Mariah McCoy is a Full Sail University student, studying Creative Writing for Entertainment. In order to enhance her writing career, Mariah is building a blogging website, as well as creating her first book. In her spare time, she maintains a YouTube page called “The Pride,” where she documents her life. Woman of the Sea The Beach Lady stepped onto the sand, circling her toes deep within the ground. She rocked side to side, with the wind waving her silk robe in the air. The Beach Lady raised her arms just inches above her dreaded bun. She unraveled the knot of her bun, and each lock draped over her face and floated on top of the water. Her nails dug into her scalp to scratch the dryness of her roots. Several flakes fell slowly in the air like thin, weightless sheets lying next to her beads. The sun met with the Beach Lady and nothing could come between the two. Even the compelling commotion on shore, repetitively shouting their chants, weren’t a distraction. She sunk her body deeper into the water, now sitting on top of the shells that lived underneath the sea. She relaxed her bottom lip on top of the small waves that pushed through, and allowed the water to fill up her mouth until she swallowed. She tilted her head back, fulfilling the thirst of each strand of hair. Once a calmness swarmed her body, she closed her eyes and floated. “Pray for Tulsa Oklahoma!” the crowd chanted. Several people of the community swarmed the beach grounds pounding their fists in the air as they marched by. The Beach Lady still floated in the sea. She stroked her hands against her stomach, then caressed her chest while her breast peaked through for air. “Pray for Tulsa Oklahoma!” The community continued to shout. Everyone gathered around the voice that was leading them all. “This day will be marked in history! The town people will now know what our people can do. Every fishermen, every teacher, every nurse, and every shoe-men- don’t let this tragic loss end your fight for freedom!” the voice said. The crowd let out a roar that soared through the skies. It gathered the attention of all that was surrounded. The force was so compelling, it drew an opposing audience from the entrance of the beach. They carried fire burning sticks in one hand, and stones in the other- “No Tulsa, no more!” “Pray for Tulsa Oklahoma!” “No Tulsa, no more!” The Beach Lady turned her body around toward the chaos. Nothing but her eyes were shown above the surface. She watched the two groups approach each other with a sudden halt. She squinted her eyes and plugged her ears with her index fingers. As soon as a stone was thrown, The Beach Lady dipped her head into the water. Though the surface trembled from riots, underneath the water there was no violence. As The Beach Lady swam below, she could see sea urchins living comfortably in their habitats. She held her breath for the longest. Even though the sea water stung her eyes, she refused to escape from this moment. A pearly white shell glowed in the sand, and The Beach Lady could see its shine from the corner of her eye. She turned her glare toward the shell and swam to its destination. Once she arrived, she reached down to capture her treasure, until two arms grabbed her from above. The Beach Lady stood up, gasping for air. Immediately she scanned her surroundings, with her chest pulsing up and down. She yanked away from the arms that carried her back to land. “Get off me!” she screamed. “Mary Anne, you shouldn’t be out here- not today,” the man said. His shirt was torn and piles of sand was in his hair. The Beach Lady snatched away and slapped the man across his face, then let out a scream. She stumped her feet between the fire and stones being thrown in the air and departed from the sea.
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Jonathan Ferrini is a published author and resides in San Diego. He received his MFA in Motion Picture and Television Production from UCLA. Bac Sai It’s been a long day and I retire to the front porch of my home with a panoramic view of the turquoise Pacific Ocean. Its late evening and I sip a cognac which helps to steady my trembling hand. The Parkinson’s disease prevents me from performing surgery but I’m happy to serve as a general practitioner for the island’s inhabitants. The cognac and site of my daughter Aiyana and granddaughter Catie playing in the moonlit surf of French Polynesia warm my heart. A refreshing trade wind brushes the palm trees and abruptly opens the tattered journal which has recorded my life. The notebook pages I filled over the many years are a reminder of the long, twisting, and unpredictable path leading me to this paradise. I’m thankful for my journey. My hand trembles as I read the scribbled sights, sounds, and impressions of my life. One of the first pages includes my parent’s admonition to, “Enunciate. Spit it out. You’ll never amount to anything with that stammer!” The humiliation and sadness I experienced at that moment of my youth cause me to reach for long sip of cognac to brunt the emotional pain I can still feel after these many years. As I turn the page of the notebook, a matchbook cover from the Oak Room falls into my lap and my eyes well with tears. I had a front row seat from our pre-war penthouse apartment with a view of Central Park on the Upper East Side of New York as the innocence of the early sixties morphed into the cynical and violent late sixties. During this tumultuous decade, “I want to hold your hand” was replaced by “I can’t get no satisfaction” and “West Side Story” was replaced by the Broadway sensation “Hair”. My mother’s tailored suits gave way to paisley prints and tie dye. My father’s thin lapels and ties were discarded for Nehru jackets and silk scarves. My parents were successful psychiatrists treating the neurotics, alcoholics, bulimics, and ego maniacs from their plush office on Fifth Avenue. They were the children of the holocaust fleeing with their parents to America with only the clothes on their backs and choosing to abandon their Jewish identification for assimilation. The fear my parents experienced as adolescents running for their lives from Germany hardened them. Although they displayed empathy with their patients, they told me life was, “Short, unfair, and only the strong survive.” I longed for the empathy and understanding they provided their patients because I never experienced it. Drs. Singer hosted the artistic, financial, and political elite of New York at dinner and cocktail parties in our home which resembled a museum with original artwork including Pollock, Rothko, Lichtenstein, Warhol, Giacometti and others who gifted or bartered their art for psychotherapy. My home felt sterile and I longed for the warmth of the home Beaver Cleaver enjoyed. My parents were ambitious and didn’t expect to have a baby in their thirties. I was an only child and stuttered. Although I was treated with the best speech therapy money could buy, they made me feel like a burden and an embarrassment to them. At their dinner and cocktail parties, my parents would trot me out for a quick meet-and-greet to their adoring guests then I was hustled back to my bedroom. Although they were trained to treat the emotional disorders of their patients, my parents were unable to provide for the emotional needs of their son. I never wanted for material possessions but craved their love and attention which wasn’t available. I spent hours alone in my bedroom watching television, reading, and scribbling in my journal. I was often awakened by a shattering cocktail glass or raucous laugh emanating from a party in our sunken living room. One evening, I was awoken to a beautiful ballad sung by a young musician with curly hair who strummed an acoustic guitar while blowing into a harmonica. The guests sat around him transfixed by his lyrics and I couldn’t get the song out of my head for days. In later years, I’d awaken during the night to pot fumes and bad LSD trips. I’d peek out from my bedroom door and the antics I witnessed seemed at odds with the symbolism of the Mezuzah on my door frame. I was teased at school because of my stuttering and would return home crying to an empty apartment. I’d run down to the lobby and into the loving embrace of Ace Rodriguez who was our doorman. Ace would assure me, “Don’t worry little man, all things shall pass. Just keep playing it cool my man.” In the cold of winter or sweltering humidity of summer, Ace was adorned like a General in a double breasted black coat with gold epaulets, black trousers with a gold stripe down the pant legs, black cap with gold trim, and shiny patent leather shoes. Ace was from Puerto Rico and had a zest for life and loved his job. He whistled the popular tunes of the day and cheerfully greeted each of the residents as they came and went. Some mornings, the specter of bullying was too much for me to bear and I would ditch school and spend the day with Ace who taught me how to handicap the horses he enjoyed playing at Belmont. My playground was Central Park which was conveniently located across the street from our building. Its natural beauty and variety of people stimulated me. I found surrogate parents amongst the homeless who camped within Central Park in the spring and summer. They lived on subway grates during the winter. Visiting them was like attending a Boy Scout Jamboree. The stories I heard from these homeless men gave me a world view different from my cloistered life in the Upper East Side. Many were Korean War and World War Two veterans. They were haunted by the traumas they witnessed in war but were the strong silent type of their generations whose bottled up PTSD manifested itself in alcohol, drug abuse, and homelessness. Hearing their war stories prepared me for the horror I would soon experience. The eldest and wisest of the group was a Korean War vet nicknamed “Redbird” because his long beard was red in color and resembled a bird's tail feathers. He was missing a front tooth and wore his hair in dreadlocks. His face depicted a hard life and I suspected he may have done time and was a former junkie. Redbird’s prize possession was a tenor saxophone which he played for spare change in the park. Redbird played the sax like it was an extension of his soul and was likely a professional musician in the past. Redbird knew I was a well off, lonely kid from the Upper East Side but made me feel comfortable and protected. Redbird ignored my stuttering and was patient with me during our conversations. Redbird challenged me to think hard about “what” I wanted out of life and told me to forgive my parents inattention, “They’re on their own trip, Abby. You have your own road to travel.” One autumn afternoon, a cold breeze announcing winter's arrival shook the trees and the band of homeless knew it was time to return to the subway grates. Redbird placed a hand carved wooden statue of a young man gazing up into the heavens into my hand. It was his parting gift to me. Redbird told me, “You can’t change your parents but you’re writing your own journey, Abby. Question everything you hear and see. Examine it from the inside out and then you’ll understand what it means to you. Goodbye my young friend.” We hugged and I never saw him again. Chloe was the most beautiful and complex woman I ever knew. She was one of my parents patients and introduced me to the demands of psychiatry my parents practiced. I was watering the potted plants and emptying the waste baskets after school when she entered my parents waiting room for her appointment. She was razor thin, a brunette with her hair tightly pulled into a bun, wearing knee high patent leather boots, a miniskirt, brightly colored silk paisley blouse and white satin elbow length gloves. She sat, opened a copy of Vogue, lit a cigarette, and waited to be called for her appointment. There were two doors to my parent’s office. The first door was to the waiting room and the second door was a discrete exit door so patients could leave their session unnoticed. The therapy sessions lasted about an hour and I waited for her to exit. She was beautiful and I was attracted to her like a magnet. I wanted to meet her. An hour later, Chloe exited the office agitated and approached the elevator. She opened a black alligator skin Dior handbag and was frantically searching for something. The elevator door opened and we both entered. I offered to hold her handbag as she reached inside to find her pack of “KOOL” brand cigarettes and lighter saying, “Thank you, young man. I need a cigarette. My nerves are shot. Hey, aren’t you the kid from the doctor’s office?” Yes, miss. I’m Abby. The doctors are my parents. I motioned for her lighter, lit her cigarette, and returned the lighter. “I’m Chloe, Abby” and I shook her hand covered by a satin elbow length glove. Chloe invited me to join her for tea at the Pierre Hotel and I accepted. We were interrupted on more than one occasion by one of her elite clients stopping to say hello and I was conscious of the stares she drew from the men. I was mesmerized by her long graceful fingers with French manicured nails gripping her tea cup. Chloe wasn’t put off by my stuttering and said, “Take your time, Abby” as I gathered my thoughts and spoke. Chloe wanted to see the world from the perspective of a seventeen year old whose parents were psychiatrists and was riveted by my every word. Chloe and I bonded over tea. We both agreed to keep our meeting a secret from my parents and not to discuss Chloe’s therapy but I pondered what demons she was battling inside her mind. She was surprisingly frank about her past. Chloe was twenty nine and a successful real estate agent who worked her way up from a typing pool into the lucrative world of high priced Upper East Side real estate sales after moving from Detroit. Chloe had a tough upbringing and was the only daughter to an alcoholic mother. They lived on welfare and Chloe alluded to sexual advances by her uncle which her mother ignored. Although Chloe was adored by her fashion conscious, trend setting global clientele, she was a lonely heart drifting from one vacuous relationship to another desperately seeking love. Although Chloe never wanted for a date, she was bored by the wealthy and powerful men who pursued her. We each longed for the love of attentive parents. Chloe exuded fragility and vulnerability and I wanted to protect her. I respected Chloe for escaping her unhappy childhood and making a new life for herself. I realized that I would have to do the same. Chloe provided me the nuturing I craved from my parents. I told her I was jealous of the attention my parents provided their patients and felt neglected. Chloe didn’t excuse my parent’s inattention but offered an analogy, “Your parents jobs are like playing for the Yankees or the Jets. They have to invest all of themselves into their work and at the end of the game; they leave it all on the field. It doesn’t mean they don’t love you. Does that make sense, Abby?” Chloe gave me a useful tool for managing my feelings of abandonment and hostility towards my parents. We spent the Fourth of July together on her roof top balcony with a 360 degree view of the city. I knew Chloe had her pick of lavish parties to attend and was flattered she would spend the evening alone with me. It also spoke to a detachment Chloe had with her many clients and lovers. I suspected her “demons” demanded solitude. Chloe ran to me and gave me a big hug exclaiming, “Happy Fourth of July, Abby. Welcome.” We drank wine and patiently waited for the sky to grow dark and the fireworks to light up the city. I felt a comfortable buzz from the wine but as the first of the fireworks began to light up the sky, Chloe dropped acid which combined with the wine, provided Chloe the ability to numb her demons. Chloe loved the Rolling Stones and cranked up the volume on her stereo and the lyrics resounded, “She’s like a rainbow...like a queen in days of old…She comes in colors…” Chloe lit a handful of sparklers for each of us and shouted, “Let’s dance, Abby.” Chloe removed her clothing revealing sexy lace panties and bra. We danced and ran about the balcony waving our sparklers like children. Around and around we ran becoming dizzy. I felt free and careless for the first time in my life. Chloe stopped dancing and leaned dangerously over the balcony saying, “Look at the fire flies” referring to the car lights and pedestrians forty floors below. Chloe rolled over on her back and only my grip kept her from tumbling off the balcony to join the ‘fire flies”. She demanded, “Let me fly, Abby”. I pulled her safety back onto the balcony. Chloe grew limp and fainted. I carried her to a chase lounge and tried to awake her. She was breathing. Chloe, are you ok? Should I call somebody? Chloe muttered, “You’re a lovely and lucky boy, Abby. You have boundless opportunities ahead of you. Don’t waste your time with me. I’m broken.” Chloe fell into a deep sleep. Chloe always wore elbow length satin gloves and tonight one of them had unraveled to her wrist revealing razor scars running the length of her forearm. Chloe had a habit of excusing herself to visit the bathroom after our meals. I knew Chloe’s cutting and bulimia were signs of severe emotional pain but I never judged her or brought it up. Instead, we provided each other the emotional attention and intimacy we craved. I covered her with a nearby blanket and left as the last of the fireworks trailed off into the night sky. The last time I saw Chloe was on her birthday. We met in the Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel. Chloe was subject to mood swings and turning thirty placed her into a deep depression. She was sitting in her favorite secluded booth and already on her second martini. Angelo the bartender sent his waiter over with a pitcher of martinis and an extra glass for me. It didn’t matter that I was underage because I was with Chloe who he adored. I sat and moved in close to Chloe. She gave me a kiss on the cheek saying, “Hello, Abby, my darling. I apologize if I’m a drag tonight, sweetheart. I’m thirty years old, alone, and it’s all meaningless.” I assured her she had everything a woman could want including beauty, style, money, independence, and a best friend. Chloe reached for my chin with her satin glove, traced the contours of my jaw and inserted her finger tip into my mouth saying, “You’re a darling, sweet Abby but someday you’ll understand.” Angelo approached with an elegant, petite chocolate cake adorned with a sparkler and wished Chloe, “Happy Birthday, Madame.” I gave Chloe a hug and said make a wish. Chloe closed her eyes briefly and opened them to a thin rectangular gold wrapped gift with a silver bow I placed in front of her. Chloe’s mood instantly improved as she gently opened the gift revealing the Stones album “Between the Buttons” which was autographed by Mick as a gift to me at one of my parent’s parties. Chloe jumped from her seat, ran to Angelo and asked him to play, “This song,” pointing to one of the tracks on the album. Angelo was pleased to accommodate his favorite client at the expense of the Mantovani music which was the staple of the bar. The Stones lyrics filled the bar startling the patrons and attracting them to the beautiful and stylish woman dancing alone to the lyrics while hugging the album jacket. Her mascara was running down her face from the tears flowing from her eyes. Chloe removed the clip from her hair bun and her long brunette hair fell to her shoulders. Chloe was lost in her own universe. The bar remained silent as Angelo increased the volume and the lyrics to the song whaled: “She would never say where she came from…goodbye Ruby Tuesday who could hang a name on you…when you change with every new day still I’m gonna miss you…she can’t be chained to a life where nothings gained…catch your dreams before they slip away…lose your dreams and you will lose your mind…Goodbye Ruby Tuesday…” The song ended and the bar erupted in applause. Chloe ran to the ladies room clutching the album cover. I never saw her again. Chloe provided me with a respect for my parent’s work and insight into the challenges they faced as they fought the mental illness of their patients. They couldn’t help but carry the enormous challenges of their work home with them those many years. Chloe was correct in saying my parents work required them to “leave it all on the field”. I would never forget Chloe and her advice prepared me for the challenges I would experience in the years to come. I graduated from high school and was admitted to City College but never enrolled. I took Redbird’s advice and nothing made sense to me anymore. College and life with my parents just wouldn’t work for me. It was time to leave home and strike out on my own. I packed a bag and was readying to hitchhike to San Francisco but my draft notice derailed my plans. I didn’t care. My parents were mortified that I would be fighting in Vietnam and implored me to stutter during my physical examination in hopes of being labeled unfit for military service. They offered me prescription medications which would dull my cognitive abilities and fail the psychological testing. I found it ironic they would now embrace my speech impediment because it was useful but it was also the first time in my life they displayed love and protection for me. I ignored their suggestion and didn’t fill the prescription. My parent’s political connections couldn’t get me a draft deferment and I received orders to report to the Army’s induction center. It was a day of physical examinations and written tests. Based upon my aptitude tests and maybe some political “string pulling” from my parents political connections, I was selected for medic school and ordered to report to Fort Sam Houston after completing basic training. I would be in the Army for two years. Medic school would change my life forever. LBJ escalated the number of troops sent to Vietnam so basic training was like an assembly line designed to graduate as many “boots” as possible and get them into Vietnam quickly. It was eight weeks long and I was stationed at Fort Knox Kentucky. My fellow recruits were teenagers representing every race, religion, and ethnicity from every corner of the country and in between. The minority kids shared one thing in common. They were poor. About eighty percent of our class was drafted. The remaining twenty percent were volunteers. The common denominator of my basic training class was that my fellow recruits were largely the children of the working class or poor. These young men didn’t have the money for college and a deferment. The lucky draftees were already working. The poor were hanging out waiting for their draft card or a jail sentence. Our Drill Instructor was a career Army Master Sergeant nearing retirement who saw action in World War Two and Korea. Master Sergeant Pike was a big white man with a Texas drawl and reminded me of the homeless veterans I met in Central Park. He had an empathy about him which confounded me. He was never cruel or abusive and demonstrated a sarcastic wit and sense of humor. Throughout basic training, he emphasized tactics designed to keep us alive more than kill. He was a professional warrior and concluded Vietnam like Korea was a political conflict, not a noble battle between good and evil like World War Two. We respected Master Sergeant Pike who had become a father figure to us. The night before our graduation, Master Sergeant Pike ordered us to attention, removed his DI hat and said, “I wish to congratulate each of you on graduating basic training. Remember to keep your heads down and write home often. There will be no heroes, just survivors. Good luck and God bless each of you.” We pitched in for a new stereo system and Master Sergeant Pike’s eyes became teary when he was presented with our gift. Medic school was different than basic training. It was ten weeks long and was held at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas. My classmates were former ambulance attendants, hospital orderlies, and fireman before being drafted. We shared a respect for human life and many held unfavorable views about the war. We wanted to save lives and not take lives. Training consisted of basic first aid, CPR, giving shots, drawing blood, suturing, starting IV’s, using splints for broken bones, treating gunshot wounds, conducting amputations, treating head wounds, shock, burns, dislocations, and seizures. We were also trained in the hospital which involved a lot of bedpans and enemas. The ten weeks of medic school flew by fast and I was assigned to the 15th Medical Battalion (Airmobile) of the First Cavalry Division. Life as a medic resembled that of a firefighter. When the bell rang, we ran for the helicopter and flew into battle encountering sheer terror as we found ourselves landing in the middle of a fire fight. I’d jump from the helicopter and run or crawl from wounded soldier to soldier assessing who required the most urgent care. The