Brooke moved away without saying a word and that’s the only thing that kept Marty from lunging at him. “My goddamn wife and daughter, you asshole.”
“You mean Lauri and Brooke, Marty? Is that who you mean?”
“So you know them but you want to pretend you can’t see them?”
“Pretend?” He laughed. “Pretend what, Marty? Pretend they’re here?” He waved his hands around the room again. “They died eighteen years ago, Marty! You’re the one pretending!”
 
                                                                    6
Eric began telling his story, still standing in the center of the room but no longer twirling around trying to make Marty realize there was nothing there.
“Eighteen years ago, Marty.” He spoke to him like a sympathetic brother now, and unlike an aggravated friend. “The car accident. You don’t remember it?”
No I don’t. There was no car accident. My family is right here, you moron.
“Samuel Morone. Drunk driver. Smashed into them on the highway after falling asleep with a box of wine on his lap. Ran them off the road and into the…come on, Marty. You have to tell me you remember this or you’re going to end up eating lunch with mom every day in the damn nightgown.”
“Next to that crazy lady you showed me?” He asked.
He could hear the phone call. He tried to push it out of his head, but all he could hear were the loud rings of the landline.
Ring ring. Ring ring.
Shut the fuck up! I know what you’re trying to tell me and it’s a lie!
Eric, what are you doing? How are you putting this in my head?
Mr. Ellis, this is the Haverton Police Department. We have some news about…
He could see the sirens in the night through the waving wiper blades on his windshield.
He could feel the caution tape trying to pull back on his stomach but he plowed through anyway.
His wife.
His infant daughter.
No life. No movement.
He could feel the horror again. The terror, deep in his gut. The feeling of wanting to be dead, right then and there so he wouldn’t have to suffer through one more second of the thought of life without them. And then he remembered what he remembered that night—his wedding day; the day Brooke was born; their first nights together; calling Lauri from work hours before she died to tell her he couldn’t make it to Brooke’s six-week appointment that afternoon.
And just like that, he was there again. In hell. Reliving it. Suffering through it all over again. He looked over to where his nineteen-year-old daughter was waiting to go back to her dorm room, and nothing was there. Nor was Lauri, now middle-aged and preparing to send her daughter back to University.
The last time Lauri took a breath, she was only a few years older than Marty was imagining Brooke to be.
He was back in hell. Thanks a lot, Eric.
Marty fell to the floor and let it all out.
 
                                                             Part IV
 
                                                                    1
“It looks good, man,” Eric said with a smile.
“Thanks.” Marty rubbed a hand across the skin on his face he hadn’t felt in so many years. The scruffy beard was gone, and so was the long, shaggy hair.
This had been the first time Marty stepped into a public place in at least ten years, and it showed. He was a little nervous, but Eric’s happiness was much more apparent.
“It’s good to see you like this. It took a few long weeks, but it really looks like you’re back on your feet.”
The waitress came over and asked in her raspy but friendly voice if she could start the two men off with a couple of drinks.
They went through a meal like any two normal people would, chatting and laughing and doing a whole lot of reminiscing. They spoke of childhood memories and getting into trouble—as any brothers would do—and then came to talking about their mother.
“I’m planning on going to see her, you know,” Marty said.
“It means a lot,” Eric said. “I’ve been working on getting her back to normal since a few months after the accident. She lost it, you know. Showed you were her favorite,” he said with a smile, “but when you…well, when you lost your mind, so did she.”
“I just had a better way of handling my craziness, I guess.”
“I guess so.”
The two brothers laughed and carried on. The eighteen-year gap was finally closed, and it seemed like they didn’t miss a beat.
 
                                                                     2
Marty was on his way back from lunch with his brother. A joke was made by Eric about Marty’s ’97 Lincoln that would need to be upgraded now that he was going to be leaving his apartment every now and then. But Marty was fine with it. The car had treated him well over the years.
It did feel good to be out, though, he had to admit. Maybe all the time being cooked up in that apartment was worse for him than he believed.
And for Spike, too.
On the way back to the apartment, he stopped and picked up some rawhides for the old dog. Whether his brittle teeth could handle it was one question, but there was no question the pup had toughed it out long enough to see his old man sane again. Marty seemed to think that was the reason he was hanging around so long.
He was excited to show up with treats from the pet store. Heaven only knows how long it’d been since that happened.
This new life was going to be good. He could feel it.
He turned left and into the apartment complex with his windows down and the warm wind blowing against his bare cheeks. The Lincoln pulled into the marked spot and Marty got out with the bag of Spike’s treats in his hand.
He wasn’t sure whether it was Spike’s excitement that he was coming home—how long had it really been since he’d left the apartment?—or his nose smelling the treats in the bag. Whatever it was, the old dog stood up from his nap as fast as his deteriorating joints could handle and came to the door when it was opened. Marty bent down, pet his head, and dumped the contents of the bag. Have at it, buddy.
It was a happy time for the two that had been through so much together.
“Don’t worry,” Marty said. “I didn’t forget you two.”
He turned around to Lauri and Brooke sitting on the couch—Brooke with a bag on her lap.
“For us, I got a Redbox movie. We can watch it now, since Brooke has to go back to school tonight.”

