DEATHTRAP |
Brent Sisson is a retired social worker who lives in a log home in the wilds of North Idaho with his family, fifty miles south of the Canadian border. He enjoys walks in the woods where he contemplates the wee people in every nook and cranny along Garfield Bay creek, an inspiration for his Teague story. |
Teague McGuinness and the Faerie Kingdom
1
~ The Emerald Isle ~
During the reign of faeries long, long ago 1830
The McGuinness farm, rugged and hardy as the Irish soul, lay several miles inland from the southern shore of Ireland’s wind-tossed coast and the distant, bustling village of Waterford. Nestled in rolling pastural slopes in well-drained soil, the domicile of Bryan and Enya McGuinness is a one-story stone
farmhouse with a thatched roof. A single window looks upon the dirt road passing in front and a small detached workshop containing a simple hearth for heat augments the house.
The climate, warmer and moist then anywhere else on the Emerald Isle, enhances fertility for growing pasture and crops. A stream flows year round, an excellent source for irrigation. Conditions are well disposed to raise sheep that produce wool and mutton, a reliable source of income. Mutton serves as a prime ingredient for the cherished Irish stew, and milk from the ewe turns into knockalara, a tasty cheese. Additionally, the McGuinness family tends the largest grove of fruit trees in the county.
The rich, splendid Irish soil rewards year after year. The harmony between sheep and shepherd and fruit and farmer favors country bliss. Apples, admired for their quality and taste, hold a mystical reverence in Ireland, a common knowledge born of folklore and Celtic stories passed from one generation to the next.
Bryan McGuinness lay sound asleep, wrapped spoon-like around his wife. Enya felt a subtle yet persistent thumping sensation and sat up. She swept her long blonde hair from her eyes and over her left shoulder. Feeling her movement, Bryan mumbled, “Are ye beginning your labor?” Enya leaned over and kissed his cheek and guided his hand to her full, rounded abdomen.
“There!” she said, grinning, “Do ye feel him kick?” Bryan marveled at the new life asserting itself. “He’s a strong little tyke! He wants out, luv.”
Bryan didn’t question how Enya knew the gender of their baby. She has the second sight. He remembered finding her one evening sitting alone, her breathing shallow, her face serene, her eyes fixed on nothing that he could see other than the distant wall. Words spilled from her lips, her voice strange, a sweet and lilting language that he couldn’t understand. When the spell ended, Enya took a deep breath and realized her husband’s presence. In love with this handsome, vigorous man with a cleft chin, she smiled.
“What just happened?” Bryan asked.
“I sought guidance from the faerie realm. The goddess of birthing called to me.“ “Ye spoke a language I didn’t comprehend.”
“Aye, it is the voice of a goddess speaking the language of the faerie kindred. They have given me the gift of interpretation. She has not let me see her, not yet, but she’s real. I sometimes repeat out loud
what she says in the beautiful faerie language and interpret it to my understanding. That’s what you overheard.”
“What did ye learn from her?”
“Our child will be healthy. The goddess of birthing said we must call our baby Teague, for the name means ‘poet’ in the ancient Celtic language of Ireland. He has the blood of poets in his veins.”
Aye, ’tis true, Bryan thought, Enya’s father is a poet, and she is a gifted poet in her own right.” “Teague it is then, luv.”
Indeed, through what would become a ritual, Enya instilled within her newborn son poems and stories about a magical kingdom of faeries, so interesting that the little lad never doubted their existence. Bryan, talented as well, exhibits a natural ability to draw and paint, creating captivating watercolor scenes of nature and wildlife. His artistic endeavor is a matter of the heart and spirit, an innate reflex he could not and will not deny. In fact, poetry and painting and tales of the little people are an everyday emphasis in the McGuinness home, but insufficient for making a living. Poverty is widespread on the Emerald Isle. So much so that the arts have few benefactors.
***
Bryan’s partitioned workshop building contains a room where farm implements, tools and supplies are stored. A separate outside entry admits to a modest, but well-stocked art studio containing easels and an assortment of paint colors and brushes. Solvents or harsh chemicals are locked in an upper cabinet, not accessible to an inquisitive child. The ventilated room has shuttered windows that will open to natural light.
Bryan determined to teach his boy to draw and paint. In the studio, he prepared a lowered easel and a small chair just for Teague and set out brushes and paints. A willing pupil, Teague loved the special attention from his da and wore a perpetual, serious demeanor on his brow as he followed the tasks set out for him.
“Ye be an artist!” Bryan declared to the beaming boy, as the child lay down ragged color strokes. “Look at ye!” It was a beginning, an auspicious one, and little Teague gained proficiency day by day. He would one day know that painting is his true calling. He devoured every morsel of the craft like a starving vagabond yearning to be fed.
****
farmhouse with a thatched roof. A single window looks upon the dirt road passing in front and a small detached workshop containing a simple hearth for heat augments the house.
The climate, warmer and moist then anywhere else on the Emerald Isle, enhances fertility for growing pasture and crops. A stream flows year round, an excellent source for irrigation. Conditions are well disposed to raise sheep that produce wool and mutton, a reliable source of income. Mutton serves as a prime ingredient for the cherished Irish stew, and milk from the ewe turns into knockalara, a tasty cheese. Additionally, the McGuinness family tends the largest grove of fruit trees in the county.
The rich, splendid Irish soil rewards year after year. The harmony between sheep and shepherd and fruit and farmer favors country bliss. Apples, admired for their quality and taste, hold a mystical reverence in Ireland, a common knowledge born of folklore and Celtic stories passed from one generation to the next.
Bryan McGuinness lay sound asleep, wrapped spoon-like around his wife. Enya felt a subtle yet persistent thumping sensation and sat up. She swept her long blonde hair from her eyes and over her left shoulder. Feeling her movement, Bryan mumbled, “Are ye beginning your labor?” Enya leaned over and kissed his cheek and guided his hand to her full, rounded abdomen.
“There!” she said, grinning, “Do ye feel him kick?” Bryan marveled at the new life asserting itself. “He’s a strong little tyke! He wants out, luv.”
Bryan didn’t question how Enya knew the gender of their baby. She has the second sight. He remembered finding her one evening sitting alone, her breathing shallow, her face serene, her eyes fixed on nothing that he could see other than the distant wall. Words spilled from her lips, her voice strange, a sweet and lilting language that he couldn’t understand. When the spell ended, Enya took a deep breath and realized her husband’s presence. In love with this handsome, vigorous man with a cleft chin, she smiled.
“What just happened?” Bryan asked.
“I sought guidance from the faerie realm. The goddess of birthing called to me.“ “Ye spoke a language I didn’t comprehend.”
“Aye, it is the voice of a goddess speaking the language of the faerie kindred. They have given me the gift of interpretation. She has not let me see her, not yet, but she’s real. I sometimes repeat out loud
what she says in the beautiful faerie language and interpret it to my understanding. That’s what you overheard.”
“What did ye learn from her?”
“Our child will be healthy. The goddess of birthing said we must call our baby Teague, for the name means ‘poet’ in the ancient Celtic language of Ireland. He has the blood of poets in his veins.”
Aye, ’tis true, Bryan thought, Enya’s father is a poet, and she is a gifted poet in her own right.” “Teague it is then, luv.”
Indeed, through what would become a ritual, Enya instilled within her newborn son poems and stories about a magical kingdom of faeries, so interesting that the little lad never doubted their existence. Bryan, talented as well, exhibits a natural ability to draw and paint, creating captivating watercolor scenes of nature and wildlife. His artistic endeavor is a matter of the heart and spirit, an innate reflex he could not and will not deny. In fact, poetry and painting and tales of the little people are an everyday emphasis in the McGuinness home, but insufficient for making a living. Poverty is widespread on the Emerald Isle. So much so that the arts have few benefactors.
***
Bryan’s partitioned workshop building contains a room where farm implements, tools and supplies are stored. A separate outside entry admits to a modest, but well-stocked art studio containing easels and an assortment of paint colors and brushes. Solvents or harsh chemicals are locked in an upper cabinet, not accessible to an inquisitive child. The ventilated room has shuttered windows that will open to natural light.
Bryan determined to teach his boy to draw and paint. In the studio, he prepared a lowered easel and a small chair just for Teague and set out brushes and paints. A willing pupil, Teague loved the special attention from his da and wore a perpetual, serious demeanor on his brow as he followed the tasks set out for him.
“Ye be an artist!” Bryan declared to the beaming boy, as the child lay down ragged color strokes. “Look at ye!” It was a beginning, an auspicious one, and little Teague gained proficiency day by day. He would one day know that painting is his true calling. He devoured every morsel of the craft like a starving vagabond yearning to be fed.
****
1835
After an exciting day watching his da shear sheep as they bleated and helping his mum gather wool for bundling, an exhausted five-year-old Teague wriggled onto his mother’s lap in the evening before a flickering hearth fire. “Be still!” Enya said, rocking him tenderly. “Listen with your heart, the faeries are talking, can ye hear their poem”:
A mother’s son, beloved and dear
Unlocks secrets free from fear.
Engaging faeries every day,
Beguiled by the mystic way.
Unlocks secrets free from fear.
Engaging faeries every day,
Beguiled by the mystic way.
So it was that the musical language of poetry came naturally to the young Teague in much the same way the familiar words of a favorite song come readily to every child. The boy, like a thirsty sapling planted in fertile ground, sank his roots deep into the selfsame robust Irish soil that nourished his parents.
***
1838
1838
During the autumn harvest, eight year old Teague held a shiny golden apple in the palm of his hand. Enthralled with its lustre, he could no longer stay silent.
”Why are they so pretty, mum?”
Enya smiled, a gleam in her eye. “Will now, I’ll tell ye. The Celtic virgin goddess, Brigid, protects all the apple crops of the Emerald Isle. The gentle sheen ye see comes from the magic spell she casts upon the fruit to grace the hearts of the Irish people. No other place or people are blessed with the touch of a goddess.”
Deep in thought, Teague imagined a being with such power. “How do ye know about her, mum? What else can she do?”
“She comes to me when I feel the second sight, helping me to see the unseen. Brigid is the goddess of fire and creativity, of poetry and strength, of healing and inspiration. She is the keeper of the flame and governs the hearth-fire. She was with me when ye were birthing and she helps people heal from injury or sickness.”
“Glory be!” Teague blurted, his eyes wide with wonder.
“Aye, glory be!”
”Why are they so pretty, mum?”
Enya smiled, a gleam in her eye. “Will now, I’ll tell ye. The Celtic virgin goddess, Brigid, protects all the apple crops of the Emerald Isle. The gentle sheen ye see comes from the magic spell she casts upon the fruit to grace the hearts of the Irish people. No other place or people are blessed with the touch of a goddess.”
Deep in thought, Teague imagined a being with such power. “How do ye know about her, mum? What else can she do?”
“She comes to me when I feel the second sight, helping me to see the unseen. Brigid is the goddess of fire and creativity, of poetry and strength, of healing and inspiration. She is the keeper of the flame and governs the hearth-fire. She was with me when ye were birthing and she helps people heal from injury or sickness.”
“Glory be!” Teague blurted, his eyes wide with wonder.
“Aye, glory be!”
***
1838-43
1838-43
Teague did not have a formal education, but he was quick of mind, curious, and a prolific reader. If there were any traits that might compete with his love for art, it was the written and spoken word. He spent hours sorting unfamiliar words until they became one with his lexicon. He, his mum, and his da challenged each other for the most interesting word of the day. Life in the McGuinness home was splendid, stimulating, erudite and pleasureful. They contended together in a good-natured way. Confident and well-spoken, Teague was at ease with the so-called educated gentry. He surprised the upper crust with his acumen and ingenuity on a wide variety of subjects, unexpected from an Irish peasant of tender age.
Teague embraced the values and tenets of his parents and displayed a quiet aura of discernment untarnished by pride or offense. He was not shy about expressing himself and would speak up, always, always, courteously. He was a gallant observer of his world, and the world at large.
Teague embraced the values and tenets of his parents and displayed a quiet aura of discernment untarnished by pride or offense. He was not shy about expressing himself and would speak up, always, always, courteously. He was a gallant observer of his world, and the world at large.
February-March 1844
~ Potato Planting Season ~
~ Potato Planting Season ~
Less than a mile up the road from the McGuinness family lives Enya’s sister, Aideen, and her husband Liam Callaghan. Liam, a tenant farmer, was hired by an absentee gentleman farmer, Lord Cooke. Twice a year, Lord Cooke inspected his property to assure his farm was in order. He paid taxes and covered the cost of materials, but expected Liam to plant and harvest the crop and deliver produce to market. In return, Liam and Aideen had the use of a cottage, a reasonable share of produce for their own consumption, and a modest percentage of proceeds of sale.
Liam and Aideen raised potatoes, a staple of the Irish diet. During planting and harvest season it is usual for the McGuinness clan and the Callaghans to help each other with labor. This unsaid agreement, born of the eternal blood of sisterhood, bound them together like a taut, braided cinch.
One day in mid-February, Liam was assessing his field to prepare for planting. Teague’s da said the Callaghan’s needed help. “Sure, da, I’ll give them a hand.” Teague, now fourteen years old, left looking for Liam’s son, Duffy. Duffy, a year younger, looked up to Teague much as he would a big brother. But Duffy knew he would be a big brother himself soon enough because his parents were expecting another child after trying for years without success. Aideen beamed when the two boys offered to help her husband. Radiant in the fulness of pregnancy, she hugged Teague and Duffy to her side as they walked out in the field to see Liam.
“Here are your helpers, honey,” she said, casting a wink at her husband as he leaned on a spade. “Good!” He said as he tousled each lad’s hair. “I’ll work ‘em to death”
“What are ye doing here,” Teague asked, not noticing any sign of work.
“This is the most important part of any task or endeavor,” Liam said. “I be thinking.” “Thinking?”
“Aye, I’m thinking about me field. Look over there and tell me what ye see.”
“A field of grass and dirt, what do ye see?”
“A field for planting, a future harvest of potatoes, and a hot, steaming cup of Irish stew!”
Teague imagined steaming stew all right. But how do ye get there from here, he wondered, never having paid attention to potato farming.
“I’ll teach ye lads the Irish way to plant lumpers, the way me da taught me, and he was notorious for his big potatoes! We’ll do the field together boys, not in one day, mind ye, ’tis little good that gets done in a hurry. Ye will help me lay the field in rows about four feet apart with drainage trenches on either side. See those shovels over there, boys? Get one for yourself.”
Liam scanned the field once again while the lads ran for the tools. When they returned, Liam grabbed his spade and rushed up the slope, the boys keeping pace. He stopped at the field’s edge, turned and looked at the lay of the slope, and nodded. “I like what I see,” he said, gesturing straight ahead. “We
will begin here and mark the parallel lines in the sod over the field. Between the lines we will then spread fertilizer.”
“What kind of fertilizer do ye use?” Teague asked, curious.
“A mix of manure, grass, and seashells, a most potent activator to stimulate growth. Then we’ll turn the grassy sod upside down over the fertilizer within the lines to form a hump and place seed potatoes by hand to the depth of the fertilizer. Next we cover the hump with fresh dirt. Once this planting is complete, we’ll establish good drainage through the trenches left where the grassy sod had laid.”
Duffy grimaced as if in pain. Liam laughed and squeezed his shoulder. “I tell ye true, none of this is easy, it won’t be completed overnight. We’ll have many days of hard work, but it will be fun too. You’ll see.” Duffy nodded.
“Okay then. Are ye up for it?”
The lads grinned. “Aye!”
“All right, let’s get at it!”
Liam and Aideen raised potatoes, a staple of the Irish diet. During planting and harvest season it is usual for the McGuinness clan and the Callaghans to help each other with labor. This unsaid agreement, born of the eternal blood of sisterhood, bound them together like a taut, braided cinch.
One day in mid-February, Liam was assessing his field to prepare for planting. Teague’s da said the Callaghan’s needed help. “Sure, da, I’ll give them a hand.” Teague, now fourteen years old, left looking for Liam’s son, Duffy. Duffy, a year younger, looked up to Teague much as he would a big brother. But Duffy knew he would be a big brother himself soon enough because his parents were expecting another child after trying for years without success. Aideen beamed when the two boys offered to help her husband. Radiant in the fulness of pregnancy, she hugged Teague and Duffy to her side as they walked out in the field to see Liam.
“Here are your helpers, honey,” she said, casting a wink at her husband as he leaned on a spade. “Good!” He said as he tousled each lad’s hair. “I’ll work ‘em to death”
“What are ye doing here,” Teague asked, not noticing any sign of work.
“This is the most important part of any task or endeavor,” Liam said. “I be thinking.” “Thinking?”
“Aye, I’m thinking about me field. Look over there and tell me what ye see.”
“A field of grass and dirt, what do ye see?”
“A field for planting, a future harvest of potatoes, and a hot, steaming cup of Irish stew!”
Teague imagined steaming stew all right. But how do ye get there from here, he wondered, never having paid attention to potato farming.
“I’ll teach ye lads the Irish way to plant lumpers, the way me da taught me, and he was notorious for his big potatoes! We’ll do the field together boys, not in one day, mind ye, ’tis little good that gets done in a hurry. Ye will help me lay the field in rows about four feet apart with drainage trenches on either side. See those shovels over there, boys? Get one for yourself.”
Liam scanned the field once again while the lads ran for the tools. When they returned, Liam grabbed his spade and rushed up the slope, the boys keeping pace. He stopped at the field’s edge, turned and looked at the lay of the slope, and nodded. “I like what I see,” he said, gesturing straight ahead. “We
will begin here and mark the parallel lines in the sod over the field. Between the lines we will then spread fertilizer.”
“What kind of fertilizer do ye use?” Teague asked, curious.
“A mix of manure, grass, and seashells, a most potent activator to stimulate growth. Then we’ll turn the grassy sod upside down over the fertilizer within the lines to form a hump and place seed potatoes by hand to the depth of the fertilizer. Next we cover the hump with fresh dirt. Once this planting is complete, we’ll establish good drainage through the trenches left where the grassy sod had laid.”
Duffy grimaced as if in pain. Liam laughed and squeezed his shoulder. “I tell ye true, none of this is easy, it won’t be completed overnight. We’ll have many days of hard work, but it will be fun too. You’ll see.” Duffy nodded.
“Okay then. Are ye up for it?”
The lads grinned. “Aye!”
“All right, let’s get at it!”
****
A Few Days Later
A Few Days Later
Liam came to the McGuinness home in the middle of the night and pounded on the door, rousing Enya. “Sorry to wake ye like this, Enya, but Aideen needs ye. She’s having contractions, and it’s way too early! I don’t know what to do!”
“Well, ye came for me, thank goodness, and I can help!” At the Callaghan home, Enya took charge. “Get me a pan of water, Liam, and clean cloths and two lengths of string.” Worried and nervous, he was glad to gather the items. He sat them where told and stood by pacing and ill at ease. Observing
this, Aideen said, “Honey, Enya will take care of me. You go in the other room and we’ll call you if we need anything.”
“Are ye sure?”
“Aye, I’ll be all right, I’m in expert hands.” Aideen felt a strong contraction coming on. She braced herself and, when Liam left the room and shut the door, she moaned as the contraction increased.
Enya placed cloths below Aideen’s spread legs. “I see the baby’s head,” she said, readying herself to guide and catch the baby. “Push!”
Aideen bore down. “Oh!” she screamed, “oh, mother of God!”
“Push more… that’s good, more! Push! Here comes the baby. ‘Tis a boy! I have him; he’s small with all the required body parts.” But he’s pale and flaccid. I don’t like that, Enya thought, but said nothing as she tied two strings side by side around the umbilical cord and clipped the cord in half between them. Enya washed the tiny body, swaddled him in a soft cloth, and handed him to his mum. “Let’s see if he’ll eat, luv.”
Aideen held him at her breast, but he would not take the nipple. “Try stimulating his lips with your finger.” Still he would not suck. Aideen looked at Enya with a worried expression, a silent question on her face. Enya nodded, “Aye, I’ll ask Brigid what to do.” Closing her eyes, she called upon the goddess and listened to Brigid’s instruction. “Brigid said you mustn’t rush him, let him rest in your arms and try again after a while.”
The newborn, warmed by his mum’s cuddle, relaxed. His breathing became more regular as his skin color improved. Enya observed this settling response, waited awhile longer, and said, “Okay, let’s try again.” This time the baby took the nipple, nursing just a little, but nursing none-the-less. Aideen and Enya smiled at each other, the crisis past.
The baby they called Devin struggled during his early development. He was underweight despite a healthy appetite, suffered frequent colds and occasional fevers in ensuing months, and caused his mum sleepless nights and constant worry. Liam did what he could to support her, but he too felt powerless and anxious, although he tried not to show it. Liam confided in Enya who provided suggestions and visited her sister more often. Devin gained strength, and his bouts of illness became less frequent.
As for the potato crop that Teague and Duffy helped plant, it flourished that season and next. It rewarded them with lumpers galore, a grand celebrated outcome that bode well for the Callaghan family.
A year and a half after Devin’s birth, Aideen delivered a little girl. Cooing, bright and healthy, they named her Cara, meaning friend.
“Well, ye came for me, thank goodness, and I can help!” At the Callaghan home, Enya took charge. “Get me a pan of water, Liam, and clean cloths and two lengths of string.” Worried and nervous, he was glad to gather the items. He sat them where told and stood by pacing and ill at ease. Observing
this, Aideen said, “Honey, Enya will take care of me. You go in the other room and we’ll call you if we need anything.”
“Are ye sure?”
“Aye, I’ll be all right, I’m in expert hands.” Aideen felt a strong contraction coming on. She braced herself and, when Liam left the room and shut the door, she moaned as the contraction increased.
Enya placed cloths below Aideen’s spread legs. “I see the baby’s head,” she said, readying herself to guide and catch the baby. “Push!”
Aideen bore down. “Oh!” she screamed, “oh, mother of God!”
“Push more… that’s good, more! Push! Here comes the baby. ‘Tis a boy! I have him; he’s small with all the required body parts.” But he’s pale and flaccid. I don’t like that, Enya thought, but said nothing as she tied two strings side by side around the umbilical cord and clipped the cord in half between them. Enya washed the tiny body, swaddled him in a soft cloth, and handed him to his mum. “Let’s see if he’ll eat, luv.”
Aideen held him at her breast, but he would not take the nipple. “Try stimulating his lips with your finger.” Still he would not suck. Aideen looked at Enya with a worried expression, a silent question on her face. Enya nodded, “Aye, I’ll ask Brigid what to do.” Closing her eyes, she called upon the goddess and listened to Brigid’s instruction. “Brigid said you mustn’t rush him, let him rest in your arms and try again after a while.”
The newborn, warmed by his mum’s cuddle, relaxed. His breathing became more regular as his skin color improved. Enya observed this settling response, waited awhile longer, and said, “Okay, let’s try again.” This time the baby took the nipple, nursing just a little, but nursing none-the-less. Aideen and Enya smiled at each other, the crisis past.
The baby they called Devin struggled during his early development. He was underweight despite a healthy appetite, suffered frequent colds and occasional fevers in ensuing months, and caused his mum sleepless nights and constant worry. Liam did what he could to support her, but he too felt powerless and anxious, although he tried not to show it. Liam confided in Enya who provided suggestions and visited her sister more often. Devin gained strength, and his bouts of illness became less frequent.
As for the potato crop that Teague and Duffy helped plant, it flourished that season and next. It rewarded them with lumpers galore, a grand celebrated outcome that bode well for the Callaghan family.
A year and a half after Devin’s birth, Aideen delivered a little girl. Cooing, bright and healthy, they named her Cara, meaning friend.
2
~ The Great Potato Famine ~
Harvest Time July 10, 1844
A clamor so raucous it was as though a person pursued by demons demanded entry at their door. It disturbed the usual morning deliberation at the McGuinness house.
“Come in!” Bryan shouted. The door slammed open, a winded Liam rushed in, and tossed a foul smelling bag on the floor.
“Look at this, will ye? I dug them me self this morning. What do ye make of it?” The bag held a rude, pungent mass of black, rotting shapes, imperceptible as potatoes.
“Are all your lumpers like this?” Bryan asked, incredulous.
“I don’t know! I took one look at this and came here. I did see lots of withered leaves. If all me crop is like this, I’m finished!”
Indeed, the blight infected half of Liam’s crop. Farmers throughout Ireland reported similar results. A great outcry arose and government entities in London examined the cause, seeking a remedy without success.
Bryan went back to the potato farm to talk further with Liam. Enya came along for support, sensing Aideen’s distress. Bryan thought the tuber rot was a passing event and said so. “Think about it man,” he said, “when has this ever happened before? Never, and it could be worse. You might have lost everything. The crop will be normal next season. It has be.”
Aideen listened as Bryan talked and cast a doubtful glance at her sister. Leaning forward, she whispered, “Come outside with me.” The two sisters left and walked into the affected field, sod overturned and desolate. “What do ye think, Enya? Will things be better next year? Do ye know?”
Enya pursed her lips. “Well, Bryan’s argument is reasonable. Many farmers agree with him. Still, I’ll ask the faeries if ye want.”