screams and cries from the wounded shook my soul and most of these boys cried out for their mothers. I often wondered if I would have cried for my mother or Chloe. Morphine was my first treatment to calm these kids. I’d bandage, suture, intubate, and whisper to the dying, “It’s ok to let go, man”. We loaded the wounded onto the helicopter and lifted off for the mobile surgical hospital or “MASH” unit. We called the lift off a “dust off” because of the whirling dust created by the blades of the helicopter. The MASH unit was nothing more than a large tent sectioned off into treatment and surgery wards. Although it appeared like chaos inside the tent, each physician, nurse, orderly, and soldier showed determination and empathy for the wounded. I was proud to be an American medic because whenever possible, the Army treated everybody including GI’s, civilians, and even the enemy. The MASH unit was filled to capacity and all of the doctors were busy treating the injured American soldiers. I was busy moving from cot to cot caring for the wounded. I came upon a stretcher placed just inside the opening to the MASH. On it laid a dying teenage Viet Cong soldier who had nobody but me to care for him. It was that day I discovered my path in life. His torso was riddled with shrapnel which opened his abdomen and scrambled his organs about. He was bleeding to death but there was no blood to spare for a transfusion and his wounds were fatal. He was semiconscious because anesthesia was in short supply but I gave him what morphine I could scrounge. I placed each organ back into its proper anatomical position knowing I couldn’t save his life. A fresh cool breeze blew open the canvas doorway to the MASH and the dying teenager raised himself with every ounce of strength left in his body saying, “Bac Sai. You try save me. You be good doctor, someday”. He seized up, his eyes rolled back inside his head, and he died. I gently laid him back onto the stretcher. A nurse passing by placed her arm around my shoulder and said, “Bac Sai means doctor, Abby.” I was a good Medic and it gave me the personal satisfaction I never before enjoyed. My stutter was gone. On more than one occasion, a doc told me, “The trauma work you did in the field saved this kid's life.” The Chief of Surgery was Dr. Abner. I’d watch him move from operating table to operating table working with urgency, skill, and passion. He was a large Black man and the surgical instruments looked like toothpicks in his bear-like hands. Dr. Reginald Abner was an Army Colonel and made a career in the Army. He was the son of Black sharecroppers from Mississippi. He was drafted into the Army during the final months of World War Two which was his ticket out of the Jim Crow South. Although the Army was desegregated, Black soldiers were assigned to infantry regiments seeing the brunt of the war or low level support divisions such as cooks. Dr. Abner was assigned to an all Black Medic school created to train Black medics to treat Black soldiers because White soldiers harbored prejudice at being treated by Black medics. Dr. Abner saw a great deal of action treating Black troops but as his skills increased, and reputation as a life saver spread throughout the Army, he soon was treating White soldiers and officers at the best field hospitals in Europe and Asia. Dr. Abner completed college and medical school while in the Army. Although he was a world class surgeon, he realized that his skills would be unappreciated as a Black civilian surgeon in America. After an eighteen hour shift, Dr. Abner invited me to share a cup of coffee during an early morning monsoon rainstorm. He told me, “My surgeons tell me you got the hands for surgery, kid. Ever consider medicine as a career?” Dr. Abner sized me up as a privileged kid and was impressed by my dedication to saving lives and medical skills. I told him my parents were both psychiatrists and although I considered medicine, I didn’t have the patience to complete four years of undergraduate pre-medical coursework and four years of medical school. He told me, “I was a poor kid from Mississippi and felt the same way. Think about it, kid. By the way, change your name because the unit can’t keep us straight.” In the months following our coffee break, Dr. Abner would call for me to stand next to him during surgery while he patiently explained the procedure and sometimes asked me to assist in some minor way. Dr. Abner convinced me to become a surgeon. I scrounged a bottle of bourbon and requested an appointment to speak with Dr. Abner who had finished a long shift and welcomed a drink. “What’s on your mind, Dr. Singer?” he playfully asked. I leveled with him that I was mature beyond my years and the thought of sitting in class with kids fresh out of high school for four years and another four years of medical school wasn’t appealing but wanted to become a surgeon. Dr. Abner replied, “Are you aware there are combined undergraduate and Medical programs permitting completion in seven years, Abby?” Knocking off even a year of school was a revelation to me. Dr. Abner continued, “You make an application directly to medical school, complete the premedical coursework, and move quickly into your medical education. Sound interesting?” I said, yes and Dr. Abner replied, “Where do want to attend Medical School, Abby?” I replied, I want to go home to New York. Dr. Abner took a second shot of bourbon and said, “Here’s my advice, Abby. Write a well thought out essay explaining why you would be a great doctor and recount your experiences in Vietnam. I’ll see what I can do.” He raised his glass and said, “Here’s mud in your eye.” I raised my glass to meet his and proclaimed L’Chaim. Dr. Abner repeated, “L’Chaim”. I spent the night typing my letter relying on Redbird’s rhetorical approach as my outline. My letter was titled, “I Must be a Doctor” and I placed it inside Dr. Abner’s mail pouch. The months sped by and my tour of duty was coming to an end. I didn’t want to re-enlist and didn’t have a clue what I would do when I returned home to “the world”. I came off a fifteen hour mission and landed with the last of our injured for the day. I headed off to the canteen for chow. A letter was dropped in my lap by the company clerk with a return address of a New York City medical college. I hurriedly opened the letter to find a single page letter accepting me to medical school pending completion of a list of premedical courses. The Dean of Admissions of the medical college included a handwritten note on my acceptance letter saying: “Dr. Abner’s recommendation is the gold standard, Abby. Welcome to medical school!” Dr. Abner was transferred to the Army hospital in Japan. I never saw him again and wanted to thank him. I heard he retired from the Army and my attempts to find him over the years led to a rural Mississippi medical clinic which had closed due to lack of funding. I received an Honorable Discharge and left Vietnam for home. As my plane landed at JFK, my first stop was the men’s room where I changed out of my uniform and into civilian clothes. I couldn’t handle the gauntlet of protesters awaiting returning soldiers. Although I respected their right to protest the war, I believe they would have admired the work we performed for soldiers and civilians alike. I left my duffle bag and uniforms in the restroom and kept only my discharge papers and memories of my mentors, comrades, and patients in Vietnam. I rented a small apartment in Greenwich Village a few blocks from campus and began the pre-medical coursework which would require three years of intensive study and devotion. The Village changed while I was in Vietnam. The trendsetting musicians, filmmakers, and writers had left for Hollywood. They were now “California Dreamin”. I went to Central Park to visit Redbird but he was nowhere to be found. A prominent sign was posted warning “No Camping Permitted”. Chloe wrote me several times in Vietnam and her writing was increasingly morbid. I hoped she was still seeking treatment and longed to see her. I contacted the real estate agency where she worked to learn she had “accidently slipped” from a balcony and fell to her death. I knew better. Chloe committed suicide. I was a determined and passionate student studying around the clock with time only for weekly dinners with my parents. The dinners were uneasy and consisted mostly of small talk. My parents still couldn’t relate to me as a son although they were proud of my achievements. My experiences in Vietnam made it impossible for me to relate to them or anyone who hadn’t shared the Vietnam experience. I completed the premedical coursework consisting of chemistry, biology, physics, genetics, and calculus with high marks. As I began my first year of medical school, I found my classmates were over-achievers who entered medical school straight from college. They lacked my maturity and experience. I couldn’t relate to them. The medical school class was mostly male and white. One of the few women was Kate. She was raised on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. After graduating from nursing school, Kate was commissioned as an officer in the Air Force and served as a nurse at the Clark Air Force base hospital in the Philippines and saw a lot of action as a nurse. She was in her late twenties and had a wholesome, innocent beauty about her but we had no romantic chemistry. Kate was on a mission to become a physician and I could use her help. Because of our shared military experience, we agreed to become study partners. The first two years of medical school were boring, consisting of lectures, reading textbooks, and taking examinations requiring only rote memorization. I craved the hands-on medical treatment I practiced in the field. In our first year, we learned anatomy. In the second year, we studied the diseases of the body. The textbooks, lectures, grizzly photographs, and the anatomy lab were nothing like I witnessed in battle. There were many times I thought about giving up on medical school but Kate encouraged me to finish. I received a postcard from Kate many years later learning she accepted a Midwest faculty post in OB/GYN after finishing her residency. I was fortunate to have known Kate and will never forget her. After completing our second year in medical school, I started two years of study within the hospital learning to examine patients while rotating through the various specialties of medicine. I reveled in my ability to treat patients again but now with an increased sophistication I learned in medical school. I was beginning to feel like a physician. As I rotated through the various medical specialties, my surgery rotation felt natural as I stood side by side with surgeons whom I only watched from the sidelines as a medic. I was a quick study and my surgical professors and residents knew I had seen action and saved lives. I was fascinated by all of the surgical specialties including general surgery, neuro, cardiac, and orthopedic surgery but gravitated towards trauma surgery. I reveled in the uncertainty of emergency surgery where my medical skills were tested by the clock. I accepted a trauma surgery residency at a major New York City hospital. Although the stabbings, shootings, and beatings I treated were reminiscent of Vietnam, they were senseless. Although they were the casualties of a type of war being raged in the poverty stricken neighborhoods of New York, they were not battlefield casualties and could be prevented with political intervention if anybody gave a damn. I had come a long way from a draftee and longed to put my medical education and skills to the best use possible and the only remuneration I wanted was to feel satisfied that I was making a difference. I’d return home after a long shift exhausted but not feeling satisfied. My parents suggested I join a successful surgical practice and the money would improve my morale. They still didn’t understand me. My stuttering was beginning to return and I was turning to marijuana and booze just to make it through the week. A nest of birds showed up outside my window. It reminded me to consider Redbirds advice and examine my feelings “from the inside out”. I had to leave New York and find somewhere to heal from the horrors of Vietnam and the senseless carnage I was treating in the city. I had dinner with the Dean of the medical college who had admitted me years before and explained my situation. It didn’t take him long to conclude, “Abby, you’re a brilliant surgeon but you need time to heal from Vietnam. You haven’t had a break from medicine since leaving the Army.” He encouraged me to consider working for a time at a rural medical clinic. These clinics were in desperate need of surgeons. It was going to be a cold winter and he said, “Why don’t you head out West, Abby? I have a friend at the Bureau of Indian Affairs who might find an opportunity for you.” The Dean told me it was beautiful wide open country and he was confidant I would find the personal reward I was seeking and emotional healing I needed to continue medicine. Within days, the Dean called me and said he found a small medical clinic on the Hopi Indian Reservation about 110 miles north of Flagstaff off Interstate 40 with only an RN providing medical care. He warned me it would be no vacation paradise because the poverty and sickness I would encounter on the reservation was no different than the villages of Vietnam saying, “Poverty and sickness doesn’t have a nationality or international border, Abby.” I immediately accepted and the decision would change my life forever. I was met at the baggage terminal in Phoenix by an elderly Hopi woman holding a cardboard sign reading, “Dr. Singer”. My heart skipped a beat thinking this old woman was the RN and asked her: “Are you Cat Azure?” The old toothless woman didn’t speak English but nodded “no” to my question. When I reached for my suitcase, she quickly grabbed it and motioned towards the parking lot. The old woman was quick on her feet. We arrived at a beat up old van with large red crosses painted on. I opened the passenger door to see that it was the reservation ambulance equipped only with a stretcher and oxygen tank. We didn’t speak one word during the four hour trip to the reservation. I had fallen asleep but was awakened when the old woman veered off Interstate 40 onto a dusty single lane dirt road which extended for miles through the beautiful desert punctuated with cactus and orange mesas. I had never been to the Southwest and was impressed with the landscape. We came upon an assemblage of mobile homes pieced together like building blocks and the old woman parked the van, hurriedly leapt from her seat, grabbed my suitcase, and motioned me towards the “Reservation Medical Clinic”. The waiting room was cooled only with a ceiling fan and was filled with Hopi ranging from the elderly to newborns all patiently waiting their turn to see the nurse. Each gave me a warm smile as if they knew I was the new physician and surgeon. The old woman dropped my suitcase behind her receptionist counter, handed me a white coat, and a pair of sterile gloves. She led me into an examination room where I met the RN who was splintering a fractured index finger of a crying boy. The Hopi nurse was wearing surgical scrubs, tennis shoes, and a beautiful braided necklace. I worked with some great nurses in Vietnam but I was particularly impressed by her flawless orthopedic skills, speed, calming bedside manner, and multitasking ability. She was about five feet four inches tall, medium build, and her long straight black hair was braided. I was attracted to her large brown eyes, delicate smile, and natural beauty. I was eager to introduce myself but before I could say a word, the RN said, “Dr. Singer, I’m Cat Azure the clinic RN. Please go to exam room two and check on the baby who is crowning, I’ll be in shortly to assist.” Her nursing skills and English were impeccable and I knew she received excellent nursing training. I arrived at the clinic sometime in the morning and it was already dark outside when we finished our last of many cases. Cat introduced herself, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Singer. You must be famished. Follow me to the break room and we can get acquainted.” Cat led me into a room with a refrigerator, hot plates, sink, table, chairs, freshly cooked foods, breads, pies, soda pop, and wine. Cat saw I was surprised by the culinary bounty and remarked, “Perks of the job, Dr. Singer. Our patients pay with home cooked food. Please help yourself.” Cat and I each took a paper plate, plastic utensils, and loaded our plates. We sat and Cat said, “Thank you for coming, Dr. Singer. The community hasn’t had a physician in years. So, what’s a nice Jewish boy from the Upper East doing in a place like this? Running from something?” I replied: “Please call me Abby for now on. I’m just a guy seeking a new tribe to join.” Cat broke out laughing. For a Hopi girl, Cat was surprisingly hip to Jewish zeitgeist. I was drawn to her sense of humor and we connected immediately. She was a native Hopi and only child to a hardworking mother who hand-crafted jewelry which she sold wholesale to the merchants of Phoenix, Tucson, Flagstaff, and Scottsdale. Her father was an abusive alcoholic and split when she was a teenager. Cat tired of the reservation and obtained a scholarship to attend nursing school in Phoenix, obtained a BS in Nursing, and rose to chief RN of the family medicine department at the university hospital. On her trips home to visit her mother, Cat saw the need for a clinic on the reservation since the nearest hospital was over a hundred miles away in Flagstaff. Cat applied for and obtained a grant to open a clinic which she single handedly had been running for five years. Her only staff consisted of Hopi volunteers many of which she trained to the level of LVN’s. At the end of dinner, Cat walked me out of the clinic and to my new accommodations. The night was warm; there was a full moon, and the sky so clear I had never seen so many stars. She pointed to an old house trailer saying, “It’s not the Plaza Hotel but at least you don’t have a commute! I live in the trailer next door. We work around the clock, Abby. The clinic is open 24/7 and staffed in the evenings by a clerk who will knock on my trailer if we have a case. I’ll do my best to provide you as much sleep as possible but if I need you, I’ll come knocking.” Cat’s trailer was in no better condition than mine but I had lived in more austere conditions in Vietnam. I looked forward to a good night's sleep and starting work in the morning. I lay in my musty old trailer and heard coyotes wail for the first time. I also couldn’t get Cat off my mind. Cat was born and raised on the reservation. She was not only beautiful but smart, humble and a determined nurse reminding me of the nurses in Vietnam. We worked fifteen to eighteen hour days, seven days a week, including holidays. I may have been the physician and surgeon, but Cat and her cadre of volunteers ran the clinic freeing me up to practice medicine. Never in my life was my work so satisfying. Cat and I provided routine examinations and inoculations, delivered babies, sutured wounds, set broken bones, and performed minor surgeries. Those cases requiring more sophisticated care and hospitalization were stabilized in our clinic and then driven or flown by helicopter to hospitals in Flagstaff or Phoenix. Cat introduced me to her mother who I admired. Mrs. Azure was a single mother who raised a wonderful daughter but it wasn’t lost on me that they struggled as a family. Cat and I ventured into the reservation and I was impressed by the rich culture and heritage of the Hopi. It broke my heart to witness their poverty and reminded me of the poverty I witnessed in Vietnam. There was virtually no opportunity for the youth on the reservation to advance as the schools were inferior and Cat was lucky to have attended college. I admired Cat for returning to the Hopi as she could live a comfortable life off the reservation. Cat knew I saw horror in Vietnam and knew I yearned for the love and nurturing of a family. Cat learned from me that life was not always “greener on the other side of the fence.” She admired my sacrifice and dedication to the clinic and we grew close. It was a harvest moon and the US Forest Service was fighting a raging brush fire about two hundred miles off the reservation. Our clinic was the only alternative for the life flight helicopters to stop on their way to the hospital and seek immediate care for the most critical who might otherwise die in route to the university hospital over one hundred miles away. Cat and I did our best to stabilize the firefighters suffering from severe burns and respiratory trauma before their “dust off” to the university hospital. Cat and I worked seventy two hours straight with time for only naps. We worked as one and she anticipated my every move. It brought back memories of the MASH units. As the brush fire was contained and the life flights stopped, Cat retrieved a bottle of wine and said, “Let's head out to the mesa”. It was approaching sunset as she drove the beat up ambulance van towards the mesa. She unbraided her hair and it blew in the wind. We pulled up to the mesa providing us with a beautiful view of the setting sun. We sat on the edge of the mesa, our feet dangling off the edge with the canyon hundreds of feet below us. I was reminded of my night on the balcony with Chloe. We watched the flames of the dying fire dance their last waltz in the distance below the setting sun. It was hot and the wine quenched our thirst and a cool breeze brushed over us. We watched the sun set into the west leaving behind a band of flickering flames against the pitch dark night then we kissed passionately succumbing to an emotional tension which had been building for months. Our daughter Aiyana or “Eternal Blossom” was conceived that night. We were married by the Justice of the Peace in Flagstaff. We returned to the reservation for a small celebration. The specter of marrying a Hopi woman and having a baby with her would be incomprehensible to my parents although it might be hip for them to mention at one of their parties. I wrote them a letter including photos of Cat and our baby. My parents responded with an expensive Reed and Barton tea set and place-setting for eighteen. The gifts were appreciated but not useful. We hawked them and used the money to purchase surgical instruments. Cat was a wonderful mother for the first ten years of Aiyana’s life. These were the most wonderful years of my life. We were a loving family and the love I felt was deeper than any emotion I ever experienced. Aiyana looked just like her mother and I can still see my loving wife in her eyes and smile. We took Aiyana everywhere with us. We camped, swam, and Cat was mindful to introduce Aiyana to both the rich traditions of her Hopi heritage and my Ashkenazi roots. Aiyana blossomed in the wide open spaces of nature. Before beginning school, she spent her days with us at the clinic. She was fond of wearing her own scrub suit and proudly wore a toy stethoscope. She assumed the position of entertaining the waiting patients and following them to their treatment rooms. She took to medicine like a natural. Aiyana was inquisitive. We read to her daily and engaged in games and puzzles to stimulate her intellectual growth. It became obvious to us that she was having difficulty reading. Stuttering didn't prevent me from becoming a surgeon so we figured Aiyana would learn at her own pace and grow out of it. Despite being a dutiful mother, Cat kept a herculean pace at the clinic. She was happy. During a routine examination, a lump in Cat’s breast led to a double mastectomy but the cancer cells left behind were too tough of a match for Cat who fought valiantly to her death a year later. Aiyana and I buried Cat on the mesa where Aiyana was conceived and where Cat could enjoy the sunset for eternity. It was impossible for me to practice medicine and fill the void left by Cat. Although I loved Aiyana, I could never be the mother she needed and deserved. Cat’s mother loved Aiyana, treating her like her own daughter and the volunteers all pitched in to help me raise her. When Aiyana began grade school, the Principal at the reservation school expressed concern about her academic progress and suggested I have her reading difficulties assessed. I consulted a speech pathologist who diagnosed Aiyana with Dyslexia. Complicating matters further, being half white, Aiyana wasn’t fitting in with the Hopi kids and was being teased. Cat would have wanted the best treatment for her daughter but I would have to get her off the reservation and into an environment where her Dyslexia could be treated and receive the best education available. Phoenix was my only local option but four hours from the reservation. I wouldn't place Aiyana in a boarding school