​     “Look at the sweeping, grand descenders of his writing,” commented Mr. Tibble, holding the note in admiration. “This person was probably an intense lover.”
     “I write like that,” commented Carl as he dug out a pen from his vest.
     Mr. Tibble dismissed his houseman's comment as delusional. He’d seen Carl’s writing. He turned to set the note down on his oak desk in preparation for a museum board mount.
     “Really, I do – watch this,” said Carl, not wanting to be so easily ignored.
     Carl tore off a sheet of paper from a desk pad and began to recreate the actor’s signature. He was slow and methodical, trying to match each letter. He finished with an underscore and handed it over, smiling a quiet victory.
     “There you go,” boasted Carl.
     Mr. Tibble looks at it obligingly, placing it next to the original, comparing the two side-by-side, then snorted disapproval.
“Line fodder,” was Tibble’s curt response.
     “Hey, that’s almost identical! Look at the way I crossed that ‘t’ and how the tails–”
     “—descenders” corrected Mr. Tibble.
     “Yeah, dissenters. Look how they’re the same length. And what about that ‘g’? Looks like a photocopy!” protested Carl.
     “My good fellow, had you taken the time to really analyze his signature, you’d have seen that the formation of his letters are slanted forward with such uniformity they appear typeset, an indicator of consistent emotion – albeit intense. The variable slant of your copy is a demonstration of emotional instability coupled with a general lack of coordination. It is inconsistent and makes the reader question whether you want to live in the past, participate in the present, or dilly-dally around as you wait for the future. Final analysis is that you appear to be a candidate for electro-convulsive therapy.”
     Carl looked at the two signatures more closely then replied, “Yeah, so? It’s still close, but then, who cares? Nobody looks at that kind of thing except you.”
     Mr. Tibble rolled his eyes, signaling disgust with somebody incapable of understanding the fine art of signature appreciation. He lifted his crystal glass of Shiraz to finish the last bit, noting its flavorful impact as it glided over his tongue, generating a warm glow his pallet had come to appreciate. He drew in a deep breath, preparing for a lengthy explanation of the underlying tones of written communication and how your personal signature is far more than a simple verification of identity for common bank clerks, that a person’s signature is an insight into the very depths of character. But, he exhaled, realizing that such a discourse with Carl would be a waste of oxygen. Besides, he had better things to do this evening. Mondays were usually good for collecting and the cold, dismal rain contributed to the atmosphere nicely. He set his glass down and motioned for Carl to get the keys to the Chrysler Imperial.
Although not always the best place, Mr. Tibble had Carl drive the twenty-three miles to Crush River Bridge and pull into a graveled park-n-ride next to its east entrance. Across the bridge was an economically-deprived town offering a college specializing in GED preparation, animal husbandry, welding and two-year nursing certificates.
Carl shut off the lights and engine.
It was nearly 10:00pm and after two hours of surveillance, Mr. Tibble and his houseman were getting impatient. At 150 feet above the water line, the bridge’s pedestrian path was a recent add-on to the old, steel bridge originally constructed to carry farm trucks loaded with various field crops to waiting markets on the other side. Mr. Tibble looked over the attached walkway and saw the bolted-on light poles vibrate with each gust of wind-driven rain. Although the main structure has survived for over a century, locals suspect it is really the multiple layers of paint that hold the girders in place. The small, battleship gray bumps implying rivet heads beneath were simply coincidental.
Mr. Tibble reached into his pocket again to make sure his pad and pen were ready. Several travelers had already crossed in the downpour but their lively step indicated a destination that promised warmth, dry clothes, and perhaps comfort from a loved one.
Indeed, their steps were far too lively.
Carl was fidgeting and scooted forward in the leather upholstery, reaching behind himself again to either adjust his wallet or pick at his backside as he was prone to do. This activity repulsed Mr. Tibble and he often mentioned this annoyance to Carl saying that anybody with any breeding would never pick at their undergarments in the presence of others – it implied terrible personal hygiene and disrespect to those having to witness such an event. Still, the picking continued.
“I know you have your reasons for this, Mr. Tibble,” commented Carl after settling back, “but why couldn’t you just collect stamps, or coins, or some other damned thing?”
“We indulge in hobbies for both entertainment and enjoyment, my dear fellow. And for some of us, the pursuit is as rewarding as the actual possession of the prize. Although I do have my trophies, they are also a reminder of the hunt and yet another subject’s failure to address our ongoing human condition.”
Carl just shook his head and replied, “We’ve come here off and on for almost a month now. You said this might be a good spot but nothing’s happened yet.” He pushed in the cigarette lighter then reached into his vest pocket for a fresh pack. He tapped it on the dashboard several times then peeled back the cellophane wrap. As he lit his unfiltered cigarette and drew in the first breath, he lightly touched the “down” button of the driver’s window for ventilation, creating an opening of about an inch. Even at that modest exposure, raindrops found their way onto his lap and he cursed, “Damned rain. Does it ever stop around here?”
Mr. Tibble didn’t respond. His eyes were on the entryway to the bridge watching the approach of a dim light in the distance that appeared to be a bicycle. Normally not a good candidate, but as Mr. Tibble continued to watch, the bike turned onto the walkway in such a fashion that gave hope. This rider didn’t seem to care if he even made it around the corner. Gone was the usual energetic clip to get home as quickly and as dry as possible. Also gone was any raincoat or hat. Such despondency was always a good sign. 
He watched carefully as the bike began its slow, wavering climb up the walkway towards the modest summit of the bridge. Once there, the rider simply dismounted in motion, leaving the still-moving bike to skid on the wooden walkway. If it weren’t for the pedestrian safety cables running along the edge, the bike would have slid off into the black waters far below. Instead, the bottom cable caught the bike’s handlebars, leaving the slowly spinning front wheel to dangle over the edge. The dim headlight and taillight continued to drain life out of the batteries.
This showed promise, thought Mr. Tibble. It was time.
He pulled his fedora down tightly to prevent losing it in the wind then opened the car door to begin his intercepting walk. Mr. Tibble watched as the rider of the bike swung one leg over the handrail, then the other and just sat there, staring down into the dark, rumbling waters far below. His bare, wet fingers curling over the top of the handrail showed only a loose placement. He did not move, even when Mr. Tibble came within a mugger’s distance, the rider did not move. Mr. Tibble stepped over the bike and said, “Good evening, young man.”
“Yeah, right.”
“My, my, a little rain never hurt anyone,” commented Mr. Tibble cheerfully. “It’s what brings life.”
“I don’t care about the rain, old man.”
“Bad day, eh?”
“Unless you’re going to shoot me, get out of here and leave me alone. Or maybe you just want my wallet?” The young man reached into his back pocket and threw his wallet out into the darkness over the water. 
“Go get it,” said the young man defiantly.
Mr. Tibble winced, his eyes followed its arc as far as the bridge’s pale lamp light would allow. There was probably a driver’s license in there with a verifiable signature. Several seconds went by but there was no audible splash – not that he really expected to hear it from up here. Perhaps the wind blew the contents onto a rocky shore and could be retrieved later, he thought.
Mr. Tibble looked back up and said, “I’m not going to shoot you, or rob you, young man.”
“You ain’t stopping me from doing this. And if Marna sent you, you can just tell her she’s wasting her time and yours.”
Mr. Tibble wondered if a note had already been written.
“I don’t know anybody named Marna, and no, I’m not going to stop you from anything. If you have an issue with Marna, perhaps you should write it down here and sign it so she knows it was from you.” Mr. Tibble reached into his coat pocket, extracting his pad and pen.
The young man looked at the offering. “Ain’t that convenient?” He turned his attention back to the abyss below and said, “Look, I got nothing to say to her that I ain’t already said.”
 “Ah, people forget conversations. Sometimes, they aren’t even listening to what you say and miss a very important point. They are often so distracted by their own thoughts of what they are going to say next that they couldn’t hear a train pass. Sometimes, the best way to be sure the other person has understood you is to write it out,” suggested Mr. Tibble and offered the pad and pen again.
The young man looked up and said, “What the hell are you, some kind of retired do-gooder psychiatrist trying to right the world’s wrongs?”
“I’m a collector,” answered Mr. Tibble with a faint smile.
The young man slowly turned full body to face Mr. Tibble. His eyes were fierce with anger as his legs and hands came back off the rail, feet hitting the walkway with a bang, fists clinched, his broad shoulders topping the frame of a full 6-foot-5 man radiating pure hate.
“Good Christ! How did you find me here? Will you people ever stop? Maybe when I’m gone you’ll know I got nothing left for you to collect!”
Mr. Tibble momentarily saw himself held tightly around the neck and dragged over the handrail, unable to break free from the grip of a desperate man trying to eliminate the last debt collector he’d ever see as they both fell to their death. 
Mr. Tibble quickly stepped back and said, “Wait a minute! I am not a debt collector, young man. I collect signatures.”
“So you are one of those damned shrinks, nestled in your financially secure and removed little world, looking down on the rest of us like experiments to be shared among your kind at weekend seminars that cost more than a year’s tuition. Am I going to be just another one of your journal entries or will you create enough material on me to publish an entire article: ‘Slingarm McTavish, Football Hero Makes Last Throw’?”
Mr. Tibble immediately recognized the name as a very talented local college football player with substance abuse problems. This was indeed promising.
“The notepad and pen I offer is a way for you to make one last statement before you jump – if that is your plan. All I ask for is a signature for authenticity.” Mr. Tibble again extended the small tablet to the young man, pen attached.
     “Listen old man, you need more help than I do!”
     “Perhaps so,” answered Mr. Tibble. “Humor me and sign the note – after you tell your Marna one last thing before you go, of course.”
     “Yeah, right. And as soon as I get distracted and start writing you’ll try to stop me from jumping. Ain’t gonna work.”
     “Young man, do I look like I could subdue you? I am five-foot one and might weigh one hundred twenty pounds if you include this wet trench coat and hat.”
     The young man looked him over and realized the old codger had a point. At six-foot-five and over two hundred fifty pounds, the young man would make short work of the scrawny, old kook. He stared at Mr. Tibble in the meager light of the bridge walkway lamps and said, “Fine, give me the damned pen.”
     Mr. Tibble smiled as he cautiously extended his arm, pad and pen in hand.
     “You may not know it, old man, but I used to be quite the football star in these parts. Had everything I wanted. Even the professional teams were starting to contact me, wanted to talk contract, they’d said. They were talking salary potential of six figures. Then there was Marna. She was real impressed as long as I was winning. But after I broke my arm, things went downhill. I missed a lot of practices, couldn’t stay in shape, fell out of favor with the coaches.”
     Mr. Tibble watched as the young man’s eyes began to tear up, adding to the trails of raindrops while he composed himself to write.
     Mr. Tibble just stood there, listening, waiting for the note.
     “Marna became more and more scarce when I called on her. Wasn’t in much anymore and when I phoned her, she was always on her way out. I knew what was going on; she was going out with that low-browed, knuckle-dragging linebacker because he drove a Lexus and had an apartment on River Front Drive.”
     “Ah, love, the reason for many a man’s fall,” said Mr. Tibble on purpose.
     “I tried winning her back by showing her that I really loved her . . . sent her flowers . . . rented a billboard to say ‘I love you, Marna’. . . even had an airplane write our names in the sky during a football game. Cost me plenty that did.”
     Mr. Tibble noticed his trench coat was beginning to soak through at the shoulders, but felt obligated to say something. “Women,” he said in disgust.
     “Marna isn’t just any woman, old man, she’s special.”
     “Yes, of course.”
     Mr. Tibble looked down at the pad of paper the young man was holding. The cover was still repelling the raindrops, but it was only a matter of time before the water-resistant coating was defeated. He made a mental note to put plastic over the next one. Mr. Tibble shuffled his foot position, anxious for the young man to finish with his emotional drivel.
     “Her eyes - ”
     “Perhaps you should tell her in that note,” interrupted Mr. Tibble, “and sign it so that she knows it came from you,”
     “I should tell her how much I really love her, how much I will miss her.”
     “You’ll be dead,” commented Mr. Tibble impatiently, crossing his arms.
     The young man just stood there, arms dropped to his sides. He looked out across the river below. You could hear the waters scrubbing over the irregularities of the underlying basalt rock formations and could occasionally hear small stones rolling downstream to a resting spot only time would determine. 
The young man turned and said, “I can’t do this to her.”
     “And why not?” asked Mr. Tibble in a voice that was a too loud for the occasion. “I know your type; you fall for some pretty face that pays attention to you and you fantasize that you’ll have never-ending reciprocating love, that it will be you and her to the end. Well, I have news for you young man, the end comes quickly. And for every set of gams that turns your eye, there’s another pair of eyes scanning your girlfriend, gawking, lusting, responding to her sensuous movements she’s now making because she’s become aware of their stares. As she teases, the wolves are prowling, waiting for you to have a weak moment so they can pounce. Some don’t wait.”
     “She’s not like that.”
     “They’re all like that,” said Mr. Tibble bitterly, repressing memories.
     “Maybe if I could just talk to her we could clear things up between us?”
     “She’s probably out with that linebacker tonight, young fella,” jabbed Mr. Tibble.
     “But once I told her how much I really loved her, she’d forget about him.”
     “I doubt it,” said Mr. Tibble.
     The young man dismissed the remark and began scribbling something on the notepad. Mr. Tibble’s eyes brightened and moved back to give clearance for the jump. The young man finished his note, tore off the top piece, folded it over and handed the wet pen and notepad back to the old man.
     “Here, I have to get back to Marna,” he said, then picked up his bike and quickly pedaled back the way he came.
     Mr. Tibble just stood there and watched as the young man rode away.
The fedora was beginning to leak around the brim now and he was anxious to return to the warm, dry interior of the Imperial. As he opened the door, Carl could tell by Mr. Tibble’s expression that something was wrong.
     “So, what happened? I didn’t see anybody go over the edge.”
     “He changed his mind,” replied Mr. Tibble.
     “How can he change his mind? This is a horrible evening. Heck, I’ve thought about jumping off myself because of all this damned rain constantly falling. . . never ending smothering cloud-covered darkness . . . always–”
     “Yes, I get the idea, Carl.”
     “But I thought I saw him hand you something?”
     Mr. Tibble pulled out the note and read aloud, “Good luck with your collection, doc.” But there was no signature. 
     “Well, maybe tomorrow night will be better, Mr. Tibble. It’s supposed to keep raining like this all week,” sighed Carl.
     “Yes. Perhaps tomorrow night.”
###

Robt. Emmett [not his real name of course] has, after retiring from a large international, manufacturing company as a machine design engineer, [he had no engineering degree]. His imagination and the continuing need to create urged him to write over half a million or so words about his early life in the mid-1950s.
He’s published nothing because his short stories are about his high school years [when the world was young, the music was great, the cars were unique, and the young ladies were just that - ladies], and who wants to read stories of what was?  
 

​Dad often sent me to the corner store for a pack of smokes. Tony, the owner, knew I was too young to buy cigarettes, but he sold them to me anyway. Chester Creek trickled down the hillside for nearly two miles and then it went underground on the north side of 4th street. Tony’s Market was on the south side. Tony’s place was no man's land; not on the ‘Better’ side of the creek, nor was it on the ‘Other’ side. It straddled the creek.
I noticed her leaning on the railing, looking down into the creek, so I stopped in the middle of the street to look at her. She was one of the school’s cheerleaders; Elena DuBois was French, had pale blue eyes and strawberry blond hair. A car tooted at me to get out of the way. She turned and caught me staring at her. She smiled. We were in the same grade and the same school but had never spoken. She lived on the ‘Better’ side of Chester Creek. I did not. Her friends called her Ely and pronounced it E-lee, but I called her Elena. I commented on her small gold heart-shaped locket. We chatted as we watched the water rush into the culvert in the concrete wall below us. We talked the morning into the afternoon. She asked me to call her Ely. I had crossed the divide and asked her out on a date.
We went to a movie in the West End section of town. I knew she would not want her friends to see us together. After the bus ride home, I walked her to her door and we nearly kissed. I had almost reached Chester Creek when three of them caught me, some guys from the ‘Better’ side. At my house, in the mirror, I saw my souvenir of the evening for crossing the divide … a black eye.
We never dated again. After graduation, I left town and became a clerk. I’d spend my night’s writing. I was luckless at first and then, slowly, I started to make a little money with my words. It was not enough to quit working, but I was encouraged to continue.
The day arrived when my publisher offered me the deal of a lifetime. I resigned from my day job, signed on the dotted line, went back to my hometown, and purchased my first new car. My agent hosted a small party to celebrate. Financially, I was set for life. I had crossed a huge divide.
I left the party the day was ending. Twilight insisted on lingering a few more moments. As I drove around, I noticed the children in their trick or treat costumes roaming the streets.
On a whim, I drove to Stoney Point. Dad had taken me to see the Stoney Point Lighthouse many times as a kid. I had a fascination with the place. The first time, Dad insisted I come with him to the very edge of the escarpment to view the waves crashing against the rocks a hundred-thirty foot below. I was scared and squeezed his hand as we walked to the wrought iron fence. Once there, I held on to it so tight my knuckles turned white. Soon enough, I loved the place and wasn’t afraid.
Driving past it, curiosity overcame me and I stopped. As I got out of my car, the old oak front door opened. I blinked in surprise. We recognized each other and she invited me in.
We sat, talked, and reminisced about old times. In high school, she’d wear the latest fashions that she’d made herself. Later on, she worked as a seamstress. On the side, she collected and repaired old style clothes. She rented a small storefront on the lower side of Michigan Street and sold vintage clothing. Her business grew. She bought a building on Superior Street and opened the Vintage Boutique. Her sewing and entrepreneurial skills brought her fame; she became known from coast to coast. Television and movie companies sought her out. She sold out, retired, and with the money from the sale of her business, she purchased the lighthouse and a few acres of land.
We talked late into the evening. She fixed a light supper. We had a little wine.  
~*~
I awoke as brilliant sunlight streamed into the room. My back was stiff from sleeping on the leather couch in the living room. I threw off the wool three-point trade blanket. Suddenly, I realized it was All Saints day. I’d nearly over-slept and missed an important early morning appointment with my agent. I had one last, very significant, document to sign. I couldn’t afford to miss the appointment.
She wasn’t in the house. I assumed she was outside, but I didn’t have the time to search for her. I left a note explaining I would be back in a week or ten days at the most. Yes, I would be back and together we would cross another divide.
As I drove to the meeting, I knew in my soul that I wanted her. Not for a few moments, but rather we would have a lifetime together. Ely was what I had been longing for all these years. I would make up for all that lost time. She would make me the complete person I longed to be. We would be together for eternity.
My attempt to complete my business had rapidly turned into an utter failure. My agent and my publisher nearly came to blows. The delay was frustrating. I wanted to get back to Ely. I missed her. Finally, late in the afternoon of November 10, they started talking and a new deal concerning my novel was hashed out. We all signed and I beat feet out the door.
The rain slashed against my car’s windows as I drove. At the lighthouse, the wind nearly ripped the door out of my hand as got out of the car. The waves crashing into the rocks sounded as if they were climbing up and over the hundred-foot wall of rock. Lightening lit the night into day as I reached the old oak door. I stopped. Her small gold heart-shaped locket lay on the threshold. Thunder reverberated off the brick wall of the lighthouse as I picked it up. Another brilliant flash; It was the light from the second-order Fresnel lens as it strobbed the darkness and reflected off the wisps of scruddy clouds hurrying into the night. I reached to press the doorbell. The door opened; the person wasn’t Ely.
The Ranger asked what I wanted.
I asked him what he was doing here.
“The lighthouse is a designated National Historic Landmark.” He said.
“So,” I said, “That doesn’t explain you being at my friend’s home.”
“The Park Service lights the light every November 10 in memory of the Edmund Fitzgerald which sank on this date in 1975.” His hands on his hips, “Again, what do you want?”
“I want to see the lady of the house.”
“Do you mean the woman who used to own this place, Miss DuBois?”
I nodded my head.
“Miss DuBois died … three years ago.”