“Would ye? I can’t help having a bad feeling.”
“Aye, of course I will,” Enya said, giving her sister a hug. “You stay here, I need to be alone this time.” ****
Enya made her way to the corner of the field where a large boulder rested against a low embankment. She sat with her back against the stone, shaded from sun and wind. From a pouch around her waist she pulled a clean white shard of lamb’s bone, untouched by blade of steel or the corruptive tool of man. Enya placed the bone in her lap and gazed upon it, relaxed her body, and focused her mind on the rhythm of her breathing. She sought entry to the other world, the moment of trance and transition to the faerie kingdom, a spell she experienced so often.
The spell contorted into a sense of nonexistence, a calm state of unbounded blackness. Out of nowhere, a red dot in the distance appeared, throbbing and drawing ever closer. Yellow licks leaped at the edge of the red orb until the micro-thin fabric of space and time relented and a Royal Chamber appeared. An all-encompassing aura compelled Enya’s legs to buckle, and she fell to her hands and knees. She arched her back and raised her eyes to behold a personage of regal splendor standing before her, a goddess wearing a golden head band with sparkling diamonds and a turquoise stone at the center. Pale as the moon, face unblemished, her goddess eyes were tinged with a bronze, fire tested hue and her nose illustrious. An opulent red robe hung from her shoulders and a silken blouse held by pearl fasteners snugged the contours of her ample breasts. She struck a warrior’s stance, feet wide apart, girded by heavy, strapped sandals. In her left hand she held a scepter topped by a glowing, fiery ball, in her right hand a silver lance, sleek, sharp, and ready. At her side, a leather perch held a gallant hawk with talons set. The raptor kept Enya keen in its sight.
Brigid’s expression softened as she beheld Enya, and her lips parted, revealing lovely teeth. “Behold a seer from the other world. Arise seeker, what is thy quest?”
Enya stood upright before the goddess, her hair reflecting the ambiance of the chamber light, the shard of lamb’s bone throbbing and glistening in her hand. “I come for a knowing. We have never seen the foul, brackish malady visiting our crop fields across the Emerald Isle. The scourge has sickened people, others are starving. Pray tell, be it a passing contortion or be it the smoldering ember of plague?”
“Thou has sought well. Creation is besieged, evil forces ravage the land and we on the other side, goddesses and the entire faerie kingdom, resist with all the power we can conjure. A formidable dark eminence confronts faerie and man alike.”
“Come in!” Bryan shouted. The door slammed open, a winded Liam rushed in, and tossed a foul smelling bag on the floor.
“Look at this, will ye? I dug them me self this morning. What do ye make of it?” The bag held a rude, pungent mass of black, rotting shapes, imperceptible as potatoes.
“Are all your lumpers like this?” Bryan asked, incredulous.
“I don’t know! I took one look at this and came here. I did see lots of withered leaves. If all me crop is like this, I’m finished!”
Indeed, the blight infected half of Liam’s crop. Farmers throughout Ireland reported similar results. A great outcry arose and government entities in London examined the cause, seeking a remedy without success.
Bryan went back to the potato farm to talk further with Liam. Enya came along for support, sensing Aideen’s distress. Bryan thought the tuber rot was a passing event and said so. “Think about it man,” he said, “when has this ever happened before? Never, and it could be worse. You might have lost everything. The crop will be normal next season. It has be.”
Aideen listened as Bryan talked and cast a doubtful glance at her sister. Leaning forward, she whispered, “Come outside with me.” The two sisters left and walked into the affected field, sod overturned and desolate. “What do ye think, Enya? Will things be better next year? Do ye know?”
Enya pursed her lips. “Well, Bryan’s argument is reasonable. Many farmers agree with him. Still, I’ll ask the faeries if ye want.”
“Would ye? I can’t help having a bad feeling.”
“Aye, of course I will,” Enya said, giving her sister a hug. “You stay here, I need to be alone this time.” ****
Enya made her way to the corner of the field where a large boulder rested against a low embankment. She sat with her back against the stone, shaded from sun and wind. From a pouch around her waist she pulled a clean white shard of lamb’s bone, untouched by blade of steel or the corruptive tool of man. Enya placed the bone in her lap and gazed upon it, relaxed her body, and focused her mind on the rhythm of her breathing. She sought entry to the other world, the moment of trance and transition to the faerie kingdom, a spell she experienced so often.
The spell contorted into a sense of nonexistence, a calm state of unbounded blackness. Out of nowhere, a red dot in the distance appeared, throbbing and drawing ever closer. Yellow licks leaped at the edge of the red orb until the micro-thin fabric of space and time relented and a Royal Chamber appeared. An all-encompassing aura compelled Enya’s legs to buckle, and she fell to her hands and knees. She arched her back and raised her eyes to behold a personage of regal splendor standing before her, a goddess wearing a golden head band with sparkling diamonds and a turquoise stone at the center. Pale as the moon, face unblemished, her goddess eyes were tinged with a bronze, fire tested hue and her nose illustrious. An opulent red robe hung from her shoulders and a silken blouse held by pearl fasteners snugged the contours of her ample breasts. She struck a warrior’s stance, feet wide apart, girded by heavy, strapped sandals. In her left hand she held a scepter topped by a glowing, fiery ball, in her right hand a silver lance, sleek, sharp, and ready. At her side, a leather perch held a gallant hawk with talons set. The raptor kept Enya keen in its sight.
Brigid’s expression softened as she beheld Enya, and her lips parted, revealing lovely teeth. “Behold a seer from the other world. Arise seeker, what is thy quest?”
Enya stood upright before the goddess, her hair reflecting the ambiance of the chamber light, the shard of lamb’s bone throbbing and glistening in her hand. “I come for a knowing. We have never seen the foul, brackish malady visiting our crop fields across the Emerald Isle. The scourge has sickened people, others are starving. Pray tell, be it a passing contortion or be it the smoldering ember of plague?”
“Thou has sought well. Creation is besieged, evil forces ravage the land and we on the other side, goddesses and the entire faerie kingdom, resist with all the power we can conjure. A formidable dark eminence confronts faerie and man alike.”
All creation weeps
At nature’s foul reap
Man, woman, and kind
Bear sorrow’s deadly bind.
When hope is lost,
When precious life is tossed,
Healing rekindles midst yearning sighs
From haunted, tear shrouded eyes.
****
August 1, 1844
At nature’s foul reap
Man, woman, and kind
Bear sorrow’s deadly bind.
When hope is lost,
When precious life is tossed,
Healing rekindles midst yearning sighs
From haunted, tear shrouded eyes.
****
August 1, 1844
Leaving Farnsworth Manor in county Tipperary, Lord Reginald Cooke thought it prudent to check on his potato farm given the recent blight. He rode in a surrey drawn by a pale gelding. Turning down a lane leading to the farm, he slowed. The godforsaken potato field stretched before him. Beyond, at the edge of the field, he saw the tenant cottage, a one level wooden structure with a sod roof. The simple cottage, sufficient for a small family, held a single window and a hand hewn door that he always thought projected a certain charm. A detached tool shed with an exterior roof supported by poles lay within short walking distance of the house.
He slapped the reins, and the horse cantered, closing fast. The grounds around the cottage are in order and uncluttered. No problem in that regard, he judged. The door opened, Liam appeared, and their eyes met. Lord Cooke brought his horse to an abrupt stop. The steed snorted and shook his mane. Lord Crook stepped from the surrey. Liam walked up with a tentative smile.
“G’day, m’lord, ye traveled well, I presume?”
“Aye,” Lord Cooke said, “but I’m not here to talk about my traveling comfort.” He said icily. He looked at the field, his face solemn. “I’m here because of this catastrophe. I want to see the damage first hand, and I want you to tell me why this happened. I’ve heard opinions, but it is your explanation I want to hear.”
Liam nodded, “Aye, let’s look.” They walked the field a short distance away. “The one thing I know is that this winter was the wettest season I have ever seen in my entire life.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Lord Cooke asked. “Crops always need water to flourish.” “Aye, m’lord, but never as much; I believe the potatoes drowned!”
“Hmm,” Lord Cooke raised his eyebrows. “Well, that's an explanation better than any I’ve heard so far.”
They stood side by side, and Lord Cooke bent and scooped a handful of blackened dirt. He smelled it and frowned. “Musty,” he said, “maybe there’s something to your drowning theory.”
Liam knelt, lifted a handful of untainted sod, and smelled. “Yet, some of our field is untouched and fresh.”
“What to do, what to do,” Lord Cooke muttered, shaking his head. Liam pivoted and faced him eye to eye with a serious expression.
“I ’ave a proposal, m’lord.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I think we should double our crop next season, large enough to recover your loss and make a profit. We have the field we rested last season. We can put it into production, along with the others.”
“What makes you think this disaster won’t repeat itself?”
“I ’ave always brought in a fine harvest, m’lord, except for last year. I tell ye, it was a fluke, it won’t happen two years in a row, it can’t. We will ’ave a normal weather pattern, I just know it!”
Lord Cooke furrowed his brow, considering, “I’m not so sure…”
Liam was prepared for this hesitancy. “I ’ave put some of me own money aside every year and I will lay all me savings down, that’s how sure I be of a bumper crop.”
His passion impressed Lord Cooke. A man of modest means and yet he has so much certainty of a bumper crop next year he will risk all his accumulated savings? That’s remarkable! He has been proficient and productive up till now and he’s a lifelong farmer. He must know what he’s talking about. Well, let’s see how serious he is.
“Done!” Lord Cooke said, “But only if you are certain and willing to proceed. If so, use your money first when planting season comes. Add the extra rested field and plant all the others once again. When you exhaust your savings, tell me what more you need and I’ll see you have it, and I will spare no expense. But you better be right! If wrong, I warn you that you will rue this day. Tell me now if you harbor any doubts! Do we scrap it or do we agree to replant?”
Liam extended his hand with a big grin on his face. “I’m so sure I would bet me life on it. Replant!”
“Okay, that settles it then. By the way, you might help me with something else. I’m told there is a young lad gaining a big reputation for painting people and landscapes who lives somewhere near here. They showed me a sample of his work. Do you know of him?”
Liam smiled, “Aye, m’lord, he’s me nephew, Teague McGuinness.”
“Your nephew? Would you put me in touch with him, I might interest him in painting Lady Cooke, if his parents will permit it.”
****
Teague wondered at the horse and surrey in front of their house. He reached for the bridle. “What a handsome boy are ye,” he said as he rubbed its forehead. “Is your master inside?”
Entering, he saw, seated across from his da, an impeccably dressed gentleman holding an ornate walking cane topped with a carved lion’s head. The man gazed at him as he approached, a smile on his face. “Teague,” his da said, “this is Lord Reginald Cooke, Earl of Farnsworth Manor in county Tipperary. He is here to meet ye.”
“Wants to meet me? Why?”
Before Bryan could respond, Lord Cooke interjected, “Why, because laddie you have achieved notoriety as a gifted artist. You’ve been painting for some time now, I am told, and give away your art. My handmaid said you painted her daughter, a pretty little girl. She showed your painting to Lady Cooke and m’lady admired how well you captured the child’s likeness. I hope you will do some paintings for me on my estate. But, I won’t accept your work as a gift; I will pay you well as befits a genuine artist.”
Teague looked at his da, “Can I?”
“Aye, if you want to,” Bryan said, “but Lord Cooke just told me he has several paintings in mind, starting first with Lady Cooke sitting sidesaddle on her white stallion. Then he has some scenic views he wants you to paint to display in his grande mansion and suggests you stay at the Manor through September. That’s a big decision, Teague, since you have stayed nowhere else, so you should think about it.”
“Oh, I don’t have to think more about it, da. I want to paint the lady and her stallion!”
He slapped the reins, and the horse cantered, closing fast. The grounds around the cottage are in order and uncluttered. No problem in that regard, he judged. The door opened, Liam appeared, and their eyes met. Lord Cooke brought his horse to an abrupt stop. The steed snorted and shook his mane. Lord Crook stepped from the surrey. Liam walked up with a tentative smile.
“G’day, m’lord, ye traveled well, I presume?”
“Aye,” Lord Cooke said, “but I’m not here to talk about my traveling comfort.” He said icily. He looked at the field, his face solemn. “I’m here because of this catastrophe. I want to see the damage first hand, and I want you to tell me why this happened. I’ve heard opinions, but it is your explanation I want to hear.”
Liam nodded, “Aye, let’s look.” They walked the field a short distance away. “The one thing I know is that this winter was the wettest season I have ever seen in my entire life.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Lord Cooke asked. “Crops always need water to flourish.” “Aye, m’lord, but never as much; I believe the potatoes drowned!”
“Hmm,” Lord Cooke raised his eyebrows. “Well, that's an explanation better than any I’ve heard so far.”
They stood side by side, and Lord Cooke bent and scooped a handful of blackened dirt. He smelled it and frowned. “Musty,” he said, “maybe there’s something to your drowning theory.”
Liam knelt, lifted a handful of untainted sod, and smelled. “Yet, some of our field is untouched and fresh.”
“What to do, what to do,” Lord Cooke muttered, shaking his head. Liam pivoted and faced him eye to eye with a serious expression.
“I ’ave a proposal, m’lord.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I think we should double our crop next season, large enough to recover your loss and make a profit. We have the field we rested last season. We can put it into production, along with the others.”
“What makes you think this disaster won’t repeat itself?”
“I ’ave always brought in a fine harvest, m’lord, except for last year. I tell ye, it was a fluke, it won’t happen two years in a row, it can’t. We will ’ave a normal weather pattern, I just know it!”
Lord Cooke furrowed his brow, considering, “I’m not so sure…”
Liam was prepared for this hesitancy. “I ’ave put some of me own money aside every year and I will lay all me savings down, that’s how sure I be of a bumper crop.”
His passion impressed Lord Cooke. A man of modest means and yet he has so much certainty of a bumper crop next year he will risk all his accumulated savings? That’s remarkable! He has been proficient and productive up till now and he’s a lifelong farmer. He must know what he’s talking about. Well, let’s see how serious he is.
“Done!” Lord Cooke said, “But only if you are certain and willing to proceed. If so, use your money first when planting season comes. Add the extra rested field and plant all the others once again. When you exhaust your savings, tell me what more you need and I’ll see you have it, and I will spare no expense. But you better be right! If wrong, I warn you that you will rue this day. Tell me now if you harbor any doubts! Do we scrap it or do we agree to replant?”
Liam extended his hand with a big grin on his face. “I’m so sure I would bet me life on it. Replant!”
“Okay, that settles it then. By the way, you might help me with something else. I’m told there is a young lad gaining a big reputation for painting people and landscapes who lives somewhere near here. They showed me a sample of his work. Do you know of him?”
Liam smiled, “Aye, m’lord, he’s me nephew, Teague McGuinness.”
“Your nephew? Would you put me in touch with him, I might interest him in painting Lady Cooke, if his parents will permit it.”
****
Teague wondered at the horse and surrey in front of their house. He reached for the bridle. “What a handsome boy are ye,” he said as he rubbed its forehead. “Is your master inside?”
Entering, he saw, seated across from his da, an impeccably dressed gentleman holding an ornate walking cane topped with a carved lion’s head. The man gazed at him as he approached, a smile on his face. “Teague,” his da said, “this is Lord Reginald Cooke, Earl of Farnsworth Manor in county Tipperary. He is here to meet ye.”
“Wants to meet me? Why?”
Before Bryan could respond, Lord Cooke interjected, “Why, because laddie you have achieved notoriety as a gifted artist. You’ve been painting for some time now, I am told, and give away your art. My handmaid said you painted her daughter, a pretty little girl. She showed your painting to Lady Cooke and m’lady admired how well you captured the child’s likeness. I hope you will do some paintings for me on my estate. But, I won’t accept your work as a gift; I will pay you well as befits a genuine artist.”
Teague looked at his da, “Can I?”
“Aye, if you want to,” Bryan said, “but Lord Cooke just told me he has several paintings in mind, starting first with Lady Cooke sitting sidesaddle on her white stallion. Then he has some scenic views he wants you to paint to display in his grande mansion and suggests you stay at the Manor through September. That’s a big decision, Teague, since you have stayed nowhere else, so you should think about it.”
“Oh, I don’t have to think more about it, da. I want to paint the lady and her stallion!”
****
~ Farnsworth Manor ~
August 15, 1844
~ Farnsworth Manor ~
August 15, 1844
Teague’s time at Farnsworth Manor would not disappoint. Unaccustomed to ostentatious surroundings, he marveled at the lavish attributes of the Manor and the number of servants required to maintain the premises and serve the Lord and Lady. It was a constant, busy environment, indoors and out. The Manor included a splendid hall where banquets occurred and with paintings of his lordship’s male predecessors on display. Lord Cooke took Teague to the hall first thing so he could see for himself the size and format of the painting he would require.
Central to the ancestral portraits, a large, prominent portrait of Lord Cooke hung on the wall. It reserved a smaller blank space next to his for Lady Cooke’s portrait. Where Lord Cooke’s painting was consistent with that of his forebears, a bust from the waist up, Lady Cooke’s portrait, though smaller, would show her sitting sidesaddle on her horse in the shade of an oak tree. Teague determined to present her, leaning forward with a bonny smile on her face. Her features, refined and winsome, were a tall order for the young Teague, or any accomplished artist to effectuate. Lord Cooke scrutinized Teague’s serious expression as he considered the array of portraits on the wall and the reserved space for Lady Cooke’s canvas.
“What do you think, Lad? Can you meet my requirements for this project?”
“Aye, I’m certain I can, but first I need to sketch a drawing of lady Cooke on her horse at the chosen site. My sketch will eliminate the need for her ladyship to pose on her horse more than once. Then I need ye to furnish a canvas in the exact dimension ye desire for the finished painting. I’ll do the rest.”
“How long will all this take?”
“First, I need the supplies I shall mention, and we have to ask Lady Cooke when she can pose with her horse. After that, I can give ye a better estimate of when I might be finished. Are ye concerned about a certain timeline to complete the artwork?”
Lord Cooke laughed. “M’lady wanted it done yesterday! But, no, we want your best quality portrayal of her, so don’t feel rushed. Okay?”
“Aye.”
Central to the ancestral portraits, a large, prominent portrait of Lord Cooke hung on the wall. It reserved a smaller blank space next to his for Lady Cooke’s portrait. Where Lord Cooke’s painting was consistent with that of his forebears, a bust from the waist up, Lady Cooke’s portrait, though smaller, would show her sitting sidesaddle on her horse in the shade of an oak tree. Teague determined to present her, leaning forward with a bonny smile on her face. Her features, refined and winsome, were a tall order for the young Teague, or any accomplished artist to effectuate. Lord Cooke scrutinized Teague’s serious expression as he considered the array of portraits on the wall and the reserved space for Lady Cooke’s canvas.
“What do you think, Lad? Can you meet my requirements for this project?”
“Aye, I’m certain I can, but first I need to sketch a drawing of lady Cooke on her horse at the chosen site. My sketch will eliminate the need for her ladyship to pose on her horse more than once. Then I need ye to furnish a canvas in the exact dimension ye desire for the finished painting. I’ll do the rest.”
“How long will all this take?”
“First, I need the supplies I shall mention, and we have to ask Lady Cooke when she can pose with her horse. After that, I can give ye a better estimate of when I might be finished. Are ye concerned about a certain timeline to complete the artwork?”
Lord Cooke laughed. “M’lady wanted it done yesterday! But, no, we want your best quality portrayal of her, so don’t feel rushed. Okay?”
“Aye.”
****
Six Weeks Later
Six Weeks Later
Lord and Lady Cooke stood hand in hand at the great hall facing the covered painting, awaiting the unveiling. Teague stood by the covered frame, one hand on the drape.
“Ready?”
“More than ready.”
Teague swept the covering away with a flourish. Lady Cooke sucked in her breath, “Oh my, that’s… that is… marvelous!” She turned toward her husband. “Don’t you think so, my love?”
“Aye, It’s so genuine. Teague has revealed your flawless creamy complexion, your sparkling blue eyes, and that naughty little curl at the corner of your lips. It is as if you could step out of the painting and fall into my arms.”
“Silly, I’m right here!” she said, embracing him with a passionate kiss as Teague watched, beaming.
Lord Cooke winked at Teague. “I had a hunch you could paint this well. Outstanding, laddie! Rest on your laurels. I have other less daunting work for you to start on in a couple of days. We’ll keep you busy, that’s for sure, and spring will fly!”
“Ready?”
“More than ready.”
Teague swept the covering away with a flourish. Lady Cooke sucked in her breath, “Oh my, that’s… that is… marvelous!” She turned toward her husband. “Don’t you think so, my love?”
“Aye, It’s so genuine. Teague has revealed your flawless creamy complexion, your sparkling blue eyes, and that naughty little curl at the corner of your lips. It is as if you could step out of the painting and fall into my arms.”
“Silly, I’m right here!” she said, embracing him with a passionate kiss as Teague watched, beaming.
Lord Cooke winked at Teague. “I had a hunch you could paint this well. Outstanding, laddie! Rest on your laurels. I have other less daunting work for you to start on in a couple of days. We’ll keep you busy, that’s for sure, and spring will fly!”
****
June 1846
~ Harvest Time ~
June 1846
~ Harvest Time ~
The winter of 1845-46 was not as wet as before, but temperatures were cold, causing grave hardship. The potato blight was even more severe than the previous year, a consummate disaster. It devastated Liam; he lost everything he invested, and Lord Cooke was furious and vengeful of mood. He decided
to let his land lay fallow for a season or two and perhaps try a different crop next time. One thing is certain, I won’t use the Irishman again. I should never have listened to him. The blighter tricked me into a financial loss from which I may not recover.
Lord Cooke paid a surprise visit to the potato farm.
“I trusted you, but you put me in grave financial straights. I warned you of serious consequences if this calamity reoccurred!”
“But…”
“No buts! I have hired a new tenant farmer. You have two weeks to vacate the premises!” “Oh m’lord, I…”
“It’s decided… two weeks!”
****
Liam had no choice. He moved his family to Waterford, the nearest population center where an able bodied bloke might find work. He asked Aideen not to trouble Enya and Bryan; they had already helped enough. Besides, he was ashamed he didn’t heed Enya’s warning from the faerie kingdom in the first place. The faeries said mankind was besieged, hardly a forecast for a prodigious crop the second year. It would have been wiser to rest the land for a season as Lord Cooke initially proposed. Their savings would be preserved, and he would have remained employed.
On the day of the move, Duffy told cousin Teague the family was leaving. In Waterford Liam, a solidly built man, capable from years of heavy toil, found occasional employment. Living circumstances were deplorable. Many Irish people starved or became ill from myriad hardships.
to let his land lay fallow for a season or two and perhaps try a different crop next time. One thing is certain, I won’t use the Irishman again. I should never have listened to him. The blighter tricked me into a financial loss from which I may not recover.
Lord Cooke paid a surprise visit to the potato farm.
“I trusted you, but you put me in grave financial straights. I warned you of serious consequences if this calamity reoccurred!”
“But…”
“No buts! I have hired a new tenant farmer. You have two weeks to vacate the premises!” “Oh m’lord, I…”
“It’s decided… two weeks!”
****
Liam had no choice. He moved his family to Waterford, the nearest population center where an able bodied bloke might find work. He asked Aideen not to trouble Enya and Bryan; they had already helped enough. Besides, he was ashamed he didn’t heed Enya’s warning from the faerie kingdom in the first place. The faeries said mankind was besieged, hardly a forecast for a prodigious crop the second year. It would have been wiser to rest the land for a season as Lord Cooke initially proposed. Their savings would be preserved, and he would have remained employed.
On the day of the move, Duffy told cousin Teague the family was leaving. In Waterford Liam, a solidly built man, capable from years of heavy toil, found occasional employment. Living circumstances were deplorable. Many Irish people starved or became ill from myriad hardships.
****
August 1846
August 1846
The calamity of the potato blight continued widespread throughout the Emerald Isle. The consequences of the blight were most severe for the poor tenant farmers. Many tenant farmers like Liam were evicted from their land management. Abandoned by an inept government and blamed by mean spirited power brokers as somehow deserving of God’s wrath, the poor Irish Catholic peasant was ignored or vilified as they suffered, starved and died.
Enya, worried about Aideen, Liam, Duffy and Devin, asked Teague if he would journey to Waterford to look in on them. “I will tell ye where they live, Aideen sent directions. Ye should be able to return in one day, although they may want ye to stay overnight. Would that be okay?”
“Aye, I want to visit as long as possible, it’s been ages since I last saw them. Spending time as I did at Lord Cooke’s estate, I did not know of Liam and Aideen’s troubles. Nor did I realize the hardships people encounter everywhere because of the crop failure. Waterford, I hear, is hellish, though I really don't fathom what is happening there.”
“Nor do I,” Enya said, “perhaps ye can find out for both of us.”
“Aye, I will try to learn all that I can.”
****
Teague returned two days later with anguish on his face. “It is much worse than I presumed. Liam is working but makes a modicum of money. It’s a ghastly struggle. I suggested they stay with us until things get better, but Liam has too much pride to come here.” Teague shook his head and slumped his shoulders in exasperation. “He is obsessed with carrying forward, regardless. What could I do, mum?“
“That’s all ye could do, Teague. What is your impression of the city?”