and Cat would have agreed with me. It broke my heart to leave behind the clinic and patients of the reservation but I had Aiyana to consider. I contacted my former Dean at the medical college and explained my circumstances. He offered me a tenure track position as a Clinical Professor of Surgery which would afford me stable hours and maximum time with Aiyana. My parent’s health was also failing and returning home would enable me to care for them. I accepted the position subject to finding my replacement at the clinic. Although it took six months, the clinic welcomed a Peace Corps surgeon and his wife trained as a Physician's Assistant. They had spent the last ten years in French Polynesia. Doctor Alvin and Rose Fisk were an energetic, retirement age couple with a passion for medicine and the clinic was fortunate to have them. It was a tearful goodbye to the beautiful Hopi people and I would never forget them. I found a three bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village with a small back yard and walking distance to work and Aiyana’s school. My professorship provided me with a flexible working schedule and I enrolled Aiyana in a private school trained in treating Dyslexia. Aiyana and I returned to the reservation two years later to bury Cat’s mother next to her daughter on the Mesa. It gave me great satisfaction to see that the clinic was flourishing under Dr. and Mrs. Fisk. Before entering medical school, Dr. Fisk was a mechanical engineer and inventor. During his off hours at the reservation clinic, he conceived of and patented several groundbreaking endoscopic surgical instruments he sold to big pharmaceutical companies. To his credit, he used his millions to build and staff a state of the art clinic and hospital on the reservation. I thanked him for picking up the baton but instead he thanked me saying, “Coming here revitalized my career and re-ignited my inventive spirit, Abby. The reservation gave me a second turn at life. I want you to know these people loved and appreciated you.” He placed his arm around me and said, “All us docs know when we begin to lose our edge. When your time comes many years from now, look me up and I'll point you in the right direction.” I was in the prime of my career and his suggestion felt awkward but I dismissed it as nothing more than a goodbye from an old doc. My parents were kind to Aiyana but they simply couldn’t provide the love and emotional support of grandparents because they couldn’t provide the love and emotional support to their son. They remained detached and unemotional. I did my best to spend the the type of quality time with Aiyana I never received from my parents. I hoped to meet a woman who would accept an adopted daughter but the city had changed. It was absorbed by cocaine and materialism. I missed the gracious, humble, and gentle Hopi. It crossed my mind to return and seek a bride on the reservation but I had chosen to take another path and needed to stay the course for the time being. Aiyana learned to manage her Dyslexia but worked twice as hard as the other kids to graduate prep school. She lacked the academic record and ambition to attend college. She met me in my office and told me she had enlisted in the Army and was going to be trained as a Medic like her father. My heart skipped a beat because the world was a volatile and hostile place. I remembered the excitement of striking out on my own and supported her decision to enlist. Aiyana hugged me tightly and I knew she was happy to please her father. She received her Medic training at Fort Sam Houston. Aiyana flourished in the Army where she learned discipline, goal-setting, and was able to work and live amongst a diverse group of soldiers. I was relieved to learn she would be stationed at the Army medical facility in Landstuhl, Germany for the duration of her tour. I settled into the routine of training future surgeons. I had a few dates but nothing serious ever developed. I was still in love with Cat. Whenever one of my blind dates suggested we meet at the Oak Room, I politely suggested another establishment. The Oak Room would always be for me and Chloe. Aiyana finished her tour of duty, returned home, and told me she was pregnant. The father deserted her. Aiyana wanted to become a nurse like her mother. I told her she could have it all and we would work it out. She gave birth to a healthy baby girl we named Catie. Aiyana was a wonderful mother and I couldn’t help but see my beloved Cat in her face, gestures, and multitasking abilities. Often times I would tear up and Aiyana would put her loving arm around me saying, “There you go again, dad. I miss her too. Mom’s still with us. I can feel her presence.” When Catie stopped breast feeding, Aiyana began her nursing studies at my medical college affording us the opportunity to be together. We had a wonderful group of devoted nursing students who were paid to provide daycare for Catie. Aiyana graduated nursing school and accepted a position within the family medicine practice at the university hospital. Catie was growing like a weed and already enrolled in preschool near campus. My parents didn’t age well and each was afflicted with dementia. Towards the end of their lives, they didn’t recognize me. It didn’t hurt me because I’m not certain they ever recognized me for who I was. With Chloe’s advice, I forgave them many years previously. As Redbird said, they were on their own journey and I was on my own. They received the best at home-care money could buy surrounded by their art collection. My father died first and the next day, my mother drank the “cocktail” of prescription medications she had stashed for the appropriate time so she could join her husband on their journey together. As I was gathering their personal effects, I came across a framed photo of Cat, Aiyana and myself I had sent them years before. I opened the drawer to the night stand adjacent to their bed. Inside the drawer, I found the hand carved little boy Redbird had given me many years before and a collection of my photographs paper clipped to a stack of heartfelt letters they had written to me in Vietnam years ago marked, “Unable to Deliver. Return to Sender” by the Post Office. I opened one of the letters at random revealing their genuine depth of concern for my well being and heartfelt apologies for the love they regretted never providing me at home. In one poignant sentence they wrote, “We gave all of our emotional energy to our patients. We were emotionally bankrupt at the end of each day. Please forgive us.” As a surgeon, I could now relate to the emotional investment necessary to care for the sick and wounded and I too returned many a day “emotionally bankrupt”. Chloe knew she was fortunate to receive the “emotional energies” my parents provided her because she said years before to me they “left it all on the field”. I apologized to my parents for resenting them and told them I love you. I knelt beside their bed, buried my head in the mattress and cried like a baby. Their memorial service was held at a beautiful synagogue on East 65th Street. It’s a large synagogue with high ceilings and seats hundreds. As the Rabbi spoke of my parents, I turned my head to see that only me, Aiyana, and Catie were sitting in the synagogue except for a distinguished older gentleman sitting alone in the back of the synagogue. Given all the illustrious guests my parents entertained in their home over the decades, nobody showed up at their funeral. I concluded many were likely dead but it really didn’t matter in the end. A squeaky wheel echoed through the synagogue and momentarily interrupted the Rabbi. I turned to see an elderly man being pushed along in a rusty beat-up wheel chair to the pew behind us by an old woman who appeared to be his wife. As the Rabbi concluded his eulogy and the prayers were finished, I turned to the old man in the wheelchair and recognized him as Ace Rodriguez because he was wearing his old door man uniform sans the epaulets. I said hello, Ace. I’m Abby. It’s so nice of you to come. He raised his frail arm and I held his hand. Ace managed a smile, whispered “shalom”, and was wheeled from the synagogue. As we left the synagogue, the distinguished gentleman approached us and extended his hand to shake saying, “Hello Abby. It's Fisk. Please accept my condolences. I read about your parents’ amazing lives in the Times. Would you join me for a drink? I have some advice to impart to you.” Aiyana said, “Go ahead Dad. We'll meet you at home. It was nice to meet you Dr, Fisk.” Aiyana and Catie departed with stroller in tow. Dr. Fisk was aging well. The Arizona desert was good to him. He was dressed like an investment banker and suggested we have a drink at the Oak Bar. It was a short cab ride to the Plaza Hotel and Oak Bar. It hadn’t changed and we were seated in the same booth Chloe and I celebrated her birthday decades ago. Angelo was no longer tending bar but Mantovani was still the music of choice. Dr. Fisk ordered a dry martini saying, “The Oak Bar and the Plaza Hotel are my home base when I'm in town.” The waiter was patiently awaiting my order and I said: “Bring a pitcher of martinis.” My fond memories of Chloe we're turning melancholy and I needed a drink, fast. Dr. Fisk got right to the point. “Apparently your parents left you a sizable estate. We docs aren't trained in the art of money management and I want you to speak to my tax and legal experts located here in the city. I made my money unexpectedly and without their guidance, I would have unnecessarily lost much of it to taxes and bad investments.” The pitcher of martinis arrived and the waiter poured our first drink. I asked: “where’s Angelo the bartender?” The waiter replied, “I've been here ten years Sir and never knew an Angelo.” Dr. Fisk raised his glass and toasted, “To Doctor's Singer. May they rest in peace” He took a long sip, placed the glass down, and continued, “Time slips away from us quickly, Abby.” I raised my glass and said, “Here’s to Chloe”. My hand was noticeably trembling. Dr. Fisk said, “If you think you're losing the edge, I want to tell you about a paradise I found and loved. Afterwards, we'll call my financial advisors.” It was the “go-go” late eighties and the city was flush with cash. With the assistance of Dr. Fisk’s financial and legal experts, I came to learn my parents estate was formidable including the sizable collection of modern artwork whose painters had become all the rage and both Christie’s and Sotheby’s competed for the right to auction the prize art collection. Their expansive penthouse was in one of the choicest buildings in the Upper East Side and would command dozens of cash offers. We were advised that Aiyana, Catie, and I would never want for anything and had the financial means to spend the rest of our lives traveling the world first class. I was also provided with a method of lessening the estate taxes. They advised me to consult my family before the estate was liquidated. Aiyana and I had a long talk about how we should spend our fortune while providing for Catie’s future. It didn’t take us long to devise our plan. With the assistance of Dr. Fisk’s legal and tax specialists, we liquidated my parent’s estate and established the “The Cat Medical Education Scholarship Fund” for Hopi youth which Aiyana oversees full time from an office in Dr. Fisk’s new reservation hospital and clinic. I opened the “Redbird and Ace Rodriquez Homeless Shelter and Free Clinic” in New York City and traveled to Mississippi to open the “The Doctor Reginald Abner Clinic and Hospital.” The evening I sat with Dr. Fisk in the Oak Room, he expressed concern to me about early indications of Parkinson’s disease and urged me to obtain a neurological follow-up which later confirmed the progression of the disease. Dr. Fisk reminded me that I led a full life and to consider what I would want to do if unable to perform surgery. My answer was to awake each day in paradise, be useful, and appreciated. He told me about a beautiful island in French Polynesia where he practiced surgery and was loved by the island inhabitants. With Aiyana and Catie’s lives settled, I spent a year traveling the many islands of Polynesia settling on the same island Dr. Fisk recommended years before. I was welcomed by the gracious island inhabitants and treated like a returning family member. I set up a general practice clinic from my home which was an oceanfront beach cottage. As the demand for medical services increased, I built the “Chloe Clinic and Hospital” which became a highly sought out destination for brilliant medical residents from throughout the world because of its beautiful setting, welcoming population, and state of the art facility. I know Chloe would have been pleased. Parkinson’s disease is quickly depriving me of a quality life and the end of my journey is in sight. I’m prepared with my own prescription “cocktail”. I have no regrets, just many fond memories of the wonderful people I’ve encountered along the winding road I’ve traveled through life. I’ve learned that everybody you meet is on their own journey and you can’t win every war whether it’s healing Chloe’s emotional traumas, beating Cat’s cancer, or forcing my parents to provide me with love and attention. The lesson I learned is to accept everybody you meet along the journey for whom they are, appreciate their company while you travel through life together however brief, and remember them fondly when your journeys take separate paths. I reach for my cognac and lift the glass in toast, “Thank you to everybody I have met along the way. I love you.” I hope your journey will take you to exciting places and you’ll achieve an understanding of who you are. I bid you peace. End. Philip Charter is a writer who lives and works in Pamplona, Spain. He's tall, likes to travel, and writes an imaginatively titled blog . . . Tall Travels. His work has been published in Storgy, Carillon and Flash Fiction magazines among others. The Waitress When the lights dimmed, and Jake leaned toward the microphone, I knew in my heart he was speaking to me, no matter how many other people was there. His voice was like sweet cigar smoke, reaching out to every part of the room, his eyes were the same deep brown as his old beaten up acoustic. He played so gentle, like he was afraid he’d scare the notes away if he played the guitar too hard. He’d already played about everywhere there is to play in Nashville. It was just a matter of time before someone picked up his record and gave it the attention it deserved. He never payed no notice of the critics anyhow, just kept on going. Jake looked so far away even though the bar was cozy. The performance was like a road trip. Each new song he started added a little fuel to the fire in his eyes and I traveled along beside him - miles between the lyrics and the chords. The press say he’s too old to hang with the alt-country crowds, but he ain’t old to me. He’s got a little experience is all; in fact he’s only 13 years older than me. His old buddy was on accordion that night. Rich is one of the only people that didn’t turn on him after that business with The Smithsonians; his band. Hank was waiting at the side of the stage as usual. People are normally wary of pitbulls, but he’s a real sweety. Folks could be so rude sometimes, “Excuse me, Miss, would y’all mind keeping it down? Jake’s gonna play The Waitress.” Why would you come to a Honky Tonk if you just wanna talk all night? I know that song is about me, I work in the Streetcar, a Diner out on Highway 65. My momma don’t make nothin’ so we gotta pay the bills somehow. I had to beg to get that night off so I could see him. Melvin, the manager, said it had thrown the schedules out for at least a month. Jake and Rich was both sat on bar stools facing each other. He didn’t give a damn about most of the audience, just saying the occasional “Thank’ya.” The band spent years on the festival scene but they never got the exposure they deserved, said Jake wasn’t enough of a frontman. I don’t like the new singer too much, whatever people say. Jake closed his eyes and sang. After the show Jake was sitting behind his merch stand. We hadn’t seen each other for two months, but I knew he’d been busy. He always answers my messages when he can. “Great show tonight,” I said. “Came all the way into see you.” He looked down at whatever he was writing. “I thank you for your support, Shelby. I know I can always count on you.” He removed his trucker cap to scratch his head. “Say, you wanna buy a pin?” “Neat,” I say, looking at the badges with ´Sell, Sell, Sell´ printed on them. “Ain’t got the money this month though.” “Mmhmm. I’m always a few hundred bucks away from living back in the truck. Singing don’t pay what it used to.” He sure was right. You gotta be a social media expert these days if you want a meeting with a label. Turning up together at the country music awards was a while away yet. “You gettin’ any traction on the record?” I held my breath thinking he was going to smile and give me some good news. “No one willin’ to take a shot,” he said smoothing his grey stubble and resting his hands under his chest. “I got a residency starting at Nacho’s grill. Hey, free tacos never hurt no one.” I wasn’t sure if he was kidding, Jake Sell should not be playing Elvis covers to Mexican diners. “I know it is gonna happen for you this year Jake. Don’t give up on us now.” “Well I don’t know how to do nothin’ else.” He fingered his pack of cigarettes. We went back to his little apartment with Hanky riding in the back of the truck. The place was cosy, above a little old vintage store. The wooden furniture looked like it was built into the place. Hank took the best seat, leaving the armchair and a stool. “Good luck gettin’ him off there,” he said. “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks right?” That one made him smile. All he had to eat was cookies, so he turned on the stove to make some tea. He hadn’t shaved and he had lost a few pounds since our last night together. He lit a cigarette while he waited. “What good Nashville singer don’t have no family pictures? Where are your folks even from?” Jake looked around for escape, but the four walls stayed put. “They ain’t with us no more.” He looked bitterly at the ceiling. I gasped. “I’m awful sorry, Jake, I wouldn’t a asked . . .” “They was players too. Went on the road with em when I was young,” he pointed at some postcards scattered around the lounge. We drank tea till late and listened to Leonard Cohen on his turntable. When we went to bed he said he didn’t want to do it. It was the first time we hadn’t been intimate. I didn’t know what to think. “I can’t tonight, just can’t.” “Guess I wore my best panties for nothin’ then,” I replied. I know he’s not with anyone else, no one else’s toothbrush in the bathroom, even checked his phone. He just curled up in the corner of the bed like a cat backed into the corner. *** The next morning, he give me a ride to the diner. That day was real clear, I remember opening the window, feeling the cold air on my face. The old crooked trees lining the highway were starting to straighten their backs for spring. The truck had one of those ‘old time’ radios with a tuner dial. When you turned the knob to look for stations it crackled and fizzed. We got to the Diner just on time for my shift. “That’ll be me then,” he said, starting the engine again. I grabbed his hand and turned the keys to the ignition off. “Come inside, darlin’, you need a good meal, I ain’t takin no for an answer.” Thankfully, he obliged. Hank waited in the truck. When he was seated in the booth, and I was dressed for work, I played a little trick on him. “Well hello there, stranger, I’ve not seen you here before.” I loved pulling his leg. “Quit it, Shelby, I ain’t in the mood. I’ve only got about a half hour before I got to head back.” “Why y’all running back to town so quick? It’s Sunday.” “Just let me get a look at the menu so I can choose please.” “Why do you want a menu when you got the best waitress in the state here with you. I’ll bring you our speciality.” He sighed and pretended to look defeated. “You want some coffee while you wait?” “What teas you got, redbush? “Sure thing, redbush tea coming up.” During the wait I he check his phone which was odd. He normally didn’t care for messaging too much. He was just nervous, you know about finally feeling cared for. He wasn’t used to folks wanting to share in his life. As he waited, Jake looked even more distracted than the night before, sliding the salt shaker from one hand to another. I brought the biscuits and gravy, and waited to get the single curt nod of the head, that’s Jake’s seal of approval. The dish was mighty big, but I never did see anyone who didn’t finish every last scrap. He didn’t spend much time eating, and called me back soon enough. “I gotta get going now. I got a meeting.” “Sounds mysterious” “Well it ain’t. Just someone important OK. I can’t be late.” “Well alright. This one's on me, and no arguments.” “Gee, thanks. That’s real kind of you.” “You are welcome to come by anytime. I mean that,” I said. “When’s your next show then? Maybe I’ll come into town next week, I always liked Mexican food.” “Starts on the fifth. Six nights a week for the whole month.” He checked the clock on his phone again. “Well golly, I’ll let you go if you really have to?” Melvin was peering through the serving hatch anyway, looking for his star waitress. I’d been yacking too long and I sure couldn’t afford to lose this job. “You come by anytime Jake. I mean it.” If he ever came to his senses and asked me to move in, I could make sure he had more than cookies in the cupboards. “Awful grateful, Shelby.” He scratched his head and pulled on his trucker cap. “I’ll be seeing you.” Those five words was like poetry - Jake could say so little and mean so much. He slunk off back to the truck, back to patient old Hank. I got back to clearing tables. I noticed half a biscuit was left under the thick gravy on his plate. He never did have much of an appetite. *** The quesadillas at Nacho’s grill was dry as hell. I don’t know how they charge the prices they do. It was a big place though, with red and green paper decorations hung across the ceiling. After Jake’s last show, we hadn’t spoken. He just wouldn’t open up to me, so I decided to give him time to think about what he was missing. I got busy working doubles at the diner and even went on a date with one of the cook’s brothers. It was the longest we’d ever been apart. Jake never did say much without a guitar in his hand, but I knew he must be missing me. What he needed was an assistant, someone to make sure he got paid what he was owed. Someone to hawk his albums, to contact promoters and labels. I would be able to give up waitressing and we could be together full time. I had it all planned out. “I’d like to dedicate this song to someone special.” I never did hear him dedicate a song before. “It’s called The Waitress, and today is a very special day for her. For us.” It was March when we first met, but he had gotten the date wrong. We first spoke after a concert in Maddison’s on the first day of spring, last year. Today was a few days later. Well, at least he had noticed me, maybe he was seeing sense after all. He played the first chords, moving up the neck of his old Martin acoustic. He coaxed out the notes and sang that fine melody. The song built up toward the soaring chorus. She was just a waitress in a small town, But I’d wait a thousand days just to see her again. I knew the moment she took my order I wouldn’t have no more reason to ever complain. Why had he never recorded the song? It was wonderful. “Thank you. Come see me at my stand if you like what you heard tonight. Enjoy your evenings . . . and Viva Nachos!” There was a moment of still, complete silence in the room, before the applause and the sound of knives and plates started up again. Jake joined a table at the front, with an older looking woman and a young boy. They was all smiling and laughing, the boy was more interested in his chips than in what they was saying. “Jake. Hey there, Jake.” I waved as I approached. He stood up, then sat down, then stood up again to hug me. “I just had to come and check out your new show. The food ain’t much, but the ambiance is nice.” The boy looked up from his chips. “I like the food. The food’s nice.” “Hi there,” said Jake, looking down, all bashful. “Shelby is a big supporter of mine, comes to my shows.” he said to the woman, who was raising her eyebrows up. “She’s a waitress too, you know?” I wasn’t worried by the competition - dark hair, and a sort of hollow eyes with the onset of crows feet. She didn’t have any food to pick at, so she drummed her fingers on the table. She looked down on me, with her smart dress, even though I was standing. “That’s great honey, where do you work?” “Err, a diner, out of town. Best biscuits in Nashville, that’s what we claim.” I