​ 
I’d stop in Rich’s Auction Barn every Tuesday evening. It wasn’t a barn; it was a defunct single story furniture store. If Rich, the auctioneer, had something of interest, I’d come back the following evening and try to outbid the antique dealers. Most nights, I used the Barn as a social event. My half-hearted bids usually bought me nothing. I’d spend my time talking to Kathy. I’d known her years ago, in high school. She was the captain of the cheering squad. I found out about her accident when I returned to town. Back then, she said to stop calling her Kathy and to call her Styx.
“Sticks, why,” I asked, “cuz you’re on crutches?”
“Not that kinda sticks, Styx, with YX.”
“You mean S-T-Y-X?”
“Yes.” She never explained.
 Her job was to take phone-in bids from people who had deep pockets and wanted to remain anonymous. Their bids usually won because they had the bucks.  
The crowd hanging out at Rich’s Auction Barn was a family bunch. We were, for the most part, friendly, fun loving, sometimes boisterous, and respectful. The one thing we didn’t do – run up someone else’s bid. We could have. It would have made Rich more money, but he didn’t like it and on more than one occasion had told us so. The real reason for respect – we’d be seeing each other again in a week. Another quirk Rich had was the size of bids. Under a hundred bucks, any bid was good. Over a hundred dollars, bids were to be in twenty-five dollar or more increments. Over five-hundred bids are in the fifty-dollar or more increments.
Tonight, as most nights, found me leaning against a wall and drinking free coffee. We’d talk, except when she’d make an anonymous bid for someone. When she won the bid, she’d marked the price on the bid card and put it back into the pocket of her Home Depot nail apron she used to hold the bid cards and her cigarettes.
Rich held up an item. “Hold on, I need to go to work.” She pulled her stack of bid cards from her apron pocket, sorted through them until she found the one she wanted. The bidders around the hall voiced their price. She flashed the card at Rich. He nodded in recognition. The price was jumping up fast. Rich started to ask, “Do I have …?”
The black-hair woman in the leopard-skin elastic pants nodded her head.
“Do I have …?” Styx bid a little more than Rich asked. The bidding froze. Styx bid had shocked spastic-elastic and the rest of the crowd. Rich pointed in our direction, then looked at leopard pants and shrugged. “Better luck next time, Jan.”
“Deep pockets will win every time.”
Styx nudged me, “Just gonna drink free coffee or are you gonna buy something?”
I smiled and held up a finger.
The auctioneer put his hand on a large cardboard box and asked for an opening bid of twenty dollars. There were no takers. He asked for a ten-dollar bid and still, no one raised a hand. The big box sat there, contents unknown, just waiting for a buyer.
“One buck,” I hollered.
Then Rich looked at me, shook his head, and stage-whispered, “Thanks, Rob. You’re the last of the big spenders.” The crowd knew me and enjoyed the humor at my expense. “Do-I-heara-two-dolla bid? Who’lla-givea-two? Anybody? Somebody? Two-dollas, two-dollas, where?” He paused. “Goin’ once.” He paused again. “Goin’ twice.” He pointed at me, “Sold to Cheap-ass for a buck.”
The auctioneer and the crowd moved on to the next item as Styx side-glanced me.
“What?” I asked her. “I got this big box for a buck. Who knows what great treasures it holds?”
“You came here tonight to buy a box of junk you don’t need?”
“It only cost me a buck.”
She laughed, “Big deal. That stuff’ll be lying around your shop a year from now.”
“Will not!”
She rolled her eyes, “Will too!”
~*~
 
I spent the week sorting my box of treasures into smaller boxes to take around to other collectors and antique dealers. By the weekend, I had unloaded it all and after gas money, I’d made a few bucks.
Wednesday evening before the auction, I had a Big Mac, fries, and a Coke. 
Leaning against the wall, drinking coffee, I waited. After stopping to talk to another bidder, she came over, leaned her crutches against the wall, and sat in the chair next to me. “See anything interesting?”
“Yeah,” I didn’t elaborate. I wasn’t sure how I wanted to play the crowd. It was larger than usual. Red stood near the center of the table that held the tools. He idly sorted through a box of rusty bits I knew he wasn’t interested in and be wouldn’t bid on. Half a dozen tool dealers I knew were milling around and eyeing each other. There were three guys I knew to be private collectors. The two men in suits looked out of place. We weren’t the bib overalls kind of auction-goers, but none of the Auction Barn regulars ever wore a suit and tie. I saw Fat Jim whisper to Bill and glanced at the locked showcase. It was the reason for the large crowd and me being at the Barn.
In the ten years I’d been looking, I’d only laid eyes on four of them that were for sale. Two were counterfeits, another had a small nick, and the other wasn’t worth half the money the owner wanted. I would get this one. I had too. There were only eighteen in the set. I had seventeen. The locked showcase held my eighteenth.
“You want it, don’t ya Rob?”
“I do. What do you think I’ll go for?”
“It’s in great shape. On a scale of 10, it’s a 9 or better.” I said.
“My guess, it’ll be as low as seven-hundred, and as high as nine, nine-fifty.”
“Yeah, and if it breaks a grand, it’ll see fifteen-hundred.”
“How much are you willing to spend?” She asked. 
“Seven-fifty.”
Rich had held off until the end of the tool table sales. He unlocked the showcase. “Here we go folks, who’lla gimme a two-grand, two-grand, two-grand where.” It was the crowd’s turn to get even. No one bid. “Folks, this is a pristine Stanley number one bench plane. Damn open the bid somewhere.”
“One dolla,” I said. The crowd laughed, even Rich. That was the start, bids exploded from every corner of the room. In seconds, the price was at four-seventy. The bidding paused. If someone said fifty, the bid would be over five-hundred and I wouldn’t be in a position to get a bid in at seven-fifty. “Six even,” I said.
Styx flashed a card, and said, “Seven-fifty.”
The bidding stop and she’d stolen my bid. 
“Do-I-hear-eight-hundred-dolla-bid? Who’lla-givea-eight-hundred-dolla-bill? Anybody? Somebody? Eight-hundred-dolla bid-dollas, where?” He paused. “Goin’ once.” A long pause. “Goin’ twice.” He pointed at Styx, “Sold.”
“Rob, would you get it for me?” I did. As I handed her the plane, she said, “Stop in tomorrow, pay me, and it’s yours.”
“Tell me, why the name Styx with YX?”
Smiling, “Google it.”
— ℜ --
 

I was at Silk’s Billiard Parlor. Johnny and Bob charged up the stairs sounding like a herd of elephants. At the top of the stairs, Bob leaned on the newel post and tried to speak, but couldn’t.
“Bob,” I said, “you winded?”
He gave me both fingers and croaked, “And the horse you rode in on!”
“Bill, if you’re still interested in this Fitz chick, buy us a Coke,” Johnny whizzed, “and I’ll tell ya what I learned.” It had to be something important, cuz he’s hittin’ me up for drinks. I bought three Cokes. Bob and I sat on the windowsill overlooking Superior Street. Johnny, too wound up to sit, paced the floor.
Johnny wiped the bottle top with his plaid shirtsleeve and chugged a couple times. “This Jerry character is a junior at Morgan Park High. On Saturday nights, he and his two buddies hang out at Richies Drive-inn. You know, it’s the place on the west side of Morgan Park.” I nodded. “He’s going steady with a chick named Terri, she’s a sophomore at Denfeld. I’ll get her last name from a guy I know. Then on Monday nights, he and his buds hang out at the A & W in Cloquet. Guess what?” I shrugged. “He’s got a steady there, Mary Sue Hendrickson. According to a carhop, I know there.” He winked. “They park in a dark corner and neck after they have their burgers and strawberry malts.” He chugged his Coke again.
“Wow, a three-timer,” I said. Three-timer shot over Bob’s head. “He’s going steady with Fitz, Terri somebody, and this Mary Sue,” I said. FLASH, the light over Bob’s head lit.
Johnny held up four fingers. “Four. A chick in Proctor, Carla Demming, is going steady with him as well. He sees her on Friday evenings. They are regulars at the High School hop, dancing up a storm.” Johnny points the top of his bottle at his ear. “So I hear.”
“Busy lad,” I said. “How’d you find all this out in such a short time?”
“The hard part was finding out what kinda wheels he rolls. Then it was a piece of cake.”
Bob tilted his head, “Piece of cake, how?”
“He drives a Twilight Blue and Caspian Cream 1955 Olds Holiday 98 ragtop. How many of those have you seen prowling the Duluth streets?”
I shook my head, “None.”
“Exatimundo! I have relatives all over the Northland. With the car’s description, I asked and family answered.” He chugged the last of his Coke and cut loose a tonsil-wrecking belch.
“So, what’s our plan?” Bob asked. Then he tilted his Coke to drink. Nothing, but he kept tilting until the bottle was vertical. “Who drank my soda?”
I looked at him and asked, “Plan, plan for what?”
“You’re going to whoop his ass, right, Billy?”
“Ah, no,” I said.
 Johnny slammed his empty bottle on the windowsill. “Hell we ain’t! Damn after I’ve done all this investigatin’, some bad shit better go down. I mean it, Bill. This BMOC at Morgan Park needs to come down a peg or three. ”
Bob’s eyes crossed. “BMOC?”
“Big Man On Campus,” Johnny said.
Bob nodded and looked down his bottle, hoping there was some left.
Johnny got in my face. “If you ain’t gonna kick his ass I will. Damn straight I will.”
“Not your fight, Johnny.” I drained my drink, grabbed the empty bottles, and walked them to the rear of the pool hall. I needed time to think. Johnny, as usual, wanted a fistfight. Bob, not the fighting type, would play cheerleader. I wasn’t afraid to fight. I just didn’t relish it as much as Johnny did. Also, there were Jerry’s two buddies to think about. I knew Johnny and I could do a two on three. We’d win, but at what cost? I needed a way to keep the casualty list as small as possible. I dropped the bottles in the wooden case. As I walked back to the window, I thought about Jerry and his four girlfriends and about what I’d just said to Johnny. BAM, it hit me.
Bob elbowed Johnny. “Look, Bill’s got a plan. I can tell by his silly assed grin.”
~*~
 
Johnny stepped outta the phone booth outside of the Curling Club, a thumbs up. Bob, at the phone booth in front of Walgreens, four blocks away called to say that Jerry and his distinctive Oldsmobile had stopped at the light. His buddies were riding shotgun. I drove my car to the far end of the parking lot to leave him the parking place next to the lighted entrance of the Curling Club. 
Jerry took his time grooming his ducktail to perfection. He checked the pack of smokes rolled in the left sleeve of his grungy white T-shirt. Finished, he started toward the entrance and his Wednesday skate date with Fitz.
She stepped into the light of the entrance. He stopped. She should have been upstairs skating. The cuffs of her jeans rolled to the prescribed height of three inches and the sleeves of her bright white blouse exactly one inch. She’d read the memo. He started to say something to her but stopped when Terri, Mary Sue, and Carla joined Fitz. They’d read the memo. He looked at eight clenched fists and stopped. His two buddies started to step forward.
Johnny said. “Not your fight.” They turn and saw Bob, Johnny, and a couple of his cousins. At least, he said they were his cousins. Personally, I think they’re two gorillas on a day pass from the Duluth Zoo. “Just relax and watch.”
~*~
 