“Down by the waterfront people are begging for food. Begging! It was a distressing sight. Ships are being loaded with corn right in front of their eyes! But do ye think Queen Victoria or the Prime Minister will ration corn to the needy? Not a kernel! English soldiers are everywhere to ‘keep the peace’. Crowds mill about in a surly mood. They are distributing handbills calling for a rising!”
“Handbills?”
“Aye, here’s one, ’tis a poem by a woman who calls herself Speranza. Listen to her soul-cry;”
Enya, worried about Aideen, Liam, Duffy and Devin, asked Teague if he would journey to Waterford to look in on them. “I will tell ye where they live, Aideen sent directions. Ye should be able to return in one day, although they may want ye to stay overnight. Would that be okay?”
“Aye, I want to visit as long as possible, it’s been ages since I last saw them. Spending time as I did at Lord Cooke’s estate, I did not know of Liam and Aideen’s troubles. Nor did I realize the hardships people encounter everywhere because of the crop failure. Waterford, I hear, is hellish, though I really don't fathom what is happening there.”
“Nor do I,” Enya said, “perhaps ye can find out for both of us.”
“Aye, I will try to learn all that I can.”
****
Teague returned two days later with anguish on his face. “It is much worse than I presumed. Liam is working but makes a modicum of money. It’s a ghastly struggle. I suggested they stay with us until things get better, but Liam has too much pride to come here.” Teague shook his head and slumped his shoulders in exasperation. “He is obsessed with carrying forward, regardless. What could I do, mum?“
“That’s all ye could do, Teague. What is your impression of the city?”
“Down by the waterfront people are begging for food. Begging! It was a distressing sight. Ships are being loaded with corn right in front of their eyes! But do ye think Queen Victoria or the Prime Minister will ration corn to the needy? Not a kernel! English soldiers are everywhere to ‘keep the peace’. Crowds mill about in a surly mood. They are distributing handbills calling for a rising!”
“Handbills?”
“Aye, here’s one, ’tis a poem by a woman who calls herself Speranza. Listen to her soul-cry;”
Weary men, what reap ye? Golden corn for the stranger.
What sow ye? Human corpses that wait for the avenger.
Fainting forms, hunger stricken, what see you in the offing
Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the stranger’s scoffing.
There’s a proud array of soldiers what do they round your door?
They guard our master’s granaries from the thin hands of the poor.
Pale mothers, wherefore weeping? Would to God that we were dead
Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give them bread.
What sow ye? Human corpses that wait for the avenger.
Fainting forms, hunger stricken, what see you in the offing
Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the stranger’s scoffing.
There’s a proud array of soldiers what do they round your door?
They guard our master’s granaries from the thin hands of the poor.
Pale mothers, wherefore weeping? Would to God that we were dead
Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give them bread.
Teague teared up and said, “’tis true, mum, the protestant government denies corn to the Irish peasant and ships it to other nations instead. I observed it with me own eyes! It is an abhorrent treatment of our Irish Catholic population, and me heart cries;”
Oh the peril
Oh the suffering
Oh the loss
Oh the grief
Mother Mary weeps for her children.
****
Winter 1847
~ Waterford Ireland ~
Oh the suffering
Oh the loss
Oh the grief
Mother Mary weeps for her children.
****
Winter 1847
~ Waterford Ireland ~
The shack the family had to live in at Waterford was threadbare and wanting, but kept clean by Aideen. Their water supply was another matter, sparse in quantity and contaminated. Cholera attained a foothold one day in the Callaghan home when Devin, who had been drinking, started suffering watery diarrhea and vomiting. They did not know that the water was laced with feces, the source of cholera sickness.
“Liam, fetch Enya. Hurry!”
When Liam arrived at the McGuinness home, Enya felt an overpowering need to communicate with the Faerie Kingdom. “Something tells me I have to seek the faerie realm before we go. Wait here, Liam, I won’t be long.”
In the trance-like state, Enya saw a shimmering personage who faded in and out, and gasped out loud, “D-Devin? Is that you?” Brigid appeared before her. “Your sister’s Devin has passed, Enya, and he wants you to tell his family not to be sad for he is in the company of faeries, and suffers no longer. The faeries are escorting him to heaven’s shore.”
“Liam, fetch Enya. Hurry!”
When Liam arrived at the McGuinness home, Enya felt an overpowering need to communicate with the Faerie Kingdom. “Something tells me I have to seek the faerie realm before we go. Wait here, Liam, I won’t be long.”
In the trance-like state, Enya saw a shimmering personage who faded in and out, and gasped out loud, “D-Devin? Is that you?” Brigid appeared before her. “Your sister’s Devin has passed, Enya, and he wants you to tell his family not to be sad for he is in the company of faeries, and suffers no longer. The faeries are escorting him to heaven’s shore.”
****
~ Spring 1848 ~
~ Spring 1848 ~
Looking for work, Liam moved with his family to the northern coast of Ireland, to a larger town in County Londonderry. It was there, at Port Londonderry, that he realized a way out of his quandary. Yes, of course, this is the answer! I‘ave to talk with Bryan at once! At his knock, Teague took him straight to his da and then listened to their conversation with rapt attention.
“I ‘ave to go to America,” Liam said. “That’s all there is to it.”
“America?”
“Aye, ’tis the only way, I’m still fit. I can work as hard as the next man. It’s a long journey, but they say a man can make real money, enough to send for Aideen and the boys.”
“Where did you get this idea?” Bryan asked, skeptical.
“I ‘ave learned that many people are going there. My friend Shane is there now. It’s for sure a good thing, I tell ye. But I need help with passage. I wouldn’t ask but, ye know, ‘tis for me family.” Worried, a cloud passed over Liam’s face. “Otherwise, I tell ye true, I don’t know what will become of us.” He then hastened to add, “I’ll pay ye back, man. I promise.”
Bryan nodded, reflecting, certain of where Enya would stand on this question. “Of course we’ll help. Never mind paying us back; you would do this for us if circumstances were reversed, of that I’m certain. Do what ye must do. Bring your family here, they can live with us until you send for them, that’s all the thanks we require.”
“I ‘ave to go to America,” Liam said. “That’s all there is to it.”
“America?”
“Aye, ’tis the only way, I’m still fit. I can work as hard as the next man. It’s a long journey, but they say a man can make real money, enough to send for Aideen and the boys.”
“Where did you get this idea?” Bryan asked, skeptical.
“I ‘ave learned that many people are going there. My friend Shane is there now. It’s for sure a good thing, I tell ye. But I need help with passage. I wouldn’t ask but, ye know, ‘tis for me family.” Worried, a cloud passed over Liam’s face. “Otherwise, I tell ye true, I don’t know what will become of us.” He then hastened to add, “I’ll pay ye back, man. I promise.”
Bryan nodded, reflecting, certain of where Enya would stand on this question. “Of course we’ll help. Never mind paying us back; you would do this for us if circumstances were reversed, of that I’m certain. Do what ye must do. Bring your family here, they can live with us until you send for them, that’s all the thanks we require.”
3
~ The Luck of the Leprechaun ~
~ The Luck of the Leprechaun ~
Throughout his youth Teague heard scores of villagers speak of faeries. Some locals whispered they glimpsed the little people on the banks of the River Suir that rises in the Devils Bit Mountains and flows through limestone country to form a natural barrier between Waterford on one bank and the village of South Tipperary on the other. Some people swore they could find the faeries where the river reached the Celtic Sea at Dunmore East, near the headlands of Hook and Crook, at the base of Maghera Falls. The faeries, they insisted, flitted about on the other side of the waterfall, or peeked out behind ancient, moss covered gatherings of stone.
Like his mother, Teague only found faeries in his dreams, where he often saw them dancing in a field of shamrocks. Intrigued one night during a dream, Teague picked a single shamrock from a vast field
of green. His dream images were so vivid that when he awakened he looked to see if he still held the shamrock in the open palm of his hand. Such dreams did not disturb him; he was certain if he ever really saw a faerie face to face, he would embrace the moment. The wee faerie are astounding. They won’t harm me, he thought.
Inspired, Teague vowed he would ceaselessly try his best to be as happy, carefree and as helpful as the faeries in his mum’s stories.
Eighteen years of age and fully grown, Teague was five feet tall with a spring in his walk and an enduring curiosity for everything he beheld in the natural world around him. He hiked along the River Suir and the River Blackwater, exploring their valleys and streams. He made repeated journeys to the magnificent cliffs of the South shore of Ireland and, on other days, hiked inland to the Comeragh Mountain range and the Knockmealdown Mountains.
After these adventures he would return to his father’s workshop, elated with the rich tapestry of the landscape his da had painted, and plunged headlong into creating more of his own paintings and ceramic art.
The curator of a prestigious art gallery in the village known as O’Flynn’s Art Studio, upon hearing of Teague’s fine art, offered to display his work. The business of the studio was to help local artists sell their creations so that both the studio and the artist earned money from every piece sold. Frugal Teague enjoyed living a modest lifestyle, so accumulating wealth was not the reason he painted. Nothing pleased him more than to bring his beloved Ireland to life on canvas and pottery. Indeed, if people honored the work he composed, then Teague was the happiest man on earth.
Happiness, though, was not invariably easy to find in Ireland. Irish people who lived in the country or on farms, as well as those in cities, suffered enormously from poverty and want. The consequences of the potato blight endured. Teague grappled with how he, a paltry artist, could help those still enduring immeasurable hardships.
One evening, while warming himself in his father’s workshop, Teague fell into a fitful sleep and awakened in a lush field of shamrocks. Stunned, he sat up, astounded by the unexpected enchantment before his eyes. A gnarled old scrub tree, near the edge of the meadow, stood in sharp contrast to the thick green field. Two massive branches had split apart and there, wearing a shamrock green top hat and long pants, sat a leprechaun with a silly grin on his face, his legs crossed, and a long pipe in his nimble hands. He puffed and blew circles of smoke that floated gently in the air.
“Well, laddie, It’s about time ye came to see me. Glory be, ye look like your da!” the little creature said.
“Ye knew me da?”
“Aye, he came as a young man such as ye, but pining like a lovesick beau that he has no one to share his dreams. I told him of a bonnie lass, a poet, who lived in County Cork near the northern coast. That lassie is your mother. Have ye come seeking a fair maid to settle the longings of your heart?”
“No, something else...though ‘tis my heart that troubles me. The Irish people are suffering hardship, curs on the street fare better than they. There is a plethora of illness and death, people dying alone in a
hovel, malnourished, in agony and despair. The poor are exposed to the elements without shelter. Many turn on each other in their struggle to survive, fighting, stealing, and subject to arrest for crimes they would never countenance if only their humanity was respected. The powerful turn a blind eye to their plight. Babes with distended stomachs suckle a dry tit.”
The leprechaun sat silent for a moment, regarding the words of his visitor. “Goodness, I have a scholar. I have never been addressed in such a manner. Ye use gilded words such as plethora in your speech. Why do you talk so?”
“Momentous problems compel expressive words that fathom the terrible crimes against humanity, words that elucidate the neglect of the powerful and the prejudice of the mighty. We must hear the voice of the downtrodden peasant, the renting is cataclysmic.”
The leprechaun asked, amused, “What is it ye want, lad… from me?”
“Are ye a wizard? Can ye lift this bitter misery from the backs of the Irish people?”
The leprechaun frowned, shaking his head. “I cannot. I lack the power to prevent death, cure illness and starvation, make right the social wrong, save babies from suffering, cause crops to grow, or forge the economy to serve the needs of everyone on the Emerald Isle. What I can do, though, is give you a lucky idea that will let you work your own magic to help the Irish people during their time of trouble.”
“What lucky idea would that be?” Teague asked, intrigued by this odd notion.
“Ye command a talented future, laddie, and can paint the soul of Ireland in a way that lifts the hearts of all people. Give your best work to charity, and I promise ye, the charity will have the luck of selling each of your art pieces at top price to wealthy customers. The money those charities receive from your gift can then help the most needy. So, in order for the luck of the Irish to bear fruit, ye should donate twenty-five percent of your body of work and ceramics to charity as a lifelong practice.”
Twenty-five percent, Teague thought, heaven’s no, I will donate fifty percent.
Teague did as the leprechaun proposed and established his good luck. The wealth of the several charities he supported increased tenfold. Indeed, countless numbers of Irish were able to have enough food, clothing, shelter, and healing to better their quality of life.
Teague’s fame as a talented artist and benefactor spread as the charities promoted his artwork. In southern Ireland, in County Waterford, Teague painted landscapes of the estates of the nobility on commission. He would often include men hunting, or ladies riding fine horses in his pictures, and they paid him handsomely. He decided this was acceptable because it would help more of the poor, and the wealthy landowners always felt they got their money’s worth in return.
Teague also gained popular notoriety through his lovely depictions of the faerie kingdom, complete with faeries, leprechauns, and the other magical creatures he saw in his dreams.
Teague showed his work at O’Flynn’s Art Studio in Waterford village, and some artwork he created would one day be on exhibit with the Royal Dublin Society of Artists. Regardless of his fame, Teague persisted in living simply and honorably, never letting good fortune go to his head.
Aye, ‘tis the luck of the leprechaun, don’t you know…
Like his mother, Teague only found faeries in his dreams, where he often saw them dancing in a field of shamrocks. Intrigued one night during a dream, Teague picked a single shamrock from a vast field
of green. His dream images were so vivid that when he awakened he looked to see if he still held the shamrock in the open palm of his hand. Such dreams did not disturb him; he was certain if he ever really saw a faerie face to face, he would embrace the moment. The wee faerie are astounding. They won’t harm me, he thought.
Inspired, Teague vowed he would ceaselessly try his best to be as happy, carefree and as helpful as the faeries in his mum’s stories.
Eighteen years of age and fully grown, Teague was five feet tall with a spring in his walk and an enduring curiosity for everything he beheld in the natural world around him. He hiked along the River Suir and the River Blackwater, exploring their valleys and streams. He made repeated journeys to the magnificent cliffs of the South shore of Ireland and, on other days, hiked inland to the Comeragh Mountain range and the Knockmealdown Mountains.
After these adventures he would return to his father’s workshop, elated with the rich tapestry of the landscape his da had painted, and plunged headlong into creating more of his own paintings and ceramic art.
The curator of a prestigious art gallery in the village known as O’Flynn’s Art Studio, upon hearing of Teague’s fine art, offered to display his work. The business of the studio was to help local artists sell their creations so that both the studio and the artist earned money from every piece sold. Frugal Teague enjoyed living a modest lifestyle, so accumulating wealth was not the reason he painted. Nothing pleased him more than to bring his beloved Ireland to life on canvas and pottery. Indeed, if people honored the work he composed, then Teague was the happiest man on earth.
Happiness, though, was not invariably easy to find in Ireland. Irish people who lived in the country or on farms, as well as those in cities, suffered enormously from poverty and want. The consequences of the potato blight endured. Teague grappled with how he, a paltry artist, could help those still enduring immeasurable hardships.
One evening, while warming himself in his father’s workshop, Teague fell into a fitful sleep and awakened in a lush field of shamrocks. Stunned, he sat up, astounded by the unexpected enchantment before his eyes. A gnarled old scrub tree, near the edge of the meadow, stood in sharp contrast to the thick green field. Two massive branches had split apart and there, wearing a shamrock green top hat and long pants, sat a leprechaun with a silly grin on his face, his legs crossed, and a long pipe in his nimble hands. He puffed and blew circles of smoke that floated gently in the air.
“Well, laddie, It’s about time ye came to see me. Glory be, ye look like your da!” the little creature said.
“Ye knew me da?”
“Aye, he came as a young man such as ye, but pining like a lovesick beau that he has no one to share his dreams. I told him of a bonnie lass, a poet, who lived in County Cork near the northern coast. That lassie is your mother. Have ye come seeking a fair maid to settle the longings of your heart?”
“No, something else...though ‘tis my heart that troubles me. The Irish people are suffering hardship, curs on the street fare better than they. There is a plethora of illness and death, people dying alone in a
hovel, malnourished, in agony and despair. The poor are exposed to the elements without shelter. Many turn on each other in their struggle to survive, fighting, stealing, and subject to arrest for crimes they would never countenance if only their humanity was respected. The powerful turn a blind eye to their plight. Babes with distended stomachs suckle a dry tit.”
The leprechaun sat silent for a moment, regarding the words of his visitor. “Goodness, I have a scholar. I have never been addressed in such a manner. Ye use gilded words such as plethora in your speech. Why do you talk so?”
“Momentous problems compel expressive words that fathom the terrible crimes against humanity, words that elucidate the neglect of the powerful and the prejudice of the mighty. We must hear the voice of the downtrodden peasant, the renting is cataclysmic.”
The leprechaun asked, amused, “What is it ye want, lad… from me?”
“Are ye a wizard? Can ye lift this bitter misery from the backs of the Irish people?”
The leprechaun frowned, shaking his head. “I cannot. I lack the power to prevent death, cure illness and starvation, make right the social wrong, save babies from suffering, cause crops to grow, or forge the economy to serve the needs of everyone on the Emerald Isle. What I can do, though, is give you a lucky idea that will let you work your own magic to help the Irish people during their time of trouble.”
“What lucky idea would that be?” Teague asked, intrigued by this odd notion.
“Ye command a talented future, laddie, and can paint the soul of Ireland in a way that lifts the hearts of all people. Give your best work to charity, and I promise ye, the charity will have the luck of selling each of your art pieces at top price to wealthy customers. The money those charities receive from your gift can then help the most needy. So, in order for the luck of the Irish to bear fruit, ye should donate twenty-five percent of your body of work and ceramics to charity as a lifelong practice.”
Twenty-five percent, Teague thought, heaven’s no, I will donate fifty percent.
Teague did as the leprechaun proposed and established his good luck. The wealth of the several charities he supported increased tenfold. Indeed, countless numbers of Irish were able to have enough food, clothing, shelter, and healing to better their quality of life.
Teague’s fame as a talented artist and benefactor spread as the charities promoted his artwork. In southern Ireland, in County Waterford, Teague painted landscapes of the estates of the nobility on commission. He would often include men hunting, or ladies riding fine horses in his pictures, and they paid him handsomely. He decided this was acceptable because it would help more of the poor, and the wealthy landowners always felt they got their money’s worth in return.
Teague also gained popular notoriety through his lovely depictions of the faerie kingdom, complete with faeries, leprechauns, and the other magical creatures he saw in his dreams.
Teague showed his work at O’Flynn’s Art Studio in Waterford village, and some artwork he created would one day be on exhibit with the Royal Dublin Society of Artists. Regardless of his fame, Teague persisted in living simply and honorably, never letting good fortune go to his head.
Aye, ‘tis the luck of the leprechaun, don’t you know…
4
~ The Interim Years ~
1848-1900
~ The Interim Years ~
1848-1900
The deleterious effects of the potato famine, and the insipid response from those in power who could have relieved it, fomented bitter reactive consequences. Efforts to secure relief from the monarchy through the House of Commons were ineffectual, whether by incompetence or ethnic and institutional racism. Desperate people emigrated to the United States. Teague’s father, a landowner, served in the House of Commons, a persistent voice for the Irish and a thorn in the side of Lord Cooke, a member of the House of Lords. Lord Cooke and Bryan met to address the crisis. Lord Cooke asserted the crown was empathetic to the Irish problem. The Queen, he pointed out, had spent E2000 from her personal money for Irish relief.
“That so?” Bryan said. “I heard that the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire offered ten times that much, and was told to cut his offer back to E1000 so as to not embarrass the Queen.”
“Where did you get that information?”
“No matter; is it true?”
“Regardless,” Lord Cooke responded, not answering the question, “the government is removing corn tariffs and that should help.”
“That’s fine,” Bryan said, “if it puts corn in the bellies of the starving people. I am told the government is shipping corn out of Ireland right past our starving populace. Why can’t the British government devise food relief centers throughout Ireland to feed the masses?”
“I would suppose the House of Commons could get behind that kind of remedy. Take it up with them.” “You are not interested in taking the lead in the House of Lords for a programme like that?”
“I am not sure there would be much support among the Lords for establishing such a programme. But, if you would like to do it, the Queen might consider underwriting the cost. Of course, I cannot commit her.”
Despite Bryan McGuinness’ advocacy, it accomplished little on the political scene to quell the anguish befalling the Irish people. Frustrated, the suffering spawned a series of Risings.
In July 1848, a nationalist uprising led by the Young Ireland movement occurred. It was short-lived, unsuccessful, but a harbinger of other risings to come. The Fenian Rising of 1867 seized strategic buildings in Dublin and proclaimed the Irish Republic. The rising failed due to lack of arms and planning.
“That so?” Bryan said. “I heard that the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire offered ten times that much, and was told to cut his offer back to E1000 so as to not embarrass the Queen.”
“Where did you get that information?”
“No matter; is it true?”
“Regardless,” Lord Cooke responded, not answering the question, “the government is removing corn tariffs and that should help.”
“That’s fine,” Bryan said, “if it puts corn in the bellies of the starving people. I am told the government is shipping corn out of Ireland right past our starving populace. Why can’t the British government devise food relief centers throughout Ireland to feed the masses?”
“I would suppose the House of Commons could get behind that kind of remedy. Take it up with them.” “You are not interested in taking the lead in the House of Lords for a programme like that?”
“I am not sure there would be much support among the Lords for establishing such a programme. But, if you would like to do it, the Queen might consider underwriting the cost. Of course, I cannot commit her.”
Despite Bryan McGuinness’ advocacy, it accomplished little on the political scene to quell the anguish befalling the Irish people. Frustrated, the suffering spawned a series of Risings.
In July 1848, a nationalist uprising led by the Young Ireland movement occurred. It was short-lived, unsuccessful, but a harbinger of other risings to come. The Fenian Rising of 1867 seized strategic buildings in Dublin and proclaimed the Irish Republic. The rising failed due to lack of arms and planning.
In 1881-85 a protracted dynamite campaign by the Fenian brotherhood plagued the nation. In 1884, Bryan McGuinness received an urgent tip that the Brotherhood had planted a bomb on the grounds of the House of Commons, set to explode at the busiest time when officials were expected, and that time was now! He rushed to the House of Commons grounds and shouted;
“Bomb! Clear the area! Hurry!” The crowd dispersed as Bryan scoured the grounds and found the bomb in a nondescript paper bag. It held a clock and a red wire led to the explosive. Only seconds remained, 12,11,10. I must defuse it! 9,8,7,6 if I pull the red wire it might stop. He grasped the wire, 5,4,3,2 and yanked! The bomb exploded.
Enya, her heart shattered, passed away within days of his death.
Bryan was hailed as a hero. He had saved many lives that day knowing the risk he was taking. The House of Commons paid tribute to him. The Queen and the prime minister praised his selfless act.
Teague’s world crumbled. Overcome with grief, he isolated himself. Concerned, Duffy went to see him. Teague felt the joy of living and the beauteous, scenic and faerie tapestries he painted no longer held validity.
“What do I do now, Duffy? I am 40 years old. My parents are gone, and I feel so empty. They encouraged me and saw my work as a light in the darkness, a beacon to the better elements of human existence, an appreciation for the spiritual aspect of knowing. But the dark side has killed them. My father tried to turn the tide and look what happened! How can I carry on? What should I do now?”
Duffy put his arms around his shoulders. “Your artistry is even more needed today than ever. And it can further your parents’ efforts toward helping our people overcome this terrible tribulation.”
“How? Tell me.”
“Many world nations are ignorant of the plight of the Irish people; the deaths, disease, poverty and cruelty foisted upon them by an inept government. You can shine that self-same light on the suffering, show the depth of despair and hopelessness wrought therefrom, and awaken the consciousness of nations that can influence the crown to change their behavior.”
“You think so?”
“Aye, America has woken up as you know. You helped Liam emigrate there. Liam can be your contact to broaden America’s knowledge and understanding of the Irish to empower greater help and political pressure. Other countries as well can discover enlightenment through your work. Don’t you see?”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, Duffy,” Teague said, smiling, excited. “I’ll start at once.”
Teague’s first painting arrived in America for Liam to reveal. Liam was now a leader in an Irish organization that helped the Irish emigre orient and adjust to American culture and lifestyle. Liam is aware of sympathetic media that might have an interest in Teague’s work. The foremost magazine in the country was The World Express. When Liam presented his painting they chose it for the cover entitled ‘Briton’s Irish Tragedy’. The painting featured a thin, raggedly dressed woman, her anguished face streaming tears of wretchedness and pain. On her lap lay her emaciated baby with pencil-thin arms and lifeless eyes.
The uproar spread like wildfire and kindled outrage and a compassionate outpouring of empathy for the Irish people. Published criticism of the insensitiveness of the English government called for policy reform and relief on a large scale.
Teague continued his depictions, paintings of Irish in line boarding ships bound for America, dilapidated living spaces, and riveting images of people in distress. The seed germinated, but it would take more than Teague’s lifetime for change to show incontrovertible progress.
It is estimated that one million Irish perished during the potato famine and two million emigrated to other nations.