reached out to say hello to Hank who was lying down between her and the boy. She reached for Jake’s hand and smoothed it, “You better learn how to cook mister, stop gettin’ into trouble with all these waitresses, and writing corny songs.” Corny? She wouldn’t know a good country song if it hit her right between the eyes. “Shelby, this is my wife Gloria, and my son Chuck.” How did I not know? He never talked about a son before. “They just moved back to Tennessee after a few years.” “Well golly, Jake! Why didn’t you say nothing about your boy?” “You know, we was apart for a long time. You know it’s funny, today is kind of like our wedding anniversary. Gonna give it another shot huh Gloria.” Her smiled that golden smile at her. My heart sank. I knew it wasn’t no good hollering in a restaurant, but I wasn’t going to give up so easy. “But I thought . . . I want to work together, to help you out.” “Well, that sounds great, but I don’t think I’m going to be needing no help. Turned down a tour opportunity with the New Forest Band and everyone’s pretty hot about it. Got my hands full here you see.” He ruffled Chuck’s blond hair. “But that’s what you’ve been waitin’ for, Jake.” He shrugged in defeat. It sure would have been different if the boy wasn’t there. I decided to head to Woody’s to see if the acts was still going, it wasn’t that late, and I didn’t feel like listening to momma, with her bottle of ‘I told you so’. It’s been a few weeks since that night, and Jake hasn’t called or been into the diner since. I know in my heart that things won’t last with Gloria. You only get one chance, and she blew it years ago. Jake has his distractions, but he always comes back to the music. I’ll be there waiting, when he needs a good meal, or someone to listen to Leonard Cohen records with. He’s my one, he just ain’t realized yet which waitress that song is really about. Peter McMillan The author is an ESL instructor who lives with his wife and one remaining flat-coated retriever, Ollie, on the northwest shore of Lake Ontario. The Ward Ward 4-2, the mental health ward, was quiet this time of night. Dinner, the only meal of the day worth waiting for, had already been served, group sessions were over (it was mindfulness tonight), and the TV room was long empty. All the doors were closed, both those secured by card reader locks--the lights all red--and the residents' door which were always left unlocked for the nurses. It was good to walk the floor alone, to not have to have conversations (good or bad), to feel the open space of the wide corridors, to experience the muscles tensing and stretching and the breathing getting deeper and faster, to be in the moment. The floors on the ward were polished to such a sheen that in the distance waves of brightness rose up like highway mirages. The floors were well taken care of like the rest of the $2.2 billion hospital. The floors were buffed twice a day by a small, wrinkled old man who expertly guided his massive, humming machine around the ward eight times, each strip twice. The best part of the walking was when the thoughts fled leaving behind a vague awareness of the body in motion, and since there was no chance of interruption this could go on for an hour or more at a time. The nurses had just completed their rounds and were busy at their stations doing paperwork, while all the residents, even the bad apples, were safely tucked away in their private rooms with their benzodiazepines, anti-psychotics and whatever other night time medication they required. Occasionally, a negative thought would return and block out all the other senses, but on good days, these thoughts were short-lived. With a great effort of thought, they would eventually starve for lack of attention, shrivel up, and blow away, and then that elusive sense of the body in motion would settle in again even for a little while. After an hour or so, the body was finally exhausted. No anti-anxiety sleep aids were necessary. A good thing because the nurses didn't like to dispense 'as needed' meds. Time to say good-bye to another day. It had only been a week, but it seemed like a month. Some of us weren't allowed to leave the ward and that was tough. The days dragged by. When I first arrived I called it the cuckoo's nest, but I was teaching myself to suppress such negative thoughts. Besides, the facility was different in almost every possible way. It was a hospital not an insane asylum, and it was new, modern, and well-appointed. Heaven Herzman is a student in the Creative Writing program in Orlando, FL. Her comic series CATastrophic Adventures chapter 1 was posted on July 6th, 2017 o this website: https://www.facebook.com/catastrophicadventures/. In her spare time, she works on game, art, logo, and writing projects. You can follow her on Twitter at @heavenhofficial. Values It’s midnight. Celia pulled a couple of bills out of her bra and sat at the counter with Fireball whiskey in her hand. She glanced at her front door, thinking she heard a knock and mumbled, “Maybe my shoes finally got here.” The woman ventured to the door hardly holding her balance. Opening the door, she peered down to a brown UPS package. Getting excited, she grabbed the box and made her way to the counter. She had a hard time getting it open in her drunken state so she grabbed a kitchen knife to cut the tape. Her face quickly went from a goofy smile to a disgusted frown. A small rag doll was lying there. It had short, black, curly hair and brown sewn-in eyes. She tossed the doll across the kitchen, hoping for it to land in the trash can but it landed next to it. With a groan, she stumbled her way to her room and crashing on her bed for the night. The next morning, she woke with a major headache. She went to the kitchen to find some medicine and hangover remedies. The bottle of medicine she had only had two pills left so she took them and tossed the container towards the trash. It missed. “Damn,” she muttered to herself. Going over to pick up the bottle she noticed the doll again. Throwing the bottle away, she lifted the doll into her hand. She felt angry and disappointed. With a sigh, she tossed it on the counter, grabbed her keys and left the house to go to the bar. ** The jingling of keys from outside the door and the shakiness of the doorknob broke the silence among the house. The door opened and the woman fell to the floor, laughing. Moving her legs, she closed the door with her foot and just lied on her back. Staring at the ceiling with a goofy smile but her eyes held sorrow. She began to cry and sob rather obnoxiously. After her moment of tears, she got to the counter and was about to grab a drink, but again sees the doll. She ends up pushing the drink away and grabbing the doll. “What do you want?” She glares at the doll, gently pulling on its hair. “I didn’t ask for you. It was a mistake. You were too beautiful and I wasn’t ready. Can’t you understand that? Why don’t you leave me alone?” She continued to rant until she finally rested her head on the counter, falling asleep with the doll in her hand. The morning sun made the drunken woman awake in discomfort. With a groan and mumble she lifted her head off the counter with squinted eyes. “Fuck off,” she mumbled towards the window where the sunlight reached in. She started crying again, holding the doll close to her. She kept repeating, “I miss you, baby. I miss you so much.” Almost instantly right after she grabbed her keys, keeping the doll with her and left her home. She got into the car and placed the doll in the passenger seat next to her. Her hands gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. “I’m ready.” She turned the car engine on and began her drive out of the city. There was a lot of honking and yelling going on in the morning rush hour. She had a hard time dealing with the outside commotion so she turned the radio up. Keeping the volume down enough to not bother her headache, she tapped her fingers to the beat of the R&B playing on the station. Glancing at the time on her dashboard, which read 11:30 am, she perked up in her seat. “Almost home, baby girl.” It’s noon. The woman parked in front of a tan house with a blue Impala outside. They’re home, she thought to herself. Grabbing the doll from the passenger seat, she gave it a long stare before glancing at the house’s doorway. With a deep sigh, she finally got out of her car and approached the house. She knocked a few times and waited. The wait seemed like forever. She almost wanted to run back to the car and leave the doll, but she stood her ground. She said she was ready and meant it. The door opened revealing a little girl with short, black, curly hair, and about 5 years old. The woman held back tears as she knelt down to be eye level with the girl. “Hey, baby. I got this for you.” She handed the doll to the girl. The girl’s hazel eyes glistened. “I love it, mommy!” A man called from inside, “Who’s that, Lola?” “Daddy, it’s mommy!” The man came to the door with a look of anger and confusion. He picked up Lola and held her looking at the doll in her hand. “I came to give this to her, Darrel,” the woman explained. “If you’ll have me, I’d like to be a mother to her. I miss her terribly and I’ve stopped my… problem and I plan on taking classes. I just want my daughter again. Please.” “We’ll talk about it, Cilea,” Darrel said. “But come inside for now.” “Thank you so much,” Cilea said. She reached her hands out to hold Lola. Darrel hesitated before handing Lola to her with a sad smile. A start up writer from Bangkok, Thailand. S. K. Inkslinger speaks three languages, fluent in Thai ad English while being moderate to novice in Mandarin. He currently studies as a first year medical student in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. His many passions lie in tales of fantasy, action, and thriller. His love of reading and writing stemmed from the fantastical tales and stories he had been exposed to over the years, and his desire to craft one of those stories by his own hands. Published Works: THE BEAST OF STONE (short story, The Ronin Express, Volume Two) THE FLUTTERING HEARTBEAT (short story, The Ronin Express, Volume Two) THE CREEPING SHADOWS (short story, The Ronin Express, Volume Two) The Knight of Chimera (upcoming standalone fantasy novella July 2017) The Bejeweled Chest (short story, Cirsova Magazine Issue #6 Fall 2017) The Beast of Stone “And they lived happily ever after...” The bard finished with a contented sigh, his lips pursed in a romantic gesture that followed every single one of his cheesy tales of romance. “Ooi, shut yer trap, Radast!” A portly man bellowed from the other side of the campfire. The blazing flames danced, casting wild shadows amidst the three men, lighting up his face in a ruddy glow. “I’m sick of all yer stupid romances! This prince meets that gal, then they live happily ever after.” The man spat out in disgust, his face contorting with poorly-disguised contempt. “Bah! I tell you!” “How about yer tell a story of your own, huh, Olfrid?” The bard, whose name was Radast, spoke up in a rush of anger. “Although I think you ain’t up for it, being a half-arse who could hardly even appreciate a proper story, one as told by meself. They too good for your mud-choked ears, I bet.” Before the two men went against one another in a spar, a third man, his fair hair plastered wetly against his forehead, stepped in between them. “Just stop it, both of yer. We aren’t here to kill one ‘nother, aren’t we?” Even softly spoken, his voice carried a certain authority that was registered by the two men. Radast sat down first, a mutely rebellious expression upon his face, followed by Olfrid, who was still cursing and muttering hotly under his breath. “We’re here as comrades, Olfrid. It will be good to remember that.” The sickly looking man gazed over at the still-muttering Olfrid. Without any warning, he bent over in a fit, coughing up a splotch of black blood. In a raspy voice, he continued, “Radast had offered to tell us a story today, and we should appreciate it.” He gestured to the scowling bard. “You already told yours yesterday, Olfrid, and mine the day before. With my conditions, I certainly don’t feel like tellin’ ya goons some wee stories today. Or do you disagree?” The man motioned at the portly Olfrid, daring him to go up against his verdict. Olfrid bent his head down in a gesture of defeat, and a corner of the man’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “But we still could still have entertainment tonight, I think.” Scanning the edges of the camp, he shouted, “Hey, you there!” He called out to a figure, humped just beyond the flickering flames of the campfire. “Do come over here for a wee bit, if yer don’t mind!” The figure gathered himself up, his dark shawls brushing against the earthy forest floor. He is a new addition to the trio of traveling merchants, whom they had just met in the last town they stopped to trade with. The man had asked to join them with the reason that he was doing an errand for a friend up the country, and was afraid to traverse the dark woods alone. For the last two days, the man had kept to himself, eating alone and talking in what had seemed more like a whisper to himself. Radast and Olfrid had kept away from him, both in superstitious fear and lack of curiosity, but, Harold, the head of their party, harbor no such feelings. “Come, sit by us, kind stranger!” Harold greeted warmly. With a friendly gesture, he motioned at the two other merchants, “Me and mah friends, we had already ran out of stories. Being a member of our traveling party now, would yer like to share one of yers?” His tone was amiable, but it also held a certain firmness to it, such that the offer couldn’t be easily refused. The man spoke up clearly, in what had seemed like the first time in days, “If you people would like to.” His voice was deep and sonorous, like a minstrel’s, and carry well across the silence of the dark forest. That piqued the curiosity of the trio sitting around the fireplace, and they bent over in anticipation of the story. “There was once a group of travelers, merchants all, traveling through the heart of a deep, dark forest. There were four of them, as there are four of us now.” The stranger glanced at the faces of men surrounding the campfire. A shadow hid half of his face, rendering an air of mystery to the tale. “Having traverse through the forest for the whole day, the group came to a halt at a small clearing. One of the men slipped away from the group of four, while his friends were busy setting up their camp for the night. The man was parched, almost dying with thirst. With this spurring him onward, he blundered through the ominous forest. Without friend, and utterly alone…” As if to torment his listeners, the man lifted up his mug and slowly tipped its contents against his lips. Streams of wine, dark crimson in the dim light, flowed languidly and trickled down his chin. The trio of men gazed at him, feeling as if they could die with curiosity, as the man finally finished his drink. With the wine smeared across his lips, the man could have been drinking blood in this poor, flickering light. In a deep, sonorous tone, he continued, “Alone, the man ventured far and wide, looking for pools and forest springs from which he could drank from. At last, after fruitless hours of searching, the merchant stumbled onto a vast, clear spring.” At this point in the story, Radast stood up and excused himself, saying that he needed to tend to nature’s calling. Harold nodded his head distractedly before gesturing at the stranger to continue. “Its water was luminous, clear as glass, and smelled faintly of jasmine and wildflowers. The man had no hesitation as he jumped into the pool and gulped thirstily. Humming gleefully, he spent some time there, washing off his road stains and relinquishing his thirst.” “Just as he was about to leave the pool in search for his friends, the man felt it. He couldn’t move. Could not budge his limps, however hard he tried. With increasing fright, he glanced down at his own body and shrieked. His pale skin was slowly turning to stone, from the bare tips of his hands and feet, up to spread all across his body.” “As he howled and cried in agony, the man’s screams were gradually replaced by a more guttural sound, the roars and howls of a beast. His eyes glowed like shards of ambers, bright and harsh as firelight. Fangs, sharp as sickles, erupted from his jaws. Claws, pointed as ebon knives, protruded from his fingers. With a beastly howl, the Tylu made of stone leaped out of the spring and prowled off into the night, searching its prey, its bloodlust never satiated.” Pausing for effect, the stranger glanced at the men surrounding him amidst the firelight. “Legend says that the Tylu still prowled these woods, hunting for its prey in the cover of night.” He eyed the duo with a sincerity that brought an unbidden chill deep into their bones. “It says that the Tylu could disguise itself as humans, and sometimes travel along with them in groups.” The stranger’s tone had shifted into an eerie whisper that set the backs of Harold’s and Olfrid’s necks prickling. "It blended in with its preys, where it waited patiently until the deep of night. When all were asleep, the Tylu would crept into their tents, and devoured them to the bones. Before any of its preys could scream, lest manage an escape. Only remnants of the travelers’ tents and smears of blood would be left the next morning, to be identified by other passersby. To warn them.” The stranger’s tone was chilling as rasped on, “To caution them. That these woods are prowled by the Tylu. And they would need to beware.” Looking up, he gazed right into the eyes of the two men, “Such that the old rhyme goes,” Four travelers walk into the forest One went alone, left them unsaid Became the Tylu, who’s made of stone Devour its victims, deep to the bone At this, Olfrid shivered against a non-existent breeze. Harold rubbed at his arms, futilely trying to hid the goosebumps that had sprouted up along his bare flesh. Just before they could make any remark, Radast appeared from behind a row of hedges, his hair a wild tangle. “Where in God’s name had yer been, Radast?” Olfrid shouted at the bard, trying to put on as much a brave air as possible. “Yer miss the whole goddamn tale!” “Surrey, I got lost!” Radast swore in frustration, “Darnnit, had the story ended?” While moving back toward his place by the fire, Radast noticed something queer in the shifting form of the stranger’s shadow. They were not in the shape of a man, but a monstrous beast. Its fangs like sickles, claws like knives, hunched over like a beast waiting for its prey. Blasted angels, I must have been having too much to drink to be this fanciful. The bard mused drunkenly as he slumped onto his spot on the forest floor. Just as he went down, he caught the stranger’s pale eyes, bright as shards of ambers in this starless night. Regaining his air of composure, Harold coughed, drawing all of the men’s attention toward him. “It’s gettin’ late, ya’ll. We should try to catch some sleep before morn. I will take the first watch myself, if no one disagrees.” His voice rang loud and clear across the heavy silence of the forest, startling a few bats from their trees. Still somewhat spooked out, the other men broke apart and went back to their respective tents. By the time the rain started pelting down, most of them had already gone into a fitful sleep. The stranger shifted and squirmed uncomfortably in his furs, struggling with the idea of falling asleep. As if to make matters worse, the rain battering against his tent had found an opening, and ice-cold droplets made its way onto his bare skin. Just when he thought sleep was enclosing over him, there were noises. They were soft, tap tap tap, against the folds of his tent, near the entrance. Frowning, he rubbed the sleep off his eyes and threaded groggily toward the opening. He was more than surprised to found the three companions standing before his tent, drenched in the maddening rain. “What are you lot doing here?” The stranger questioned, his tone made crabby by the lack of sleep. “It’s late in the night, and raining cats and dogs out here.” Despite his irritation, the man’s voice was tinged with a thinly veiled curiosity. “What about the other three?” Radast inquired. His voice was cold as marble, lacking any emotions. “What? I can’t hear you.” The stranger shouted over the din of the brewing storm. “What about the other three?” Olfrid asked. His voice was strangely low and guttural, like a beast’s growl. “You mean the tale?” The stranger cursed and swore vehemently, almost spitting out his words of rage, “Why in god’s blasted name would you come in the middle of the night, asking after a damn folk story? Off with you!” “What about the other three?” Harold whispered hollowly. Glancing up, the stranger saw that his eyes too, had a hollow look to them. No – they were not hollow. They were shards of amber, bright as firelight in this dark, cloudy night. The two other men had eyes like this. They stared at him, flashing the most horrible of smiles. With a flash of lightning illuminating the forest, he saw that the three had skin as smooth as stone. Their fangs were sharp as sickles, their claws like knives. The stranger gave one final scream as his blood gushed out in a fountain, painting the nighttime forest a lurid red. Four travelers walk into the forest One went alone, left them unsaid Became the Tylu, who’s made of stone Devour its victims, deep to the bone Beware, travelers, or they will find you Caught you unaware, as one of your own Where the Dead Tread The freezing breeze rushed past, cracking the inner of his bones. The grisly black earth teemed with the scent of death. The pitch-black sky loomed above like a black hole, ready to suck in everything in its path. The stems of dead trees crackled menacingly, and their lumpy branches waved like demonic fingers in the wind. The ominous earth gave way to copious slabs of stone. Some of them were made from smooth, polished marbles. Others were not as ornamental, made from rugged, gray-ish black stone. However, they both of share a certain characteristic. They contained ornately written inscriptions, death plagues, commemorating the information of their long dead owners. The inscriptions enlisted the tomb owner’s name, year of birth and death, and a brief description of them when they were still alive or what they were remembered for. Multitudes of the plaques were already worn out by time. Rock brittles had chipped off, some engravings were so worn out that they were illegible, and mosses and vines grew up around the plaques. As the tumultuous clouds parted, the silver lunar gradually lighted up the gloomy night sky. The lunar beam shone through the entirety of the area. Its light reached even the darkest cracks and crevices, and visibility became significantly clearer than before. The lone cemetery was not very large in size. It was surrounded on all four sides by black iron fences, with two polished metal gates marking the entrance and exit. To the eastern end of the area stood an Orthodox church. Some of their mournful melodies escaped into the cemetery and lingered in the area, like a lullaby to the dead. On the northern and southern end of the cemetery is the villagers’ residential area. The time is late, all of the lights were off and the villagers fast asleep. The only sounds in the area were the cold night wind blowing against the tiled brick roofs. Finally, to the west, was a wild patch of forest. Strident howls of wolves and other creatures echoed through the night, chilling anyone who heard it. The pacific nature did not continue for long. The black metal gates clanged open with a creaky groan. A tall, black-clad figure strode hurriedly into the graveyard, his leather shoes scrunching the dried leaves upon the ground. He usually walked with assertive steps, but the man was evidently not in control of his emotions today. He was a man in his mid-30s and wore a stylish black business suit. He had a strong face, with square jaws and a rough chin with stubbles. Gleaming beneath a fringe of short black hair were eyes that gleamed like topaz and the deep blue sea. His destination was a grave in the center of the cemetery that was distinctive from the others. The grave’s plaque was wrought from marble of the best grade, and its surface was richly polished. Upon reaching the grave, he stood there, staring at the plaque with a mixture of emotions: grief, confusion, and disbelieve. The sight affected him gravely, his hands loosened, letting a rose bouquet and small ring box clattering onto the ground. Tears trickled down his cheeks as the man stood there silently in the lonely graveyard, weeping, never satiated… In the midst of silence, the man muttered softly, to body resting beneath his feet or to himself, none could say, “Ya lyublyu tebya, Anastasiya…” I love