It wasn’t pretty. Johnny winced a coupla times when the girls pulled Jerry’s hair or scratched at his face. Bob crossed his legs and moaned in sympathy when Mary Sue planted a shoe that lifted him a foot off the ground. That ended the scuffle. We’d drawn a small crowd. Thanks to two of Johnny’s cousins, there was someone from every school in Duluth and they knew what the deal was. My goal was to ruin his reputation. I had.
He was in no condition to drive. As I leaned him against the car door, I suggested he stay away from Fitz. He readily agreed.
Johnny pushed one of the buddies behind the wheel of the baby blue Olds. “You drive.” He stepped back. “If I see anyone of you three guys east of Mesabi Avenue, I’ll rip off your head and piss down your neck! You got that?” They believed him and slowly drove off.
Fitz and I walked around the parking lot and picking up Jerry’s Lucky Strike cigarettes. We didn’t want the little tikes to get any bad habits.
The six of us headed toward the Curling Club to skate to celebrate the fall of Morgan Park’s BMOC. Johnny asked Terri to be his skate-date. Carla called it an evening and grabbed the bus to Proctor. Mary Sue sweet-talked Bob into paying her way. The grin on his face said he didn’t mind at all.
I stopped, and she looked up at me. “What Bill?”
“Fitz, I’ve had enough fun for one evening.”
“But you promised.”
“Sorry, not tonight.”
— ℜ --
 

After the 1953 Christmas break, the Safety Patrol schedule changed. Now I shepherd the little kids across 11th Avenue East, the corner crossing adjacent to the school. Also, I had a new partner, Sheryl Quinn. She was new to the parish, having moved in sometime during late summer. At first, I took little notice of her. She lived at the top of the hill on 12th Avenue East, above 11th Street. It was the last house below Skyline Drive, so she wasn’t part of my normal neighborhood group.
Gradually, we began to chat as we waited for the children to come to the corner of 11th Avenue East and 8th Street. As the weeks went by, we tarried longer before returning to first-hour class, religion. Sheryl was nearly about my size. Tall, not skinny, but not fat. Mom, on more than one occasion, commented about my newfound eagerness to get to school early. I was eager, but not because I enjoyed school.
~*~
 
The mid-February morning was extremely bitter, cold, and windy. She was acting odd. Between students, she’d put her stop sign on the ground between feet and her hands in her pockets. She’d never done that before. I wondered why. I held up my sign so a brother and sister could cross the Avenue and waited for Sheryl to stop the traffic on 8th Street. She gripped the metal handle of her sign with her coat sleeve.
She had no gloves, I thought. Checking traffic, I walked across the intersection, pulled the wool liners from my leather choppers, and offered them to her. She gave me a grateful smile. Walking into the school after the last student, I held the door for her. She returned my liners and softly thanked me.
She noticed me as I entered the lunchroom and slid over to make room. I walked to the next table and sat with my usual group, TJ, Dan, John. As we ate, we decided to go ice-skating after supper.
 
In the boy’s warming house at Central High School practice field on 8th Avenue East and 11th Street, we helped lace each other’s skates. I was the last one out of the warming house and hurried to catch up with my friends. The door of the girl’s warming house opened, and I nearly bumped into her. I apologized. She turned and walked toward the ice rink and ignored me. It took me a complete lap of the quarter-mile-long oval, to catch up with her. I was a little short of breath and couldn’t speak. When I did, she turned away and snubbed me. I got in front of her and I blocked her path.
She tried to skate around me, “Get out of my way.”
I didn’t, and she stopped.
“Why are you ignoring me?” I asked.
“Me, you snubbed at lunch.”
“I didn’t. I always sit with my group.”
“Fine!” Pushing away from me, “Go sit with them now.”
“Sheryl, wait.” It could have been my tone or her curiosity. She stopped. I explained. She dropped the uppity attitude. We skated together until she started to shiver. “Let’s go to the warming house,” I suggested. We did. “See ya in about fifteen?”
She smiled and nodded.
Inside the boy’s warming house, Dan amused himself by dropping small hunks of snow onto the top of the large, wood-burning potbellied stove. “Why does the snow dance on the hot top?”
John, the brains of our group, glanced at the potbellied stove, “It’s the Leidenfrost effect.”
TJ, sarcastically, “Of course,” throwing his hands in the air, “‘it’s the Leidenfrost effect.’ What the hell is that, anyway?”
John copped his know-it-all attitude. “When water hits a very hot surface some of it will boil off rapidly, forming a sort of cushion of steam which insulates the droplet from the hot surface and it appears as if the droplet is floating above the hot surface.” John shrugged, “Simple physics.”
Dan dropped another bit of snow on the stove lid, “Whoppie-twing!”
On the ice, we made a couple of laps before the rink lights dimmed. It was eight o’clock, time for the little tikes to leave and let us older kids skate in peace. Hand in hand, we skated by the light of the full moon.
She asked if I could skate backward. I couldn’t admit I never tried.
She didn’t laugh as she helped me stand up. “Think of it as dancing.”
She turned and skated backward. We alternated skating backward until the lights brighten then dimmed again, twice. Skating was over for the evening.
Sheryl left the rink with her girlfriend. I headed home with my buddies. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw her looking over hers. I haven’t the foggiest idea why I enjoyed being near her, but I did. I had developed a feeling, an itch. Being with her meant, I didn’t have to scratch.  We would meet at the rink a couple of nights a week. Sometimes we’d skate. Other times, we’d sit on the bench outside of the girl’s warming house and talk. I started walking her home from the rink. At first, my buddies needled me it, but it got old, they stopped.
~*~
 
I’d cover my textbooks with brown grocery bag papers. For decorations, I’d draw airplanes or cars on them. Sheryl sat across the aisle from me. Late one afternoon, the sun glinting off her ponytail, I sketched it. I did it on the inside back cover of my Math book. The next day, I sketched her face with her strawberry blond hair down on her shoulders. She normally wore it that way. At home, I used my good set of coloring pencils to add color to my doodlings of her. Almost every day I added another sketch to the inside covers of my Math book, an ear, her nose, or an eye with its arch brow, something simple.
On Holy Thursday, I’d walked her home after skating and we sat on the top step of her front porch. She rested her head on my shoulder, looking up at me. I sensed the questioning look on her face. Did she want me to kiss her? If I kissed her, would it ruin our friendship? If I didn’t kiss her, would it ruin our friendship? Suddenly the porch light came on solving my dilemma. I stood, said good night, and left.
 
The next day, Good Friday morning, she forgot her Math book at home and asked to use mine. Without thinking, I handed it to her. Near the end of the hour, she handed it back to me. As I took it, Sheryl thumbed open the back cover to reveal she saw my artwork. Our fingers touched, and she silently blew me a kiss. I blushed.
Spring arrived and over the Easter weekend, she’d transferred out of Saint Anthony Parish. Our paths never again crossed. But I’ve often wondered, was she the reason I only dated strawberry blonds?
— ℜ --
 

Rules concerning Time Travel*

1. Travel to the future is not possible; it hasn’t happened yet.
2. Paradoxes do not exist; nature does not allow contradictions.
3. Changing the Past will not change the future; the future takes into account the change.
4. Time travelers do not age; in now time, they return only a few seconds after leaving.

* Developed by Prof. Henry Winter Jr. on July 1, 1994
 
I was to meet her in the UMD cafeteria after her fourth-hour class. Stacy wasn’t at the window table near the last pillar. It’s one of our favorite meeting places at the University of Minnesota-Duluth. I spotted her in the food line. She was getting a salad and either milk or coffee? Stacy joined me and set her salad bowl on the table and her colored drink above and to the right of her salad. She smiled a greeting, “Afternoon, Junior, why the frown?” and sat.
 “Are you drinking milk or coffee?” I asked. “I can never tell the difference.” She busied herself arranging her plastic eating utensils before answering.
“Milk, civilized people drink coffee after eating.”
“How can a guy tell the difference between your coffee and your milk? They are both half milk and half coffee.”
“Whatever I put in the cup first is what it is.” She stabbed a bit of lettuce. It almost kissed her naturally pink lips before disappearing behind them. She chewed it eighteen times as always. Next, she skillfully dissected the cherry tomato and put one-half in her mouth.
One, two three…, seventeen, eighteen- swallow. She’s so predictable.
She stabbed the other piece of tomato and put in her mouth. “How did class go this morning?”
She held up her left index finger. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen - swallow. “Your friend Broderick droned incessantly about minutia. He is the boringist of boring student teachers. Whatever do you see in him?”
“He’s smart, brilliant even, and we have been friends since …, since Kindergarten.
I’ve explained it all to Stacy before, many times. If it is any other topic than medicine, she refuses to attempt to understand. She acts as if her brain has wandered off somewhere. It’s earned her the nickname Spacy. I tried again as she ate. … two, three, four, five,…
I needed her to see that being able to time-travel could ultimately solve problems that had plagued humankind since time began. She should understand the importance recovering some of the ancient secrets of the healing arts … six, seven, eight, nine, … 
From a historical aspect, traveling back in time would reveal the why of events far more clearly than the drab and dry pages of the current history books do. History needs answers.… ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen,…
Wars, their causes could be …
… fourteen, fifteen…, why’d she stop eating?
Resting her fork on the corner of her plate, finger. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen - swallow. “Afternoon, Ambrose, are you finished teaching for the day?”
“Thankfully, yes I am. Tell me, Junior, were we as bad as the present bunch of sophomores?”
“No, defiantly not,” I said.”
“Eh, college kids. So, what’s new with you?”
“I was explaining to Stacy how important time travel is. How intertwined the past and the present are. More important, travel between them is possible, theoretically.”
“Really, Junior, everyone knows the obvious. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Oh, there is something. I opened my computer to Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. “Look here, we all assume light travels three million meters per second and….”
“It’s two hundred ninety-nine point seven-nine to be precise.”
“Thanks, Ambrose, to continue, the textbook is wrong. Here is the original formula.” I flipped to an old photo of the book’s title page and showed him the date. “See, nineteen oh six.”
“So what is wrong?”
I pulled up another photo. “Look at the Time Dilation formula. It’s not one plus V2 divided by C2, it’s one minus V2 divided by C2.”
Brose blinked, “That will defiantly change things.” 
“You two should be putting those brains of yours to something more useful than time travel if you plan to pass your Physics finials. Especially you, Junior, how would it look if the son of the Professor Emeritus of the Archeology Department failed? You would embarrass your father to no end. The thought of traveling through time is … is utter nonsense.”
“Stacy, time travel is physics.”
“Day-dreaming Poppycock is all it is!” Stacy stood. “I have studying to do.” She shot a cutting look at Ambrose, “JR, you need to get your head straight and stop hanging out with him!” She turned and left.
“Bye Spacy.”
“Brose, don’t call her that.”
“She has no imagination, zero. Whatever do you see in that chick?”
“She has a bad case of Chronohodophonia, that’s all,” I said.
“Great, good thing it’s not catchy.”
~*~
 
“Mike, you have examined the contemporary literature in relation to time travel and its potential effect on AI? Give us your thoughts.”
Mike spent the next three-quarters of an hour explaining what N-finity was, and what it could do. At the end of his monologue, Brose and I looked at each other and realized we were not much wiser. We needed Mike in on the project.
The only real information I derived was it was possible to build a very small time travel device using nano-technology, and I told him so. “Mike, do you have a dollar estimate for developing this pocket-watch sized device into a usable item?”
“Sure.” He folded his arms across his chest and looked up at the fluorescent in the corner that started to make a loud buzzing noise.
He can be the most exasperating human when he wants to be. “Please, share your estimate.”
“Shure, fifteen grand,” he quipped.  “I’ve got the grant app all filled out and ready to send.”
I swallowed. “That seems a bit cheap.”
“It is and why not? We have all the machinery and raw material right here on campus, everything.”
~*~
 
It had taken three months and another seventeen thousand dollars to get the Time Travel Watch through the preliminary testing. They sent a mouse back in time. Actually, we’d used three mice before we realized going forward in time is not possible; there is nothing to send a mouse to - Poof! Now, as the primary scope of the funding was to test whether AI objects could stand up to the rigors of time travel, it was test time. They strapped the test mouse to a cheap Timex. I set the departure time and the return time in the TTW. The mouse completely de-materialized.
I counted, one, two … nine, and ten. It re-materialized and exploded.
Mike suggested wrapping a foil of Gidoleum159 around the Timex to act as a shield. It worked.
The entire science faculty gathered in my lab for the final test. Again, I wrapped the Timex with a foil of Gi159, set the TTW. The test device de-materialized completely.
SHIT! I remembered the Timex didn’t need wrapping this time, the AI test device did. As it re-materialized, parts exploded in every direction.
Stacy’s voice synthesizer landed on the floor at my feet. It whirred, and in a high-pitched Porky Pig voice, “Th-Th-The, Th-Th-The, Th-Th ... That’s all, folks!”
 