“Bomb! Clear the area! Hurry!” The crowd dispersed as Bryan scoured the grounds and found the bomb in a nondescript paper bag. It held a clock and a red wire led to the explosive. Only seconds remained, 12,11,10. I must defuse it! 9,8,7,6 if I pull the red wire it might stop. He grasped the wire, 5,4,3,2 and yanked! The bomb exploded.
Enya, her heart shattered, passed away within days of his death.
Bryan was hailed as a hero. He had saved many lives that day knowing the risk he was taking. The House of Commons paid tribute to him. The Queen and the prime minister praised his selfless act.
Teague’s world crumbled. Overcome with grief, he isolated himself. Concerned, Duffy went to see him. Teague felt the joy of living and the beauteous, scenic and faerie tapestries he painted no longer held validity.
“What do I do now, Duffy? I am 40 years old. My parents are gone, and I feel so empty. They encouraged me and saw my work as a light in the darkness, a beacon to the better elements of human existence, an appreciation for the spiritual aspect of knowing. But the dark side has killed them. My father tried to turn the tide and look what happened! How can I carry on? What should I do now?”
Duffy put his arms around his shoulders. “Your artistry is even more needed today than ever. And it can further your parents’ efforts toward helping our people overcome this terrible tribulation.”
“How? Tell me.”
“Many world nations are ignorant of the plight of the Irish people; the deaths, disease, poverty and cruelty foisted upon them by an inept government. You can shine that self-same light on the suffering, show the depth of despair and hopelessness wrought therefrom, and awaken the consciousness of nations that can influence the crown to change their behavior.”
“You think so?”
“Aye, America has woken up as you know. You helped Liam emigrate there. Liam can be your contact to broaden America’s knowledge and understanding of the Irish to empower greater help and political pressure. Other countries as well can discover enlightenment through your work. Don’t you see?”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, Duffy,” Teague said, smiling, excited. “I’ll start at once.”
Teague’s first painting arrived in America for Liam to reveal. Liam was now a leader in an Irish organization that helped the Irish emigre orient and adjust to American culture and lifestyle. Liam is aware of sympathetic media that might have an interest in Teague’s work. The foremost magazine in the country was The World Express. When Liam presented his painting they chose it for the cover entitled ‘Briton’s Irish Tragedy’. The painting featured a thin, raggedly dressed woman, her anguished face streaming tears of wretchedness and pain. On her lap lay her emaciated baby with pencil-thin arms and lifeless eyes.
The uproar spread like wildfire and kindled outrage and a compassionate outpouring of empathy for the Irish people. Published criticism of the insensitiveness of the English government called for policy reform and relief on a large scale.
Teague continued his depictions, paintings of Irish in line boarding ships bound for America, dilapidated living spaces, and riveting images of people in distress. The seed germinated, but it would take more than Teague’s lifetime for change to show incontrovertible progress.
It is estimated that one million Irish perished during the potato famine and two million emigrated to other nations.
5
~The Twilight Years~
1900-1915
~The Twilight Years~
1900-1915
The years passed fleeter then Teague expected until, before he knew it, he entered his seventh decade. The elder Teague had changed little; he had often been forgetful, more because of a tendency to lose himself in thoughts about his work than for any other reason. Still, because of his age and inattentive habits, people now and then thought him muddleheaded. Also, when odds and ends went missing, Teague would scurry about like a cross-eyed squirrel in search of a lost chestnut. He welcomed help from concerned strangers. These days, affable people would get down on their hands and knees, searching for something he lost, check every nook and cranny, shake their heads, and murmur under their breath... “Oh, Mister McGuinness!”
One component that changed as Teague aged was his concentration. He found it tougher to focus on tasks at hand. On a lovely spring day he and his cousin Duffy went on a road trip to the hinterlands to visit Duffy’s younger sister, Clara. Teague hitched his noble donkey, Poky, to his wagon, threw blankets in the back, and Duffy climbed in to sit next to him. Holding the reins, Teague made a clicking noise and Poky moved down the lane. Clara didn’t live too far, but the donkey, true to his name, was poky.
As they travelled, Duffy grew bored and sleepy and nearly fell off the wagon seat. He recovered with a jolt, noticed the soft blankets spread out in the back of the wagon and laid upon them. The familiar gentle bumping and swaying of the wagon soon lulled him to sleep. Teague paid little attention to all this drama as it unfolded. Not that he was rude. He just forgot about his passenger while lost in the beauty of the Irish scenery.
Poky ambled along. In an hour, they came to a fork in the road. Go right, and they would come to Clara’s house. Go left, and the road looped backward. Now, if a donkey could talk and Teague asked which way to go, Poky might say, “Why, let’s go home, of course,” because that’s what he did. Duffy awoke just as, to his surprise, they were right back where they started!
Cousin Duffy wasn’t angry or upset; he sort of thought something like this might happen. Duffy shrugged, let out an enormous sigh, smiled, and muttered, “Oh cousin McGuinness, ye did it again.”
One component that changed as Teague aged was his concentration. He found it tougher to focus on tasks at hand. On a lovely spring day he and his cousin Duffy went on a road trip to the hinterlands to visit Duffy’s younger sister, Clara. Teague hitched his noble donkey, Poky, to his wagon, threw blankets in the back, and Duffy climbed in to sit next to him. Holding the reins, Teague made a clicking noise and Poky moved down the lane. Clara didn’t live too far, but the donkey, true to his name, was poky.
As they travelled, Duffy grew bored and sleepy and nearly fell off the wagon seat. He recovered with a jolt, noticed the soft blankets spread out in the back of the wagon and laid upon them. The familiar gentle bumping and swaying of the wagon soon lulled him to sleep. Teague paid little attention to all this drama as it unfolded. Not that he was rude. He just forgot about his passenger while lost in the beauty of the Irish scenery.
Poky ambled along. In an hour, they came to a fork in the road. Go right, and they would come to Clara’s house. Go left, and the road looped backward. Now, if a donkey could talk and Teague asked which way to go, Poky might say, “Why, let’s go home, of course,” because that’s what he did. Duffy awoke just as, to his surprise, they were right back where they started!
Cousin Duffy wasn’t angry or upset; he sort of thought something like this might happen. Duffy shrugged, let out an enormous sigh, smiled, and muttered, “Oh cousin McGuinness, ye did it again.”
6
~ Fergus Fitzgerald ~
~ Fergus Fitzgerald ~
Teague’s problems were rather mild and manageable until an unexpected event upset the applecart: O’Flynn’s Art Studio was to be sold to a new owner, a businessperson from Dublin by the name of Fergus “Fitz” Fitzgerald. Teague had never met Mr. Fitzgerald, or even heard of him, but Fergus was
notorious in Northern Ireland for his business acquisitions. He was an imposing man, taller than most, with an ever present air of superiority about him. His eyes, dark and brooding, drew you close, then surprised with the shock of a nose mindful of an ungainly swollen pickle. Fergus’ wacky looking protuberance had been the brunt of mean-spirited teasing as he grew up. Children giggled and taunted, “Here comes pickle-nose!” The once considerate little boy took umbrage and grew into a scrappy, insensitive lout, well suited to making tough, no holds barred, business decisions as an adult.
To comprehend the intricacies of how teasing could be so damaging to Fergus, we must know what misfortune befell his parents and how life played a dirty trick on the young lad. When teased, Fergie desperately wanted to turn to his pa and ask what to do, like any other child. Sadly, his father, a fisher, had perished at sea in a terrible storm. Upon his death, widow Fitzgerald took any job she could find to survive.
One evening, after he had been so wretchedly teased, his mum failed to recognize the depth of his despondency. “I’m sorry, Fergie, mum’s too tired to talk right now. I have to rest. Tell me what’s bothering you in the morning; I promise we’ll talk then.”
She overslept. Anxious and realizing she was late to work, she forgot her promise and dashed off. Left alone, the lad was beside himself. What do I do now? Then it occurred to him, What would me da tell me to do if he were here? Mum said he was a hardy and tough sailor who never stood for nonsense. He’d say to hold my ground, I just know it, and never mind what the bullies think or do.
****
Fergus spotted the three boys who tantalized him. They haven’t seen me, I can still avoid them. Butch, the ringleader, was a stocky kid with a round face, bulbous pear-shaped eyes, and an obnoxious swagger. He suddenly looked up as if someone had shouted his name and saw Fergus. He sniggered toward the others. They laughed and walked over.
Fergus braced himself and set his stance wide apart as the boys came within reach. Butch gave him the once-over and scoffed. “Get outta here nincompoop and take that ugly nose of yours with you.” The other boys looked at each other and chortled. “Yeah, get out a here!” Fergus stood his ground. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. Butch lunged to shove him but, anticipating the move, Fergus twisted, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him off balance. The bully stumbled and, before he could recover, Fergus swept him off his feet. Butch landed hard on his back, “Oomph!” His lungs felt the severe shock of the blow and his eyes flared as he strained to catch air. I can’t breathe!
Fergus straddled him, shaking his clinched fist.“You don’t like my nose, do you? Shut your trap or I’ll rearrange yours and we’ll see who has the ugliest snout!
Fergus turned on the others. They stared, open-mouthed. “Come closer guys. I'll give you a knuckle sandwich for free!”
“Nope!” one boy said, backing away. The others turned aside and helped Butch struggle to his feet. Fitz lunged toward them shouting, angrily, “Get outta here!” They ran off.
It worked! It actually worked! The teasing ended, at least from them. Fergus decided that being tough, confident, and aggressive is a good way to handle such matters, and it became his mantra for life.
****
As grueling as his mother labored cleaning houses every day, barely eating or sleeping, it wasn’t a surprise to Fitz that she became gravely ill. Lacking support and unable to care for herself, she had no other choice but to appeal to a priest for help. Fearing death, she arranged for her son to be placed in a Catholic run orphanage and industrial school.
In that sad and hard time, many children without parents or family to support them would go to orphanages to live. Conflict and fighting were common among these unfortunate children. When Fergus fought, he became more confident in his fighting skill than ever. Caregivers intervened by diverting his attention to constructive pursuits, and soon discovered his quickness of mind and prowess with numbers. They placed him in the industrial school to encourage a business acumen. This helped reduce the fighting incidents, and he studied more.
A prominent entrepreneur, Connor McGonigal, took an interest in the young Fitz and volunteered an apprenticeship. Connor owned a business called McGonigal Enterprises. His company succeeded at taking over failing businesses and selling them at a profit. He needed an aggressive young person of like mind to help him expand his business and noticed Fergus had an edge to him. The young man’s no-nonsense, determined attitude was just what Connor had been looking for to groom as a business
partner. So it was that Fergus joined the firm and proved to be such an asset that, upon Conner’s retirement, Fergus independently bought the company from his own proceeds and renamed it Fitzgerald Enterprises.
The latest broken business the now mature and established Fitz found to fix was O’Flynn’s Art Studio, on the southern coast of Ireland. Desperate in the face of failing sales and ever-increasing debt, O’Flynn’s Art Studio was happy to close a deal. Hearing about the pending acquisition by Fitzgerald Enterprises, Jack McKenna, a fellow artist and friend, cautioned Teague that the firm had a fearful reputation. “They know nothing about art, all they care about is making money. They’re up to no good. You better watch out!”
Teague, older but not wiser in business matters, disregarded his friend’s warning. Instead, Teague merrily shrugged and continued his habit of being good old Teague McGuinness.
notorious in Northern Ireland for his business acquisitions. He was an imposing man, taller than most, with an ever present air of superiority about him. His eyes, dark and brooding, drew you close, then surprised with the shock of a nose mindful of an ungainly swollen pickle. Fergus’ wacky looking protuberance had been the brunt of mean-spirited teasing as he grew up. Children giggled and taunted, “Here comes pickle-nose!” The once considerate little boy took umbrage and grew into a scrappy, insensitive lout, well suited to making tough, no holds barred, business decisions as an adult.
To comprehend the intricacies of how teasing could be so damaging to Fergus, we must know what misfortune befell his parents and how life played a dirty trick on the young lad. When teased, Fergie desperately wanted to turn to his pa and ask what to do, like any other child. Sadly, his father, a fisher, had perished at sea in a terrible storm. Upon his death, widow Fitzgerald took any job she could find to survive.
One evening, after he had been so wretchedly teased, his mum failed to recognize the depth of his despondency. “I’m sorry, Fergie, mum’s too tired to talk right now. I have to rest. Tell me what’s bothering you in the morning; I promise we’ll talk then.”
She overslept. Anxious and realizing she was late to work, she forgot her promise and dashed off. Left alone, the lad was beside himself. What do I do now? Then it occurred to him, What would me da tell me to do if he were here? Mum said he was a hardy and tough sailor who never stood for nonsense. He’d say to hold my ground, I just know it, and never mind what the bullies think or do.
****
Fergus spotted the three boys who tantalized him. They haven’t seen me, I can still avoid them. Butch, the ringleader, was a stocky kid with a round face, bulbous pear-shaped eyes, and an obnoxious swagger. He suddenly looked up as if someone had shouted his name and saw Fergus. He sniggered toward the others. They laughed and walked over.
Fergus braced himself and set his stance wide apart as the boys came within reach. Butch gave him the once-over and scoffed. “Get outta here nincompoop and take that ugly nose of yours with you.” The other boys looked at each other and chortled. “Yeah, get out a here!” Fergus stood his ground. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. Butch lunged to shove him but, anticipating the move, Fergus twisted, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him off balance. The bully stumbled and, before he could recover, Fergus swept him off his feet. Butch landed hard on his back, “Oomph!” His lungs felt the severe shock of the blow and his eyes flared as he strained to catch air. I can’t breathe!
Fergus straddled him, shaking his clinched fist.“You don’t like my nose, do you? Shut your trap or I’ll rearrange yours and we’ll see who has the ugliest snout!
Fergus turned on the others. They stared, open-mouthed. “Come closer guys. I'll give you a knuckle sandwich for free!”
“Nope!” one boy said, backing away. The others turned aside and helped Butch struggle to his feet. Fitz lunged toward them shouting, angrily, “Get outta here!” They ran off.
It worked! It actually worked! The teasing ended, at least from them. Fergus decided that being tough, confident, and aggressive is a good way to handle such matters, and it became his mantra for life.
****
As grueling as his mother labored cleaning houses every day, barely eating or sleeping, it wasn’t a surprise to Fitz that she became gravely ill. Lacking support and unable to care for herself, she had no other choice but to appeal to a priest for help. Fearing death, she arranged for her son to be placed in a Catholic run orphanage and industrial school.
In that sad and hard time, many children without parents or family to support them would go to orphanages to live. Conflict and fighting were common among these unfortunate children. When Fergus fought, he became more confident in his fighting skill than ever. Caregivers intervened by diverting his attention to constructive pursuits, and soon discovered his quickness of mind and prowess with numbers. They placed him in the industrial school to encourage a business acumen. This helped reduce the fighting incidents, and he studied more.
A prominent entrepreneur, Connor McGonigal, took an interest in the young Fitz and volunteered an apprenticeship. Connor owned a business called McGonigal Enterprises. His company succeeded at taking over failing businesses and selling them at a profit. He needed an aggressive young person of like mind to help him expand his business and noticed Fergus had an edge to him. The young man’s no-nonsense, determined attitude was just what Connor had been looking for to groom as a business
partner. So it was that Fergus joined the firm and proved to be such an asset that, upon Conner’s retirement, Fergus independently bought the company from his own proceeds and renamed it Fitzgerald Enterprises.
The latest broken business the now mature and established Fitz found to fix was O’Flynn’s Art Studio, on the southern coast of Ireland. Desperate in the face of failing sales and ever-increasing debt, O’Flynn’s Art Studio was happy to close a deal. Hearing about the pending acquisition by Fitzgerald Enterprises, Jack McKenna, a fellow artist and friend, cautioned Teague that the firm had a fearful reputation. “They know nothing about art, all they care about is making money. They’re up to no good. You better watch out!”
Teague, older but not wiser in business matters, disregarded his friend’s warning. Instead, Teague merrily shrugged and continued his habit of being good old Teague McGuinness.
~ O’Flynn’s Art Studio ~
Two chairs faced each other in a small, vacant room just inside the main entry to the art studio. Fergus Fitzgerald sat down, stretched his long legs, and waited impatiently for his next interviewee to come through the door. He had completed two interviews this morning with the only employees at O’Flynn’s: the manager, Seamus Donegan, and the art studio housekeeper, Maggie Murphy. They’re reasonably competent, Fitz smugly judged. I’ll keep them employed so long as they carry out my instructions.
When interviewing Seamus and Maggie, Fergus told them he would not talk only with employees, he would interview artists as well because “their work is our product and product is profit. I only want artists who produce quality work!” By conscientious discipline Mr. Fitzgerald was thorough and examined every artist’s work file. He noticed something unusual. “One artist has not brought in a work
of art for over a year,” he told Seamus, “and we can’t make money that way. This is exactly the sort of riffraff I intend to get rid of!”
“Who are ye speakin’ about?” Seamus asked, uncomfortable with the “riffraff” remark. Fergus shuffled through his notes. “I’m speaking of the artist Teague McGuinness.”
“Teague? Riffraff? Ye would get rid of him? Ye must not let him go, man, he’s the best artist we ‘ave!” Seamus insisted, “Have ye seen the quality of his work?”
“What work!” Fergus said. “Production is what I’m interested in, production and the bottom line!”
Later, when Fergus interviewed the housekeeper, Maggie, she mentioned proudly the display room she always kept in perfect order to present the artist’s work to prospective customers. The artists who most appreciated her efforts, she said, were McKenna, O’Brien, and McGuinness. At mention of McGuinness, Fergus reacted sarcastically, “Oh yes, Seamus and I talked about him. He’s produced no new artwork for over a year. We’re running a business. I’ll not put up with deadbeats!”
“Deadbeats...?” Maggie uttered, stunned.
“He must be too old to do this work anymore,” Fergus said. “Why else would he stop bringing us new art to sell?”
Maggie sat as still as a bunny rabbit staring at a snake. A small pearl teardrop formed at the corner of her eye. “Oh Mr. Fitzgerald,” she finally said, “there has to be some explanation other than age. Just last week I saw Teague out and about.”
“He may get around, but can he do the artwork? I don’t think so,” Fergus said, unconvinced. “He has an appointment; he should be here within the hour.”
When interviewing Seamus and Maggie, Fergus told them he would not talk only with employees, he would interview artists as well because “their work is our product and product is profit. I only want artists who produce quality work!” By conscientious discipline Mr. Fitzgerald was thorough and examined every artist’s work file. He noticed something unusual. “One artist has not brought in a work
of art for over a year,” he told Seamus, “and we can’t make money that way. This is exactly the sort of riffraff I intend to get rid of!”
“Who are ye speakin’ about?” Seamus asked, uncomfortable with the “riffraff” remark. Fergus shuffled through his notes. “I’m speaking of the artist Teague McGuinness.”
“Teague? Riffraff? Ye would get rid of him? Ye must not let him go, man, he’s the best artist we ‘ave!” Seamus insisted, “Have ye seen the quality of his work?”
“What work!” Fergus said. “Production is what I’m interested in, production and the bottom line!”
Later, when Fergus interviewed the housekeeper, Maggie, she mentioned proudly the display room she always kept in perfect order to present the artist’s work to prospective customers. The artists who most appreciated her efforts, she said, were McKenna, O’Brien, and McGuinness. At mention of McGuinness, Fergus reacted sarcastically, “Oh yes, Seamus and I talked about him. He’s produced no new artwork for over a year. We’re running a business. I’ll not put up with deadbeats!”
“Deadbeats...?” Maggie uttered, stunned.
“He must be too old to do this work anymore,” Fergus said. “Why else would he stop bringing us new art to sell?”
Maggie sat as still as a bunny rabbit staring at a snake. A small pearl teardrop formed at the corner of her eye. “Oh Mr. Fitzgerald,” she finally said, “there has to be some explanation other than age. Just last week I saw Teague out and about.”
“He may get around, but can he do the artwork? I don’t think so,” Fergus said, unconvinced. “He has an appointment; he should be here within the hour.”
~ The Challenge ~
It was sunny outside when Teague and Poky stopped in front of the Studio. Teague tied Poky to the hitching post and hobbled through the front door, leaning on a walking stick. The light inside was dim, and Teague mistakenly turned toward a side room and found himself amongst file cabinets and boxes.
“McGuinness! Over here!” someone shouted behind him. Then, too quiet for Teague to hear, the speaker growled, “Addlepated old fool.” He made his way to the lanky man seated in the other room and extended his hand. “I’m Teague McGuinness,” he said with respect.
“I know who you are,” the solemn gentleman said coldly, ignoring his hand, “I’m Mr. Fitzgerald. Take a seat.” Fergus cleared his throat and leaned forward. “I have an important reason to ask you to meet with me today, and I’ll come right to the point. This may be news to you, but for some time now O’Flynn’s Art Studio has been underperforming.”
“Underperforming?”
“By that I mean the studio is not selling enough art to succeed as a business, and this is unacceptable.” “Goodness, I didn’t know that,” Teague replied, genuinely concerned.
“I’ve asked you here, McGuinness, because as the new owner of this company I mean to make changes about how we do things. This enterprise is in trouble and I’m convinced laggards are responsible. I’ll fix that soon enough, you can be sure of that!”
Laggards? What in the world is he talking about? Teague wondered.
“I’m meeting with every artist who has their artwork placed here for sale. Starting with you, I’m informing all artists straight out what I expect, so listen closely! If you want to do business with me, you will do it my way. Is that understood?”
Have I done something wrong? Teague wondered, unsettled. He’s so angry! “What can I do for you, Mr. Fitzgerald? You seem upset.”
“Damn right, I’m upset! I’ll tell you what you can do, you can produce more work, if you are capable of it. The record shows you’ve not brought us any new artwork for months.”
“Well, that’s only because I give...”
“Stop right there!” Fergus interrupted. “All I hear are excuses in this business and I’ve had my fill of it! I’ll make it easy for you. Here are my terms: If you want to sell through our studio, bring me a new piece of artwork in the next three weeks. I want something unique, better than you’ve ever made before. If you’re not able or willing to do that, McGuinness,” Fergus seethed, “you can clear out your unsold artwork right now and I’ll find a new artisan to take your place.”
Teague took a deep breath. Anyone other than him would take offense at Fitzgerald’s belligerence, stand up and walk straight out the door and never come back. But that was not how Teague operated. “You have a heavy burden, Mr. Fitzgerald.” Teague smiled as he rose from his chair to leave, “I’ll do whatever I can to help you out.”
“You will?” surprised that the old man accepted his terms.
“Certainly, I never let a friend down.”
Fergus watched the old man depart with his cane and hobble back outside. He was speechless; no one he ever challenged in such a manner called him “friend.” They might call him “jerk” or “jackass,” but never “friend.”
Aye, what a strange little man is this Teague McGuinness, Fergus thought.
“McGuinness! Over here!” someone shouted behind him. Then, too quiet for Teague to hear, the speaker growled, “Addlepated old fool.” He made his way to the lanky man seated in the other room and extended his hand. “I’m Teague McGuinness,” he said with respect.
“I know who you are,” the solemn gentleman said coldly, ignoring his hand, “I’m Mr. Fitzgerald. Take a seat.” Fergus cleared his throat and leaned forward. “I have an important reason to ask you to meet with me today, and I’ll come right to the point. This may be news to you, but for some time now O’Flynn’s Art Studio has been underperforming.”
“Underperforming?”
“By that I mean the studio is not selling enough art to succeed as a business, and this is unacceptable.” “Goodness, I didn’t know that,” Teague replied, genuinely concerned.
“I’ve asked you here, McGuinness, because as the new owner of this company I mean to make changes about how we do things. This enterprise is in trouble and I’m convinced laggards are responsible. I’ll fix that soon enough, you can be sure of that!”
Laggards? What in the world is he talking about? Teague wondered.
“I’m meeting with every artist who has their artwork placed here for sale. Starting with you, I’m informing all artists straight out what I expect, so listen closely! If you want to do business with me, you will do it my way. Is that understood?”
Have I done something wrong? Teague wondered, unsettled. He’s so angry! “What can I do for you, Mr. Fitzgerald? You seem upset.”
“Damn right, I’m upset! I’ll tell you what you can do, you can produce more work, if you are capable of it. The record shows you’ve not brought us any new artwork for months.”
“Well, that’s only because I give...”
“Stop right there!” Fergus interrupted. “All I hear are excuses in this business and I’ve had my fill of it! I’ll make it easy for you. Here are my terms: If you want to sell through our studio, bring me a new piece of artwork in the next three weeks. I want something unique, better than you’ve ever made before. If you’re not able or willing to do that, McGuinness,” Fergus seethed, “you can clear out your unsold artwork right now and I’ll find a new artisan to take your place.”
Teague took a deep breath. Anyone other than him would take offense at Fitzgerald’s belligerence, stand up and walk straight out the door and never come back. But that was not how Teague operated. “You have a heavy burden, Mr. Fitzgerald.” Teague smiled as he rose from his chair to leave, “I’ll do whatever I can to help you out.”
“You will?” surprised that the old man accepted his terms.