you, Anastasia… With his voice cracking with emotions, the man continued solemnly, “I was going to propose to you, did you know that? Despite the precautions and restraints of both our parents’, I was about to propose to you, when…” His voice faltered slightly at this point, “When it happened.” A single drop of tear rolled onto the dry, frosted earth of the cemetery. “I was working when I heard of what had happened to you, and I just couldn’t believe my ears. Couldn’t believe what I had heard had been the truth.” His eyes were pale films of years, wet and glistening, “The truth that you are no longer here struck me like an anvil, like a hammer driven right into my heart. I couldn’t stand, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even bring myself to come here at first.” His voice was barely a rasp as he continued, “Ya proshu proshcheniya, Anastasiya” I am sorry, Anastasiya. With a slump, the man fell onto is knees before the grave of the woman he loved most in his life, “I am sorry that I hadn’t been there for you, that I hadn’t hold your hand when it had happened, that I hadn’t visited you sooner, when I could have. I am so sorry…” As if an omen of sort, or the response to a heartfelt prayer, the light from the only lamp in the cemetery flickered, then went out. Beneath the black lamppost stood the glimmering form of a woman clad entirely in white, her golden-blonde hair blowing freely in a non-existent breeze. “Victor…” The spirit called out, her voice melodious yet shrilling to the ears. The man was entirely oblivious to the fact, as he gaped at the figure in shock and wonder. “Anastasiya!” Victor gasped as he sprinted toward the glimmering spirit. Within seconds, his arm went around her and he could feel her again. The warmth of her body, the smell of sunlight in her hair, the feel of her tender hands brushing against his. Then everything was gone in a flash, the ghost returning to its pale, shimmering form, and Victor thrown back with a force beyond the power of a frail woman. “I miss you so much…” Victor sighed despondently, his tone filled with regret and longing. “I miss you too, Victor. I couldn’t bear to leave you, and our love held my soul to this world.” The lady replied with her queer, melodic voice, her tone tinged with profound sorrow. For hours, they talked, and the contents of both their hearts came tumbling out in great heaps and bounds. Finally, as the clock strikes twelve, Anastasiya gaze up at the cloudy night sky and sighed, “I must be going, Victor. It is time…” Her face, as she turned back to Victor, was a mask of regret and sadness. “I cannot bear to part with you, my love. My Anastasiya, even for one more time.” Victor replied sternly, his face set in grim determination. With a shrill, inhuman laugh from the lady as a reply, she went sprinting through the cemetery, leaving Victor to run after her. They chased each other around the graveyard for what seemed like hours, their feet marking paths through the mounds of dry leaves. As they sprinted around the stony death plagues, Anastasiya sang melodies upon melodies with her beautiful yet haunting voice, setting chills deep into Victor’s bones. One of the songs he remembered, the tragic and macabre Szomorú Vasárnap (Gloomy Sunday): The heavy gusts of the previous night had sent some of the dry leaves into great heaps upon the cemetery’s frozen ground. The grave keeper hummed a mirthless tune as he set to work, clearing piles of leaves off the dusty, ragged tombstones. His broom making contact with something hard and solid, the grave keeper brushed off the leaves cluttering over a tombstone, larger and noticeably more lavish than the others. When he discovered what was underneath, the man gave a ragged scream, and made a run for the exit out of the cemetery. It was the body of a man in his mid-30s, clad in a business suit that is now dusty and stained. He had a strong face, with square jaws and a rough chin with stubbles. His eyes, once a brilliant topaz blue, was now glazed and cloudy like the surface of a muddy pond. His stare was leadenly fixed ahead, as if gazing at something with a great intensity. His lips were frozen in the formation of a word, a promise… Navsegda Forever From the boughs of trees, came a voice like the shuffling of leaves, ghostly and silent, We will be together, my love, never to part. Never again. Forever Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com. A WOMAN OF SUBSTANCE Kip Sugarman always followed the Ten Commandments when it came to his father and mother – “Honor thy father and thy mother” - unlike his older sister, the smart one, who severed all ties with them once she was old enough to get her own apartment. She never forgave them for making her abort her love child when she was sixteen. Kip missed his sassy sister who ran rings around him academically and tried to make up for her thirty-year absence by being a more attentive son than he otherwise might. “I’m slowly coming out of my comfort zone,” he had confided to his chief auto mechanic at the gas station he owned on the corner of Byberry and York in Hatboro, Pennsylvania. “Sugarman’s Sunoco” had such a banner year that Kip could well afford to celebrate his parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary by sending them to the Philadelphia Phillies’ spring training camp. His parents would leave on tomorrow’s plane for Clearwater, Florida. Kip wished he could wear earplugs when he picked them up at their retirement home to drive them to the airport. Clad in red baseball caps and white jerseys, they asked about his business and his nonexistent love life and if he’d made his yearly donation to the American Jewish Federation, which he had yet to do. He didn’t really consider himself Jewish. The ride to the airport was long and wearying, a good hour on the Philadelphia expressways. “We sure appreciate this, Kipper,” said his father, an older and fatter version of his son, who could not stop eating once he took early retirement. “You decided to take the Mustang?” his dad asked from the passenger seat. Kip owned a fleet of six vehicles, including two pick-ups. He kept some of them at the station and let his men borrow them, even his new souped-up gray Shelby Cobra coupe he bought at a car show. “Yeah, Pop, it’s nice and roomy,” said Kip. He looked in the rear-view mirror at his mother, who must be in her seventies by now, and wore a blond wig to hide her thinning hair. “We found a nice girl for you, Kip, if you’re interested,” she said. “She works with your sister at the bank. Never been married, just like you. Loves animals. Was engaged once but broke it off. Something to do with …. do you remember the story, Dave?” Dave turned around and looked at his wife. “She caught the loser in a web of lies, that’s why,” he said, smacking one hand into the other. The Mustang was in the fast lane. “Comfortable? Need more heat back there, Mom?” asked Kip. “I’m all right. So you want us to tell Debbie to fix you up with this girl?” Kip shook his head. “That’s all right, Mom. I’ll find her in my own time.” He had just turned fifty. The boys at the station had bought him a cake from Weinrich’s Bakery. The cake was decorated with colored icing that revealed a man in a navy-blue jumpsuit, bald, with a huge black mustache that swirled upwards into curlicues onto the white icing. “Happy Fiftieth, Boss” was written on the cake. Kip was a small fellow but all muscle from working out in his basement gym. He needed heft and bulk to lift the heavy auto parts. He was always the last to leave. The station was neat and clean. He’d installed a stainless steel sink in the garage with two tubs and a Gojo soap dispenser that when pushed ejected a glossy milky-white liquid for the mechanics to clean their hands. After each car was fixed and ready to go, he instructed his men to spritz each car with a hose and soap it up as if it were a Jaguar XK120. His men called him “the Mother Teresa of Cars.” Like her, he knew how to generate business and popularity. Twenty years earlier he’d bought out Big John’s Texaco. Big John was a slob with a missing front tooth who couldn’t even keep the numerals on straight for gas prices. Kip revamped the dying station into an “ultra-service Sunoco station” for the gas-hungry in the tiny storefront town. Hatboro was famous as a gathering place for teenagers and beer guzzlers standing on the corner and peeing surreptitiously into the street. His success was legendary at the Rotary and Kiwanis meetings he never attended. He had shooed out the Exxon and Mobil stations that once flanked the town. No, love was for everybody else, not for Kip Sugarman, he reminded himself as his mother droned on. “You can’t choose who you fall in love with,” he’d confided to Matt, his chief auto mechanic. “It’s a decision that’s made for you by your genes,” he halfheartedly believed. “Never had much luck with it.” When he was nineteen and worked as a mechanic at a Ford-Lincoln-Mercury dealership, the owner’s wife took a shine to him. She’d wear skirts with no panties underneath and flash herself to young Kip when they were alone in the showroom while he scrubbed down the hubcaps from test drives. Sure, he fell in love with her, who wouldn’t, she had the legs and the walk and the personality and the smile but no way was he ever going to touch a married woman. She was what he called “a nonperforming exhibitionist.” Was it self-defense, he always wondered, why he went after Marsha? He and the boys from the Ford dealership were at a party in Northeast Philadelphia, a section of brick rowhouses that linked walls and shared driveways and back yards and hedges and rose bushes. The boys loved their beer, none more so than Kip. They sat around someone’s kitchen. He still remembered the red checkered plastic tablecloth stacked high with Rolling Rock beers and nearly empty bowls of salted peanuts and Doritos and that one girl, Marsha, who pushed her way drunk to the table and practically fell down into his lap. He steadied her and sat her down next to him. People had started going home. “A Jewish auto mechanic,” she said to Kip. “C’mon, you got to be kidding me.” Kip, who, three minutes earlier, had dozed off in his chair, now jerked his body into an upright position. “Can’t all be doctors and lawyers. Someone’s got to get their hands dirty.” Marsha, who smelled from alcohol, cigarettes and something delicious about her hair and neck, picked up Kip’s hand and held it in her own. No matter how many times he washed them and scrubbed his fingernails, they never came out white. They were as gray as a gloomy day in February but Marsha didn’t seem to notice. “I always liked big strong hands like yours,” she said, holding his hand straight up and measuring hers against his. His hands were only a little larger than a child’s, but again she didn’t seem to notice. He couldn’t believe how this tall woman with big swaying hips, who could have doubled in attractiveness for the owner’s wife, had singled him out. That was the beginning of a series of disastrous relationships Kip got himself into, believing he had no control over a woman’s charms. He quickly moved from his parents’ home to Marsha’s small flat in a rundown neighborhood. First love is always sweet, he learned, until you get to know the girl. She liked her booze and was too restless to stay home. “Take me here, take me there,” she wanted from Kip. “Buy me this, buy me that.” He was a lowly auto mechanic. How could he please her? He moved out quickly, back to his parents’, then repeated the process with two more heartbreaks – Janine and Laura – and then quit in disgust. How could women with such beautiful names have such troubled personalities? He retired from love in his mid-thirties to the sanctuary of Sugarman’s Sunoco where he built up the business. The baseball coaches were right, he thought, either play ball or screw, you can’t do both. When the pre-fab yellow-gold roof of his station went up, it was his sister he wished he could call to share it with. Some day he would find her. Or maybe even a woman with a beautiful name. A stunning pearl-white Volvo wagon drove up one morning making a noise like Fourth of July firecrackers. Kip and Matt had been deliberating over an old apple-green Nissan Maxima that had nearly 200,000 miles on the odometer. Its owner, a woman who looked much older than his parents and wore Bermuda shorts and Birkenstocks no matter what the weather, said she wanted them to fix the latest oil leak she found on the floor of her garage. “No sense buying a new car at my age is there?” she asked Kip. “Of course not, Mrs. Diener. If you treat them right and pay attention to the tiniest symptoms these Japanese cars can last twenty, thirty years.” But she’d have to give them a week, he said, to phone around and get some good used parts from Bullock’s or Biello’s. “Matt’ll run you home,” he said patting her arm. He looked over at the Volvo lady. Tall with short dark brown hair, she leaned against her gas tank. She walked over to Kip, shaking her head. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “I was passing through town when my car began making these horrible frightening noises like I was being gunned down by terrorists. Luckily, this station appeared just when I needed you. I don’t even live around here.” Her home was half an hour away in Doylestown. “We have a nice comfortable bench for you inside and some magazines and newspapers. Just relax and we’ll give it a nice diagnostic test. We’re the car doctors, you know,” said Kip opening the door for her. Boy, if he were a dating man, this woman would be his next date. He quickly put that idea out of his head and put the car up on the lift. From the bay, he saw her in the waiting room paying Matt for some candy. It looked like a chocolate bar. He hoped it was fresh. Kip knew it wasn’t like him to be entranced, enamored. He shook it off at first as if he’d walked into one of those early morning cobwebs that clung to his front door. On second thought, maybe he shouldn’t fight it. Maybe he should give in and get all goofy over her and her chocolate bars. He reminded himself that everyone was married. The car needed a tune-up. Normally Volvo owners kept their cars in tiptop shape, driving them to the dealer for regular check-ups. Had his girl been remiss? He lowered the car back down, stuck out his head and called out, “I’ll take it for a quick test drive. I think she’s fine.” You can learn a lot about a person by the interior of their car. Not that Kip was a detective or that he was nosy, he was not a woman, after all, but this Volvo wagon told a story. He had five minutes to size it up. Candy bar wrappers rustled on the floor on the passenger side, next to used Kleenexes. The passenger seat had a stack of magazines all opened up to certain pages. On top was an article “Ten Ways to Grieve for Your Loved One.” A Shark vacuum cleaner lay diagonally in the back seat perched atop a case of plastic water bottles. The car sounded good, that nice sweet purr of the foreign automobile. People of stature drove Volvos, he thought. People with steady regular lives with backyard gas barbeques and magazine subscriptions that arrived weekly to your mailbox. Doctors. Doctors’ wives. Real estate agents or business people from the Rotary or Lions Club. People of importance. He pulled back into the station and parked. She was waiting on the bench in her well-tailored black skirt and matching jacket with silver buttons, legs crossed, and put down a House and Garden magazine with porch furniture on the cover and fresh fruit spread on a glass table. “Good as new,” he said moving behind the counter and slipping on his reading glasses. She got up and stood on the other side, eyeing his rows of candy and gum and beef jerky, then stepped over to his super-large bank of coolers. He heard her sliding it open and looked up to see her holding a Dr. Brown’s black cherry soda. “You have good taste, Mrs…..” “Oh, just call me Leah. Not too good for the teeth but ….” “Good for the tummy,” he said. I need your full name and address for the bill.” Her name was Leah Diamond. She paid with a credit card which he asked her to slide through the machine. She was flustered so he came around and helped her do it. He imagined putting his arm around her and nuzzling his face against her soft hair. She smelled delicious. Perhaps all those chocolate bars seeped constantly through her pores. “I’m not a very good modern woman,” she said with a laugh. “I think you’re an excellent modern woman,” he said, guiding her card through the machine. “Easy as pie,” he said smiling at her as he stepped back behind the counter. “Here’s a coupon for an oil change,” he said and handed her a brilliantly colored coupon. She looked up and flashed a smile. “Why, it’s color-coordinated with your gas station.” “See that! We think of everything. We’d love to have you as one of our valued customers, Leah.” He realized to his surprise he was engaged in the act of flirting. “Thanks,” she said tucking it in her pocket. “It’s a bit of a drive but I’ll definitely think about it.” He watched her get into her car, lifting up her skirt and settling herself behind the wheel. He turned his head to the side so he could listen to the sound of the motor. He knew he’d forget about her by tomorrow, unless that pink leather pouch on the bench was her cell phone. He couldn’t see the sunset from the station, only its reflection in the windows of the savings bank across the street and a blaze of glory from Burdick’s News Agency that always looked like the building was on fire. That’s when he called her. He explained he could only bring the phone to her in the evenings after he’d locked up. After tucking some Hershey bars into his jacket pocket, he cruised up Easton Road into Doylestown. Like Hatboro, it was a matter- of- fact town on a larger and more expensive scale. It had its own museum district which he bet Leah loved. Her stone-front rancher was down the road from the county courthouse. He smoothed down his wayward eyebrows in the rear-view mirror before getting out of his pick-up and rang the side bell. Her white Volvo was in the garage. A gas grill was covered with a black tarp. She was wearing a blue terrycloth bathrobe when she opened the door. She was laughing. “I told you I’m not a very good modern woman,” she said. “At least if you have a cell phone you’re supposed to bring it along with you.” She invited him in. “I made some decaf, if you like,” she said. “Sure,” he said, sitting down and putting the Hershey bars on the table next to the cell phone case. “You are so sweet,” she said. He noticed his coupon was up on her refrigerator along with dozens of photos. “Those your kids?” he asked. “Are you in the mood for a tour of my refrigerator door?” “Always,” he said, leaning his head on his hand. She came from a large Jewish family. Her two sons were away at college. She didn’t name the colleges, he supposed, because an auto mechanic isn’t expected to know about these things. He didn’t. “I went to Penn State,” he said, “but I flunked out the first year. Math was the only thing I was good at.” “Don’t feel bad,” she said. “You’ve got quite a business in Hatboro. I am really impressed.” “Knock wood,” he said tapping his knuckles on his bald head. He told her about his sister, the one that had disappeared. “What a live wire she was. It really hurt when she abandoned the family. There’s talk she really went to the dogs and got hooked on drugs,” he said rubbing his forehead. “I think I’ve been too scared to track her down.” “You will someday, Kip, when it’s the right time.” “Thanks,” he said. “You’re right. To everything there is a season. I studied the Torah for my bar mitzvah.” She laughed. “The auto mechanic’s bar mitzvah.” They drank their coffee and talked as the sun went down. He could see through her kitchen window it was dark outside. Was that a moon above her garage? He tapped her on her arm and pointed. “Yes, almost full. Tomorrow it will swell to its full size. I’m a big fan of the moon,” he said. She refilled his coffee cup and broke off a piece of chocolate. “Dip it into the coffee,” she said. He sucked on it and told her he had a nice house in Willow Grove on a quiet street where he grew tomatoes and cucumbers and early asparagus and brought them to the boys at work. He said Matt was his best friend but that he missed the companionship of a woman. He pointed to her ring finger. “Where’s the wedding ring?” he asked. “A beautiful woman like you should have a real dazzler. What happened to him?” “Now that’s a very long story for another day,” she said. “I’d like to see you again. Soon,” he said, getting up from the table. She walked him to the side door, linking her hand in his. They stood and looked out the door. In the moonlight they could see her daffodils beginning to bloom. Spirals of forsythia braided themselves across her back yard fence. He gently turned her around and held her. He closed his eyes and pressed her against him. Her smells enfolded him like a garland of flowers. This is where I belong, he thought. It was all so easy. It had happened. He had been in hibernation, with a silent faith that when spring came, any spring, he would become a new man who would find himself a woman. This was the way it was when you lived on the East Coast. Spring washed away all your cares from the long cold colorless winter. He barely knew Leah but he knew her body. It fit. She purred like a cat in his arms. He lifted her face and looked at her. Her eyes were closed, her big black lashes fluttering like tiny butterflies. He kissed each cheek and pressed his forehead against hers. “I never want to leave you,” he thought. They went down to Lake Galena. She packed the sandwiches. He brought drinks from the cooler, Dr. Brown’s cream soda and root beer. With paper-wrapped Flex-Straws. It was still chilly so they decided to eat in the truck and watch the geese come in for a landing across the lake. They wore their warm clothes and gathered up the trash and walked the path. “This was my husband’s favorite place,” said Leah. She told Kip how her doctor-husband would jog here six times a week before going to the hospital where he was the head psychiatrist. “Len Diamond,” she said. “I still can’t get over it.” They sat on a bench. The mood of the day was somber. Overcast. One of those gray days that seemed to put every Philadelphian in a bad mood. Will winter never end? was the prevailing thought. He picked up her soft hand and held it in his lap. “They say an eagle’s got a nest on the other side of the lake,” said Kip. “Did your husband ever mention it?” “My husband, my dear Lenny, was incapable of living in the present moment. If he was jogging, he was planning what he’d do in the afternoon. He didn’t have time for the birds or the flowers. You might say he lived in the future, if that’s possible, while all the world passed him by. It’s too late now.” Five years ago on St. Patrick’s Day, she explained, they ate their dinner and toasted each other with Heineken beer. Len had gone up to bed while Leah watched a movie on television. She had forgotten the name. She fell asleep on the couch, as she often did and spent the night in front of the noisy television wrapped in an Afghan. When she awoke at dawn, her husband was still upstairs in bed. She began to brew the coffee and set the table for breakfast. There was no noise from upstairs. Not a toilet flushing, nor a sink gushing water. It was too quiet. Had he slipped out the house, not wanting to disturb her? When she went up, her husband was still in bed. She knew instantly he was dead but a part of her refused to believe it. And still didn’t. He lay on his back with an arm over his chest like a man guarding a secret. Perhaps he’d been thinking about a particular patient, she told Kip. “He looked so studious, so deep in thought. His eyes were closed. Whatever was he thinking?” She sat on the bed and beheld her dead husband, just as she did her dead father years earlier. She lifted his left arm which seemed to have sprouted black and blue marks all over it. She remembered them from her father’s death. They called it “mottling.” Len’s arm was cold. Cold as a block of ice. She gripped it hard. He didn’t budge. Not one single movement, not one breath nor one eye-blink. She tried to raise his arm in the air but it was heavy as a concrete baseball bat. As if in a trance, she picked up the bedside phone and dialed 911. “And that was the end of my husband. Just like that! As if he never existed. As if I had imagined the whole thing. All that’s left are his clothes which must prove he was once alive, wouldn’t they?” She gazed out over the lake which moved in little ripples that made a lapping sound. She rubbed her hands together. “Are you cold, Leah?” “I’m fine, Kip. Thanks for listening. Five years have passed. I still hear the phone ring to tell me he’s on his way home and I still hear his car