— ℜ --

Nolan Janssens was born in Santiago, Chile; took his first steps in Antwerp, Belgium, and grew up in British Columbia, Canada. He was born without borders. Thinking outside the box is part of his make-up.
Nolan often subverts and challenges the status quo with humour, metaphor, and an eclectic mix of narratives. He graduated with honours from the Writing for Film & Television Program at Vancouver Film School in 2011 and is now pursuing his English degree at the University of British Columbia. He has had several of his works published.

​The peril that makes many hearts stop is what feeds the drive of others. For these people, the inevitability of death is all they want to control. Tommy Faa was one of these people. Tommy Faa knew how he wanted to die. 
     Tommy didn’t notice the centipede inching its way up his board shorts nor the wailing of the adhan call to prayer from the village mosque. He was out cold until the crowing of several roosters broke his drunken sleep. With every crow, a brain cell in Tommy’s throbbing brain seemed to burst; something Tommy would neither complain about nor admit. When Tommy finally built up the courage to open his eyes and face the light of day, he awoke to complete darkness. Tommy worried that the Arak, a fermented palm spirit kept in water bottles, had blinded him; something he was warned about, but he took his chances. Tommy banged on the walls around him, looking for a light switch. He had almost found the door handle when the door suddenly opened; the merciless morning light hitting him. When Tommy reopened his bloodshot eyes, a grinning Indonesian man dressed in straggly clothing, stood in front of him holding a cup of Lombok coffee. 
     “Tommy the Arak man!” The Indonesian man said with a thick accent. Tommy noticed various rusty tools and a broken (most likely still used) bicycle. Looking up, he saw a tin ceiling infested with ants and shrouds of cobwebs. This wasn’t the first time Tommy had woken up in an unfamiliar shed.
     “Where am I?” Asked Tommy as he grabbed the strong, black coffee.
      “Indonesia.”
      “Cheeky.”
      “You’re in Kuta.”
      “Kuta, Bali?”
      “Kuta, Lombok.”
      At that moment Tommy’s phone rang. Tommy searched his pockets. When he looked up, the Indonesian man laughed and handed Tommy the phone.
     “I charge it for you.”
     Tommy accepted the call.
     “Hey, man… Naw, I’m in Lombok… I dunno how I got here, Ryan. I’m guessing a boat…” Tommy diverted his attention to the Indonesian man. “How long will it take to get to Uluwatu?”
      “Four hours… if there’s a fast boat available.”
     “I can be there in four hours… Since I’ll miss training, I’ll train here. Competition’s not for another three days… Yea, I’ll be there tomorrow then, Ryan.” 
     “There’s surfing around here, yeah?” 
     “Yes, but not today. Big storm coming.” 
     “Fine by me.” 
     “I call my cousin, Dee.  Dee is the best surfer in Lombok. He give you good price, my friend.”
                                                                    ***
     Dee was born in Kuta, Lombok several years before it became noticed by the western surf community. The beaches and waterfalls around Kuta attracted tourists and when the tourists came out to play, so did Dee. At five-years-old, Dee’s brown eyes had already been seasoned by strife. Dee, among many of the children born in Kuta, was destined to never leave his hometown. He could name every capital city in Europe and knew enough Dutch and English phrases to sell anything to the tourists—for three times the valued price. His little sister praised him for his crafty ways. With her wide, innocent eyes, she followed him around like a baby quail following it’s mother. For years to come, no man would compare to her brother. 
     As Dee grew older, he wanted nothing more than to continue with school but when his father decided to have two wives, his children from the second wife became his duty.  What little money they had before was now sparser than ever. By thirteen, Dee had grown tired of hustling tourists, but he was now the man of the house. He needed to make enough money so that his little sister could stay in school. When the first group of surfers came to town, Dee foresaw Kuta’s potential as a surfing hub.
      Several years later, when the surfers started to come by the thousands, Dee was ready. He could ride better than anyone on the island, and whatever money he made, went to his family or hiring other locals as instructors for his surf school. He dreamt of one day becoming a professional surfer and making enough money to move to Australia, but with the little money he had saved, he would never obtain his dream visa. Now, at thirty, it seemed unlikely Dee’s fate would change. Dee told Tommy all of this in broken English on the way the point break pick-up. 
      “Cut the sob story, mate. We’re going surfing,” Tommy said as Dee sped through the narrow, pothole-laden road. “If you want a tip, don't yap about how broke you are. Show me how well you can surf. If you don’t suck, maybe I’ll fly you down under myself.”
     “Really?”
     “Don’t get your hopes up. I’ve been known to break promises.”
     “Is that what your wife says?”
     “I’m still playing the field.”
     “What?”
     “I’m not married.”
     “Men our age should be married.”
     “If I could have multiple wives like you, maybe I would be.”
     Dee’s laughter rumbled from his stomach. His laughter turned into a prideful smile as he said, “Not every Muslim has many wives. I only have one wife, and I will always have one wife.” 
     “But if you fell in love with someone else, you wouldn’t have to worry.”
     “I would worry about my son and daughter. I make promise to not be like my father.” 
     “Now that’s a promise I wish I could keep,” Tommy said more to himself than to Dee.
    The potholes disappeared as they arrived in a village with more chickens and stray dogs than people. Dee parked the Mitsubishi van in front of his surf shop. The second Tommy jumped out of the vehicle, two little kids tried to sell him their self-made yarn bracelets.
     “I give you good price, my friend.” The two children repeated the phrase several times before Dee stepped out from the vehicle and intervened. 
   “These are my children, Intan and Arif,” Dee said. Arif had the same dark, brown eyes as his father, but as a four-year-old, his skin was not yet beaten by the weather. Intan was only a year older than her brother but possessed a protective quality that was almost motherly. Her green eyes filled with a sullen sweetness, and her facial features were finer than those of Arif.
     “Are you going to become little shredders?” Tommy asked.
     The children gave Tommy a blank stare.
     “Surfers,” Tommy said.
     “I’m already a surfer,” Arif said. 
     “How about you?” Tommy asked Intan.
     Intan wouldn’t look up at Tommy.
     “She has to take care of the house. She has to learn from her mother,” Dee exclaimed. 
     “Saya ingin menjadi seperti Maria” I want to be like Maria, Intan said. 
     “Adikku bukan seorang ibu. Kamu tidak akan menjadi seperti dia.” My sister is not a mother. You will not be like her, Dee said. 
     Intan stormed off with Arif quickly following. 
     “So, what was that about?” Tommy asked.
     “Let’s surf,” Dee said.
     Tommy and Dee grabbed their surfboards from the roof of the Mitsubishi and walked between two restaurants. A small opening led to the tiny harbor. The port contained two rundown motorboats and three Jukungs. The Jukung’s wooden canoe-like hulls had double outriggers attached by four spider-like wooden legs—the traditional build—but with four-stroke engines connected to the back. Dee waved at someone in a Jukung a hundred meters way. As the Jukung approached, Tommy noticed an Indonesian woman piloting it. Her gray, wet t-shirt clung to her breasts. She had the type of body, which even when modestly dressed, looked free and nude. Her green Hijab was wrapped around her face and accentuated her eyes that held more emotional grit than Iranian women in a National Geographic photograph. Tommy wouldn’t have known he was lovestruck because Tommy has never experienced love. 
     “Kenapa kamu di sini?” Why are you here? Asked Dee.
     “Because your friends have little balls,” the woman said with an understandable Indonesian accent that delighted Tommy. 
     “What?”
     “They won't use the boat in this weather. No balls.” 
     “This is my type of woman,” Tommy whispered to Dee.
     “This is my sister.”
     For once, Tommy didn’t know how to respond. Tommy couldn’t stop staring at Maria. The morning sunlight had found it’s way between the clouds, casting a golden ring around Maria’s green eyes.
     “Are you Tommy Faa, the surfer?” Maria asked as she lifted Tommy’s surfboard into the boat. 
     “Yup.” 
     “An Australian couple showed me a video of you. You almost killed yourself on the Garret McNamara, and rode it again the day you got out of the hospital.” 
     “Okay, we go before the storm is worse,” Dee said.
     “You speak much better English than your brother,” Tommy said.
     “That’s because she has no family to make food for. She only needs to think about herself.” 
     From Maria’s insouciance, Tommy could see that the siblings have had this conversation many times before. 
     “I only think about myself too. We’d make a horrible team,” Tommy said.
   Maria smiled with her back turned to Tommy and gunned the engine while Tommy and Dee were still standing. Dee caught his balance, but Tommy fell flat on his ass, laughing. 
    “We’ll be at the point break in ten minutes,” Maria said. 
     Nobody said a word the whole way there. Dee concentrated on waxing his surfboard, even though it was freshly waxed. Maria didn’t see the need in conversation; she was happy knowing that Tommy Faa was memorizing the teasing way her t-shirt traced her backside. 
            *** 
     Maria stayed in the Jukung in case something happened to Tommy or Dee. As Maria watched Tommy surf, he showed her everything about himself. The ocean was his canvas, and he painted the stories of his life on each wave. The waves became messier and more sporadic as the winds picked up, but the more difficult it became to catch a wave, the more free Tommy appeared. He paddled with unyielding aggression, but as soon as he stood on that board, he was free from pain. He seemed to blend water and air into one element as he flew from the waves. When he dropped from the sky and landed back onto the wave, he never fell. Whether he landed backward, forward, or sideways, he quickly maneuvered the board in whichever way he chose. He had full control over his board until the storm picked up, and that’s when Maria saw Tommy’s self-destructive nature. 
     Dee was technically impeccable. This point-break helped raise him, and he knew the waves better than he knew his father. Dee didn’t have the eclectically creative bag of tricks like Tommy did, but he knew which waves were better to ride. Their tenacity and power were on par, but unlike Tommy, Dee liked to stay in control. 
     “There’s no way to tell how waves will crash now,” Dee said.
     “No balls, as Maria would say!” Tommy said. 
     “The tide is lower. We will crash into coral.” 
     “Saltwater cleans the cuts, my man.”
     “I’m done, Tommy. Please come.” 
     Tommy didn’t listen. As Dee struggled to paddle back to the boat, Tommy paddled out to where he hoped the next set would come. Maria was busy bailing out water from the boat. The wind-formed waves kept crashing in. 
     “Dee!” Maria said, pointing at the wave forming behind Tommy. Dee looked back and saw Tommy surf a wave four times his height; the biggest wave of the day, but not even close to the biggest wave of his life. The wave, at first, broke left as Tommy expected. Anyone could see that Tommy was struggling to keep his balance in the high winds. Tommy expected to lose a bit of control, but what he did not expect was that the wave would suddenly break all at once. The wave picked Tommy up and then threw him down onto the coral with its several tons of might. Before Dee could say anything, Maria grabbed his board and jumped into the water. By the time Maria reached Tommy, he had been dragged onto the rocks below the cliff. The whitewash usually subsides at the rocks, but with the winds, the waves slammed Tommy against the rock behind him. Tommy was smiling as Maria approached.
     “Shit’s gnarly,” Tommy said. 
     “Can you move?” Asked Maria.
     “Everything but my right arm.”
     “Use my board to get to the boat. I’ll swim.” Maria noticed that Tommy’s board had split in two.
    Dee brought the Jukung as close as he could to Maria and Tommy without hitting the rocks or being too close to the waves. It took Maria and Tommy fifteen minutes to swim one hundred meters to the boat; the winds kept pushing them back toward the rocks. As soon as Tommy reached the Jukung, Dee hefted Tommy’s bloody body from the water.
     “It’s not a very safe surf school you’re running here,” Tommy said to Dee.
     “Fuck you,” Dee said. 
***                          
     Dee and Maria brought Tommy to the clinic where the Doctor applied twenty stitches down the right side of his back and five stitches on his forearm. Fortunately, his arm wasn’t broken but severely sprained. The doctor advised Tommy to keep his arm in the sling for three weeks followed by two weeks of rest. Tommy thought they did an impeccable job (not that he has high medical standards) until he asked if he had a concussion; something the doctor should have checked for at first. The doctor used the tips of his fingers to press lightly onto the back of Tommy’s skull in a massage-like manner. 
     “Does that hurt?” Asked the doctor.
     “Uh, nope.” Said Tommy.
     The doctor repeated the finger pressing three more times on various parts of Tommy’s skull. Tommy shouldn’t have been so amused by the doctor’s inept concussion examination; he may have noticed the discomfort. 
     “Does that hurt?”
     “Nope, not there either.” 
     “Great, your brain isn’t bleeding.” 
     “But do I have a concussion?”
     “Oh yes.” 
    What ever happened to seeing if my pupils react to light, Tommy thought. After Maria had made sure the receptionists didn't overcharge Tommy, and that they hadn't taken down all his credit card information, Dee and Maria brought him to an ATM. Tommy took out four hundred American, approximately five million Indonesian rupiahs. He paid Dee for the rented surfboard, boat gas, and his time. He split the remaining four in half million rupiah among Dee, Maria, and himself.
     “What’s this for?” Asked Dee.
     “You’ll need that money to come with me. You’re going to surf at the Rip Curl invitational. I’ll make sure of it.” Tommy then looked Maria. “As for you… I would like your company.”
     Maria burst out laughing. “My company?” From the few hours Maria knew Tommy, she knew that he had never used the words your companyin his life. 
     “I want you to come with me, Maria.” 
     Maria smiled and said, “I’ll book the fast boat for tomorrow morning.”
    “I can’t leave my family,” Dee said after a moment of staring at the money as though it were a sacred map he couldn’t read.
    “You will be back in four days. I’ll give your family the money they need for the week,”  Tommy said. 
     “Why do you do this for me?” 
     “I told you I would.”
     “I thought you break promises.”
     “I didn’t promise you shit.” 
***
     Arif and Intan were in a state of jubilation; their father would be in a surf competition, and he would be with Maria. Maria had told Arif and Intan many stories about their inseparable relationship as children. However, religion and culture can tear the threads that bind us quicker than it brings us together. Maria was only Muslim enough to survive in Kuta, and Dee knew that. Arif and Intan were still too young to become what they have been taught in the mosques, but no child is too young to understand Maria’s stories about the love between siblings.
    Dee’s wife, Sania, could not be convinced by words. Fortunately, Tommy’s cash told Sania all she wanted to hear. Tommy saved his manager for last. After several moments of derisive, vulgar language (even for an Australian) Ryan calmed down and said he would speak with Tommy’s sponsors. Turns out, that some of the sponsors knew about Dee’s surf school and thought that sponsoring him for the competition would have a high marketability in Indonesia. After two days of training, it was time for Dee to enter the Rip Curl Invitational. 
***
     Maria and Tommy sat on Padang Padang beach watching the surfers and drinking a Bintang Pilsner. It was Maria’s first time drinking in public. For once, she didn’t have to worry about being further alienated by her community. Tommy was the first man that looked at Maria with nothing other than admiration, not only for her physique but for her mind and rebellious spirit. They didn’t need to hold hands; they held one another in each other’s eyes. They were looking into the future; something neither has ever cared about until now. 
     “Did Dee tell you the story about my father and his second wife?” Maria asked.
     “I assume he tells all the tourists,” Tommy said.
     “I wanted to blame my father for leaving. Instead, I blamed our religion.”
     “I have a sister from a different mother and two half brother’s I’ve never met. And my father’s an Atheist.” 
     “So it’s men we should blame?” Maria intoned facetiously. 
     “I never had a chance to hear my dad’s side of the story, but that’s a safe bet.” 
     “Do you want children?”
     “No.”
     Maria smiled, happy with the answer, and Tommy knew it. At that moment, they heard the announcement for Dee. The wave forming behind Dee was four to five meters high. The largest wave Dee had ever surfed. Maria’s heart was racing, and Tommy’s head was thumping.  
     For the first several seconds of Dee’s ride, he rode without style; it was as though he was still finding his balance. The velocity of the wave felt new to him, but as soon the power transferred over to Dee, he playfully cut back and forth. He used the new found speed to his advantage and popped into the air, executing two flawless one hundred and eighty-degree spins. Dee immediately cut back towards the barrel. The wave broke faster than anticipated; Dee disappeared into the tunnel of water for what seemed like an eternity to Maria. The wave was nearing the end of its life. It appeared that the several tons of water would crash onto Dee. As soon as the barrel collapsed, Dee spat out from the whitewash with everyone on the beach cheering. Everyone except for Tommy. Maria looked back and saw Tommy holding his head in pain. 
     “Tommy, what’s up?” Maria asked.
     Tommy couldn’t answer. With every exhale, he groaned with an animalistic distress. The lacerated sounds seemed unnatural coming from Tommy.
     “Tommy!”
     Without looking at Maria, Tommy stood up and grabbed a surfboard that lay next to a teenager with blond dreadlocks passed out on the ground. Tommy continued to walk towards the ocean with tears of torment swelling his eyes. He stood where the water washed up onto his feet, holding the surfboard in his good arm. He heard the announcement for Dee's nearly perfect score. For what may have been a fraction of a second, Tommy felt a lifetime of peace. He stared at the little beach break wave forming in front of him. It was the same type of wave Tommy would have learned to ride on as a child. As the wave collapsed so did Tommy. It was the only thing he ever planned. Painting on Waves
by Nolan Janssens
 