“Certainly, I never let a friend down.”
Fergus watched the old man depart with his cane and hobble back outside. He was speechless; no one he ever challenged in such a manner called him “friend.” They might call him “jerk” or “jackass,” but never “friend.”
Aye, what a strange little man is this Teague McGuinness, Fergus thought.
7
~ Maghera Falls~
~ Maghera Falls~
On the way back home, Teague sat in the wagon seat bumping along on the country lane and thought: If only Mr. Fitzgerald had let me explain, he would have learned that I create several new pieces of art every year. I sell it to the gentry and use the money to help the poor. Oh well, there’s nothing I can do about that now. What can I craft that will satisfy him and make such an unhappy man happy?
As he came to a lush meadow, he turned down a broad, meandering path alongside a rushing stream. The path dropped and looped around. He smiled when he heard the thundering cascade of Maghera Falls just beyond the bend. As the falls came into view, Teague reined Poky to a stop, gripped his
walking stick, and stepped down from the wagon seat. He made his way toward a catch basin at the foot of frothy, tumbling waters.
The fresh sweet scent of moist air filled his nostrils as he watched water appear above as if from a hidden, endless source, spill over greenish stones on the cliff face, and drop free to a golden pool at his feet. In the shade, kissed by streaks of sunbeams breaking through, puffs of mist curled around an open gap in the moss-covered stones behind the tumbling waterfall.
He could not be sure at first, but something appeared to move behind the mist. Then he saw her, a diminutive little creature who flitted about, afloat in the air before him. It must be a dream. He pinched himself. Ouch! I’m awake after all, and face to face with a faerie. She’s calling to me, but how is it that I can hear her tiny voice over the loud cascade of water? Oh yeah, I get it! She's inside my mind! As he concentrated, the thundering noise of falling water faded to a soft murmur in the background, and he heard her every word.
“Faith and begorrah!” the faerie exclaimed. “What problems ye have, Laddie! Don’t worry yourself, I will help.”
“Ye...ye be aware of my troubles with Mr. Fergus Fitzgerald?” Teague said, astonished. “He is angry with me, but how can ye know that?”
“Aye, laddie, ‘tis our business to know such things. When faeries are in trouble, we are always there to help.”
“When faeries...?” Teague blubbered, confused, “I’m not a faerie!”
“No,” the faerie giggled, “but close enough I dare say! So, listen here, Fergus Fitzgerald has asked you to create a new piece of uncommon art. Isn’t that true, laddie?”
“Aye, ’tis true.”
“Very well then, ye shall create a decanter the like of which no human has seen before, and I shall guide you. When you finish, place it at the art studio and leave the rest to those of us in the faerie kingdom.”
As he came to a lush meadow, he turned down a broad, meandering path alongside a rushing stream. The path dropped and looped around. He smiled when he heard the thundering cascade of Maghera Falls just beyond the bend. As the falls came into view, Teague reined Poky to a stop, gripped his
walking stick, and stepped down from the wagon seat. He made his way toward a catch basin at the foot of frothy, tumbling waters.
The fresh sweet scent of moist air filled his nostrils as he watched water appear above as if from a hidden, endless source, spill over greenish stones on the cliff face, and drop free to a golden pool at his feet. In the shade, kissed by streaks of sunbeams breaking through, puffs of mist curled around an open gap in the moss-covered stones behind the tumbling waterfall.
He could not be sure at first, but something appeared to move behind the mist. Then he saw her, a diminutive little creature who flitted about, afloat in the air before him. It must be a dream. He pinched himself. Ouch! I’m awake after all, and face to face with a faerie. She’s calling to me, but how is it that I can hear her tiny voice over the loud cascade of water? Oh yeah, I get it! She's inside my mind! As he concentrated, the thundering noise of falling water faded to a soft murmur in the background, and he heard her every word.
“Faith and begorrah!” the faerie exclaimed. “What problems ye have, Laddie! Don’t worry yourself, I will help.”
“Ye...ye be aware of my troubles with Mr. Fergus Fitzgerald?” Teague said, astonished. “He is angry with me, but how can ye know that?”
“Aye, laddie, ‘tis our business to know such things. When faeries are in trouble, we are always there to help.”
“When faeries...?” Teague blubbered, confused, “I’m not a faerie!”
“No,” the faerie giggled, “but close enough I dare say! So, listen here, Fergus Fitzgerald has asked you to create a new piece of uncommon art. Isn’t that true, laddie?”
“Aye, ’tis true.”
“Very well then, ye shall create a decanter the like of which no human has seen before, and I shall guide you. When you finish, place it at the art studio and leave the rest to those of us in the faerie kingdom.”
8
~ The Faerie Princess ~
~ The Faerie Princess ~
Teague, as any child could tell you by now, has a tender heart overflowing with poetry. While he crafted the beautiful decanter he gushed forth in a poem:
Upon this gilded vase, a Faerie Princess shall dwell,
Prim and bold as a wee tinkling bell,
Binding all creatures under her spell,
With enchanting story, eternal to tell.
Prim and bold as a wee tinkling bell,
Binding all creatures under her spell,
With enchanting story, eternal to tell.
Beguiled and bewitched, old Teague McGuinness painted upon the decanter, a secret and mysterious garden adorned with many precious flowers. The emerald blue-green pond water was so magical you could see whatever your heart desired just by gazing into its depths. Bumblebees lit upon blossoms and gathered sweet honey nectar from every flower. The fragrant smell of roses filled the air. Butterflies flitted here and there, rising and falling on the soft summer breeze. In the pond, near a lily pad, the
snout and bug-eyed visage of a humongous bullfrog emerged. If you held the decanter just so, you would swear you heard the frog’s croak: “Ribbit!”
From the pond, a path invited the person cradling the decanter to turn it slightly. There, in regal splendor, stood the tiny faerie princess. Her fine wings fell to her sides like a soft cocoon, fragile yet able to lift her in an instant. Other faeries had laced the lovely trim of her blouse with golden thread, and her white skirt reached to her dainty ruby red slippers. Her golden hair matched her golden sash and, ‘tis true, her tiara crown looked like the same glass tiara stopper on the decanter! The faerie’s delicate face, drawn by Teague with the finest brush, revealed an endearing expression that displayed a calm and knowing wisdom, a hint impish, and bright little eyes that twinkled.
snout and bug-eyed visage of a humongous bullfrog emerged. If you held the decanter just so, you would swear you heard the frog’s croak: “Ribbit!”
From the pond, a path invited the person cradling the decanter to turn it slightly. There, in regal splendor, stood the tiny faerie princess. Her fine wings fell to her sides like a soft cocoon, fragile yet able to lift her in an instant. Other faeries had laced the lovely trim of her blouse with golden thread, and her white skirt reached to her dainty ruby red slippers. Her golden hair matched her golden sash and, ‘tis true, her tiara crown looked like the same glass tiara stopper on the decanter! The faerie’s delicate face, drawn by Teague with the finest brush, revealed an endearing expression that displayed a calm and knowing wisdom, a hint impish, and bright little eyes that twinkled.
9
~ The Display Case ~
~ The Display Case ~
Fergus remained determined to rid himself of the muddle minded old Teague McGuinness. Business is business, after all! Still, he had placed a challenge before the old man to create something exceptional and, since McGuinness left word he had completed his new artwork, Fergus had no choice but to look
it over. Seamus and Maggie insisted Teague was a superb artist, but Fergus shook his head in disbelief. Those two lame-brains are bamboozled, he thought. McGuinness doesn’t fool me!
Fitzgerald unlocked the door to the art studio and stepped inside. “That’s odd,” he said. “This isn’t a flower shop, so why do I smell roses?” The odor drew him toward a table near a window. Passing by a decorated mirror on the wall, he saw his own face, but turned quickly aside. He couldn’t bear to look at the image of his broad, pickle shaped nose. That’s when he noticed Teague’s artwork on the table.
He scanned the pieces and sneered. Nothing special here, that ends it, McGuinness is through. He turned to leave when a tinkling bell, oh so melodious, sounded from an ornate decanter sitting smack dab in the middle of the table. What’s this, a musical vase? Now that, Fergus thought, astonished… that is different!
He lifted the urn and, despite himself, broke into a broad smile when he saw the gawking bullfrog. Following the path with his eyes, he rotated it slightly while he began to remove the lovely glass stopper. His gaze fell upon the faerie princess. She winked! “What in Heaven’s name!” he exclaimed, nearly dropping the vessel.
“Yippee!” the Faerie Princess shouted as she sprang off the decanter. “Kerpop!” went the stopper. Faerie powder spouted from the nozzle and swirled about Fitzgerald’s head. “Oh, my!” Fergus smacked, running his tongue over his powdered lips, “That tastes just like me mum’s amber apple pie fresh from her fireplace oven!”
If we were to ask children about faerie powder, they would tell us its secret ingredient is love. So, is it any wonder that Fergus Fitzgerald, overcome with love, giggled? Then, lo-and-behold, the faerie princess began giggling as well. She spread her wings and in the wink of an eye flew right to Fergus Fitzgerald’s face and tickled his pickle nose with her magic wand.
“Wha..what are you doing?” Fergus said, reaching for his head. “What are you doing to my nose?” He ran straight to the mirror on the wall. A perplexed look spread over his countenance as he studied the image. “It’s shaped the same,” he said to himself, “but somehow it’s different. It’s… it is... distinctive. Why haven’t I noticed this before?” A broad grin formed and excitement rose within. Of course, the faerie! “It has a certain flair,” he declared. “Me nose is noble!”
Fergus couldn’t contain himself any longer. He let out a robust whoop and felt his legs twitch in a vaguely familiar pattern. What’s happening? I haven’t danced an Irish jig since I was six years old, but look at me now! He pumped his arms and kicked his heels and somehow managed not to break one vase or knock over one table as he swirled about the crowded room. As he pranced, tears of joy streamed down his cheeks. “My nose! My nose! I love my nose!”
Truth is, anyone who saw his schnozzle thought it looked splendiferous on his mature, adult face, especially since he now flashed a blissful smile wherever he went. Well, what do you know, angry Fergus Fitzgerald became as sugary sweet as apple pie and, ’tis true, everyone young and old loves Irish apple pie! Fergus became the kindest business owner ever, concerned about the well-being of his employees, and never again thought of getting rid of good old Teague McGuinness.
Not only that, Fergus stopped giving orders and discovered he enjoyed helping Seamus and Maggie at the art studio more than anything else in the world. He shared candy and pastries with the children, who came to visit. There was but one problem, he couldn’t stop eating the goodies himself, and before long
he was roly-poly. The children talked it over and asked the faeries to give Fergus a new name. From that day forward, he was called Grandpa Sweet Apple Pie.
it over. Seamus and Maggie insisted Teague was a superb artist, but Fergus shook his head in disbelief. Those two lame-brains are bamboozled, he thought. McGuinness doesn’t fool me!
Fitzgerald unlocked the door to the art studio and stepped inside. “That’s odd,” he said. “This isn’t a flower shop, so why do I smell roses?” The odor drew him toward a table near a window. Passing by a decorated mirror on the wall, he saw his own face, but turned quickly aside. He couldn’t bear to look at the image of his broad, pickle shaped nose. That’s when he noticed Teague’s artwork on the table.
He scanned the pieces and sneered. Nothing special here, that ends it, McGuinness is through. He turned to leave when a tinkling bell, oh so melodious, sounded from an ornate decanter sitting smack dab in the middle of the table. What’s this, a musical vase? Now that, Fergus thought, astonished… that is different!
He lifted the urn and, despite himself, broke into a broad smile when he saw the gawking bullfrog. Following the path with his eyes, he rotated it slightly while he began to remove the lovely glass stopper. His gaze fell upon the faerie princess. She winked! “What in Heaven’s name!” he exclaimed, nearly dropping the vessel.
“Yippee!” the Faerie Princess shouted as she sprang off the decanter. “Kerpop!” went the stopper. Faerie powder spouted from the nozzle and swirled about Fitzgerald’s head. “Oh, my!” Fergus smacked, running his tongue over his powdered lips, “That tastes just like me mum’s amber apple pie fresh from her fireplace oven!”
If we were to ask children about faerie powder, they would tell us its secret ingredient is love. So, is it any wonder that Fergus Fitzgerald, overcome with love, giggled? Then, lo-and-behold, the faerie princess began giggling as well. She spread her wings and in the wink of an eye flew right to Fergus Fitzgerald’s face and tickled his pickle nose with her magic wand.
“Wha..what are you doing?” Fergus said, reaching for his head. “What are you doing to my nose?” He ran straight to the mirror on the wall. A perplexed look spread over his countenance as he studied the image. “It’s shaped the same,” he said to himself, “but somehow it’s different. It’s… it is... distinctive. Why haven’t I noticed this before?” A broad grin formed and excitement rose within. Of course, the faerie! “It has a certain flair,” he declared. “Me nose is noble!”
Fergus couldn’t contain himself any longer. He let out a robust whoop and felt his legs twitch in a vaguely familiar pattern. What’s happening? I haven’t danced an Irish jig since I was six years old, but look at me now! He pumped his arms and kicked his heels and somehow managed not to break one vase or knock over one table as he swirled about the crowded room. As he pranced, tears of joy streamed down his cheeks. “My nose! My nose! I love my nose!”
Truth is, anyone who saw his schnozzle thought it looked splendiferous on his mature, adult face, especially since he now flashed a blissful smile wherever he went. Well, what do you know, angry Fergus Fitzgerald became as sugary sweet as apple pie and, ’tis true, everyone young and old loves Irish apple pie! Fergus became the kindest business owner ever, concerned about the well-being of his employees, and never again thought of getting rid of good old Teague McGuinness.
Not only that, Fergus stopped giving orders and discovered he enjoyed helping Seamus and Maggie at the art studio more than anything else in the world. He shared candy and pastries with the children, who came to visit. There was but one problem, he couldn’t stop eating the goodies himself, and before long
he was roly-poly. The children talked it over and asked the faeries to give Fergus a new name. From that day forward, he was called Grandpa Sweet Apple Pie.
10
~The Faerie Kingdom~
~The Faerie Kingdom~
Guess who turned in her tiara for a Queen’s crown and became Queen Lilly of the Enchanted Pond? The faerie princess! She now rules over the entire Faerie Kingdom, isn’t that precious? Queen Lilly and her faeries are vigilant to help humans in times of need, so remain alert! Good people who do bad things on accident may feel a tender pat on their shoulder and hear a faint song of faerie poetry in their ears:
When Faeries sprinkle magic powder,
Faerie songs resound louder
Children, young and old, bestow
Kindness setting souls aglow.
Mindful of the needs of others,
With love for brothers, sisters, fathers, and mothers.
Queen Lilly and faeries of the enchanted pond
Hear all pleas and pledge this bond:
Lads and lassies ‘tis true,
One thing for sure you always knew:
The Kingdom nurtures humans day and night,
Grateful spirits soar with faerie light!
10
~The Induction Ceremony~
St. Patrick’s Day 1915
Faerie songs resound louder
Children, young and old, bestow
Kindness setting souls aglow.
Mindful of the needs of others,
With love for brothers, sisters, fathers, and mothers.
Queen Lilly and faeries of the enchanted pond
Hear all pleas and pledge this bond:
Lads and lassies ‘tis true,
One thing for sure you always knew:
The Kingdom nurtures humans day and night,
Grateful spirits soar with faerie light!
10
~The Induction Ceremony~
St. Patrick’s Day 1915
Teague’s masterpiece was almost complete, his brush strokes still certain and unwavering, despite his physical weakness and labored breathing. Alone in his father’s workshop, everything he loved surrounded good old Teague McGuinness … and he was at peace. His life as a human being was ebbing but it troubled him not. A new adventure was about to begin. Three months ago, the Leprechaun came to him in a dream with a message from the faerie kingdom. It charged him with a bodacious task as time is of the essence.
“Ye must paint a scene of the faerie kingdom under guidance of Queen Lilly of the Enchanted Pond,” the Leprechaun said. “She will instruct ye in your dreams. Will ye do as she requests?”
“Aye!” Teague responded. “I would be honored!”
The canvas, painted since the Leprechaun’s visit, needed one more image for completion, a likeness of Teague. The panorama, replete with the colors of the rainbow, seemed mythical. But Teague, a true master of the art, held nothing back. He revealed a depiction the queen’s court assembled for an induction ceremony.
With the delicate touch of his exquisite brush, the figure kneeling before the Queen was finalized, and the features of Teague McGuinness came into view. The quality of the painted image on canvas was so intricate that Teague grew excited. “What would it be like if I could really be there at the Queen’s court?” Suddenly, he felt a strange flutter of his ancient heart, like the flapping wings of a hummingbird. He swooned, and laid his cheek on the painting.
Duffy found his body. Teague’s countenance bore an intriguing expression. His eyes were closed as if fast asleep, a contented smile on his lips.
****
Startled, Teague found himself before Queen Lilly and her entourage of faerie officialdom and guests! And there was... there was the Leprechaun who tipped his hat in greeting and floated a smoke ring above a broad waggish grin!
Teague’s face lit with joy as he realized he had been transformed. And, amazingly, he felt strong and youthful, the years melted away.
“Welcome to the faerie kingdom, Teague,” Queen Lilly said, casting a sweet smile, “I gathered us together to confer a grande honor upon you. Of humankind, you are most favored by the faeries. Kneel.”
Teague kneeled. Queen Lilly approached, extended her wand, and dabbed him first on one shoulder and then the other. “I dub thee Sir McGuinness, Queen’s Counselor and Prime Minister of the Queen’s Court. From this day forward you shall consult the throne as special representative for all humans who believe in faeries. Arise, Sir McGuinness.”
In that instant, with the Queen’s declaration ringing in his ears, Teague McGuinness became a faerie, empowered by special dispensation to appear in the dreams of humans … as faeries are apt to do.
A humble artist and poet, he became an emissary for the Crown and a voice for the Irish people, and for children of all ages throughout the world who love faerie tales.
And so humans and faeries, kissed by the spell of faerie powder, touched by Queen Lilly’s wand, or visited by Teague in a dream, shall be spirit-bound to live gleefully, oh so merrily ….
“Ye must paint a scene of the faerie kingdom under guidance of Queen Lilly of the Enchanted Pond,” the Leprechaun said. “She will instruct ye in your dreams. Will ye do as she requests?”
“Aye!” Teague responded. “I would be honored!”
The canvas, painted since the Leprechaun’s visit, needed one more image for completion, a likeness of Teague. The panorama, replete with the colors of the rainbow, seemed mythical. But Teague, a true master of the art, held nothing back. He revealed a depiction the queen’s court assembled for an induction ceremony.
With the delicate touch of his exquisite brush, the figure kneeling before the Queen was finalized, and the features of Teague McGuinness came into view. The quality of the painted image on canvas was so intricate that Teague grew excited. “What would it be like if I could really be there at the Queen’s court?” Suddenly, he felt a strange flutter of his ancient heart, like the flapping wings of a hummingbird. He swooned, and laid his cheek on the painting.
Duffy found his body. Teague’s countenance bore an intriguing expression. His eyes were closed as if fast asleep, a contented smile on his lips.
****
Startled, Teague found himself before Queen Lilly and her entourage of faerie officialdom and guests! And there was... there was the Leprechaun who tipped his hat in greeting and floated a smoke ring above a broad waggish grin!
Teague’s face lit with joy as he realized he had been transformed. And, amazingly, he felt strong and youthful, the years melted away.
“Welcome to the faerie kingdom, Teague,” Queen Lilly said, casting a sweet smile, “I gathered us together to confer a grande honor upon you. Of humankind, you are most favored by the faeries. Kneel.”
Teague kneeled. Queen Lilly approached, extended her wand, and dabbed him first on one shoulder and then the other. “I dub thee Sir McGuinness, Queen’s Counselor and Prime Minister of the Queen’s Court. From this day forward you shall consult the throne as special representative for all humans who believe in faeries. Arise, Sir McGuinness.”
In that instant, with the Queen’s declaration ringing in his ears, Teague McGuinness became a faerie, empowered by special dispensation to appear in the dreams of humans … as faeries are apt to do.
A humble artist and poet, he became an emissary for the Crown and a voice for the Irish people, and for children of all ages throughout the world who love faerie tales.
And so humans and faeries, kissed by the spell of faerie powder, touched by Queen Lilly’s wand, or visited by Teague in a dream, shall be spirit-bound to live gleefully, oh so merrily ….
Forevermore!
Story recorded by Phineas Quill-Wielder, Esquire, Chief Faerie Scribe Extraordinaire, Faerie Kingdom XXXXIV, Auspicious Reign of Queen Lilly of the Enchanted Pond.
All Rights Reserved to the Crown.
All Rights Reserved to the Crown.
Sheehan, in his 94th year, has published 53 books, has work in Rosebud, The Linnet’s Wings (100), Copperfield Review, Literally Stories (150), Frontier Tales, Green Silk Journal, Rope & Wire Magazine, He’s earned 18 Pushcart nominations, and 6 Best of Net nominations, with one winner. Two more western collections will be released simultaneously by Pocol Press soon, “The Townsmen<,” and “Call Me Chef and Other Stories,” written by a man who has never been on a horse, Last year he won Ageless Writers story contest with The Tale of Trot and Dim Johnny, and has submitted other books |
Grandmother Calls the Shot about a New Location
I wondered where this ship below me was going, why junk was the cargo, all that clap-trap debris of the deserted, from wayside conglomerations and ruins and cast-offs that old men in thick white whiskers and beards picked up in horse-drawn wagons and now and then a small red truck with high red sideboards, a step up from the horse vehicle, for delivery and sale at junkyards in the area. The answers came later, in one fell swoop of destiny. There was a singular difference in the cargo of outgoing ships and the junk wagons; the ships only carried metal while the junk wagons also carried scrap paper and cardboard baled tight with rope or wire or old neckties whose patterns still showed off their styles, and bales of old rags in new patterns.
It was July of 1936, sticky hot, perhaps ice cream someplace I hoped, but I was acutely aware that ice cream might not happen this day. The steel bars of Boston's old Mystic River Bridge in my hands were hard and warm, as the sun had hours of penetration and I had one hour to spare within my dramatic playground out over the Mystic River we called "The Oily" with observant regard for its rainbowed surface. Having slipped inside the girder work of a cage-like support angled at 45 degrees, my eyes went directly down on a boat about to pass under the bridge loaded with iron junk, old cold steel, surely lots of brass and copper from junk yards and junk wagons all over Boston. Long lengths of copper and brass, gleaming in the mess, looked like sandwich parts between dark iron crusts. The bridge sat between Boston's Charlestown borough, proud as the Bunker Hill Monument, off across the borough and uphill from me, and Chelsea, a city as small in area as one can imagine, but lined with petrol tanks and ship piers, ships that traveled the high seas from countries around the globe ... the coming-from and the going-to so different.
That July of 1936 saw me on vacation from Miss Finn's first grade class at the Kent School, not far from Hobie's Beanery, in a garage of all places, nor far Abie's Market on one strategic corner of the Loop-the-Loop, and the Bond Bread factory. All of them memorable for one or more reasons, and I still have the note Miss Finn sent home to my parents: "Please don't move away until I have taught all the Sheehans." Miss Finn thought my sister Patricia and I were her bright stars; we were readers at this early age, taken in hand by a paternal grandmother and a paternal grandfather for the grasp of one of "the three Rs." (We had no idea, my sister Pat and I, that we were bound for Marleah Graves' second grade class at the Cliftondale School in Saugus, only a dozen miles away, and a host of new classmates bound to be SHS Class of '47.)
And yet here I was adventuring within the structure of a monster bridge, a structure that continually enticed me with solid come-ons. Once, a few months earlier, I had traversed over the river's water as the bridge opened to let a ship pass under its span. That one-time terror became, for a free lancer kid, a constant challenge to do it again, to out-do my first fear, to be, as my father used to say, "One of the survivors of the times that flag about us." I knew what he was referring to ... always hungry for the thin meals that came from nowhere into my mother's hands in our third level kitchen on Bunker Hill Avenue; some of those Depression-era meals so immemorial they are most memorable the longer I hold onto them. Let's say about 87 years now, stretching on, keeping cover. An instance would be a Sunday meal purchased for a dollar after church: at Hobie's Beanery a quart of baked beans and a loaf of brown bread and the balance spent in Abie's Market, closed on Sunday but entered via the back door for all the lamb kidneys I could get from Abie. Abie favored us too, for my sister once told him, "You grow the best lamb kidneys of all, but they still stink up the house when they're getting cooked." He loved her honesty and winked his appreciation for me, and I couldn't wait to tell my parents; good news was always in order.
If my father knew I was in that cage-like support, he'd whale the tar out of me; my mother would cast a stern look, shake her head, begin to cry at the possibilities. But ... and a big imaginative BUT, my grandmother, likely on that same July day, put on her pert little black hat, grabbed her black shiny pocketbook and took the first bus that came by her corner of Highland Avenue and Trull Lane in Somerville, a few miles away, the tall, elegant lady of manners, most correct speech, possibly the softest hands I've ever known, and words that often said, "We are born to read."