pulling into the drive. This is the first time I’ve been down to the lake since he died. Do you suppose we’ll see him jogging by?” “If we do, I’m gonna ask his permission to marry you.” She shivered into his arms and snuggled close. It was one of those days in April, those windy chill April days with the buds coming in red on the trees, that wasn’t quite able to shake off winter and waltz confidently into the spring. A cluster of white wildflowers dotted the ground beside their bench. Kip reached down and plucked one, cradling it in his hand. “Spring beauties,” he said. “Look at the dark purple veins. It’s enough to make you believe spring will finally come.” “Shall we get married under a chuppah?” asked Leah. “You tell me. I’ve never been married before.” “What I want to know is what is our wedding cake is going to say. I think we should use your real name. Would you mind telling me, Kip dearest?” “Now that’s a story for another day,” he said and reached into his pocket and offered her a double-pack of Reese Peanut Butter Cups. THE MAN WITH THE THINNING HAIR She drove her red Jetta convertible, top down, into Neptune Mobile Homes. He couldn’t possibly be here yet and of course she began doubting herself as she pulled under the green awning, which was flapping softly. Climbing up the steps, she laughed to herself, thinking as she often did of James Garner in The Rockford Files and that trailer of his where he got into so much trouble. Once you got inside, you forgot it was a, well, trailer, and thought of it as a lovely home for one, with a view out the southern window of the rippling Atlantic Ocean. Jerry would be here in an hour. She had spread the dining room table with her best china and pink linen napkins. Jerry was the younger brother of Pastor Tom Burns. “When Jerry got out,” he told Tricia, “I immediately thought of you. Just be yourself,” he said looking at her shoulder-length brown hair knitted with a few wisps of gray. “And if anything worries you, give me a buzz.” Tricia had just put the bottle of pinot noir on the table when she heard his car drive up. She peeked out the window and saw an older model of a long Bonneville – did they make them anymore? – and a man stepped out. He was tall with thinning gray hair. She heard his feisty knock on the door. Yeah, she thought, I’ll bet he can’t wait to meet me and wring the life out of me the way he did his wife. When he came inside, he grasped both of her hands with an unusual strength. “You’re even lovelier than Tommy said.” She smiled and hung up his lightweight spring jacket on a handy hook. To live the mobile-home life, compression was essential. “Mind if I look around?” he asked and wandered through the kitchen, dining room and living room. His sneakers shuffled softly across her wall to wall carpet. Tricia was taken aback by his forwardness, bordering on aggression, she thought. “My cell was as big as your dining room, one size fits all, toilet, lumpy bed, calendars on the wall, family photos, and a huge wooden cross my brother gave me that kept me sane.” They sat at the table. She looked up to see if he wanted to say grace, he did not, but she saw his large muscles and a few tattoos. She averted her head. She did not want to read them. “Have some Dutch potato salad,” she said, ladling it into his plate. “Help yourself to the rye bread and ham and cheese.” He laughed. “It’s been a good long time since I had genuine deli food.” They both sat there enjoying the food. “May I?” Tricia asked, holding the wine bottle. Jerry nodded. He held his wine glass out for a toast. “The beginning of a bold new life,” he said, smiling at her with crinkled, old-looking eyes. When they finished their lunch, Jerry brought the dishes to the small stainless steel sink. “My wife used to yell at me for not helping her with the dishes.” He gave a little snort. Tricia proposed a walk on the beach. She gave him his lightweight jacket and took one of her own. She turned her back and put on her sandals. She didn’t want him to see her naked feet. They might arouse him. They walked along the sand, not sinking too deep. He still carried his glass of wine. They approached the ocean with its small ringlets of waves. She watched him stare across it, framed by quick-moving clouds, and fishing ships in the distance. Quickly, he put down his glass and took her in his arms. And squeezed. Hard. “Stop it!” she shouted, looking around. “You’re gonna kill me.” He held her by the shoulders and looked at her. “Silly, beautiful woman,” he said. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.” She stared at him and knew she should never do anyone a favor if it caused her grief. “Let’s just sit down and chat,” he said. “Then I’ll go and you’ll never see me again.” He lay down in the sand, staring up at the sky. “I was the prison librarian,” he said. “The con men studied the law books, hoping to get sprung free. I did a lot of book-learning while I was there. You name it, I’ve read it!” She yawned from the wine and settled herself next to him. Not too close. “Decided that when I got out, I’d visit Paris where Stendhal’s Madame Bovary took place. Ever read Stendhal, whose real name was…” “…Marie-Henri Beyle. And, yes, I did visit Paris.” She explained she had money back then. Came from a wealthy family, but they were spendthrifts and gamblers and their fortune whittled down like lightening decimating a tree. She was forced to move into a trailer home and take a job sitting all day as a telephone solicitor. She laughed. “I depend on the kindness of strangers to buy pots and pans and exercise equipment that will slim your belly that are advertised in the wee hours of the morning on various TV stations.” “Pat Boone’s tub for the elderly?” She laughed. He reached over and patted her hand, then quickly withdrew it. “Most of all,” he said, “I wanted to be outside and see the stars.” She turned over and leaned toward him on her elbow. Florida State Prison was a huge noisy place, he explained. “There was never a moment of quiet,” he said. Keys jangling, men shouting, their voices echoing in the cavernous prison, rap music scaling the walls. “This may sound funny, Tricia,” he said, “but I didn’t have anyone to tell. Show some tenderness and they’d call you, you know, fag, pervert, pansy.” Now she patted his hand and let it stay there. He told her about his life as a young man. Before he got married, he was a fisherman. “Oh, and that Hemingway book, The Old Man and the Sea, might be my favorite book of all,” he said. He and his buddies had a small motor boat. Early mornings when the moon shown low on the horizon they’d go out and sail for marlins. “Ever seen one?” he asked. She shook her head “no.” “Real beauties,” he said. “Symmetrical, a long sword-like snout that glistens like gold. Shame to kill them. But we did. We’d pull over onto the sand, cook and eat ‘em. More delicious than filet mignon. Just us boys.” “Did they visit you in jail?” she asked. “Sure did,” he said. “I’m glad,” she said. They stood up together. Wiped the sand off themselves. “Turn around,” he said, and gently brushed it off her back. “I forgot dessert!” she said. “Do you like banana cream pie?” “Sure do, sugar,” he said. “And if you have a glass of milk that would make it even better.” “You know what, Jerry? I like the full-fat best. The two and four percent just don’t cut it.” They walked back to Jupiter Mobile Homes to the sounds of sea gulls squawking and the Good Humor Man ringing his bell on the beach. THE MAESTRO WHO DISAPPEARED Miss Rosen faced the classroom as the last of the noonday sun splashed into the room. It lit up the white eraser board where Miss Rosen, with black marker, had written notations from Peter and the Wolfe by Prokofiev and Sleeping Beauty by Peter Illyich Tschaikovsky. “Lisette,” she said. “Please repeat your homework assignment to the whole class.” Blonde-haired Lisette stood up. She was among the tiniest in the children’s class. “We’re to listen to these two children’s pieces that are right here in the library and we will bring in a few notes of our own com-compositions, they don’t have to be very long.” She smiled and sat down. “Good job, Lisette,” said Miss Rosen. “Class dismissed.” A black-haired boy approached her. “Miss Rosen,” he said after clearing his throat. “You really think we can compose a song of our own?” “I know you can, Harold,” said the teacher. “Of that I am positive. Each of you fifth graders plays piano on a ninth grade level and your parents wouldn’t have let you sign up for Composition unless they were sure of your abilities.” Harold scratched his head. “Well, all I can do is try” and walked away. Lila Rosen, who happened to be the assistant director of The Settlement Music School in Cleveland, tidied up her desk, primped her short blonde curls and walked over to the one of the twenty practice rooms. Choosing her favorite one – it was large and faced a window revealing a man-made lake outside – she began humming her own work, a composition she was working on. No one but herself had ever heard it. Unlocking the room, she leaned the sheet music on the music stand. “Looks real professional,” she laughed out loud. Locked in the fire-proof vaults of the Settlement Music School were priceless musical scores by more than one hundred renowned composers, including her favorite modernist the late Martin Katovsky. When she knew the man, they were great friends and would have been more, had he not have been married. She had refused his advances, knowing the dangers of getting involved with a married man. Sitting down at the piano, she smoothed her skirt, closed her eyes to let all thoughts pass from her mind, then looked up at the white ceiling and began to play. “Song of the Lake” began slowly, the music sounding like icicles tinkling, rather like the fugues of J S Bach, repetitive notes that only climbed higher and higher, until at last the listener was out on the wide lake skimming along with the well-dressed mallards, their missus, and finally, with more tinkling, the little ducklings. She wasn’t ready yet to progress to the next part of the composition, hadn’t thought of it yet, but knew that by repeating what she’d written, the next bars would come to her. Which they did. “Thank you, Lord,” she thought automatically, looking upward and then out of window at the lake, smooth as pudding, nothing upon it but a glowing reflection of the sun. She had placed her golden watch upon the piano top, keeping an eye on it as her next class would be in two hours. There! The piece was finished. All finished. She reached in her pocket, grabbed a thin Cross pen, a gift from Katovsky – “May you use this and remember my love for you” – and scrawled out the notes in her brown composition book. Her heart was pumping with joy. She stood up and went over to the window. What a glorious day. Knock! Knock! Knock! Lila Rosen was startled. Rarely did anyone disturb her when she was practicing or composing. The door practically had her name on it. Who could it be? One of her students, most likely. Possibly the director, her boss, but why would she disturb her now? Lila walked over to the door, unlocked it – yes, she always locked it, how dreadful if someone barged in and disturbed her – and opened it a crack. All she saw was black. Blackness. Her first thought was, “Death has come for me.” “So sorry to disturb you,” said the man’s voice with some sort of accent. Lila opened the door and stood outside in the hall with him. They stared at one another. He was tall, slightly stooped over, dressed all in black. He removed his hat, a black beret, and asked if they could speak somewhere in private. “Follow me,” she said, her heels tapping on the floor. They entered the cafeteria. “Please,” he said. “May I buy you some tea?” They got in line and a chef in a white hat asked, “What is your pleasure?” Tea boxes of many colors were displayed along the side. “I’ll have the Bigelow’s Mint. Piping hot, please.” The man in black ordered the same. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a wallet. Inside, the money was clumped together, no order to it. Lila couldn’t help but stare. She led them to a table near the window which gave onto the front of the building. You could see students scurrying up the steps, backpacks strapped on, some holding music cases – violin, cello, guitar. They both sipped on their tea, loudly, as it was, indeed, piping hot. “May I know your name?” he asked. “Miss Rosen,” she said. “Lila Rosen, I am the assistant director here.” “Ah, yes,” he said. “I looked over your website before I came here. I, myself, Miss Rosen, came here from Finland. Helsinki to be exact. You may have heard of me.” She looked up expectantly. “Trevor Sikes Cobham.” She stared at him, her blue eyes wandering over his face. “Mr. Sikes Cobham, is it really you?” He nodded and put his beret on the table. “It is well-known in the musical world, Mr. Cobham, that you disappeared. No one, not even your family, knows where you are.” “I would like to explain, if I may,” he said, taking another sip of tea and leaning back in his chair. What he told her was well-known in the world of music. Sikes Cobham, a violin prodigy, had composed hundreds of beloved works, from piano concertos to violin concertos, to “Englandia” an elegy about the British wartime years. He was among the most famous of British composers, including Ralph Vaughn Williams, Benjamin Britten and Edward Elgar. Like many in his country, he had been knighted so he was officially known as Sir Trevor Sikes Cobham. After his wife, Elena, lost her battle with manic-depression and took her own life, he felt he could not go on without her. Days and weeks he spent at her grave, weeping and begging God to let him join her. He saw no one, sold his London flat and disappeared. He journeyed to many lands, he told Lila, hoping to die in an airplane crash, which finally brought him to Finland. There he visited the grave of Jean Sibelius, who spent the last years of his life as an alcoholic, and had lost his ability to write. The Finnish composer’s “Finlandia,” his “Kullvervo,” his string quartets, symphonies and concertos were his lasting legacy that would stand the test of time. As he wept at the grave, he traced his fingers through the indented words “JEAN SIBELIUS” on the cool stone. Suddenly, he felt refreshed. “Maestro,” he said aloud staring at the gravestone. “I am a lover of your music. Please bless me, if you will, as I pursue my own musical journey.” He bowed his head in prayer as the clear blue sky seemed to wrap him up as if he were a newborn babe. Walking toward his hotel, he knew there was no way he could return to England. It reminded him too much of his wife. Once inside the hotel lobby, he sat in the café and ordered his usual. A foaming cup of cappuccino. Balancing it carefully in his two hands, he rode the clanking elevator to his room on the second floor. He placed the hot drink in the kitchenette and looked out the window. Songbirds of every variety twittered and sang, oblivious of the woes of the world, oblivious to the deep wound in Sikes Cobham’s heart. He was not ashamed as his tears flowed once again. Taking a sip of the hot liquid, they’d done a splendid job brewing it, he thought, he went into the bedroom, where his laptap rested on the end table. “Where should I write?” he thought. The melodies were already flooding his mind. He brought the laptop to the kitchen table and sat himself down on a comfortable chair, with cushion. The laptop was ready. He began to compose. He’d always been a maverick, so he cared not that sorrowful music, which he scored with a violin, was juxtaposed with joyous music on the piano. He hadn’t realized that he drained his coffee cup or that twelve straight hours had passed, yet in this city in Finland the night was as bright as day. When the last of the piano began playing, he stood up and stretched. He walked slowly about the hotel room, stretching his back and walking in his stocking feet back and forth, playing the melodies in his head. He returned to the kitchen table, moved aside the empty coffee cup, and made some revisions. Exhausted, he fell in bed on his back, his clothes still on, and slept a good six hours. Next morning he rang downstairs and ordered breakfast – a croissant filled with a cheddar cheese omelet – and the same cappuccino. The knocker sounded. “It’s open,” he called. A woman with a large tray entered the room, smiling. “I will tip you later, please,” he said. “Put it right here.” He tapped the glass table. He took a few bites of the croissant, then pushed it away, and sipped on the strong coffee. Warm in his mouth and going down to his belly. So good! He re-read his musical score. “This is good, damn good,” he thought. But what should he do with it? For twenty minutes he did an Internet search. He would leave Europe behind and visit America again. He had conducted his own music at Carnegie Hall, in Chicago’s Symphony Center, and in Cleveland’s Severance Hall. Now that was an underrated city. He vividly remembered Cleveland and how he and the first violinist, Martin Adams, toured University Circle, the cultural area within a few kilometers of the symphony hall. Many of the performers in the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra were also instructors at the Settlement Music School. “And that, Miss Rosen,” he said at the table in the cafeteria, “is why I’ve come back to Cleveland.” “And you’ve brought your musical score,” she said. “Indeed. When can you review it?” “Today is Friday. I’m busy all day. Well, wait a minute. How about if we meet here at the center this evening. Say, 7 o’clock. We have all the instruments we need to give it a proper audition.” “You are magnificent,” said the composer, touching her hand. Picking up his briefcase, he returned to his hotel. He asked room service to phone him at 6:30. He lay in bed and fell quickly to sleep. When his wife was alive, he rarely got enough sleep, worrying about her desperate moods and when she might take her own life. She was a real beauty, once an actress on a par with Vivien Leigh, another manic-depressive, but he was only awaiting the day when her misery caused her to finally leave the earth and her husband. After his wake-up call, he picked up his brief case and set out for the school. It was a lovely night, with buildings dimpled with light. The stars shone bright. His wife once wrote him a letter. He could still see her slanted blue writing, and told him, “My darling, Trevor. You are the stars, the moon and the sun.” A smile played upon his lips. The stairway of the Settlement Music School awaited him. He had showered, shaved, and had put on a suit and tie. As he climbed up, he prayed all would go well. A sign read, “Symphony Hall” and an arrow pointed the way. When he entered he saw many people gathered around, many with instruments in their hands. But what was a uniformed policeman doing there? “Are you Mr. Trevor Sikes Cobham?” he asked. “I am. What’s going on?” “I’m to arrest you for nonpayment of your bill in Helsinki.” “Oh, my goodness,” he said. “I forgot. I’ve got the money.” The police officer pulled out a set of hand cuffs. Trevor looked around the room, helplessly. Lila Rosen spoke up. “Officer, before you take him away, may we just play his little piece one time?” “Fine,” said the officer. “Make it snappy.” Lila sat at the piano, Maurice held a violin, the teenager Little Tony sat at the drum set. Other teachers held musical instruments in their hands, completing the ensemble. “Go ahead, Trevor,” she said. “Conduct your piece.” Copies of the music had been set up near each musician, and were projected on an overhead viewer. “I’ve never felt so confused in my life,” thought Trevor. He turned around, hugged himself tightly, shook his arms and his hands, and then faced the makeshift orchestra. The police officer leaned against a wall. “One, two, three,” said Trevor as he raised his baton. The music sailed through the brightly lit room. As each musician played his instrument it seemed to Trevor that Elena was right here in the room, a dancer in a long white gown, twirling with glee and leaping across the expanse of the room. There she was now flirting with the unsmiling police officer. Her presence was everywhere, with her manic energy. The performers were intensely focused in this unique atonal composition, unlike anything they’d ever heard before, a bit of Stravinsky perhaps or Shoenberg, and certainly Jean Sibelius. Yet completely Trevor Sikes Cobham, the man who had returned from the dead. As the last sobbing chords were heard, the composer put down his baton, exhausted. He put out his two hands in front of him. “Arrest me,” he said. The officer came up to him and took off his hat. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “As long as you promise to pay your debt.” The composer nodded. “I promise,” he said with his British accent. Lila Rosen walked over to him. “What do you call this piece?” she asked the Englishman. He thought a moment. “CleveLANDia,” he said. “CleveLANDia.” They stared at one another. “Trevor,” she said, “you must make this your new home. We can use you as a teacher and your composing career is far from over.” He gave a deep bow and said he’d stop by the next day. “What I need now,” he said, yawning… “…is sleep,” finished Lila Rosen. HOW GREAT THOU ART We Christians do try to control the temptations that pass by like endless cars on the highway. But put us on a cruise ship and some of us do stray. I am one of them. The city on the water was called “Mother Katherine Drexel,” the only saint born in America. Prayer lectures aboard inspired us. We heard them by the famous and by novices. The jubilant Michaela Carnacci spoke about “Pace Yourself: Take time to reflect and pray.” Wisdom based on Ecclesiastes. The priest Vincent Della Guardia spoke about “Love is the Greatest of Them All.” Who isn’t familiar with these lines from One Corinthians. But hearing Father Vince speak them from a microphone while we rocked gently on the Mediterranean Sea was an experience not to be forgotten. If Brother Thomas Merton had written The Seven-Storey Mountain, our ship was the equivalent of ten stories high. There is always a Bill Wilson Room. Everyone knows what that means. Substance abuse has been known since the Bible Days. I saw men and women – even those wearing the cloth – enter a large room on the fourth deck. Passing by quickly, I kept my head down, so as not to cause any of them embarrassment. All the while, every deck played its own Christian music, including my all-time favorite “How Great Thou Art” sung, I believe, by Chris Rice. I was determined to make the most of this seven-day cruise. At night I would sit at a table by myself on the deck, close my eyes, and thank the Lord for my wonderful life. So my husband and I led parallel lives, rarely interested in one another, and rarely making love. Besides, at age forty, there were more important things. As the head of a landscape company – Gardens of Glory – I’d finally taken a vacation, let my fingernails grow and gotten a manicure aboard the ship. A sexy red! Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee How great Thou art, how great Thou art A woman belted out the song now. I stood up and leaned over the railing. The water churned while the stars smiled down upon the water, which glimmered with their reflections. Although I’d been alone on the deck I felt the presence of someone else. Not wanting to be disturbed, I sidled along the railing, embracing the calmness of the sea. Of course during our trip the Mediterranean had not always been kind. Once at our table where six of us sat, a great tsunami-like wave – but I exaggerate – had our plates rushing like falling dominoes across the table. We ended by laughing and praising God that “this was no Titanic.” Watching the stars, how did I know that the presence I still felt was a beautiful one, but that something strange was afoot. Could I stop it? I looked down at my red nails, then turned around and saw him standing at the deck a few feet away from me. He looked so familiar but I had never seen him before. He smiled at me and introduced himself as Karl with a “K.” I blinked. “You mean ‘K’ as in, uh, theologian, Karl Barth?” “The same,” he laughed. Prudence required we did not exchange surnames. We talked for about an hour at my table, while he fetched me more tea, plus some lemon biscuits. Karl’s marriage was much like mine. I could feel myself making faces as I said words like, “How we ever grew apart is a mystery to me” or “Like in the film ‘Citizen Kane’ he stopped looking at me while he read the morning paper.” I wanted to laugh but silent tears floated from my eyes. Karl reached over to wipe them away. As if on cue, we stood up from the table, and Karl put his arm around my waist. I led him to my state room. Medron had prepared it for bedtime. My lacy green nightgown lay on the bed. On the end table was a Ruth Rendell mystery I had checked out of the tiny library. We spent the night together. As we made love, I said, “I feel you are healing every part of my body and my soul.” “I am, my darling, I am,” said Karl, who had scant red hair. And kissed my fingertips. We avoided each other for the rest of the trip. Had we sinned? Would God forgive me? For some reason, I felt saved. On the last day, Karl found me drinking chamomile tea on the deck, while the sea spit up curls of foam. He sat down at my table and said he had something for me. Into my hand he pressed a watch with a huge friendly face surrounded by glittering rhinestones. I opened my mouth to speak but he said, “It’s something to remember me by.” Then he stood up and reached into the pocket of his shorts. “Don’t look at this until you get off the ship.” During my cab drive home, I reached into my pocketbook and read a love letter that made me blush and read Karl’s full name – Karl Jacoby – and his place of business. He was a literary agent in Manhattan. It was up to me if I wanted to get in touch and begin a new life. I thought about it for six months and finally made the call. YE OLD REVIVAL TENT Ever seen on the television how a mean father takes his son by the ear and marches him off to the bedroom to punish him? That was my dad. Just plain mean. Back then, we lived in the apartments. We were saving up to buy a house. I had a paper route and emptied all my tips onto the kitchen table and Dad put them in a Mr. Planter Peanuts piggy-bank and pretended he’d use it to buy a house. Mom told me, “It’s his drinking money, Scottie, but don’t you let on. You don’t want another beating, do you?” Mom worked at the drugstore in town. I used to go visit her after school. It was huge, filled with magazines and comic books, and a soda fountain where Mom made me anything I wanted. I can still taste those root-beer floats, which I ate with a long spoon and drank through a green plastic straw. Mayor Celano came in one time and sat next to me at the counter. “See these hands, boy,” he said. “These hands can do anything. I can sign bills into laws, I can give permission for car shows every September, and I can even swim at the Hatboro “Y” with these here hands. “Show me yours, boy.” I looked at the mayor. He swiveled on his seat and had kind blue eyes. I stuck out the palms of my hands and stared at them. “You can tell a lot about a man by his hands, Scottie,” he said, staring down at hands half the size of his own. “Good hands, boy,” said the mayor. “You will go far in life. What are you, nine now?” “Ten, sir,” I said. “Well, Mayor Celano certifies that you’ll amount to something.” After finishing his ice cream, the mayor got off his stool and picked up his brief case. “Lillian!” he called to my mother. “Got something to post on your window.” He pulled out a poster, not very large, but large enough to catch our eye. “Norman Vincent Peale and The Power of Positive Thinking Coming Soon!” My mom laughed. “He’s coming here? To our tiny town of Hatboro, Pennsylvania?” “You betcha,” said the mayor. “Post it on your window. But if you go, get there early.” I supposed I wanted to go. Mrs. Becker, our teacher, spoke about it in class. “Norman Vincent Peale is a great preacher,” she told us. “Never miss an opportunity to be in the presence of greatness!” That night I lay in bed reading an Archie comic book when my dad barged in. “Who gave you permission to read a comic book?” he said, looming over me. His face was red and so was his nose. Drops of spit came out of his mouth. I wasn’t afraid of him. I just hated him. “Hey, Dad,” I said, quickly changing the subject. “Norman Vincent Peale is coming to town. He’ll be in a white tent at the end of town. Dad snorted. “And I suppose our little angel Scottie is going to see him.” I nodded and stuck my nose back into the comic book. “Not if I have anything to do with it,” he said. “You’re grounded.” When five o’clock came ‘round the night of the revival meeting, Dad came home early from his job as a cook so he could make sure I didn’t leave the apartment. “Chef Boyardee!” called mom from the kitchen. “We need to eat quickly so we can get to the meeting by seven.” The little raviolis with pieces of meat were my all-time favorite. Even better than pizza. “Scottie, you’re picking at your food. What’s the matter?” asked Mom. “Nothing,” I said, and went into my room and closed the door. Dad pushed a chair over by my door and sat on it so I couldn’t come out. Shaking my head, I looked out the window onto the parking lot of our apartment building. Without even thinking, I pushed up the window and removed the screen. In fire drills at school, we learned to hang out the window, not to jump. I landed on my feet and took off at a run. In twenty minutes, I saw a long line of cars parked on York Road, the setting sun glancing off their roofs. The white tent looked so still and perfect off in the distance. The mayor and Mrs. Becker would be proud of me and so would Mom. Dad would whip my butt raw. Whole families were filing into the tent. Man, it was hot in there. I sat in an aisle seat right in the front. To thunderous applause, a tiny man in a tight blue suit strode up to the podium. His balding head shone with light. He began to speak. “Stand up to an obstacle. Just stand up to it, that's all, and don't give way under it, and it will finally break. You will break it. Something has to break, and it won't be you, it will be the obstacle,” said the preacher. I outright laughed when he said that. And saw Dad come into the tent. “Young man,” called the preacher to my father. “Step up here and pray with me.” Dad looked at me from the podium. “That’s my fine son, Scottie,” he said into the microphone as he smiled at me and bowed his head. What a liar, I thought. At home, Dad said to Mom, “Something came over me tonight, sweetheart. I’m gonna start going to AA again.” I closed the door of my room and looked out the window. The stars were out in full force and one lone airplane blinked its way across the sky. “Mr. Norman Vincent Peale,” I whispered to the brightest star I could find. “Please help my daddy. He’s a good man. He just don’t know when to quit.” DARLENE, COME BACK Her name is Darlene. It has been five years now. She came regularly to our writers’ group, held at a Starbucks, with its divine smell of coffee as soon as you walked in. Amid the buzzing of coffee machines, the six of us discussed our work, marking up each copy of a short story or poem to show the parts we liked or that needed work. Darlene wrote odd short stories in the manner of Eudora Welty or Flannery O’Connor. One day a Flannery O’Connor story wove itself into Darlene’s life. She and I had been phone pals for weeks. I was so happy to have met this brilliant woman whose cork-screw blond curls framed her thin face and dark eyes. My heart thrilled when I saw her name on my Caller ID. “William Adams,” the name of her husband. She was sobbing when I picked up the phone. I could barely understand her. “Kitty, you know a lot of people,” she blubbered. “I wouldn’t trouble you but I need your help.” “Sure,” I said. “Slow down. Relax. Tell me what’s wrong.” “Peter, you know, he’s my son, my only child, and he’d been having headaches.” She paused and I could hear her body heaving. “We thought it was nothing.” She paused again. “Kitty, it’s a freakin’ malignant brain tumor. Can you believe this shit?” No, I couldn’t. We were both stunned. I had many friends but this was the worst thing I’d ever heard of. “I can refer you to a good,” I hesitated – “uh, oncologist” and gave her the one my sister used for skin cancer. “We’ve got one already,” she said. “I can use your guy if I need him as a back-up.” “Listen,” I suggested. “Why don’t you attend our next writers’ group. It’s this Saturday. You need to be distracted.” She and I arrived early at the coffee shop and sat at a large table in the back, near a huge window, where cars ambled through the drive-through. She sipped on her tea, while I blew on my decaf. With her voice breaking, she said, “He finally found the perfect girl. They’re engaged. I’ll never have grandchildren.” With that, she began to sob uncontrollably. I put my hand on her wobbly arm and began to plan. From her wallet, she extracted a photo of Peter. He was a handsome young man of forty-two with a mound of Apollo-like golden curls, like his mom’s. He was an emergency room nurse at Abington Hospital right up the street. When I saw those curls I thought, “He’ll lose them when he gets chemo and radiation.” And then I spoke my mind, my stunner, my whopper. As I spoke, I was unaware as I am now that it would be either the best thing I ever said or the worst. With my hands folded on the table, I began to talk, enunciating every word. Told her that Peter should impregnate his girlfriend now, or have his sperm frozen. I don’t mind telling you that I still think it’s a great idea. She said nothing, but she never came back to the writing group. Her calls ceased. I was devastated to lose her. A woman, Emily, who lives down the street from me, is a young ER nurse at the hospital. One day she was walking her dog past my house. “Emily,” I said. “Whatever happened to that nurse Peter?” “Oh, he died about a year ago,” she said matter of factly. “It was one of those tumors” – and she used a scientific name – something “blastoma” – that keeps growing back. You can only get so much radiation and chemo for it.” “Dead?” I said. “He’s actually dead?” “Yes,” she said, “nice guy. Too young to die,” and waved goodbye to me. Numb, I went into my upstairs office and found a letter Darlene had typed to me five years earlier that I’d pinned to my bulletin board. “Kitty,” it read. “So loved your story ‘The Last Lawn Party’ with its richly developed characters.’” My ego soared. I unpinned it from the bulletin board and fairly hugged it to my chest. Then I emailed her, spending ten minutes crafting the note. “Please return to our group, Darlene. We all miss you like crazy.” It was me that missed her like crazy. There’s always one particular email we await that would cause unaccustomed bliss. It never came. Darlene is lost to me, like the evening star fading into morning. THE SILVER TRAILER ON THE NEXT STREET Was it a phantom? A ghost? A dream? I know what I saw and no matter what, I was going to see it again. It was sitting plum in the middle of Barrington Road, shiny as a newly minted dime. I drove by real slow, there’s always someone behind you even on these back streets, so I put on my flashers, and stared as if I were seeing a spacecraft landed from the depths of space. One view was all I needed. Ever seen something like that? Never to be seen again. Like a homer by Ryan Howard at the Phillies’ game or an eclipse of the sun. I remember my late father saying to me how he admired Nixon’s daughter, Tricia, who wanted to be married in the Rose Garden. Rain thundered down, but she insisted it would soon stop. And it did. Well, Daddy isn’t with us anymore but I know he’d be proud of his now forty-year-old daughter, determined to discover the mystery of what I learned, via the Internet, was an Airstream Trailer. You see, when I first drove by, I heard noises inside. And no, it was not my imagination. I’d lie in bed – I lived with my mom on the next street – in a small yellow bungalow – and went over in my mind what the noises sounded like. As the director of Pennypack Nursing Home, I would idly drive down Barrington, hoping to catch another glimpse. A month later, I did. Parking my Toyota Camry behind the trailer, I smoothed down my skirt – it was August and everything stuck to you – and fairly ran out of my car, as if the trailer would fly away again. A little kid came running out of his driveway. “Ya like that?” he asked. I nodded my head of bouncing red curls as I circled the trailer on foot taking pictures with my iPhone. “It’s not against the law,” I thought. “What if they called the cops. Oh shut up, Bonnie,” I told myself. “What’s your name,” I asked the frisky little kid. “Sammy,” he said, “and I know where they live.” He pointed to their house, blue and white, with pots of geraniums and marigolds on the front porch. “Sammy, thank you so much,” I said, telling him I’d return and talk to them. “Mr. and Mrs. Akyal,” he said. “Akyal?” I asked. “Yeah, they came from Turkey over the ocean.” “Wow, you’re a pretty smart guy,” I said, reaching into my pocket and giving him a couple of peppermints that I’d give some of the residents at the nursing home. “Ask your parents if you can eat these,” I said, mumbling under my breath, otherwise they’ll think I’m a pedophile. As I zoomed off toward work, I wondered at my great attraction to the trailer. Why was it calling me? Was there anything in my childhood that it reminded me of? No trailers back home on Glenmore Road in Shaker Heights, Ohio. Once parked on our street was a very long Jaguar sedan, maroon, with that lunging beast on the top. I fondled it a moment, hoping no one saw me. Our nursing home had a lovely green and white bus where we brought our residents on shopping trips or to the movies. I had often driven the bus when Jimmy the driver’s arthritis was bothering him. The residents loved going places, like excited kindergartners. I had two weeks of vacation. There was a mystery about that Airstream trailer and I was going to solve it. Often I use Daddy as my lodestar. We have imaginary conversations. “Mom,” I said from our three-bedroom yellow house. Finished with her gardening and cooking duties, she was in bed and as usual still wasn’t asleep at three in the morning. The remote control had slipped from her hand as Martha Stewart was making pumpkin chiffon pie. By Mom’s face I knew she would make it come Thanksgiving. “I’m going out now. Don’t worry about me.” “In the dead of night, Bonnie?” she asked. “Of course I’m going to worry.” She paused. I knew what she was going to say. “What would Daddy think?” I kissed her soft cheek and smoothed down the patchwork quilt she had made from Daddy’s ties and other scraps of material. It’ll be mine, I thought when she passes. I hated myself for thinking that. Can one control the mind? Or their need to solve a mystery? The light August breeze rustled my hair as I walked down our dark street toward Barrington. Sure, I was dressed in dark clothes like a thief. Dark jeans and jersey, my keys from home and the nursing home, silenced in my pocket. The love calls of the late-night cicadas and crickets accompanied me as I walked toward the trailer. The light of the half moon shone on it. A side door was open. I walked over and peeked inside. Sammy was inside, fast asleep. Three young women were inside with him. None of them saw me. The women looked foreign. Turks? Like the Aykals? One of them, I noticed, had rubber tubing around her upper arm, as if she were a drug addict. Heroin? There was a heroin epidemic here in Pennsylvania. It was easy to get and cheap. But what could be going on? Suddenly my head began to spin. The word “human trafficking” popped into my mind. Human trafficking, right here in the neighborhood. Who would believe me? They’d be gone, I was sure, by the time I reported it. The phantom ghost of the Airstream would fly away. “Dad,” I said. “Tell me what to do.” With quick feet, I walked away, then trotted around the corner to home. I unlocked the front door – “That you, Bon?” “Yeah, I’ll be right back.” My blue iPhone sat on the red couch. I grabbed it and raced outside, back to Barrington Road. “Please, please, please,” I said to myself. “Be there!” The Airstream was gone! But Sammy had told me where they kept it. Up the long driveway I walked and entered what looked to be a barn. “Help me Daddy,” I whispered, as I attempted to gain entry into the garage. The door was locked. Now I was really going to get in trouble. Taking the keys from my pocket, I twisted and twisted the lock but nothing moved. Sherlock Holmes I was not. Finally, I knocked loudly, cocking my head to hear who was inside the trailer. The garage door opened. Sammy’s head popped out. “What are you doing here?” he said when he saw me. Quickly I got my iPhone out and took pictures of him and the three women, who were nodding on and off. “I’m in charge here,” he said. “I’m the brains of this operation.” He grabbed a heroin needle and stuck me in my forearm. How long would it take to work and what the hell should I do? Davisville Road was just up the street, the main road. I ran toward it, Sammy following me, the little bastard. The Rio Olympics had just been broadcast on television. I pictured myself as the fastest female runner in the world – Elaine Thompson of Jamaica. I ran like a gazelle, never looking behind me. On and on I ran down Barrington and then onto Davisville Road. At three in the morning there was little traffic but I stood in the center of the road waiting, just waiting, for a car to pass by. It was just a few seconds that seemed like ten minutes before the first car came by. I held up my arms high over my head to stop them. The blue SUV screeched to a halt. Sammy was right behind me. “She’s crazy,” he said when they opened their front door. “She’s mental and needs to go to the hospital,” he lied. “Please,” I begged them. “He’s a liar. Can you drive me to the police station?” A young couple sat in the car. “Why don’t you both get in and we’ll see what the police have to say.” Thank goodness. I opened the back door and got in, my head starting to spin. Never in my life had I used heroin or even marijuana for that matter. They drove to the police station. As my mind began to relax, I began to feel, well, euphoric. I had no control over my feelings. Sammy was nowhere to be found. But I had my camera and held it tightly in my hand. The couple accompanied me to the police station. We walked up the steps to the building with columns like the Parthenon in Athens, at least that’s what it looked like to me, and they rang the bell. A police woman opened the door in her navy-blue uniform and motioned for us to come inside. She took us into what appeared to be a conference room and asked us to sit down. The chairs were so comfortable I felt like the Almighty himself was cradling me into his loving arms. It was terribly hard to get the words out. Human trafficking. Airstream Trailer. Sammy in charge. I handed her my iPhone. “Here’s the, uh, proof you’ll need.” Part of my brain was proud of myself but mostly I was simply nodding on and off. “We were following the case,” said Officer Andrea Copeland. “You knew?” I asked. “Yes, we’ve known for seven months but weren’t ready yet to make our case.” I laughed and said, “I’m high on heroin. What’s gonna happen to me?” “Well,” she said. “We can take you to the hospital until you come down….” “Please, no,” I said. “My mom is waiting for me at home. She’s a worrier and will wonder what’s happened to me.” The officer thanked the married couple and told me to get in her car. “We don’t know how long your ‘high’ will last,” she said, “but you can sleep it off at home in the comfort of your bed.” She drove to the house where Mom’s light was on upstairs. Holding my arm, the officer guided me into the house. “That you, Dear?” called Mom. “Yep!” The officer walked me up to Mom’s bedroom. “Your daughter has had quite an adventure,” said Officer Copeland. She explained to Mom’s shock that I was high on heroin and that I needed to be watched to make sure my breathing wasn’t affected as I came down. “Just call us at 9-1-1 should anything suspicious happen,” she said. I crawled in bed with Mom in my black thief’s clothes and slept better than I ever had. In the morning Mom brought me black coffee with a buttered English muffin, lightly toasted. The thrill was mostly gone. Truthfully? It was the best feeling I’d ever had in my life. Better than being director of a nursing home, better than walking in the deep dark woods of Pennypack nature center, better even than sex. Would I do it again? You bet I would! In a parallel universe. FLAB
It was the sixth time in a month she had fallen. Even her sixty-year-old mother didn’t fall. The worst thing about falling is that everyone at the police station had watched her plummet onto the cold tile floor. And, of course, with her girth, she couldn’t get up. “I’ve fallen and can’t get up,” she would think, mimicking that horrid TV commercial. Barbara Lynn Ionetti was an award-winning cop. She had her own office at the Willoughby Police Station in suburban Philadelphia. A sign on her door read, “Honesty, Authority, Compassion.” Just the sound of her stentorian voice could stop a brawl in a bar – “Romeo’s” in particular – or a man, such as Billy Green, beating on his wife again – or, armed with Foster, the drug-sniffing German Shepherd – had arrested a “cartel” of drug traffickers, a maneuver she and her team had carefully planned. When she got home to her apartment, off came the cumbersome blue suit and its attachments: the Glock, handcuffs, the shiny cap rimmed with sweat and straight to the living room sofa they went, ready for duty the next day. She never ate at work. But at home, she brought out two Miller High Lifes – what respectable cop didn’t drink a beer or two? – a loaf of whole wheat bread, Velveeta cheese, Hellmann’s mayo and spicy mustard. From the top of her fridge she grabbed a box of Tastykake Krimpets. As she prepared dinner, she turned on the television. “Botched” was a favorite show. Plastic surgeons worked on repairing mistakes other physicians had made. As she bit into her sandwich, she was flabbergasted as the two surgeons did breast reduction work on a former Playboy bunny whose breasts, at the suggestion of Hugh Hefner, were as enormous as miniature dachshunds. She slowly sipped her beer. When she was good and full, she checked the phone calls on her land line. Her mom had called, saying, “Hope my little girl had a good day catching bad guys.” And the dreaded phone call had arrived. “Ms. Ionetti,” said the assistant for Doctor Rosenberg, “we’re looking forward to seeing you this Thursday to discuss the possibility of bariatric surgery at Abington Hospital.” This was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, even worse than her divorce to the so-called great love of her life, a fellow cop, Lieutenant Michael Simms, who, simply could not stand her eating habits. He let her have their condo at Twin Brooks. She knew he felt sorry for her, something she couldn’t abide. “Barb,” he would say. “You have a problem and you’ve gotta face it! Your eating habits suck! It’s called ‘emotional eating.’ She would grimace and grit her teeth. “In case you don’t know, every police district has their own psychotherapist.” “I’ll see the therapist,” said Barbara. “I promise I will.” She knew she never would. Therapy was for really impaired individuals like soldiers returning from war, with their post-traumatic stress disorder. Just as she was going into her bedroom to finally sleep, the Willoughby Police station was called on a 9-1-1 by the wife of a traumatized vet. This was not the first time they had been there. Barbara called her partners while in her car as they sped down to Red Barn Road, where Stephen Collins, a decorated veteran from the Iraq and Afghan wars, was holding his wife hostage at knife-point. Instead of arriving in their black-and-white Ford SUVs, they took their own cars, and surrounded the house. “They’re back here in the kitchen,” said Kelly Evans into her iPhone. She was a pretty woman with blonde hair, a husband and two children. And a beautiful figure. It should be easy, thought Barbara, as long as we don’t blow it. The entire Willoughby police staff had been trained in entering a private home and finding the perpetrator. At all costs, they wanted to keep everyone alive. The back door of the house was locked. Barbara knocked loudly on the back door. She could see the married couple in the kitchen. “Mr. Collins? Mrs. Collins?” she called. When there was no answer, she motioned to Alex. “Break down the door.” With his large booted foot, he kicked open the back door. Stephen, who held a knife against his wife’s neck, looked surprised. “Oh, c’mon, Steve,” said Barbara. “What would your platoon say if they saw you now. What were those awards you won?” He looked at Barbara. “My wife was trying to hurt me,” he said in a firm voice. “She was one of those Taliban wives and told me she’d kill me.” “Did she, now?” He nodded and looked at his trembling wife. “Why don’t we all sit at the kitchen table and talk about it. First, though, you’ll need to give me the knife.” She walked toward him with her hand outstretched. Obediently, he placed it into her hand, handle-first, a long steak knife with serrated edges. She pointed toward the table and the three of them sat down. Stephen put his head in his hands. “They’re gone,” he said. “The thoughts went back.” He tapped on his skull. “I’m so glad to hear that, Stephen,” said Barbara. “You won’t like to hear this, but you’ll spend the night at the police station” – meaning in a jail cell, which she didn’t say – “and then we’re going to get some help for you so this won’t happen again.” Collins was led out to one of the private cars and whisked away to the jail. His wife collapsed on the floor, crying hysterically. “It’s up to you, Ma’am, if you want to continue living with him. Treatment is available but you never wanted him to go.” “I know, I know. I thought he and I were getting somewhere.” “You can’t handle it alone, Mrs. Collins. Call us tomorrow and we’ll discuss rehab facilities in the area.” Barbara fell into bed that night, with only her panties on. They were a large size men’s boxers. Blue checkered. She lay exhausted on the king-sized bed where she and Michael had slept. Her bedside table had a selection of crime thrillers she loved to read: John Sandford’s “Golden Prey,” Lee Child’s newest Jack Reacher novel, “Night School” and a debut novelist whose territory was Minneapolis: Allen Eskens, “The Life we Bury.” She only had one more chapter in the “The Life We Bury.” Outside the window in her second-story bedroom, the quarter moon cast an eerie glow, in sync with the domestic violence. As was her habit, she began to massage her belly, her huge breasts and arms, which her husband said were the size of pork chops. It actually felt good and soothed her from the tensions of the day. Her skin was ivory white and shone in the moonlight. Caressing it felt like baking a bread. Her mom was an expert baker. She also controlled the portions she would allow her daughter to eat. Barbara thought of baking her own, but knew she didn’t have the time. She did, however, buy Mrs. Smith’s frozen peach pie with a latticed crust. She’d polish off the entire thing while watching the program “Fear Factor.” And wondered if she’d eat a live snake for ten thousand bucks? Why not? She readied herself for her appointment with Doctor Rosenberg. She fried an egg for breakfast and toasted an English muffin. She took out a Miller’s High Life and drank half a can for her nerves. Her red VW Jetta was parked just outside the condo. In one of the cupholders, she had a tin box of peppermint Altoids and began chewing them on the way to Abington Hospital. She parked in the parking garage and jotted down on her police pad, Level 10, space 6. As she entered the elevator with several other people, she became self-conscious. She was no longer Barbara Lynn Ionetti, the chief of police, but was a private citizen so overweight that people stopped and stared at her. Weight Watchers did no good, nor did diet plans like “Lorene’s Frozen Dinners,” guaranteed to help you lose weight or your money back. Not only was she falling but it was often difficult for her to breathe. Thankfully, when she opened the door to the doctor’s office, no one was there. How shaming it would be to see other well-endowed individuals. She sat down and pulled out a book her husband had given her years ago: The Complete Short Stories of John O’Hara. Talk about shame! The way these upper class people comported themselves! Drunks, marrying the wrong people, being kicked out of country clubs for embarrassing behavior. The only decent characters were their dogs. Doctor Rosenberg greeted her with a handshake and took her back into his office. He asked her to sit on a comfortable couch. He sat opposite her on a matching green upholstered chair. “You are indeed a candidate for bariatric surgery,” he told her. “I supposed as much,” said Barbara, as she pushed her dyed blonde hair behind her ears. “I’m going to explain the procedure to you. I know it might be scary but I’ve done over a thousand of these operations.” “Has anyone died during surgery?” “Not yet,” he laughed. He was around forty with thinning curly black hair. A portrait of his family sat on his desk behind him. His wife was slender, as were his two teenagers – a well-proportioned son and daughter. “We’ve got a new procedure we call ‘sleeve gastrectomy.’ The procedure removes a portion of your stomach—including the part that secretes your ‘hunger hormone’—in order to restrict the amount of food you can eat and make you feel less hungry.” The doctor looked over at Barbara who seemed not to be paying attention. “Mrs. Ionetti!” he said. “Sorry,” she said. “I was lost in my own thoughts.” “Understandable,” he said. “I’m going to show you a video of what to expect.” On a mahogany desk, a small flat-screen monitor began to project a video. A female surgeon explained the procedure, using phrases like, “Your Abington Hospital surgeon will remove the left side of your stomach (called the greater curvature) in order to decrease your stomach's overall size. This also involves the removal of your stomach's fundus—which is responsible for secreting the hormone that causes you to feel hungry (called ghrelin). So, you feel fuller both because your stomach is smaller and because of hormonal changes.” The doctor told Barbara to go home and think about the procedure. It would take about four hours, he said. She would stay in the hospital about three days. The surgery, she learned, would cost a mint. But that’s why the Willoughby police were very well insured. Just about all 52 members of the force sustained injuries on the job. This would be their first weight-loss surgery. And she was “the honored one.” Cripes! On April 25, the surgery was performed. When Barbara awoke, she felt mildly nauseous, which Doctor Rosenberg said was to be expected. He didn’t know she had watched a video where one Jennifer told her 53,000 viewers on YouTube what to expect. “You won’t be hungry for a few weeks. Your food addiction will still be there, so you’ve gotta work on it. You’ll feel horrible if you eat too much. Or if you eat too many sweets. You’ll get drunk faster. You’ll get heartburn and acid reflux. I keep Tums in my pocketbook. I started drinking soda again which stretched out my stomach like a helium balloon. Do not start drinking soda. It’s a terrible addiction. Counter it by going to the gym. “It does suck,” continued Jennifer, a beautiful young woman who wore a cross between her cleavage. “And pray,” she added. “Pray every day and I will pray for you.” Dozens of comments were posted under her video. Candace Jarvis wrote: I'm doing good. First month was VERY hard. Now that I can eat and have a lil more energy I'm doing alot better. I'm working out too.” Barbara Lynn stayed home and recuperated on the ground floor of the condo, which had its own lavatory. The shower was upstairs. The entire police force visited and every surface was covered by bouquets of fresh flowers. At first, she couldn’t wait to get back to the force. In her upstairs bedroom, she stared into the floor-length mirror and saw an absolutely stunning young woman. “Barbara Lynn,” said her mother, who visited every day, bringing her a small salad she made with cold-pressed olive oil. “You must take care of yourself. You’re back to being the daughter I gave birth to.” “I know, Mom. No way I’m going back to living with all that friggin flab. How did I ever allow that to happen?” She knew she could never go back to toting a revolver and hand cuffs. Had she actually been the police chief! It was in another life time. Just like she once had that name-calling husband. She tried her luck on Match.com and dated several men, whom she met at the Starbucks café at Barnes and Noble. She watched as heads turned as she entered. And why not? She was all of twenty-eight years old and could have children if she wished. In the glassed-in case she viewed all the tasty treats: croissants, chocolate covered doughnuts, and a marvelous looking chocolate layer cake with raspberry jelly in between. She caressed them with her eyes but had no desire to eat any of them. With the determination she used when she learned to be a sharp shooter, she willed herself to eat healthy. Religiously, she followed the diet plan. No need for Tums or for booze. Why ruin the gorgeous new body Doctor Rosenberg had given her. At her six-month post-op appointment, she and the doctor shook hands and Barbara said, “Guess what, Doctor Rosenberg?” “You’re no longer a cop,” he said. “You are one smart doctor!” she said. “And your new career will be?” “Still thinking on it,” she said. “You’ll be the first to know.” One day at the LA Fitness Gym, she was riding a stationery bike with great vigor and was watching a boring TV show. With the remote control she changed the channels and came upon “The Great British Bake-Off” with Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood. In gorgeous living color she watched the two of them bake a Black Forest Cake. In a Cuisinart Food Processor, they creamed butter and sugar, added eggs and then drizzled in chocolate that had been cooking in a double boiler. Her mind was made up as she neared the seventh mile on the bike. She would become a baker. An expert baker like that gorgeous Paul Hollywood with his steel-grey hair combed straight back. His wedding band shone on his ring finger. There were so many bakeries in the Willoughby neighborhood. She would learn to bake with the same enthusiasm as when she learned to be a cop. Who knows? Maybe she’d keep her police uniform and wear it on Halloween, as she served the young trick or treaters devils food cupcakes. Her life had meaning again. “Honesty. Authority. Compassion.” Rosa Lea is a translator living with her partner near Prague, Czech Republic, where she settled with her two daughters after growing up in South Africa. She has a BA in communication and sociology, enjoys nature, travelling, languages, learning about various cultures, and appreciates all things unconventional. Elephant Killers We’d been on the run in the African bush for two days, my daughter and I. She was barely breathing, her once sturdy legs now faltering. Her wound had dried, caked over with dust, but the flies still persisted. I’d been dragging and pushing her along since she witnessed it. That savagery. I had to get her far away from it all. But I too needed a rest by then, everything had become so hazy – my sight, even my instincts too. So we stopped to drink, down by the river. She wouldn’t take any water though. I tried to get her to eat, but she just lay there heaving, each exhale lifting red dust high into the air. I’d just stretched up to get the best fruit from a marula tree for her, when I heard it: a shuffle in the scrub behind me. I stumbled with fright... and... then that horror from two days before... it all suddenly came back to me again... ...our herd was drinking down by the big waterhole. The sun had just started warming the morning dew across the bushland, and my calf and I strolled over behind a lone swollen baobab to hide from the chilly winter breeze. As we began to fall asleep in the sun, dozens of loud shots ripped through the air around us. The humans! They rose up from everywhere – from behind the scrub, from ditches, even from the waterhole itself – firing rounds in all directions. Small babes blown away. Massive males falling instantly to ground, like puppets with strings cut! The blood plopped noisily as it hit our baobab. And it drizzled onto the waterhole like soft rain. My calf fell to the ground, but I pushed her along and we ran, hid just on time before a truck with more humans sped towards the waterhole. They pulled up at the nine bodies of my family - some still alive, I could hear. I could hear, and I could do nothing! More shots were fired, single shots. And then machines began screeching. I turned to my calf to edge her on. A stream of bright red was trickling thick down her back leg. They must have hit her too. But we had to run. I tucked my trunk under her and pushed. For two days we struggled along like this. And only when we reached the river this morning did we stop for rest. And that’s when I heard that shuffle in the scrub behind me... I thought it was the killers again. As I turned around to see, fear tore through my whole body - I heard that blood hit the trunk of the baobab again… But behind me was just a human tribeswoman. Alone, picking mopane worms from a tree. I couldn’t help it though...some instinct... I saw bright red again... When I stepped back, all the green had returned. The woman was lying on the ground - still, awkward. Bird call and cicada shrill took to the air again. I walked circles around her. I went away, I came back. But she still just lay there. Then something moved. Yes, she’s alive, she’s alive! But only the brown leaves beside her lifted, to settle again in the cold breeze. And I knew she would never move again. Then I saw it. She too had a little one! It must have slipped off with the blanket pouch on her back as she ran from me. It was still bundled up in the blanket, lying on the ground some distance away and it was crying – just like my calf cries! I raised the blanket gently with my trunk, it looked at me and stopped crying. It was a girl, I knew – she smelled just like my little one! Just a few tufts of hair on top, just like my calf’s. It gargled, saliva bubbling, just like my calf does when she’s frolicking about. And then the little bundle smiled. Smiled, in that chilled air. I lowered the blanket softly back over the little human, walked away and wondered what to do with her. Yes, I will leave her there - the tribespeople will hear her cries and come for her. I bundled up my little calf and shuffled her on, to the big acacia on the hill above the river. But tribespeople, farmers, and poachers are everywhere now. I know they will come for me – the ‘killer’ elephant now. So if anything happens to me, please save my calf at least. Over there, by the acacia, under the blanket. --- PATHS TAKEN The body of the missing marathon runner was finally found, three days after the Panama Jungle Run was called off. A fisherman had bumped into it, swollen and lodged among river rocks near Panama City. While the caimans had taken a toll on the body’s composition, part of a marathon number was still tied – now too tight – around the bloated chest area, and identification came quick: it was the missing businessman from Vancouver. The coroner suspected a heart attack, but unexplained circumstances remained and the deceased’s family wanted answers. They hired Hecate White, an external consultant from Toronto, where she teaches paranormal psychology. Hecate has a special ability – she is able to see paths of recent activity, trails of light that no one else sees. “... similar to photos of car lights at night,” she usually finds herself having to explain. “Only, I see them during the day too. I analyse these trails of light as movement, can tell a lot from them. But I have to be quick because they fade over time.” Hecate is twenty-seven and lives alone, again – the new tattoo on the side of her neck the cause of her most recent breakup four months ago. Instead of getting rid of her ‘ugly’ tattoo though, as her boyfriend then suggested, she now wears her black hair in a short bob, revealing it for all to see – people's reactions telling her all she needs to know about them. She has a slender build, today especially lost under the oversized outdoor wear she bought in a hurry when she heard of her first assignment in Central America. --- Hecate met Captain Felipe ‘Picador’ Perez at Hermosa Playa parking lot and on their way inland, past the mangroves and through the jungle to the river where the body was found, he’d explained the case to her. “... and if we had enough time, we’d solve it ourselves. Don’t know why they sent for help. Just because he’s – was – some rich guy ...,” the captain was saying as they struggled along a muddy patch on the path. Their path was a narrow animal passage just a few days ago, but had now turned into a wide macheted and trodden footpath, abuzz with human activity. The captain stopped talking when a line of indigenous trackers and investigators in white coats passed by silently on the way back from the river. They were looking down, but as the trackers passed by Hecate, each looked her in the eye and gave a slight nod. They know! They understand me. These folk live here, in these magical jungles, they understand! Thank God... she thought, and as she rounded a large banyan she stumbled when a howler monkey bellowed a haunting howl from the tree above her. The captain smiled, offering a hand. “You know, the first Spaniards here reacted the same way when they heard that – ran for their lives, back to their ships. You’ll have to get used to our jungle if you want to help us. It’s full of dangerous creatures, you know, and voodoo stuff, you know... hoooo...," he teased with hands casting an imaginary spell above her. “Uhm, I’ll be fine," Hecate snapped, and ignored his help. And you'd better keep an eye on yourself, Mr. Captain of the Universe. Whatever left that bright trail of light on the back of your shirt a minute ago… well, should be up your sleeve by now... As the captain yelled out and was hitting hard at his waist, shouting “Mierda!” Hecate shuddered and tried to make sense of the endless trails of light traversing the vast green. And she hoped none belonged to snakes too close by. Just stay away from me, wherever you are! As they neared the river, a group of wrens suddenly took flight and screeched a warning call. The jungle chatter fell silent. Birds and monkeys froze high in the trees, and all eyes stared at the two human dots far below. “So, that there's the marathon route, and there's the river. Now it’s time to show us what you’re made of. See his tracks anywhere?” asked the captain. “Our top tracker didn’t find anything here, the rains have washed away pretty much everything by now.” Hecate sighed. “Yes, here, I see his trail. He diverted from the marathon route about here, towards the river. This way, follow me...” Hecate did not notice the sunlight dancing on the river’s clear waters, she was now following the human-sized trail of light hanging faintly in the air along the open river bank. Then she stopped and looked up at a sandy embankment above her. It was lined with a wall of wild banana plants, with the tip of a large tree sticking out from behind them. The trail of light led directly through the bananas towards the tree. “I don’t understand… The light’s been meandering more or less to that tree up there behind the bananas, but there’s a later trail of thinner light straight from the tree into the river…,” Hecate muttered softly, “… he ran, straight from up there into the river. Why would he do that? Over these rough rocks?” “Well, let’s go up there and see,” said the captain. The human light hung low ahead of them. But so did many trails of smaller creatures… Hecate gulped, but decided to face her fears alone. “No, I’ll go there myself,” she said. Hecate took a breath and as she moved up the embankment, she noticed a smudged shoe print, now dry, in the sand. She remembered the captain said it had been raining lightly on the day of the marathon. Seems like he slipped here, but was adamant on going up there. Why? As Hecate made her way up, she winced at the small slitherings of light before her. She took a deep breath and moved loudly into the wall of bananas. “Yes, clapping loudly helps keep the creatures away,” shouted the captain, smiling. When no reply came, he offered: “You ok?… wait… I’ll go up there with you,” and he began to clamber up after her. “I’ll do this piece myself!” she snapped, and the captain decided it might just be better to stay right there and keep an eye on the river, should any further evidence come floating by. As Hecate was about to step into the open behind the wall of green, she saw it, still with bright light in tow – a small snake coiled up in a sunny patch on her path. She froze in mid-gait. And began to panic: Wonder how long I can stay up on one leg… But then the gush of adrenalin spoke: “Shoo!” she waved the snake away, “Buzz off!” To her surprise the snake buzzed off. When Hecate got to the tree, she began to notice too its fine details - the bright yellowy-green tint of the tree’s minute petals. The deep natural scars of its reddish bark. She could have sworn she heard mice squeak too, and that beetle over there – did she just hear it rubbing its back legs together? She felt strangely courageous, fears forgotten. A sickening smell then found its way up her nose. What the ...? Ammonia? A dead animal? Then she saw it. And it began to make sense... Hecate walked back to the captain, immersed in thought. “Got it. I know why he left the route. Poor fella just needed to relieve himself! Behind the tree up there, that’s all.” The captain stared at her. “But still,” she murmured to herself, “something happened after that. Why that beeline for the river…?” If something chased him, I'd see traces of its light. If he just wanted to take a dip in the river he’d simply go back down the same path – much easier than beelining down over that rock and shrubbery. Thinking hard, she was just about to take a bite of a small apple she picked off the tree. “What you doin…what’s that? ... don’t!” shouted the captain, and he knocked it from her mouth. “Don’t you know the basic rule of the jungle? Don’t eat anything you don’t know! You know how many poisonous things we have growing here!” Hecate watched the apple tumbling down and plop into the river. Seemed normal to me... “Now, what were you saying…,” the captain continued on anxiously, “…why would he run to the river, hmm....” But Hecate was no longer listening, her tongue was beginning to burn. She took a swig of water from her bottle and, when the captain wasn’t looking, she swirled it around roughly in her mouth and spat it out. After three rinses, the burning finally began to subside. Okay, won’t be doing that again… “So… any ‘bright’ ideas?” the captain teased. “Need to get back to the hotel now, need to think...,” Hecate trailed off, and began to take down some notes. She didn’t tell the captain that the runner’s trail of light was now beginning to fade fast. Got to figure this out soon. Then this captain can finally shut up too. It was a race against time, and against her patience too. Hecate woke up from a nightmare the next morning, shouting “Run! Run!” She sat up in her hotel bed, trying to calm her thoughts. She realised from her dream of a body rising from the river, turning into a snake and chasing her that things would not move on if she didn’t face her own fears. Nightmares, snakes, that jerk. Must get over it, have a job to do... And then Hecate realised her tongue was still slightly swollen. What kind of apple was that anyway…? She opened up her laptop and did a quick search. Hecate came running to the breakfast terrace downstairs, where the captain was having coffee while waiting for her. “Got it! All makes sense now! It’s a Manchineel! A Man-chi-neel!” “Wha…?” the captain choked on his coffee. “That would explain it all!” she said. “What? Calm down, what are you talking about?” the captain said. “It’s a tree, you know? The most poisonous tree...” “I know what a Manchineel is,” he said, “...the little apple of death. So?” Hecate continued: “So he went behind the tree to do his business. And it was raining that day, right? And you just don’t sit under a Manchineel when it’s raining! Its poisonous sap comes down with the rain and burns the skin …” “And if he also took a few bites of the fruit ...” continued the captain, “he’d run off in pain, like a maniac, straight into the river to try get rid of it – skin burning, throat on fire, constricting... Most people survive nowadays if they get help quick, but if there’s no help and you go into major shock, you can even get a... a heart attack!” Captain Felipe called his office: “Tell the coroner to check for Manchineel poisoning.” “So it was an apple of death you were just about to eat…” muttered the captain, sort of to himself, shaking his head. She could’ve died too, am such an idiot... Hecate and the captain then sat in silence on the terrace, looking out at the ocean below. “Well done. You did a good job... And I’m sorry for teasing you like that, Hecate,” the captain addressed her by her name for the first time. “It’s okay, Captain. We all have our fears. I have my snakes, you the unknown... But once we face them, it’s not so bad, actually. Sometimes the most difficult path is the right path to take.” The captain nodded. “Nice tattoo,” he then said. “You like it?” “I do. It's strange, magical, but I like it.” “It's Hecate, the goddess of magic. My Greek grandmother named me after her. As if she somehow knew...” “About your powers?” “Not only. Hecate is also the goddess of crossroads. And if you think about it, everything depends on the paths we decide to take. We’re always at some crossroad or another. Look at the crossroads faced by the runner, literally. The paths criss-crossing across the jungle. Mine, yours...” They sat quietly, nodding. “And she's goddess of the underworld too...” added Hecate slyly. - - - |