 
 
    The peril that makes many hearts stop is what feeds the drive of others. For these people, the inevitability of death is all they want to control. Tommy Faa was one of these people. Tommy Faa knew how he wanted to die. 
     Tommy didn’t notice the centipede inching its way up his board shorts nor the wailing of the adhan call to prayer from the village mosque. He was out cold until the crowing of several roosters broke his drunken sleep. With every crow, a brain cell in Tommy’s throbbing brain seemed to burst; something Tommy would neither complain about nor admit. When Tommy finally built up the courage to open his eyes and face the light of day, he awoke to complete darkness. Tommy worried that the Arak, a fermented palm spirit kept in water bottles, had blinded him; something he was warned about, but he took his chances. Tommy banged on the walls around him, looking for a light switch. He had almost found the door handle when the door suddenly opened; the merciless morning light hitting him. When Tommy reopened his bloodshot eyes, a grinning Indonesian man dressed in straggly clothing, stood in front of him holding a cup of Lombok coffee. 
     “Tommy the Arak man!” The Indonesian man said with a thick accent. Tommy noticed various rusty tools and a broken (most likely still used) bicycle. Looking up, he saw a tin ceiling infested with ants and shrouds of cobwebs. This wasn’t the first time Tommy had woken up in an unfamiliar shed.
     “Where am I?” Asked Tommy as he grabbed the strong, black coffee.
      “Indonesia.”
      “Cheeky.”
      “You’re in Kuta.”
      “Kuta, Bali?”
      “Kuta, Lombok.”
      At that moment Tommy’s phone rang. Tommy searched his pockets. When he looked up, the Indonesian man laughed and handed Tommy the phone.
     “I charge it for you.”
     Tommy accepted the call.
     “Hey, man… Naw, I’m in Lombok… I dunno how I got here, Ryan. I’m guessing a boat…” Tommy diverted his attention to the Indonesian man. “How long will it take to get to Uluwatu?”
      “Four hours… if there’s a fast boat available.”
     “I can be there in four hours… Since I’ll miss training, I’ll train here. Competition’s not for another three days… Yea, I’ll be there tomorrow then, Ryan.” 
     “There’s surfing around here, yeah?” 
     “Yes, but not today. Big storm coming.” 
     “Fine by me.” 
     “I call my cousin, Dee.  Dee is the best surfer in Lombok. He give you good price, my friend.”
                                                                    ***
     Dee was born in Kuta, Lombok several years before it became noticed by the western surf community. The beaches and waterfalls around Kuta attracted tourists and when the tourists came out to play, so did Dee. At five-years-old, Dee’s brown eyes had already been seasoned by strife. Dee, among many of the children born in Kuta, was destined to never leave his hometown. He could name every capital city in Europe and knew enough Dutch and English phrases to sell anything to the tourists—for three times the valued price. His little sister praised him for his crafty ways. With her wide, innocent eyes, she followed him around like a baby quail following it’s mother. For years to come, no man would compare to her brother. 
     As Dee grew older, he wanted nothing more than to continue with school but when his father decided to have two wives, his children from the second wife became his duty.  What little money they had before was now sparser than ever. By thirteen, Dee had grown tired of hustling tourists, but he was now the man of the house. He needed to make enough money so that his little sister could stay in school. When the first group of surfers came to town, Dee foresaw Kuta’s potential as a surfing hub.
      Several years later, when the surfers started to come by the thousands, Dee was ready. He could ride better than anyone on the island, and whatever money he made, went to his family or hiring other locals as instructors for his surf school. He dreamt of one day becoming a professional surfer and making enough money to move to Australia, but with the little money he had saved, he would never obtain his dream visa. Now, at thirty, it seemed unlikely Dee’s fate would change. Dee told Tommy all of this in broken English on the way the point break pick-up. 
      “Cut the sob story, mate. We’re going surfing,” Tommy said as Dee sped through the narrow, pothole-laden road. “If you want a tip, don't yap about how broke you are. Show me how well you can surf. If you don’t suck, maybe I’ll fly you down under myself.”
     “Really?”
     “Don’t get your hopes up. I’ve been known to break promises.”
     “Is that what your wife says?”