More than three-quarters of her life were spent binding books at Ginn & Company in Cambridge, with hundreds of rejects landing on our shelves from inside her shiny black pocketbook, those very books calling out, making demands, crying for attention to favored paragraphs beginning the longest lingering that bunches of words ever had. (The High Lama saying in Lost Horizon, "For when that day comes, the world must begin to look for a new life. And it is our hope that they may find it here. For here, we shall be with their books and their music, and a way of life based on one simple rule: Be Kind! When that day comes, it is our hope that the brotherly love of Shangri-La will spread throughout the world. Yes, my son; When the strong have devoured each other, the Christian ethic may at last be fulfilled and the meek shall inherit the earth.")
She was, on that day or one just like it, bent on travel and transportation and relocation ... of our family. "Find some grass and trees for the boy, friends for the girls, room to breathe, throw arms and yells into the sky, climb the hills, fish the ponds, let them be." A hundred times I had heard her say to my father, "Let them be, James. Let them be," That BE was stretched as far as she could send it. Too much too soon she had seen more than once; in our own doorway the drunk of early morning advertising his hard, harsh night, half alive, meaning half dead, sprawled in his helplessness, his loss, extravagance afoot gone prone, a disastrous sight for an elegant grandmother, bookbinder, dreamer, mover of families. There was a better place. Perhaps she had paused as I had on that same elocution of the High Lama, where each of us had seen Hugh Conway nod his head in universal agreement, in solitude's assessment. Some grandmothers are like that; lucky us.
That grand day of decision, she went via Somerville/Everett Station/Malden Square to find a big silver Hart Lines bus that simply said "Saugus" on its destination sign. She found a third floor apartment in Cliftondale Square beside Hanson's Garage, near Joe Laura's Barbershop and Louie Gordon's Tailor Shop, and gave acute directions to my father ... take them elsewhere. That's how we were bound for Saugus, where the green grass grew, huge fields of it.
We had, of course, moved before ... several moves ahead of unpaid landlords, in the midst of Prohibition and the Great Depression, and my father's pay of $28.00 a month as a Marine. We weren't taught frugality; we learned it first-hand.
Ahead of the moving van, he took me for my first ride to Saugus. We crossed "my bridge" on the way. Eventually we went along the river and a small fleet of lobster boats (I mentioned that I'd never had lobster and my father said, "Don't worry anymore," as he tousled my hair), cruised through the awed parts of town full of green grass in exorbitant spreads, lusty farms teeming with crops taller than me, rode the Turnpike that headed all the way to Newburyport ... and beyond? I heard the hum of traffic in prolonged sprints rather than the in-town screeches of a daring rider performing a Loop-the-Loop, tire cries as high-pitched as police whistles. Then we circled around until we had seen the three ice houses along the banks of Lily Pond and huge fish, which were carp, roiling in wide circles on the surface and kids jumping off a rocky place into the pond. A few older folks, on the far side, were almost in the darkness of trees as thick as parade crowds, swinging their fishing lines out over the pond where the leaning sun leaped westward back across the Turnpike. And one canoeist, motionless, most distant but ever since a part of this history, dazzled in the sun's rays, such a far cry from the drunk in the doorway who startled and started my grandmother on her own crusade, her own trek here ... a journey for family preservation.
I was locked into Saugus already, the images flying through me from the river and the pond and a small, decrepit building with high black letters on its gray side that almost squawked out "Shadowland."
"It used to be a ballroom," my father said, qualifying my curiosity. "Looks like it's gone into the Nevernever land."
But I could tell he was up to something, something special, something to fit, "Find some grass and trees for the boys." It was the male connection. It would not be a place where he'd say to the girls, "This is where you'll play with your dolls, or practice early make-up treats, wear dresses and gowns and high heels that are too many years bigger than you."
We spun a quick left hand turn and a broad field swept out in front of me, with uniform chalk lines at uniform distances, a gridiron. Then and still now, longer than I could run ahead of others, a baseball diamond in one corner backstopped by a huge tree looking surely able to trap foul balls in its thick spread.
In the air was a hush, minutes long, a declaration, a testament. He waited while the images came and went, then simply added, "This'll be for your brother and you. The girls will find their own places. They always will.
I didn't know the names yet of coming heroes and teammates, but I knew right then, beforehand, what would be the robust images of Iron Mike Harrington, Eddie Shipwreck Shipulski, Bazooka Bob Burns, Heavenly Gates, and then Doug and Bruce Waybright (Notre Dame), Art Spinney (BC and the 1958 game with his Baltimore Colts beating the New York Giants), Frank Pyszko (with 5 interceptions in one game), Bob Kane, Ernie Anganis (teammate forever), John and Fred Quinlan (John the best of the lot of them), Soupy Campbell (born to work and suffer and be admired), Gene Decareau, George Miles (Guts and Glory himself), Andy and Frank Forti, Sardie and Richie Nicolo, Cushy Harris, Saugus 14-Lynn Classical 12, Saugus 13-undefeated Melrose 0 (twice- 1941 & 1944), Saugus 21-undefeated Revere 0, the sharing, the warmth of friendship, hard working two-a-day practices starting in 1943 with Coach Dave Lucey), trekking off to Korea with four years' worth of opponents, sharing the Main Supply Route in a single file walk with Lynn Classical's Jimmy Varzakis as we swapped positions in the Iron Triangle of 1951 under the leadership of Young-Oak Kim, Korean-American, for whom I carried a 300 command radio as he directed the whole Iron Triangle attack. Once a highly decorated officer in WW II Europe in the Nisei 442nd Battalion, a lieutenant when I first saw him and a Lt. Colonel when we parted. That day of parting he stood at the tail end of a six-by truck of home-bound soldiers, deep in Korea, having earned "rotation status," and asking, "Is Sgt. Sheehan aboard?" I wanted to duck. I wanted to get home. I wanted to write. I had things to say, and I thought he wanted to keep me for another tour.
All of this history is traceable to that elegant lady with a shiny black pocketbook, soft hands, a thirst for the good word of the language, who bound books for more than half a century, who dreamed of a place of green fields and thick trees, never knowing at the outset it was Saugus, where Indians once danced and prayed on Round Hill, where Captain Kidd might well have come up the river with his catch to bury, where young Scots were surely indentured at the First Iron Works in America, where a Yankee carpenter or builder did leave a talisman coin on a sill of my house built in 1742 and a worn high-button shoe of his daughter square-nailed to a beam above our kitchen window, another fetish, which my father called an "anting-anting" from his Philippine days in the Marine Corps.
The junk collectors never knew they were selling parts for Tokyo Tojo's battleships, aircraft carriers, Zeros in quick flight. Neither did I. In other forms that load of junk hit me for years on end. Images, couplets, lines came and were gathered, remain yet like pieces of this wall of me ... but a long time before things fell into place, when hearing my father's advice; "Crow a little bit when you’re having good luck; Own up, pay up, and shut up when you're losing. Fishing is the great solace in sports. It’s for the mind, not the hook. It’s the time when you measure wins and losses in the truest angle of all, a slant of unbearably beautiful Saugus sunlight through morning’s alder leaves, water’s whisper of confidence on rocks you think you can hear later in the night, the pointed miracle of a trout beating you at his game, letting you know the wins and losses do come and do pass by, even when you're standing still."
It’s like the game of golf or the game of pool ... the green is highly coincident. And early in sports, at the edge of my first failure, marked by the touch of his hand on my shoulder: "You come into this life with two gifts, love and energy, and words and sports are going to take both of them for all you’ve got." I think his heart remembered a loss, his knees their pain. When they took his leg off, the pain did not leave him.
But the reminders stick like old gum under theater seats on late Saturday evenings ... I who lost a brother and nearly lost another remember the headlines, newsreels, songs of bond-selling, gas-griping, and movies too true to hate, the whole shooting match of them. The entire Earth bent inwards, imploding bombs, bullets, blood, shrieking a terrible bird cry in my ears only sleep could lose. Near sleep I could only remember the nifty bellbottom blues he wore in the picture my mother cleaned and cleaned and cleaned on the altar of her bureau as if he were the Christ or the Buddha, a new tall, skinny statue finding a pedestal in my mind, but he was out there in the sun and the sand and the rain of shells and sounds I came to know years later moving up from Pusan, breaking out of the perimeter, bound north to the Yalu River. I never really knew about him in the globular way until he came home from the Navy, stepped off the train in Saugus Center and I saw his sea bag decorated with his wife’s picture drawn by his hand, and a map and the names Saipan, Iwo Jima, Kwajalein ... the war.
The memories stand still at times, forced into place, hardening me, stiffening the joists I rest upon, bearing recall, the fast moment being retrieved, lost, found again, fireworks on the Fourth, a May Monday of silence at Riverside Cemetery, a friendly-forces face from Bethlehem or McKees Rocks or the Windy City knocking at my door several times near midnights, the lasting moments caught again in surprise, elegant, heroic, so sassy, talking back to me later on a Saturday afternoon as I drink a beer, as it comes again without prejudice, in this new millennium where I know again full well the weight of an M-1 rifle on a web strap hanging on my shoulder, the awed knowledge of a ponderous steel helmet atop my head, press of a tight lace on one boot, wrap of a leather watch band on my wrist, and who stood beside me who stand no more.
The old Mystic River Bridge is gone, replaced by new a new structure with photographic toll collection; so are some cities I have visited in khaki, those blasted to smithereens saving a million lives here, losing unknown thousands there, still know about Young-Oak Kim, now celebrated by the name of a school in California, talk now and then to Pete Leone in McKees Rocks and Frank Mitman in Bethlehem, both in PA, and Bob Breda in North Riverside, Illinois, and wonder about them, and know most of all those who have moved with eternal motivation ... who stand beside me no more.
Like Stan Kujawski, star Chicago softball pitcher, the Mechanical Wrist, radioman from three wars, who wore down from his wars and rests now in Calumet City, Illinois ... Rest, Ike, forever.
Nor stands that elegant lady with the huge, shiny black pocketbook, bookbinder, director of traffic, mover of families, steadfast reader, enforcer of the trade, who opened so many doors with her work, her sly gifts, her coverless books, those rejects for the poor lot of readers still carrying the hunger for word upon word, sound upon sound, hearts wrapped with consummate adjectives.
Nor do I see too many guys in sun tans anymore; you know, the old summer Class A uniforms they saved from their promised long weekend leaves, those killers, those formidable young warriors, those hot Omaha Beach swimmers with salt in their noses and into gun barrels and curing half the ills and evils they had ever known as if all were the sole balm from the living god, those St. Lo low flyers of updrafts of gray dawn, Bastogne's Bullies, bridge-wreckers at Germany’s inevitable edge; friends who passed through my Seoul immemorial times leaving their footprints for my wayward boots to over-shadow, fill in, pass on to this destiny. Of course, they have popped the belt line button, split the crotch in hell’s anxieties, who let their quick waistlines go fallow with beer and dreams' nutrients, those old warriors of Sundays past without other salves, or Saturday evening's shelling or unconsumed bombs that threaten Wednesdays sixty years later; those slim-legged survivors who later wore them with their collegiate jackets, myriad sport coat ensembles, slick-cigarette'd, crew-cut topped, freshly shaven, but hinting of slight old world-in-the-face looks that could have toppled their young empires.
You know them, some even now, on a near corner, a block away, just over a mountain or the far side of a simple river, how they came back to play on the green fields as if they had never left the chalk-striped confines, showed the kids how the game used to be played, those Sun Tanners hitting behind the runners, bunters of the lost art when the whole world sat back on its heels that the big sound was now over, put their muscle on the line late in the game when the only thing left was heart and horror at losing, having seen too much for their time, but making do.
Remember them on baked diamonds of the quiet Earth, how there was an urgency to collapse time into a controllable fist, yet how free they were, breathing on their own, above salt water, the awful messages buried behind their brows for all time to come, unstitched wounds and scars amber in late evening’s breezes, like chevrons from their Elsewheres. The truest badges they wore were the sun tans carried home from Remagen and Mount Casino leaves, the march out of the Pusan Perimeter or off Old Baldy and Heartbreak Ridge, out of Yangu and the Frozen Chosen and the long marches along the MSRs, those slim, fit-all occasion trousers, press-worthy, neat, signally-marked with angst and annihilation and world freedom; those narrow-waist emblems of the Forties, the Fifties, neat with tie and shirt, wore cement on summer days of their labors, or roofing tar, some to class and some not, collapsing time again. I write this to celebrate the dual days, a Monday in May when a hush and a soft-shoed parade passes through the middle of town and the middle of memory, and a cooler day in November, a later observation, when old faces come leaping back from a distance, just wanting a moment to be known again.
The hawkers will sell their bright wares, wearing their municipal permits as badges, filling balloons, authorizing plastic toy gun purchases, leaving their remnant discards in cluttered gutters the early sweeper will gather, making money on the sad memorial, dreaming of next Flag Day and the Fourth of July. Popcorn will burst its tiny explosions, ice cream bars will melt, children will think they gambol in a ballpark. Then, then only apparent, I will see some old ball players, the Earth-savers, underground or remembering, chino-less and walking among the very memorable names; comrade, comrade, comrade or one’s teammate, teammate, teammate, illusions of the noisy past, clad in somber pin stripes or cedar, carrying grandchildren, bearing them up from under grass, evoking Monday of all Mondays, those swift ball hawks, those young Earth-dreamers, who survive in so many ways, that legion of names falling across Saugus and every town the way we remember them, a litany of summer evenings full of first names gone past but called for the First Sergeant’s roster: Basil P., Thomas A., Lawrence D., Edward M., Guy C., Hugh M., Arthur D., Edward D., James W., John K., Walter K., William M., Frank P., Howard B., names, settled, softly called, reverent even for this day, across our sun-drenched Stackpole Field and fields everywhere, bat on ball and the echo of a thousand games swung about the air as if time itself has been compressed into late innings, those swift ball hawks in pursuit of the inevitable; oh, young, in May, the whole Earth suddenly gone silent, but bound, bound, Oh bound to build memories, in May, in May, and then, in November, when all the leaves come back to earth.
I remember so many of them caught in the rags of war when the day had gone over hill, but that still, blue light remained, cut with a gray edge, catching corners rice paddies lean out of. In the serious blue brilliance of battle they’d become comrades becoming friends, just Walko and Williamson and Sheehan sitting in the night drinking beer cooled by Imjin River waters in August of ‘51 in Korea. Three men drably clad, but clad in the rags of war. Stars hung pensive neon. Mountain-cool silences were being earned, hungers absolved, a ponderous god talked to. Above silences, the ponderous god’s weighty as clouds, elusive as soot on wind, yields promises. They used church keys to tap cans, lapped up silence rich as missing salt, fused their backbones to good earth in a ritual old as labor itself, these men clad in the rags of war. Such an August night gives itself away, tells tales, slays the rose in reeling carnage, murders sleep, sucks moisture out of Mother Earth, fires hardpan, sometimes does not die itself just before dawn, makes strangers in one’s selves, those who wear the rags of war. They had been strangers beside each other, caught in the crush of tracered night and starred flanks, accidents of men drinking beer cooled in the bloody waters where brothers roam forever, warriors come to that place by fantastic voyages, carried by generations of the persecuted or the adventurous, carried in sperm body, dropped in the spawning, fruiting womb of America, and born to wear the rags of war.
Walko, reincarnate of the Central European, come of land lovers and those who scatter grain seed, bones like logs, wrists strong as axle trees, fair and blue-eyed, prankster, ventriloquist who talked off mountainside, rumormonger for fun, heart of the hunter, hide of the herd, apt killer, born to wear the rags of war.
Williamson, faceless in the night, black set on black, only teeth like high piano keys, eyes that captured stars, fine nose got from Rome through rape or slave bed unknown generations back, was cornerback tough, graceful as ballet dancer (Walko’s opposite), hands that touched his rifle the way a woman’s touched, or a doll, or one’s fitful child caught in fever clutch, came sperm-tossed across the cold Atlantic, some elder Virginia- bound bound in chains, the Congo Kid come home, the Congo Kid, alas, alas, born to wear the rags of war.
Sheehan, reluctant at trigger-pull, dreamer, told deep lies with dramatic ease, entertainer who wore shining inward a sum of ghosts forever from the cairns had fled; heard myths and the promises in earth and words of songs he knew he never knew, carried scars vaguely known as his own, shared his self with saint and sinner, proved pregnable to body force, but born to wear the rags of war.
Walko: We lost the farm. Someone stole it. My father loved the fields, sweating. He watched grass grow by starlight, the moon slice at new leaves. The mill’s where he went for work, in the crucible, drawing on the green vapor, right in the heat of it, the miserable heat. My mother said he started dying the first day. It wasn’t the heat or green vapor did it, just going off to the mill, grassless, tight in. The system took him. He wanted to help. It took him, killed him a little each day, just smothered him. I kill easy. Memory does it. I was born for this, to wear these rags. The system gives, then takes away. I’ll never go piecemeal like my father. These rags are my last home.
Williamson: Know why I’m here’ I’m from North Ca’lina mountains, sixteen and big and wear size fifteen shoes and my town drafted me ‘stead of a white boy. Chaplain says he git me home. Shit! Be dead before then. Used to hunt home, had to eat what was fun runnin’ down. Brother shot my sister and a white boy in the woods. Caught them skinnin’ it up against a tree, run home and kissed Momma goodbye, give me his gun. Ten years, no word. Momma cries about both them all night. Can’t remember my brother’s face. Even my sister’s. Can feel his gun, though, right here in my hands, long and smooth and all honey touch. Squirrel’s left eye never too far away for that good old gun. Them white men back home know how good I am, and send me here, put these rags on me. Two wrongs! Send me too young and don’t send my gun with me. I’m goin’ to fix it all up, gettin’ home too. They don’t think I’m coming back, them white men. They be nervous when I get back, me and that good old gun my brother give me, and my rags of war.
Sheehan: Stories are my food. I live and lust on them. Spirits abound in the family, indelible eidolons; the O’Siodhachain and the O’Sheehaughn carved a myth. I wear their scars in my soul, know the music that ran over them in lifetimes, songs’ words, and strangers that are not strangers: Muse Devon abides with me, moves in the blood and bag of my heart, whispers tonight: Corimin is in my root cell, oh bright beauty of all that has come upon me, chariot of cheer, carriage of Cork where the graves are, where my visit found the root of the root cell---Johnny Igoe at ten running ahead of the famine that took brothers and sisters, lay father down; sick in the hold of ghostly ship I have seen from high rock on Cork’s coast, in the hold heard the myths and music he would spell all his life, remembering hunger and being alone and brothers and sisters and father gone and mother praying for him as he knelt beside her bed that hard morning when Ireland went away to the stern. I know that terror of hers last touching his face. Pendalcon’s grace comes on us all at the end.
Johnny Igoe came alone at ten and made his way across Columbia, got my mother who got me and told me when I was twelve that one day Columbia would need my hand and I must give. And tonight I say, ‘Columbia, I am here with my hands and with my rags of war.’ I came home alone. They are my brothers. Walko's my brother. Williamson's my brother. Devon's my brother. Corimin's my brother. Pendalcon's my brother. God, too, is my brother. I am a brother to all the dead, we all wear the rags of war.
Thunderous rain kills you, freezing snow fights its way through. Fragmentation waits no one.
Rain's umbrella spread is odd June's greatest havoc. You're one zone distant like a sniper's bullet beats a thirty ought-six at work, a narrowed focus. Do not know who's gone dead. Find a medal's pinned with first hole put on this man's chest. You were so advised by veterans' shaking shaggy eyes walking down the trail from mountain horror. Memory carries no foe's face. Memory's terror is like a wound, is permanent. It won't let you sleep but it will wake you at one night's movie with dead eyes and a comrade's reaching hand.
Oh, I've gone elsewhere at war's end, at comrade's loss, as I did when trout fishing with Rommel’s last-known foe when the alders went bare above us, ran blue lightning jagged and ragged as scars on his arms, the proud chest, not a welt in the beginning but Swastika-made, bayonet-gathered somewhere south of France, high-dry Saharan. Leaves, forsaken, set false blasts about limbs; from small explosions came huge expulsions. Frank recalled the remarkable incumbent grace and energy of hand grenades, the godness of them, ethereal, whooshing off to nowhere unless you happened to get in their way, conclusively, incisively. He said, “The taste of shrapnel hangs on like a pewter key you mouthed as a sassy child, a wired can your father drank from which you’d sneak a few deep drafts for yourself in the cellar, nails you mouth-cached, silvered, lead-painted, wetted, iron-on-the-tongue gray-heavy metal you’ve only dreamed of since. Yet, where he’s come to since that eventful sand wasn’t all he knew. On our backs, the bare alder limbs mere antennae in the late afternoon above us, October’s flies grounded for illustrious moments, the squawking at our trespass merely a handful of crows in their magnificent tree kingdom, he brought home the last of his brothers, goggle-eyed veteran tankers, Tinker Tommies under the Union Jack, raw Senegalese old sentries still worry about, dry bodies seventy years under a mummifying sand, perhaps put away forever, and then some.
He thinks old Egypt has a whole new strain of sleepers all these years down the road of their own making, the wrap of sand as good as Tutankhamen had at hand, their khaki blouses coming up a detective’s work, with a special digger’s knowledge, at last citing army, corps, division, regiment, battalion, company, father, brother, son, neighbor, face, eye, lip, hand, soul, out there on the everlasting shift of sand, the stars still falling, angular, apogean, trailing across somewhere a dark night. Here, our worms, second place to uniqueness of fashioned flies, keen hackles, are ready for small orbits, small curves, huge mouths. And his last battle, faded into the high limbs, a flag run up after all this recaptured war, says he knows yet and ever Egypt's two dark eyes. Frankie's plaque is flat in cemetery's clipped green , soldier still who knows a volunteer cuts the grass for his comrades ranked in rows
This appointment came when light tired, this arrangement, this syzygy of him and me and the still threat of a small red star standing some time away at my back, deeper than a grain of memory. I am a quarter mile from him, hard upward on this rugged rock he could look up to if only his eyes would agree once more, and it’s a trillion years behind my head or a parsec I can’t begin to imagine, they tell me even dead perhaps, that star. Can this be a true syzygy, if one is dead, if one is leaning to leave this line of sight regardless of age or love or density or how the last piece of light might be reflected, or refused, if one leaves this imposition? The windows of his room defer no light to this night, for it is always night there, blood and chemicals at warfare, nerve gone, the main one providing mirror and lethal lens, back of the eyeball no different than out front, but I climb this rock to line up with another rock and him in the deep seizure of that stolen room, bare sepulcher, that grotto of mind.
Today I bathed him, the chest like an old model, boned but collapsible, forgotten in a Detroit back room, a shelf, a deep closet, waiting to be crushed at the final blow, skin of the organ but a veneer of fatigue, the arms pried as from a child’s drawing, the one less formidable leg, the small testes hanging their forgotten-glove residuum which had begun this syzygy, the face closing down on bone as if a promise had been made toward an immaculately thin retrieval. And, at the other imaginable end of him, the one foot bloody from his curse, soured yet holier in mimicry of the near-Christ (from Golgotha brought down and put to bed, after god and my father there are no divinities), toenails coming on a darkness no sky owned, foot bottom at its own blood bath, at war, at the final and resolute war with no winner.
Oh, Christ, he’s had such wars, outer and inner, that even my hand in warmth must overcome, and he gums his gums and shakes his head and says, sideways, mouth screwed into his outlandish grin, as much a lie as any look, as devious, cold-fact true, “I used to do this for you,” the dark eyes hungry to remember, to bring back one moment of all those times to this time; and I cannot feel his hand linger on me, not its calluses gone the way of flesh or its nails thicker now than they ever were meant to be, or skin flaking in the silence of its dust-borne battle, though we are both younger than the star that’s dead so they say, as
if all is ciphered for me and cut away, I know the failure of that small red star, its distillation and spend still undone, its yawn red as yet and here with us on the endless line only bent by my imagination, the dead and dying taking up both ends of me, neither one a shadow yet but all shadows in one, perhaps a sort of harmless violence sighting here across an endless known
Ah, Devon, the other muse; The bullet of my spirit hits the runway at Shannon after The Dingle popped out. You crowd me with misery and the pestilence of long hope. I have brought all my nights with me, our silent screaming back and forth, the kaleidoscopic stars and moons serving as soul transmitters, the brittle, unremembered pain numbing my bony joints forever scarred with your injection, the well of tears I’ve spent and hold collected in the explosive bag that veins and aorta serve, and the silent times when my son was born and my nights were cries for him grasping at the edge of life.
Oh, Christ, Devon, you smother me, the highs and lows of such long pursuit, the sands shifting over the spectrum of lore binding our ends, as I move the English Ford between obstacle barrels like crude orange chess pieces on a Limerick bridge guarded by a new army, their automatic rifles hung bore down, their faces stiff as clock faces, lips set at nine and quarter past the hour, an army you never knew and yet began.
I impelled myself out of the city ganging at me harsh as Lowell or Lawrence or Worcester
with the ghosts of their mills forcing thousands of aimless steps on every corner, every street, their red bricks inanimate, bearing the wrong breathlessness, usurpers, idle squatters;
then only to find that new army in wayside patrol, slow meandering, a bore-down search
for time, and I know you are near.