Tony Njoroge is Kenyan. He lives alone in the middle of nowhere, but with a lifetime of books. He has been published by the two biggest newspapers in East Africa and several journals across Africa. He has also won several writing competitions. 
You can connect with him @njorogewambugu 

​“Do you love your husband, my child?” Pastor Michael asked.
“With all my heart and soul, Pastor,” Nyakio said. “He’s the only man I’ve ever been with. He is miserable in his current job in the quarry. It doesn’t pay much and this makes him grumpy all the time. That’s why I am here, Pastor. If only he could get a better-paying job.”
“I don’t think I know your husband very well. Does he attend any church?”
“No, Pastor,” Nyakio answered ashamedly. “Thugs in robes, he calls you; thugs who use the Bible instead of guns to rob, he says.”
“Hhmm, a non-believer,” said Pastor Michael in deep thought. “This will be very difficult and calls for special prayers. Kneel down my daughter and I will pray for your husband.”
 Nyakio, a tall light-skinned and slender beauty in her late twenties got off her chair besides the pastor’s desk and knelt down. The Pastor, a tall dark fellow built like a heavy-weight wrestler, was seated behind his desk. He got up, rounded his desk and stood over her. He gently felt her face and neck with the back of his hand.
“Are you wearing a panty?” Pastor Michael asked in a low voice.
“What,” said Nyakio. Unsure of what she had heard.
“Are you wearing a panty?” he repeated in a more valiant voice.
“Yes, Pastor.” Nyakio answered queasily.
“Remove it.”
 He looked intently down at her, stroking her close-cropped head.
She hesitated, unsure what the relation was between her panty and the Pastor praying for her husband.
“Your husband requires special prayers being a non-believer. The book of Habakkuk states that during such prayers the Christian woman should hold hands with her non-believer husband. If the husband is in absentia, then the woman should hand over her panty to the pastor.”
 Dutiful Nyakio struggled to remove her panty as she knelt. As she nervously handed him the white panty she was relieved it wasn’t the other with the many tiny holes.
 “Close your eyes we pray, my child,” said Pastor Michael placing a heavy hand on her head. He went into breaking the chains that had held back Nyakio’s husband, Jakubu. He prayed for deliverance from any charms that may have been used against him. He prayed for him to see the light, and finally he broke into a session of speaking in tongues.
Nyakio happened to have mistakenly opened an eye as she shifted her weight around to relieve her tiring knees. She saw him sniffing fervently at her panty as he paused between utterances.
After the long prayer, Pastor Michael strode back to his swivel chair behind his heavy desk laden with all sorts of books.
“Get up, my child,” he said. He always addressed everyone as ‘my child’. Yet he could have been in his mid-thirties, the same age-group as her husband.
“The Lord spoke to me in a vision the other night,” the pastor said. “He said there were quite a number of women in the village who were beginning to develop breast cancer. He showed me how to examine the breasts so as to arrest it early.”
Nyakio remembered the agonizing end of a neighbour’s relative who lived in the city. The relative had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Her breasts had been cut off to prevent them from poisoning the rest of the body. Her family sold off everything they owned and borrowed heavily to cover her medical bills. But sadly she eventually succumbed. This disease is a wretched affair, thought Nyakio. 
 “I want you to remove your blouse and bra so that I can continue the Lord’s good work,” said Pastor Michael with a straight face.  
The pastor was sluggishly swinging side to side in his chair, his fingers interlocked on his chest with his elbows resting on its arms. Nyakio had never undressed in front of another man beside her husband. She felt like a little girl about to undress in front of her father. But this was the Lord’s shepherd, she consoled herself…and what if she was one of the women beginning to develop breast cancer?
She fumbled with the buttons of her faded blue blouse as the good pastor licked his lips.
“Slowly,” he directed.
When she was done with her blouse, she reached a hand to her back to undo her bra.
“Stop, I’ll do that.” The pastor said in an eager voice. “Come over and sit on my lap.”
Nyakio had the most glorious breasts, big sumptuous ones. She was one of those girls who are slender but endowed with large breasts. Pastor Michael had wanted to caress and suck on them ever since she had walked into his church many months ago. Nyakio slowly walked to him and carefully sat on his lap. He helped her out of her bra and commenced to fondling her rather greedily.
Nyakio shut her eyes. She couldn’t bear looking at him. Not that she found what he was doing to her loathsome. It was the weird feeling of having another man’s fingers, besides her husband’s, exploring her breasts. She wasn’t shocked though when it didn’t elicit any sweet sensations like it did when it was Jakubu’s fingers.
The Pastor’s shepherding methods are strange, thought Nyakio. She remembered when her best friend Mukami had whispered to her en route to their farms about his unconventional ways. Mukami’s elder sister had suffered three miscarriages. She had consulted the Pastor after realizing she was pregnant a fourth time. He had explained to her she had to sacrifice a lot besides tithing.
“I’ll do anything, Pastor,” she had said.
Pastor Michael had stood up and unzipped his pants, his huge appendage hang out.
“My child, you will have to fellate me once a week till the child is born,” he had said.
He claimed his holy seed once ingested would boost the foetus’ immune system. Mukami’s sister agreed and she miraculously carried the pregnancy to term. She gave birth to a beautiful robust girl.
Nyakio could feel the Pastor’s appendage ballooning beneath her bottom. It slowly raised her like a jack raises a car. The Pastor wriggled his hips beneath her as he fondled her ’til she felt dampness on her bottom. Nyakio thought it was all part of the breast examination.
“I have found a lump, my child.” Pastor Michael finally said.
Nyakio’s eyes sprung open in alarm. Her breasts suddenly felt heavy and hot and she began feeling nauseous and she knew it was true. She did have breast cancer.
She dropped to the floor. “Oh, what am I to do Pastor?” she cried. “You know I’m just but a poor servant of the Lord. My husband can’t afford to take me to hospital. Oh, and my children….Oh, Lord. They are too young to lose a mother. What are to become of them?”
 “The Lord tells me you have only two months to live,” added the pastor.
“Oh, Pastor!” Nyakio wailed and clutched onto his legs. “My children are too young to lose a mother….I’m too young to die….and Jakubu….What if he re-marries and the woman mistreats my children? Oh, Pastor, please help me. Please save me.”
“Let me pray for you, my child,” said the Pastor in a re-assuring tone.
As before, Nyakio was on her knees and the pastor’s heavy hand on her head. Only this time she was topless. As the pastor prayed for her healing, cursing and condemning all diseases, she started feeling her breasts get lighter and healthier, and she knew The Lord had cured her and saved her from certain doom.
“The Lord has healed you, my child. Get up; you will live a long and prosperous life.” The pastor said jubilantly after the long prayer. “Though don’t forget to drop in from time to time for checkup, just to be on the safe side.”
“Yes, Pastor,” said Nyakio beaming, her tears drying on her pretty face. She thanked the Good Pastor profusely as she wore her bra and blouse.
“Do not forget to bring in your tithing every first Sunday of the month, my child. You have clearly seen the phenomenal work of the Lord.”
“Yes, Pastor. I certainly have.”
Her panty was on his desk.
“I believe you wore this today morning, right?”
“Yes, Pastor.”
He gave it back to her and she quickly slipped it back.
“Do not tell anyone about the miracle that has happened here today. Not even your husband. You know how the Lord works in mysterious ways, don’t you? Let it be our little secret.”
“Yes, Pastor.”
“One more thing, do not change that panty or wash it in three days. I will come to pick it up at your home the afternoon of the third day. You remember Jesus rose on the third day, my child. You will hand it to me secretly. We don’t want people getting the wrong idea. I will burn the panty here in my church to ward off all evil that seem to be hounding your family.
On that day I will come also to pray for your home to keep the devil away. Cook something nice for The Lord’s Shepherd….And no sex for those three days. If your husband wants you, tell him the two of you should ‘fast’ to add more potency to my prayers, so that the Lord may provide him with a better job. Have a good day, my child.”
She curtsied and left his office. There was a spring in her step as she walked home.

Pastor Michael was an enigma of sort. No one knew where he had crept up from with his little luggage when he graced their humble village a few years back. The villagers only knew that he had studied in Oxford University in England, or was it Cambridge, where he had obtained every single degree that university had to offer in two and a half years.  
“What is a man with so much book doing in a village like Kisiriri?” The village headman had asked, “A village where we don’t even have a dispensary, a secondary school or a police station?”
“It is the Lord who has directed me to this sleepy village to fight your demons,” Pastor Michael had answered firmly shaking his Bible in the air. He had then looked around the village. “Oh, they are so many!” he had exclaimed, “I can see them floating in the air with their horns and jagged teeth and long tails.”
The horrified villagers had squinted their eyes to try and see the floating demons as well.
“Sorry, only I can see them as the Lord himself has anointed me to fight and extinguish them.” Pastor Michael had said with the air of a glorified clerk.
“Once I squash them I’ll move on to the next village or town. This is what I do. In the last village I wrestled with a giant seven-headed serpent for four days and four nights. It almost got the better of me, but with the Lord by my side—he had said looking to the heavens and raising his arms—I prevailed and slew it back to hell.”
Kisiriri was a dusty little village where everyone knew everyone. Most of the locals scratched a living from the impotent lands surrounding it. Some men worked at the quarry several kilometers off the village like Nyakio’s husband, Jakubu. When the children completed primary school, the few that did anyway, they went to the city to look for work. Many never returned. The few that did came only briefly to dump their bastards on their parents’ laps.
The village headman had allocated Pastor Michael a small piece of land to build his church. He built it out of mud, wattle and thatch like most houses in the village. He also built himself a small hut next to it where he lived. The church grew like a weed. One by one people had started to steal away from the mainstream churches. He demolished his mud church with the help of his swelling congregation and built a larger church of iron sheets with an in-office. He also demolished his hut and erected a brick house. Two years in the village and he had bought himself an old white Nissan Sunny. The Lord was unquestionably smiling upon him.
Pastor Michael was well loved in the village, especially by the female population. The biggest selling point of his church was that it walked with the times. His preaching was infused with catchy proverbs and interesting stories that endeared him to his congregation.
“As a small boy we had a neighbour who beat his wife frequently,” Pastor Michael once said. “At times the beatings would be so severe she had to be hospitalized: Today it would be a broken limb, tomorrow a shattered jaw, a miscarriage and so on. Her pastor would visit her in hospital. I want to leave my husband, she would lament. No, it’s against the church, the pastor would say. It’s wrong in the eyes of the Lord. Have hope, my child, and let me pray for you. The Lord will tie your husband’s fists and open his eyes to see what a jewel you are.”
Pastor Michael took a slow sip of water from his glass leaving his congregation to dangle a little in suspense.
“The husband never changed his ways, I tell you. Some people no matter how hard you pray for them are destined to burn in hell for eternity. This man came home drunk one night and beat his wife to an early grave.”
The congregation sighed in sadness.
“Now, let me ask you, my children, whom do you blame? The man who beat his wife to death? The woman who stayed in the marriage despite the unending beatings, or the pastor who pressed the woman to stay in the abusive marriage till she got killed?  Whom do you blame, my children? Whom do you blame?”
“The husband,” some shouted.
“The pastor,” others screamed.
“Well, for me I wholly blame the pastor for misleading the poor woman. If your husband beats you day in and day out, my church will not mislead you like other churches do. I will not tell you to stick it out until your husband finally maims or kills you. Leave him, I say. Leave him and the Lord will take care of you!” Pastor Michael roared.
The women applauded him rapturously. The men cowed in their seats. Such was his preaching, and it wasn’t long before the rate of separations and divorce went up exponentially in the village.

Only two people owned cars in Kisiriri village, old and battered, yes, but still…cars. One was owned by the village councillor, a red Chevrolet pickup with whooping cough, the other by Pastor Michael. The good pastor was campaigning to oust the long-serving councillor, and the general election was three months away.
Jakubu, Nyakio’s husband, was walking home with his two colleagues from breaking rock at the quarry- pickaxes resting on their shoulders. The short rains had just started. Pastor Michael zoomed past them in his Nissan Sunny, splashing muddy water on them that had collected in puddles in the earth road. This was the only road that connected the village to the city.
The councillor in the previous campaign had promised to make it an all-weather road. There was talk that Pastor Michael would easily beat him and this greatly inflamed Jakubu.
“We bought him that knock-kneed car. Would it kill him to give us a lift?” Rono spat as he wiped his face off the muddy water with a dirty rug that passed for his handkerchief. “I forbade my wife from ever attending his church again after discerning his true colours. But I think she’s doing it behind my back.”
“He has a way with his female congregation,” said Musyoka, a short angry-faced eleven-fingered bloke. “They are sure to elect him.”
“I have never trusted that man,” expressed Jakubu.
Jakubu had always been suspicious of the pastor; more so after a friend who had found a gig in the city came home and claimed to have seen a poster with a photo of a man vaguely resembling the pastor. This was about a year after the pastor’s arrival. The photo had a different name under it, not Michael, the man had said. Notify the nearest police station if you see this man, a line stated. Under it another line said the man had gone into hiding after his gang had been killed by the police. He was wanted for murder, robbery with violence and rape charges.
The rumour had gone round the village but it had been strongly crushed by Pastor Jakubu’s followers. They undoubtedly felt the rumour was the malicious work of jealous pastors who were losing their sheep by the truckload.
Over the years more rumours had snaked their way round the village. One was that with his new-found riches from the church. He was able to bribe police officers and clerks at the courts to disappear his file.
“And a man his age with no wife, there must be something seriously wrong with him,” stated Jakubu.
“He sees no need for a wife since he makes our wives his,” said Rono, a strapping dark fellow like Jakubu, but with buck teeth. “To fetch water for him, wash his clothes, iron them, cook for him, clean his house and give him ten percent of their earnings.”
“By doing so they think they have one foot through heaven’s highly selective golden gates,” explained Musyoka.
 “Why did we tether ourselves to such foolish wives?” asked Rono. “Who cursed us, my friends? How can they not see through that false prophet like we do?”
“Not just women,” said Musyoka. “Don’t you remember, Zakayo? He was the richest man in the village until the pastor convinced him that to get into heaven, he had to sell all his cows and goats and give the proceeds to the church.”
Jakubu winced on picturing poor Zakayo, now a beggar.
“One day I arrived home from the quarry and my wife hadn’t prepared my supper.” Musyoka said. “I asked her why she was late. She joyfully said she and other women had been to the pastor’s farm to weed his maize and beans. Did he pay you, I asked? She shook her head and said the Lord would pay her in other ways. I was so mad. I couldn’t fathom her weeding the pastor’s farm yet our farm lay uncultivated. I retrieved a cane from my bed and whipped her severely and warned her against stepping foot in his church or farm ever again.”
“Careful there or she might leave you for a taller man who treats her well,” Rono said and burst into laughter. “Or better still, she might leave you for the pastor. I hear he’s secretly screwing some of the women who’ve left their husbands.”
“Women!” Jakubu hissed. “My wife thinks he is the Son of God. She would chew her arm off to attend his church if I tied her up in the hut.”