Will I find you in Elphin-Mere, by the crude hut of Johnny Igoe, blue and thatched on the far turn, or out from town, toward Cassidy’s, where that lone statue stands, the Gaelic names burning stars. Your army, Devon, imprisons me at Elphin-Mere!
I struggle for the Bulliwicks, moving nowhere in the tide rushing through my limbs,
helpless as my son crib-bound looking up to me, only eyes reaching, and I am my son!
I am that babe beneath the power.
Oh, Christ, Devon, I am you! I am you! And the Bulliwicks fade, the hawthorn fades, sweet smell lost in the granite pull, strong stable smell up in smoke, the Easter names popping bullets of letters in my eyes, and I am caught, we are caught, in a freeze of time. Ah, Devon, will we never go home again? Is your peace in me?
This night I sleep in village disguise beneath a roof without starry eyes, beneath the quilting, quiet fog covering sea and sand and bog, and in that dark of graying ghost I lay my mind out to the coast, let the sea fill all my veins; the dread of deeps and hurricanes, the creaking of the Dutchman’s ship forever eyeless in its trip, touch scarred galleons in their graves, flinch at traffic of the slaves, know some U-Boat’s trembling pause as it slowly sank from wars, feel fears of the Murmansk run where men lay frozen in the sun. Oh, to know, in this gray retreat, the sea is touching at my feet, know here this night at Warren’s Point the sea is balm and does anoint.
What of all the spills that ache here --- upland dosage where the delta’s done and settling its own routines, the near immeasurable transfer of land and other properties of the continent chasing down Atlantic ways, shifting nations and cities from directly underfoot, moving towns along the watershed, oozing territories. Oh, how I loved the river feeding the ocean.
I have plumbed the Saugus River at its mouth, found the small artifacts of its leaning seaward, tiny bits of history and geography getting muddied up against the Atlantic drift, suffering at tide’s stroke, roiling and eddying to claim selves, marveling at a century’s line of movement, its casual change of character, its causal stress and slight fracturing under ocean’s dual drives, the endless pulsing tide and the overhead draft of clouds bringing their inland torment and trial, land and loam and leaf running away with the swift sprinters of water, the headlong rush of heading home like salmon bursting upstream for the one place they can remember in the chemistry of life, impulses stronger than electricity, smells calling in the water more exotic than Chinese perfume.
The flounder, sheaving under the bridge at the marsh road, pages of an un-sprung book, one-eyed it always seems, hungering for my helpless and hooked worms, sort over parts of Saugus in this great give-away, and nose into the extraneous parts that were my town, my town.
“Listen,” my father said to me, his eyes dark, oh black during a whole generation, “for a sound whose syllable you can’t count up or down, for what you might think is a clam being shucked, a quahog’s last quiet piss on sand, a kelp bubble exploding its one green-stressed overture.”
He talked like that when he knew I was listening, even at ten years of age.
He wasn’t saying, “Listen for me,” just, “Listen for the voices, the statements along Atlantic ritual, every driven shore, rocks sea-swabbed, iodine fists of air potent as a heavyweight’s, tides tossing off their turnpike hum, black-edged brackish ponds holding on for dear life, holding a new sun sultry as anchovies … all of them have words for you.”
I hear that oath of his, the Earth-connected vow all the sea bears, the echoes booming like whale sounds, their deep musical communication, now saying one of his memorials, “Sixty-years and more, I feel you touch Normandy’s sand, measuring the grains of your hope, each grain a stone; and I know the visions last carved in June’s damp air.” “Oh,” he’d add, “you sons, forgotten masters of our fate.”
Deepest of all, hearing what I didn’t hear at ten, but hear ever since, the hull-hammered rattling before rescue from the USS Squalus, 60 fathoms down off Portsmouth, the sound and the petition count never fading; three quarters of a century of desperation and plea hammering in my ears. Say it straight out: “Some were saved and some were lost. That is a memorial.”
The eels squirm and fidget on Saugus farmlands, pitch-black bottom land gone south with rain and years, gutter leanings, great steel street drains emptying lawns and backyards and sidewalk driftage into the river below black clouds. The worn asphalt shingles on my roof yield twenty-five years of granules, and now and then tell that story inside the house.
A ninety-year old pear tree shudders under lightning and offers pieces of itself as sacrifice to the cause, dropping twigs, blasted bark other lightning has tossed into the soft footing, the grayed-out hair of old nests, my initials and hers and the scored heart time has scabbed up, dated, pruned, becoming illegible in the high fancy of new leaves and young shoots. There, too, went my father’s footprints in one April storm, washed away in late afternoon as he lay sleeping in that tree’s hammock; and grease off my brother’s hands from his Ford with nine lives hanging on a chain-fall; and across the street a neighbor’s ashes spread under a pear tree and grapevine an August fire later took captive in dark smoke I still smell on heavy summer evenings.
This is my word on all of this:
It is where the river’s done, where a boy’s hung between the sunlit surface and a pinch of salt, who’s read of twisted souls at sea, knew sweet misery of warming sand, I know how water marks horizon’s dwelling where dark stream and ocean meet twice in the flow of bayside surge and ocean merge grasps the river’s downhill push, losing lush things like the very gravel I have trod, and the locks and boards holding back my river's horde.
Oh, believe … I have come up by image from the sea in other times, by overhand, by curragh, by slung-sailed ship of oak, afloat a near-sunken log; have crawled sandy edges of the bay, looked back at waters’ merge and flow, found the river’s crawl reversed where floating parts are nursed, toting redwing nests the winds abuse, good ground the rain in swift return hauls down the river … Saugus on the loose.
Ever now, when I fish at the mouth of the river, rod high, and hope too, I catch awful parts of Saugus. I know the stream and ocean meet where I dare dangle my awkward feet, where love-lies-bleeding and the primrose meet, where tempting sea and bay greet all of rhyme and so its clime: The rainbow catches up the horde; Sea color is set by gracious Lord. This, in faith, you can believe; It’s Saugus I can’t lose or leave .One man touches another man with a word, especially the night my father and I listened to Temujin's life on an old record ... heard the song he'd sung I race the river to the sea … and shadows remembered their routes up the railed stairway like a steppe’s presence, I stood at your counting the days Oh, the I I I I counted wounds he had conquered. The bottle cap moon clattered into his room in vagrant pieces…jagged blades needing a strop or wheel for honing, great spearhead chips pale in falling, necks of smashed jars rasbora bright, thin flaked edges tossing off the sun. Under burden of the dread collection, he sighed and turned in quilted repose and rolled his hand in mine, searching for lighting only found in his memory. Always it’s ahead of me,
In moon’s toss I saw the network of his brain struggling for my face the way he last saw it, a piece of light falling under the hooves of a thousand Mongol ponies, night campsites riding upward in flames, the steppe skyline coming legendary again.
When I stand at the last stone mark of the elegant lady with the perky hat and the shiny big pocketbook of muffins and biscuits and rolls, the lady with the soft hands, the lady of books without covers, who began all of this, and try to deliver a simple phrase, she'll not hear me, having moved on in her journey, touching all the others in their due, in her due; the lady who once said to me, "Think of the one word you love most, but don't tell me now, save it for later." Oh, she tries me yet.
But nothing's ever over for good; a small spark is ignited; from nowhere, a voice comes clear past a shadow, a whisper gropes on a breath of air; a word says itself again and again.
And I can't hear it. It lies there waiting for me.
It was July of 1936, sticky hot, perhaps ice cream someplace I hoped, but I was acutely aware that ice cream might not happen this day. The steel bars of Boston's old Mystic River Bridge in my hands were hard and warm, as the sun had hours of penetration and I had one hour to spare within my dramatic playground out over the Mystic River we called "The Oily" with observant regard for its rainbowed surface. Having slipped inside the girder work of a cage-like support angled at 45 degrees, my eyes went directly down on a boat about to pass under the bridge loaded with iron junk, old cold steel, surely lots of brass and copper from junk yards and junk wagons all over Boston. Long lengths of copper and brass, gleaming in the mess, looked like sandwich parts between dark iron crusts. The bridge sat between Boston's Charlestown borough, proud as the Bunker Hill Monument, off across the borough and uphill from me, and Chelsea, a city as small in area as one can imagine, but lined with petrol tanks and ship piers, ships that traveled the high seas from countries around the globe ... the coming-from and the going-to so different.
That July of 1936 saw me on vacation from Miss Finn's first grade class at the Kent School, not far from Hobie's Beanery, in a garage of all places, nor far Abie's Market on one strategic corner of the Loop-the-Loop, and the Bond Bread factory. All of them memorable for one or more reasons, and I still have the note Miss Finn sent home to my parents: "Please don't move away until I have taught all the Sheehans." Miss Finn thought my sister Patricia and I were her bright stars; we were readers at this early age, taken in hand by a paternal grandmother and a paternal grandfather for the grasp of one of "the three Rs." (We had no idea, my sister Pat and I, that we were bound for Marleah Graves' second grade class at the Cliftondale School in Saugus, only a dozen miles away, and a host of new classmates bound to be SHS Class of '47.)
And yet here I was adventuring within the structure of a monster bridge, a structure that continually enticed me with solid come-ons. Once, a few months earlier, I had traversed over the river's water as the bridge opened to let a ship pass under its span. That one-time terror became, for a free lancer kid, a constant challenge to do it again, to out-do my first fear, to be, as my father used to say, "One of the survivors of the times that flag about us." I knew what he was referring to ... always hungry for the thin meals that came from nowhere into my mother's hands in our third level kitchen on Bunker Hill Avenue; some of those Depression-era meals so immemorial they are most memorable the longer I hold onto them. Let's say about 87 years now, stretching on, keeping cover. An instance would be a Sunday meal purchased for a dollar after church: at Hobie's Beanery a quart of baked beans and a loaf of brown bread and the balance spent in Abie's Market, closed on Sunday but entered via the back door for all the lamb kidneys I could get from Abie. Abie favored us too, for my sister once told him, "You grow the best lamb kidneys of all, but they still stink up the house when they're getting cooked." He loved her honesty and winked his appreciation for me, and I couldn't wait to tell my parents; good news was always in order.
If my father knew I was in that cage-like support, he'd whale the tar out of me; my mother would cast a stern look, shake her head, begin to cry at the possibilities. But ... and a big imaginative BUT, my grandmother, likely on that same July day, put on her pert little black hat, grabbed her black shiny pocketbook and took the first bus that came by her corner of Highland Avenue and Trull Lane in Somerville, a few miles away, the tall, elegant lady of manners, most correct speech, possibly the softest hands I've ever known, and words that often said, "We are born to read."
More than three-quarters of her life were spent binding books at Ginn & Company in Cambridge, with hundreds of rejects landing on our shelves from inside her shiny black pocketbook, those very books calling out, making demands, crying for attention to favored paragraphs beginning the longest lingering that bunches of words ever had. (The High Lama saying in Lost Horizon, "For when that day comes, the world must begin to look for a new life. And it is our hope that they may find it here. For here, we shall be with their books and their music, and a way of life based on one simple rule: Be Kind! When that day comes, it is our hope that the brotherly love of Shangri-La will spread throughout the world. Yes, my son; When the strong have devoured each other, the Christian ethic may at last be fulfilled and the meek shall inherit the earth.")
She was, on that day or one just like it, bent on travel and transportation and relocation ... of our family. "Find some grass and trees for the boy, friends for the girls, room to breathe, throw arms and yells into the sky, climb the hills, fish the ponds, let them be." A hundred times I had heard her say to my father, "Let them be, James. Let them be," That BE was stretched as far as she could send it. Too much too soon she had seen more than once; in our own doorway the drunk of early morning advertising his hard, harsh night, half alive, meaning half dead, sprawled in his helplessness, his loss, extravagance afoot gone prone, a disastrous sight for an elegant grandmother, bookbinder, dreamer, mover of families. There was a better place. Perhaps she had paused as I had on that same elocution of the High Lama, where each of us had seen Hugh Conway nod his head in universal agreement, in solitude's assessment. Some grandmothers are like that; lucky us.
That grand day of decision, she went via Somerville/Everett Station/Malden Square to find a big silver Hart Lines bus that simply said "Saugus" on its destination sign. She found a third floor apartment in Cliftondale Square beside Hanson's Garage, near Joe Laura's Barbershop and Louie Gordon's Tailor Shop, and gave acute directions to my father ... take them elsewhere. That's how we were bound for Saugus, where the green grass grew, huge fields of it.
We had, of course, moved before ... several moves ahead of unpaid landlords, in the midst of Prohibition and the Great Depression, and my father's pay of $28.00 a month as a Marine. We weren't taught frugality; we learned it first-hand.
Ahead of the moving van, he took me for my first ride to Saugus. We crossed "my bridge" on the way. Eventually we went along the river and a small fleet of lobster boats (I mentioned that I'd never had lobster and my father said, "Don't worry anymore," as he tousled my hair), cruised through the awed parts of town full of green grass in exorbitant spreads, lusty farms teeming with crops taller than me, rode the Turnpike that headed all the way to Newburyport ... and beyond? I heard the hum of traffic in prolonged sprints rather than the in-town screeches of a daring rider performing a Loop-the-Loop, tire cries as high-pitched as police whistles. Then we circled around until we had seen the three ice houses along the banks of Lily Pond and huge fish, which were carp, roiling in wide circles on the surface and kids jumping off a rocky place into the pond. A few older folks, on the far side, were almost in the darkness of trees as thick as parade crowds, swinging their fishing lines out over the pond where the leaning sun leaped westward back across the Turnpike. And one canoeist, motionless, most distant but ever since a part of this history, dazzled in the sun's rays, such a far cry from the drunk in the doorway who startled and started my grandmother on her own crusade, her own trek here ... a journey for family preservation.
I was locked into Saugus already, the images flying through me from the river and the pond and a small, decrepit building with high black letters on its gray side that almost squawked out "Shadowland."
"It used to be a ballroom," my father said, qualifying my curiosity. "Looks like it's gone into the Nevernever land."
But I could tell he was up to something, something special, something to fit, "Find some grass and trees for the boys." It was the male connection. It would not be a place where he'd say to the girls, "This is where you'll play with your dolls, or practice early make-up treats, wear dresses and gowns and high heels that are too many years bigger than you."
We spun a quick left hand turn and a broad field swept out in front of me, with uniform chalk lines at uniform distances, a gridiron. Then and still now, longer than I could run ahead of others, a baseball diamond in one corner backstopped by a huge tree looking surely able to trap foul balls in its thick spread.
In the air was a hush, minutes long, a declaration, a testament. He waited while the images came and went, then simply added, "This'll be for your brother and you. The girls will find their own places. They always will.
I didn't know the names yet of coming heroes and teammates, but I knew right then, beforehand, what would be the robust images of Iron Mike Harrington, Eddie Shipwreck Shipulski, Bazooka Bob Burns, Heavenly Gates, and then Doug and Bruce Waybright (Notre Dame), Art Spinney (BC and the 1958 game with his Baltimore Colts beating the New York Giants), Frank Pyszko (with 5 interceptions in one game), Bob Kane, Ernie Anganis (teammate forever), John and Fred Quinlan (John the best of the lot of them), Soupy Campbell (born to work and suffer and be admired), Gene Decareau, George Miles (Guts and Glory himself), Andy and Frank Forti, Sardie and Richie Nicolo, Cushy Harris, Saugus 14-Lynn Classical 12, Saugus 13-undefeated Melrose 0 (twice- 1941 & 1944), Saugus 21-undefeated Revere 0, the sharing, the warmth of friendship, hard working two-a-day practices starting in 1943 with Coach Dave Lucey), trekking off to Korea with four years' worth of opponents, sharing the Main Supply Route in a single file walk with Lynn Classical's Jimmy Varzakis as we swapped positions in the Iron Triangle of 1951 under the leadership of Young-Oak Kim, Korean-American, for whom I carried a 300 command radio as he directed the whole Iron Triangle attack. Once a highly decorated officer in WW II Europe in the Nisei 442nd Battalion, a lieutenant when I first saw him and a Lt. Colonel when we parted. That day of parting he stood at the tail end of a six-by truck of home-bound soldiers, deep in Korea, having earned "rotation status," and asking, "Is Sgt. Sheehan aboard?" I wanted to duck. I wanted to get home. I wanted to write. I had things to say, and I thought he wanted to keep me for another tour.
All of this history is traceable to that elegant lady with a shiny black pocketbook, soft hands, a thirst for the good word of the language, who bound books for more than half a century, who dreamed of a place of green fields and thick trees, never knowing at the outset it was Saugus, where Indians once danced and prayed on Round Hill, where Captain Kidd might well have come up the river with his catch to bury, where young Scots were surely indentured at the First Iron Works in America, where a Yankee carpenter or builder did leave a talisman coin on a sill of my house built in 1742 and a worn high-button shoe of his daughter square-nailed to a beam above our kitchen window, another fetish, which my father called an "anting-anting" from his Philippine days in the Marine Corps.
The junk collectors never knew they were selling parts for Tokyo Tojo's battleships, aircraft carriers, Zeros in quick flight. Neither did I. In other forms that load of junk hit me for years on end. Images, couplets, lines came and were gathered, remain yet like pieces of this wall of me ... but a long time before things fell into place, when hearing my father's advice; "Crow a little bit when you’re having good luck; Own up, pay up, and shut up when you're losing. Fishing is the great solace in sports. It’s for the mind, not the hook. It’s the time when you measure wins and losses in the truest angle of all, a slant of unbearably beautiful Saugus sunlight through morning’s alder leaves, water’s whisper of confidence on rocks you think you can hear later in the night, the pointed miracle of a trout beating you at his game, letting you know the wins and losses do come and do pass by, even when you're standing still."
It’s like the game of golf or the game of pool ... the green is highly coincident. And early in sports, at the edge of my first failure, marked by the touch of his hand on my shoulder: "You come into this life with two gifts, love and energy, and words and sports are going to take both of them for all you’ve got." I think his heart remembered a loss, his knees their pain. When they took his leg off, the pain did not leave him.
But the reminders stick like old gum under theater seats on late Saturday evenings ... I who lost a brother and nearly lost another remember the headlines, newsreels, songs of bond-selling, gas-griping, and movies too true to hate, the whole shooting match of them. The entire Earth bent inwards, imploding bombs, bullets, blood, shrieking a terrible bird cry in my ears only sleep could lose. Near sleep I could only remember the nifty bellbottom blues he wore in the picture my mother cleaned and cleaned and cleaned on the altar of her bureau as if he were the Christ or the Buddha, a new tall, skinny statue finding a pedestal in my mind, but he was out there in the sun and the sand and the rain of shells and sounds I came to know years later moving up from Pusan, breaking out of the perimeter, bound north to the Yalu River. I never really knew about him in the globular way until he came home from the Navy, stepped off the train in Saugus Center and I saw his sea bag decorated with his wife’s picture drawn by his hand, and a map and the names Saipan, Iwo Jima, Kwajalein ... the war.
The memories stand still at times, forced into place, hardening me, stiffening the joists I rest upon, bearing recall, the fast moment being retrieved, lost, found again, fireworks on the Fourth, a May Monday of silence at Riverside Cemetery, a friendly-forces face from Bethlehem or McKees Rocks or the Windy City knocking at my door several times near midnights, the lasting moments caught again in surprise, elegant, heroic, so sassy, talking back to me later on a Saturday afternoon as I drink a beer, as it comes again without prejudice, in this new millennium where I know again full well the weight of an M-1 rifle on a web strap hanging on my shoulder, the awed knowledge of a ponderous steel helmet atop my head, press of a tight lace on one boot, wrap of a leather watch band on my wrist, and who stood beside me who stand no more.
The old Mystic River Bridge is gone, replaced by new a new structure with photographic toll collection; so are some cities I have visited in khaki, those blasted to smithereens saving a million lives here, losing unknown thousands there, still know about Young-Oak Kim, now celebrated by the name of a school in California, talk now and then to Pete Leone in McKees Rocks and Frank Mitman in Bethlehem, both in PA, and Bob Breda in North Riverside, Illinois, and wonder about them, and know most of all those who have moved with eternal motivation ... who stand beside me no more.
Like Stan Kujawski, star Chicago softball pitcher, the Mechanical Wrist, radioman from three wars, who wore down from his wars and rests now in Calumet City, Illinois ... Rest, Ike, forever.
Nor stands that elegant lady with the huge, shiny black pocketbook, bookbinder, director of traffic, mover of families, steadfast reader, enforcer of the trade, who opened so many doors with her work, her sly gifts, her coverless books, those rejects for the poor lot of readers still carrying the hunger for word upon word, sound upon sound, hearts wrapped with consummate adjectives.
Nor do I see too many guys in sun tans anymore; you know, the old summer Class A uniforms they saved from their promised long weekend leaves, those killers, those formidable young warriors, those hot Omaha Beach swimmers with salt in their noses and into gun barrels and curing half the ills and evils they had ever known as if all were the sole balm from the living god, those St. Lo low flyers of updrafts of gray dawn, Bastogne's Bullies, bridge-wreckers at Germany’s inevitable edge; friends who passed through my Seoul immemorial times leaving their footprints for my wayward boots to over-shadow, fill in, pass on to this destiny. Of course, they have popped the belt line button, split the crotch in hell’s anxieties, who let their quick waistlines go fallow with beer and dreams' nutrients, those old warriors of Sundays past without other salves, or Saturday evening's shelling or unconsumed bombs that threaten Wednesdays sixty years later; those slim-legged survivors who later wore them with their collegiate jackets, myriad sport coat ensembles, slick-cigarette'd, crew-cut topped, freshly shaven, but hinting of slight old world-in-the-face looks that could have toppled their young empires.
You know them, some even now, on a near corner, a block away, just over a mountain or the far side of a simple river, how they came back to play on the green fields as if they had never left the chalk-striped confines, showed the kids how the game used to be played, those Sun Tanners hitting behind the runners, bunters of the lost art when the whole world sat back on its heels that the big sound was now over, put their muscle on the line late in the game when the only thing left was heart and horror at losing, having seen too much for their time, but making do.
Remember them on baked diamonds of the quiet Earth, how there was an urgency to collapse time into a controllable fist, yet how free they were, breathing on their own, above salt water, the awful messages buried behind their brows for all time to come, unstitched wounds and scars amber in late evening’s breezes, like chevrons from their Elsewheres. The truest badges they wore were the sun tans carried home from Remagen and Mount Casino leaves, the march out of the Pusan Perimeter or off Old Baldy and Heartbreak Ridge, out of Yangu and the Frozen Chosen and the long marches along the MSRs, those slim, fit-all occasion trousers, press-worthy, neat, signally-marked with angst and annihilation and world freedom; those narrow-waist emblems of the Forties, the Fifties, neat with tie and shirt, wore cement on summer days of their labors, or roofing tar, some to class and some not, collapsing time again. I write this to celebrate the dual days, a Monday in May when a hush and a soft-shoed parade passes through the middle of town and the middle of memory, and a cooler day in November, a later observation, when old faces come leaping back from a distance, just wanting a moment to be known again.
The hawkers will sell their bright wares, wearing their municipal permits as badges, filling balloons, authorizing plastic toy gun purchases, leaving their remnant discards in cluttered gutters the early sweeper will gather, making money on the sad memorial, dreaming of next Flag Day and the Fourth of July. Popcorn will burst its tiny explosions, ice cream bars will melt, children will think they gambol in a ballpark. Then, then only apparent, I will see some old ball players, the Earth-savers, underground or remembering, chino-less and walking among the very memorable names; comrade, comrade, comrade or one’s teammate, teammate, teammate, illusions of the noisy past, clad in somber pin stripes or cedar, carrying grandchildren, bearing them up from under grass, evoking Monday of all Mondays, those swift ball hawks, those young Earth-dreamers, who survive in so many ways, that legion of names falling across Saugus and every town the way we remember them, a litany of summer evenings full of first names gone past but called for the First Sergeant’s roster: Basil P., Thomas A., Lawrence D., Edward M., Guy C., Hugh M., Arthur D., Edward D., James W., John K., Walter K., William M., Frank P., Howard B., names, settled, softly called, reverent even for this day, across our sun-drenched Stackpole Field and fields everywhere, bat on ball and the echo of a thousand games swung about the air as if time itself has been compressed into late innings, those swift ball hawks in pursuit of the inevitable; oh, young, in May, the whole Earth suddenly gone silent, but bound, bound, Oh bound to build memories, in May, in May, and then, in November, when all the leaves come back to earth.
I remember so many of them caught in the rags of war when the day had gone over hill, but that still, blue light remained, cut with a gray edge, catching corners rice paddies lean out of. In the serious blue brilliance of battle they’d become comrades becoming friends, just Walko and Williamson and Sheehan sitting in the night drinking beer cooled by Imjin River waters in August of ‘51 in Korea. Three men drably clad, but clad in the rags of war. Stars hung pensive neon. Mountain-cool silences were being earned, hungers absolved, a ponderous god talked to. Above silences, the ponderous god’s weighty as clouds, elusive as soot on wind, yields promises. They used church keys to tap cans, lapped up silence rich as missing salt, fused their backbones to good earth in a ritual old as labor itself, these men clad in the rags of war. Such an August night gives itself away, tells tales, slays the rose in reeling carnage, murders sleep, sucks moisture out of Mother Earth, fires hardpan, sometimes does not die itself just before dawn, makes strangers in one’s selves, those who wear the rags of war. They had been strangers beside each other, caught in the crush of tracered night and starred flanks, accidents of men drinking beer cooled in the bloody waters where brothers roam forever, warriors come to that place by fantastic voyages, carried by generations of the persecuted or the adventurous, carried in sperm body, dropped in the spawning, fruiting womb of America, and born to wear the rags of war.