The sun was setting when Jakubu trudged into his compound. His two children were darting in and out of the hut to the ramshackle they used as a kitchen, carrying pots and plates.
“Fafa, the pastor was here,” his youngest, Kiere, informed him. Kiere grabbed his father’s hand and they made for the hut.
Jakubu felt a bitter grip in his throat.
“You’ve just missed him,” his daughter Njoki said.
A sweet aromatic scent hit him on entering the hut - the unmistakable scent of fried chicken. His wife Nyakio was lighting their old lantern.
“What special occasion warranted the slaughtering of chicken?” Jakubu asked in a stern voice before taking his seat.
Nyakio didn’t answer. Jakubu’s brow furrowed in anger.
“I said….”
“The Lord’s Shepherd visited our humble aboard.” Nyakio answered quickly and with a quiver in her voice.
He leaned his pickaxe on the wall next to the door and sat on his chair. It creaked more than usual. That bugger pastor must have sat on my chair, he thought. The children sensed the anger in their father’s demeanour. They sat quietly on their stools.
“What did I say about men coming to my house without my knowledge?”
The atmosphere was tense and Nyakio’s silence compounded it.
“He’s not just any man,” she finally said. “He’s the Shepherd of the Lord. Are you saying the Shepherd of the Lord is not welcome in this your house?”
The lantern burned dim and smoked. Little Kiere thought the angry shadow of his father looked like the shadow of an ogre.  
“I want no man stepping foot in this house without my say so, man of God or not.” His voice boomed in the hut. The small hut made his voice more menacing. The hut was divided into two, the inner room where the parents slept and the living room where they were, and where the children slept on mats.
 “He was here to cover your house with the blood of Jesus; to ward off all evil designs.”
Jakubu leaned back on his seat and regarded his wife a while.
“I’m hungry. Get me some food.” He barked at his children.
The children ran to the kitchen. Little Kiere came back with a jug of water and a basin and washed his father’s hands. Njoki brought in the steaming food and served him. As the man of the house it was customary that he ate the two chicken thighs whenever a chicken was slaughtered. That’s not what he was served. He realised that the pastor had not offered him and his friends a lift and splashed them with muddy water. So that he could rush to his hut and sit on his chair and eat his chicken thighs, and perhaps even see his wife’s thighs!
This greatly heightened his anger.
“Njoki?”
“Yes, father.”
“When was the last time we ate chicken in this house?”
“Many months ago, father.”
“On Christmas Day,” jumped in little Kiere. “We only eat chicken on Christmas, father.”
“Who is this man who holds so much power in my house that even chicken is slaughtered for his gracious presence?”
Nyakio ignored him. She continued knitting a sweater for Kiere. It was her chicken she had slaughtered anyway. She had bought it with money she had borrowed from the women’s self-help group; a group which had been initiated by Pastor Michael to empower the Kisiriri village women.

After grudgingly eating his chicken and ugali, and taking a quick shower, Jakubu went into the inner room to rest. He unrolled their thin mattress, wore shorts and lay on it. Most of his muscles ached. Quarry work is the worst kind of work in all of mankind’s history, he thought. His wife joined him later. With the lantern’s light she changed into a shortened faded red old dress that passed for her nightdress.
She lay on the thin mattress beside him. She hated her husband going to bed angry at her.
“I don’t know why you hate Pastor Michael so much,” she said breaking the silence. “What did he ever do to you? By the way he wants your vote in the coming elections.”
Jakubu ignored her. Talking about the damn pastor for one more minute would drive him to lunacy. He turned his back on her.
“If you won’t talk to me then I won’t massage your back,” she said coyly. “I know your muscles ache and you know how skilled my fingers are,” she whispered in his ear sensuously.
“Sleep, Nyakio,” he ordered. “I have a long day tomorrow.”
She slowly ran a naughty finger on his back. He shrugged her off. She forcefully climbed over him, making him lie on his belly, and started massaging his aching back, shoulders and arms. It felt sublime, as always. He no longer resisted her charms. Over the years she had perfected ways of making him surrender his resentment towards her.
“Will you vote for him?” she asked as she massaged him.
“He can go and eat shit.”
“Please husband, refrain from talking in such a manner of the Lord’s Shepherd. That kind of talk could bring the wrath of God down onto our peasant shoulders.”
When she got off him he felt like a new man. He went out of the hut to take a piss and came back with an itch for his wife. She refused him.
“But your time of the month was just last week,” Jakubu protested.
“It’s not that.”
“What then?” Jakubu demanded.
She hesitated. She didn’t quite know if he would understand, but she gave it a try.
“You are miserable at your work and it makes you cranky all the time….and poverty is eating at us mercilessly.”
“What does that got to do with me making love to my wife?”
“Well, Pastor Michael said…”
“Not that wretch again,” Jakubu cut in angrily.
“I went to his office three days ago so that he may pray for you. We prayed that you may get a better job. If you got a better job your moods would elevate and perhaps we wouldn’t be eating chicken only on Christmas.”
“I still don’t get why you are refusing me,” Jakubu said, more enraged.
“He asked that we ‘fast’ for three days to give more potency to the prayers.”
Jakubu couldn’t believe the nonsense that was spilling from his wife. This so-called pastor splashed him with muddy water, sat on his chair, ate his chicken thighs and now was dictating to him when he could get between his wife’s thighs. Not unless his name was not Jakubu.
He slapped her hard, partly due to anger, partly to clear the cobwebs from her eyes. So that she could see how unreasonable she was being. He then tried to prise her legs open, but she spiritedly kept them closed.
“Today is the third and last day,” she begged. “Tomorrow we can do it all you want, my love, all you want. Think of our future, my love.” Jakubu wanted her then and there and he wasn’t going to wait another night because a damn pastor said so.
Nyakio somehow managed to free herself from his grasp. He pursued her around the hut and they kept stepping and falling over the children. Nyakio unlocked the door and dashed out. He caught up with her a short distance away from the hut. The moon was full and spied on them.
“This pastor that you hate so much saved my life.” She shouted at him as she covered her head with her hands to block his blows. “He found cancer in my breasts. I would have died in two months hadn’t he prayed for me till I was healed.”
Jakubu stopped attacking his wife and took a few steps back, panting. He wore a puzzled look on his face.
“How did he know you had cancer in your breasts?”
“That day I went to his office to pray for you,” she said in a teary voice. “He touched them and found lumps. They are gone now.” 
“What! He touched your breasts, and you let him?” Jakubu asked choking on his words.
“Yes. The Lord whispered to him in a vision. I am healed now and that’s what matters.”
“Is that why you won’t oblige me my conjugal rights because you are already quenched by the pastor? Is that why he came here today? You gave him my chicken thighs and then opened your thighs for him?” Jakubu said stuttering. As he spoke he would make a step forward toward her and she would make a step backward.
“No, he came to collect my panty.”
“Come again?” Jakubu said, shaking his head to clear out the daub in his ears that was making him hear crazy things.
“He told me to wear it for three days without washing it. He took it with him today to burn in his church to destroy the evil spirits that have been plaguing us.”
Jakubu felt as if the gods were strangling him: He couldn’t breathe, his vision blurred and his face burned hot.
“I will kill that perverted pastor of yours today!” he shouted.        
Jakubu rushed into the hut and retrieved his pickaxe. Nyakio bolted in the moonlight, in her skimpy nightdress, to warn the pastor and to escape any harm that Jakubu may unleash her way. Pastor Michael’s doors were open till very late. She prayed as she ran that the pastor had gone to bed early. She could hear Jakubu’s heavy footsteps behind her, slowly gaining on her.
Nyakio feared Jakubu might crack the pastor’s head open with his pickaxe. She also feared the pastor might shoot him. It was well known in the village that Pastor Michael owned a pistol. It wasn’t clear how he had acquired it, but wasn’t the pastor a man of many mysteries. He had got it after two gangs of angry husbands had beaten him up on two different occasions. The first gang had blamed him for their wives leaving them, and the other for their wives being too devoted to him than they were to them.
It was said rain no longer fell on these men’s farms, while it fell abundantly on the farms next to theirs.
As Nyakio entered the pastor’s compound, huffing and puffing, she almost collided with another woman running away from the pastor’s house. She was topless, her breasts swung as she ran.
“Do not get in there,” she beseeched. “That is no pastor, I tell you. No pastor,” she said and ran off.
Pastor Michael came running after her, shouting at her to stop. He only wore shorts. He stopped chasing after the woman when he saw Nyakio.
“What are you doing here?” he asked baffled.
“My husband is on his way here.” she said still out of breath and in a panicky voice. “He has a pickaxe with him and I fear he intends to do you great harm. Please get in your house and barricade yourself.”
Just as Nyakio finished explaining the situation to the pastor, Jakubu steamed into the compound like an enraged buffalo. He saw the pastor standing in the dark with his wife. He ran to them and swung his pickaxe at the pastor. Perhaps due to his fury he missed him entirely and stumbled to the ground. His weapon jumped out of his hands and landed several feet away from them. The pastor sprinted for his house, maybe to fortify himself, maybe to retrieve his pistol. Jakubu was quicker though than the bulky pastor and he pounced on him before he could get there, and they rolled in the dirt.
Nyakio screamed her lungs out calling for help.
“Wuuuuuiii!…Please come and help us! They are killing each other! Wuuuiiii!…”
Villagers heard the screaming and realised it was coming from the pastor’s homestead. The men refused to pull out their clubs from under their beds and rush out to help the pastor, no matter how much their wives begged. Inwardly the men were dancing. They reckoned it was a jilted husband who was settling old scores with the pastor. He had it coming.
Blood was all over: On their noses, on their teeth, on their fists, on their chests, on the earth. Nyakio tried to intervene but they would violently push her away. Her teeth shuddered when a punch landed on the body of the other. They were two bulls, in shorts, engrossed in a fight to the death. Nyakio observed that no one was coming to help. She saw the pickaxe glimmering a short distance away. She couldn’t bear to watch them tearing each other apart any longer.   
She had to make a choice. She had to choose between the love of her life, her husband of eight years and father to her two beautiful children, and the panty-sniffing Lord’s Shepherd, curer of cancers and demolisher of demons. Nyakio was not known to cope well under stressful situations. She picked up the pickaxe, slowly walked to the combatants, raised it above her head and with all her might brought it down on the head of ….