Walko, reincarnate of the Central European, come of land lovers and those who scatter grain seed, bones like logs, wrists strong as axle trees, fair and blue-eyed, prankster, ventriloquist who talked off mountainside, rumormonger for fun, heart of the hunter, hide of the herd, apt killer, born to wear the rags of war.
Williamson, faceless in the night, black set on black, only teeth like high piano keys, eyes that captured stars, fine nose got from Rome through rape or slave bed unknown generations back, was cornerback tough, graceful as ballet dancer (Walko’s opposite), hands that touched his rifle the way a woman’s touched, or a doll, or one’s fitful child caught in fever clutch, came sperm-tossed across the cold Atlantic, some elder Virginia- bound bound in chains, the Congo Kid come home, the Congo Kid, alas, alas, born to wear the rags of war.
Sheehan, reluctant at trigger-pull, dreamer, told deep lies with dramatic ease, entertainer who wore shining inward a sum of ghosts forever from the cairns had fled; heard myths and the promises in earth and words of songs he knew he never knew, carried scars vaguely known as his own, shared his self with saint and sinner, proved pregnable to body force, but born to wear the rags of war.
Walko: We lost the farm. Someone stole it. My father loved the fields, sweating. He watched grass grow by starlight, the moon slice at new leaves. The mill’s where he went for work, in the crucible, drawing on the green vapor, right in the heat of it, the miserable heat. My mother said he started dying the first day. It wasn’t the heat or green vapor did it, just going off to the mill, grassless, tight in. The system took him. He wanted to help. It took him, killed him a little each day, just smothered him. I kill easy. Memory does it. I was born for this, to wear these rags. The system gives, then takes away. I’ll never go piecemeal like my father. These rags are my last home.
Williamson: Know why I’m here’ I’m from North Ca’lina mountains, sixteen and big and wear size fifteen shoes and my town drafted me ‘stead of a white boy. Chaplain says he git me home. Shit! Be dead before then. Used to hunt home, had to eat what was fun runnin’ down. Brother shot my sister and a white boy in the woods. Caught them skinnin’ it up against a tree, run home and kissed Momma goodbye, give me his gun. Ten years, no word. Momma cries about both them all night. Can’t remember my brother’s face. Even my sister’s. Can feel his gun, though, right here in my hands, long and smooth and all honey touch. Squirrel’s left eye never too far away for that good old gun. Them white men back home know how good I am, and send me here, put these rags on me. Two wrongs! Send me too young and don’t send my gun with me. I’m goin’ to fix it all up, gettin’ home too. They don’t think I’m coming back, them white men. They be nervous when I get back, me and that good old gun my brother give me, and my rags of war.
Sheehan: Stories are my food. I live and lust on them. Spirits abound in the family, indelible eidolons; the O’Siodhachain and the O’Sheehaughn carved a myth. I wear their scars in my soul, know the music that ran over them in lifetimes, songs’ words, and strangers that are not strangers: Muse Devon abides with me, moves in the blood and bag of my heart, whispers tonight: Corimin is in my root cell, oh bright beauty of all that has come upon me, chariot of cheer, carriage of Cork where the graves are, where my visit found the root of the root cell---Johnny Igoe at ten running ahead of the famine that took brothers and sisters, lay father down; sick in the hold of ghostly ship I have seen from high rock on Cork’s coast, in the hold heard the myths and music he would spell all his life, remembering hunger and being alone and brothers and sisters and father gone and mother praying for him as he knelt beside her bed that hard morning when Ireland went away to the stern. I know that terror of hers last touching his face. Pendalcon’s grace comes on us all at the end.
Johnny Igoe came alone at ten and made his way across Columbia, got my mother who got me and told me when I was twelve that one day Columbia would need my hand and I must give. And tonight I say, ‘Columbia, I am here with my hands and with my rags of war.’ I came home alone. They are my brothers. Walko's my brother. Williamson's my brother. Devon's my brother. Corimin's my brother. Pendalcon's my brother. God, too, is my brother. I am a brother to all the dead, we all wear the rags of war.
Thunderous rain kills you, freezing snow fights its way through. Fragmentation waits no one.
Rain's umbrella spread is odd June's greatest havoc. You're one zone distant like a sniper's bullet beats a thirty ought-six at work, a narrowed focus. Do not know who's gone dead. Find a medal's pinned with first hole put on this man's chest. You were so advised by veterans' shaking shaggy eyes walking down the trail from mountain horror. Memory carries no foe's face. Memory's terror is like a wound, is permanent. It won't let you sleep but it will wake you at one night's movie with dead eyes and a comrade's reaching hand.
Oh, I've gone elsewhere at war's end, at comrade's loss, as I did when trout fishing with Rommel’s last-known foe when the alders went bare above us, ran blue lightning jagged and ragged as scars on his arms, the proud chest, not a welt in the beginning but Swastika-made, bayonet-gathered somewhere south of France, high-dry Saharan. Leaves, forsaken, set false blasts about limbs; from small explosions came huge expulsions. Frank recalled the remarkable incumbent grace and energy of hand grenades, the godness of them, ethereal, whooshing off to nowhere unless you happened to get in their way, conclusively, incisively. He said, “The taste of shrapnel hangs on like a pewter key you mouthed as a sassy child, a wired can your father drank from which you’d sneak a few deep drafts for yourself in the cellar, nails you mouth-cached, silvered, lead-painted, wetted, iron-on-the-tongue gray-heavy metal you’ve only dreamed of since. Yet, where he’s come to since that eventful sand wasn’t all he knew. On our backs, the bare alder limbs mere antennae in the late afternoon above us, October’s flies grounded for illustrious moments, the squawking at our trespass merely a handful of crows in their magnificent tree kingdom, he brought home the last of his brothers, goggle-eyed veteran tankers, Tinker Tommies under the Union Jack, raw Senegalese old sentries still worry about, dry bodies seventy years under a mummifying sand, perhaps put away forever, and then some.
He thinks old Egypt has a whole new strain of sleepers all these years down the road of their own making, the wrap of sand as good as Tutankhamen had at hand, their khaki blouses coming up a detective’s work, with a special digger’s knowledge, at last citing army, corps, division, regiment, battalion, company, father, brother, son, neighbor, face, eye, lip, hand, soul, out there on the everlasting shift of sand, the stars still falling, angular, apogean, trailing across somewhere a dark night. Here, our worms, second place to uniqueness of fashioned flies, keen hackles, are ready for small orbits, small curves, huge mouths. And his last battle, faded into the high limbs, a flag run up after all this recaptured war, says he knows yet and ever Egypt's two dark eyes. Frankie's plaque is flat in cemetery's clipped green , soldier still who knows a volunteer cuts the grass for his comrades ranked in rows
This appointment came when light tired, this arrangement, this syzygy of him and me and the still threat of a small red star standing some time away at my back, deeper than a grain of memory. I am a quarter mile from him, hard upward on this rugged rock he could look up to if only his eyes would agree once more, and it’s a trillion years behind my head or a parsec I can’t begin to imagine, they tell me even dead perhaps, that star. Can this be a true syzygy, if one is dead, if one is leaning to leave this line of sight regardless of age or love or density or how the last piece of light might be reflected, or refused, if one leaves this imposition? The windows of his room defer no light to this night, for it is always night there, blood and chemicals at warfare, nerve gone, the main one providing mirror and lethal lens, back of the eyeball no different than out front, but I climb this rock to line up with another rock and him in the deep seizure of that stolen room, bare sepulcher, that grotto of mind.
Today I bathed him, the chest like an old model, boned but collapsible, forgotten in a Detroit back room, a shelf, a deep closet, waiting to be crushed at the final blow, skin of the organ but a veneer of fatigue, the arms pried as from a child’s drawing, the one less formidable leg, the small testes hanging their forgotten-glove residuum which had begun this syzygy, the face closing down on bone as if a promise had been made toward an immaculately thin retrieval. And, at the other imaginable end of him, the one foot bloody from his curse, soured yet holier in mimicry of the near-Christ (from Golgotha brought down and put to bed, after god and my father there are no divinities), toenails coming on a darkness no sky owned, foot bottom at its own blood bath, at war, at the final and resolute war with no winner.
Oh, Christ, he’s had such wars, outer and inner, that even my hand in warmth must overcome, and he gums his gums and shakes his head and says, sideways, mouth screwed into his outlandish grin, as much a lie as any look, as devious, cold-fact true, “I used to do this for you,” the dark eyes hungry to remember, to bring back one moment of all those times to this time; and I cannot feel his hand linger on me, not its calluses gone the way of flesh or its nails thicker now than they ever were meant to be, or skin flaking in the silence of its dust-borne battle, though we are both younger than the star that’s dead so they say, as
if all is ciphered for me and cut away, I know the failure of that small red star, its distillation and spend still undone, its yawn red as yet and here with us on the endless line only bent by my imagination, the dead and dying taking up both ends of me, neither one a shadow yet but all shadows in one, perhaps a sort of harmless violence sighting here across an endless known
Ah, Devon, the other muse; The bullet of my spirit hits the runway at Shannon after The Dingle popped out. You crowd me with misery and the pestilence of long hope. I have brought all my nights with me, our silent screaming back and forth, the kaleidoscopic stars and moons serving as soul transmitters, the brittle, unremembered pain numbing my bony joints forever scarred with your injection, the well of tears I’ve spent and hold collected in the explosive bag that veins and aorta serve, and the silent times when my son was born and my nights were cries for him grasping at the edge of life.
Oh, Christ, Devon, you smother me, the highs and lows of such long pursuit, the sands shifting over the spectrum of lore binding our ends, as I move the English Ford between obstacle barrels like crude orange chess pieces on a Limerick bridge guarded by a new army, their automatic rifles hung bore down, their faces stiff as clock faces, lips set at nine and quarter past the hour, an army you never knew and yet began.
I impelled myself out of the city ganging at me harsh as Lowell or Lawrence or Worcester
with the ghosts of their mills forcing thousands of aimless steps on every corner, every street, their red bricks inanimate, bearing the wrong breathlessness, usurpers, idle squatters;
then only to find that new army in wayside patrol, slow meandering, a bore-down search
for time, and I know you are near.
Will I find you in Elphin-Mere, by the crude hut of Johnny Igoe, blue and thatched on the far turn, or out from town, toward Cassidy’s, where that lone statue stands, the Gaelic names burning stars. Your army, Devon, imprisons me at Elphin-Mere!
I struggle for the Bulliwicks, moving nowhere in the tide rushing through my limbs,
helpless as my son crib-bound looking up to me, only eyes reaching, and I am my son!
I am that babe beneath the power.
Oh, Christ, Devon, I am you! I am you! And the Bulliwicks fade, the hawthorn fades, sweet smell lost in the granite pull, strong stable smell up in smoke, the Easter names popping bullets of letters in my eyes, and I am caught, we are caught, in a freeze of time. Ah, Devon, will we never go home again? Is your peace in me?
This night I sleep in village disguise beneath a roof without starry eyes, beneath the quilting, quiet fog covering sea and sand and bog, and in that dark of graying ghost I lay my mind out to the coast, let the sea fill all my veins; the dread of deeps and hurricanes, the creaking of the Dutchman’s ship forever eyeless in its trip, touch scarred galleons in their graves, flinch at traffic of the slaves, know some U-Boat’s trembling pause as it slowly sank from wars, feel fears of the Murmansk run where men lay frozen in the sun. Oh, to know, in this gray retreat, the sea is touching at my feet, know here this night at Warren’s Point the sea is balm and does anoint.
What of all the spills that ache here --- upland dosage where the delta’s done and settling its own routines, the near immeasurable transfer of land and other properties of the continent chasing down Atlantic ways, shifting nations and cities from directly underfoot, moving towns along the watershed, oozing territories. Oh, how I loved the river feeding the ocean.
I have plumbed the Saugus River at its mouth, found the small artifacts of its leaning seaward, tiny bits of history and geography getting muddied up against the Atlantic drift, suffering at tide’s stroke, roiling and eddying to claim selves, marveling at a century’s line of movement, its casual change of character, its causal stress and slight fracturing under ocean’s dual drives, the endless pulsing tide and the overhead draft of clouds bringing their inland torment and trial, land and loam and leaf running away with the swift sprinters of water, the headlong rush of heading home like salmon bursting upstream for the one place they can remember in the chemistry of life, impulses stronger than electricity, smells calling in the water more exotic than Chinese perfume.
The flounder, sheaving under the bridge at the marsh road, pages of an un-sprung book, one-eyed it always seems, hungering for my helpless and hooked worms, sort over parts of Saugus in this great give-away, and nose into the extraneous parts that were my town, my town.
“Listen,” my father said to me, his eyes dark, oh black during a whole generation, “for a sound whose syllable you can’t count up or down, for what you might think is a clam being shucked, a quahog’s last quiet piss on sand, a kelp bubble exploding its one green-stressed overture.”
He talked like that when he knew I was listening, even at ten years of age.
He wasn’t saying, “Listen for me,” just, “Listen for the voices, the statements along Atlantic ritual, every driven shore, rocks sea-swabbed, iodine fists of air potent as a heavyweight’s, tides tossing off their turnpike hum, black-edged brackish ponds holding on for dear life, holding a new sun sultry as anchovies … all of them have words for you.”
I hear that oath of his, the Earth-connected vow all the sea bears, the echoes booming like whale sounds, their deep musical communication, now saying one of his memorials, “Sixty-years and more, I feel you touch Normandy’s sand, measuring the grains of your hope, each grain a stone; and I know the visions last carved in June’s damp air.” “Oh,” he’d add, “you sons, forgotten masters of our fate.”
Deepest of all, hearing what I didn’t hear at ten, but hear ever since, the hull-hammered rattling before rescue from the USS Squalus, 60 fathoms down off Portsmouth, the sound and the petition count never fading; three quarters of a century of desperation and plea hammering in my ears. Say it straight out: “Some were saved and some were lost. That is a memorial.”
The eels squirm and fidget on Saugus farmlands, pitch-black bottom land gone south with rain and years, gutter leanings, great steel street drains emptying lawns and backyards and sidewalk driftage into the river below black clouds. The worn asphalt shingles on my roof yield twenty-five years of granules, and now and then tell that story inside the house.
A ninety-year old pear tree shudders under lightning and offers pieces of itself as sacrifice to the cause, dropping twigs, blasted bark other lightning has tossed into the soft footing, the grayed-out hair of old nests, my initials and hers and the scored heart time has scabbed up, dated, pruned, becoming illegible in the high fancy of new leaves and young shoots. There, too, went my father’s footprints in one April storm, washed away in late afternoon as he lay sleeping in that tree’s hammock; and grease off my brother’s hands from his Ford with nine lives hanging on a chain-fall; and across the street a neighbor’s ashes spread under a pear tree and grapevine an August fire later took captive in dark smoke I still smell on heavy summer evenings.
This is my word on all of this:
It is where the river’s done, where a boy’s hung between the sunlit surface and a pinch of salt, who’s read of twisted souls at sea, knew sweet misery of warming sand, I know how water marks horizon’s dwelling where dark stream and ocean meet twice in the flow of bayside surge and ocean merge grasps the river’s downhill push, losing lush things like the very gravel I have trod, and the locks and boards holding back my river's horde.
Oh, believe … I have come up by image from the sea in other times, by overhand, by curragh, by slung-sailed ship of oak, afloat a near-sunken log; have crawled sandy edges of the bay, looked back at waters’ merge and flow, found the river’s crawl reversed where floating parts are nursed, toting redwing nests the winds abuse, good ground the rain in swift return hauls down the river … Saugus on the loose.
Ever now, when I fish at the mouth of the river, rod high, and hope too, I catch awful parts of Saugus. I know the stream and ocean meet where I dare dangle my awkward feet, where love-lies-bleeding and the primrose meet, where tempting sea and bay greet all of rhyme and so its clime: The rainbow catches up the horde; Sea color is set by gracious Lord. This, in faith, you can believe; It’s Saugus I can’t lose or leave .One man touches another man with a word, especially the night my father and I listened to Temujin's life on an old record ... heard the song he'd sung I race the river to the sea … and shadows remembered their routes up the railed stairway like a steppe’s presence, I stood at your counting the days Oh, the I I I I counted wounds he had conquered. The bottle cap moon clattered into his room in vagrant pieces…jagged blades needing a strop or wheel for honing, great spearhead chips pale in falling, necks of smashed jars rasbora bright, thin flaked edges tossing off the sun. Under burden of the dread collection, he sighed and turned in quilted repose and rolled his hand in mine, searching for lighting only found in his memory. Always it’s ahead of me,
In moon’s toss I saw the network of his brain struggling for my face the way he last saw it, a piece of light falling under the hooves of a thousand Mongol ponies, night campsites riding upward in flames, the steppe skyline coming legendary again.
When I stand at the last stone mark of the elegant lady with the perky hat and the shiny big pocketbook of muffins and biscuits and rolls, the lady with the soft hands, the lady of books without covers, who began all of this, and try to deliver a simple phrase, she'll not hear me, having moved on in her journey, touching all the others in their due, in her due; the lady who once said to me, "Think of the one word you love most, but don't tell me now, save it for later." Oh, she tries me yet.
But nothing's ever over for good; a small spark is ignited; from nowhere, a voice comes clear past a shadow, a whisper gropes on a breath of air; a word says itself again and again.
And I can't hear it. It lies there waiting for me.
Death for the Phantom Receiver
Chapter One
Late on a Saturday night or early Sunday morning summoned Mel Campbell, the end of August, game day coming with the sun. Hell, his mind was saying, it’s only a preseason game. His eyes were full of the woman beside him. Maybe it was the start of something real. Women had never been real for him. Sex had never been that real, not like this.
Man, he said to himself with wonder, staring at the high-shining blackness of her cheeks, at the half light in her dark eyes, at her lips, red, moist, open. This was real; her richness filling his nostrils, his right arm curving around her shoulders, his left hand angling up under the short skirt, where she wore no underpants, gently stroking her dampness. When he leaned even closer, his mouth open, she reached behind her, slipped the gun out of her handbag and shot him.
Twice.
Loud, but muffled.
Nobody realized Mal Campbell’s death, while sitting at the wheel of his teammate’s Bronco, two .30 caliber slugs mere inches apart in his chest, began the near-decimation of the New England Phantoms receiving corps.
In earnest.
The three-year veteran flanker, headliner of the NFL’s New England entry, was counted on to help bring the team back from a so-so season the previous year.
When Mal went down, Phantoms owner Pete Goodyard sat up straight, that trusty feeling-in-the-gut talking as it always did for the grocer extraordinaire who made his mark and his millions in home food delivery.
With that inner voice speaking to him, in its warning tone, it brought back an odd pair he’d dealt with before. It said, Get help from Harry Krisman and Kyle Bronte. The ex-BPD Homicide cop and the defrocked judge of the Massachusetts courts solved a major problem for him a few years earlier when the grocery operation was being threatened from the inside.
Throw the ball in their laps, the voice said, it’s what they do. It’s what they do as good as anyone.
His mind sent out for pictures, found the right file, rifled through a haze of snapshots, focused.
He saw a good looking, mid-thirties Harry Krisman with one gold tooth, a slight left-foot limp, as if reaching for something not quite there, making him questionable in anything with a physical demand, who was an avid bird watcher, no less, at free moments, and a one-woman man, the woman being an accounting professor at Bentley College in nearby Waltham.
In the same snapshots he conjured up a late-fortyish Kyle Bronte’s unswerving penchant for law and order and women, whatever being handiest neutralizing the other. But his women were not neutral, not that Pete could remember. They appeared to have been, as far as he could recall, generally tall, generally slim, and always beautiful, in the knock-out range. A lingering snapshot showed the ex-judge wearing, when appropriate for dress, which was ever classy, and serving as a middle finger message to his defrocking friends, an expensive cape from a collection of capes. The well-off, moneyed Bronte kept a tailor, someplace in Boston, in business.
This is how Kyle Bronte explained the alliance to Pete: “I was sitting in court, a normal day, waiting for all the jelly beans to get ready, when Harry walks in, a good looking young guy, blond Nordic type just to throw the Aryan thing out of context, average height, but sporting a not average gold tooth in his mouth. I couldn’t decide which tooth it was...eye tooth, incisor, first of the molars, like a nugget in the wash it was. I dubbed him Gold Tooth. And he caught me staring at him. Gave me the cold cold blue. Of course, he’s learned since then to curb that shine with lip control. Even think he might mine that gold and go for a nice conventional implant. Natural white, perhaps, if Maxine his girlfriend can force the issue, can assure him he still has good points otherwise.”
“I knew of him, word around the courts doing a lap or two, a good investigator for BPD, raised from near infancy by his Marine father, and a monk or brother out of some Canadian Order, when his mother had been killed up North in a horrendous logging truck accident. And him almost. He thoroughly piqued my interest, thinking here’s a man on my side of the law for a change who might be made of stern, disciplined and faithful stuff, the strange melding of parentage, the monk and the Marine. So, I began to watch him, kept an eye on his career. When they dumped me, I went with him. Best boy’s best move.”
Pete had said, in reply, “Tell me about the limp. It’s almost nonexistent, but detectable. As though the toes of that foot are reaching for something he can’t find.”
“It’s a prosthesis, ankle high,” Kyle said. “One of his friends tried to ram a truck at him down a narrow alley. Harry dove through a cellar window. All of him made it, except the foot.”
“Good Jesus.”
“You’re right on that, Pete. Pension. Retirement per se. Officially off the cluttered streets of Boston, but only for a short spell. Man with phony foot can’t sit still, as Tonto says or Charlie Chan.”
“Doesn’t slow him down much.”
“Not going to do the dash but takes special effort to get ahead of him. Reminds me of a wide receiver the old Patriots had, kid by the name of Jimmy Colclough. Ran his patterns at about a mile and a quarter an hour, slow as frigging monkey vomit, but when most cornerbacks turned around, old Jimmy was behind them, with the ball, and heading for the end zone, if he wasn’t already there, cool, not hot-dogging it. I like cool better than hot- dogging.”
Pete’s eyes had lit up. “So, he’s not Superman?”
“Come on, Pete,” Kyle had chided, “twenty-three and a half hours a day he’s ahead of the crowd. Count on that.”
“And that last half hour?”
“He’s like you and me and all the rest of us; there’s always something off-stage going on for us. You hope you know what it is, always, when it happens, but that doesn’t happen. Think of it this way .... think of his mortality .... he’s getting ready to get in the sack with a lovely lady. The pitch and yaw are right on the mark. The horizon indicator’s level. The landing strip is all laid out. He drops his pants. Does he have to go through the whole fucking thing again? Explaining about the foot? Each time? Every time?”
“Takes a special lady.”
“Her name is Mal,” the judge said.
The judge’s partner had said of him, “Kyle has an eye for the law, as you’ll admit, and an eye for the ladies, as you’ll see if you haven’t seen it all ready. He’s a swordsman from the word go, an olden day’s black-and-white movie lothario, but a bulldog on the job. Would never let you down. Never leave you in a hole”
Now the newest message on Harry’s phone center said, in Pete’s baritone voice, “This is your greengrocer calling. You’ve likely heard about the murder of one of our players, Mal Campbell, wide receiver, was to be the highlighter of our receiving corps. I have this gut feeling that my balls will soon find themselves between a rock and a hard place. You know how that twist of fate hurts. It makes a real sissy out of me. Please call, I’m going to need help. I can feel it. The check will be a blank one. Write your own figure down.”
Neither Pete nor Harry nor Kyle had any idea that the madness began with the team’s drafting, in the second round, speedy wide receiver Kelvar Hobbins from the University of Florida.
Hobbins’ story also had quickness in its feet, moving as fast as the young black receiver who during the past season broke a number of long-standing records for one of the perennially good college football teams in the country, always in the post-season bowl mix.
Years earlier the boy Kelvar Hobbins had come bursting up out of a gully, crossed the crown of the rise and dusted into a hundred-yard sprint across Florida openness, his legs in that post-adolescent sprint of an older teen closing on Olympic speed.
The wind from his lungs exclaimed the good god’s name: Tonka Teal! Tonka Teal! How he make me run, Tonka Teal! In his right hand, he carried the camera his grandmother had said a few nights earlier she’d just love to have as her own, when she had seen it in a store window.
“God, Chile, ain’t that somethin’, that camera. All them black smooth surfaces on it, like a man I once knowed before your granpap came and went like wind hisself moaning all way to Detroit crying ‘bout his knees and how he done over wrong and then your daddy done over wrong too.”
He’d listen to her forever, he believed, the music coming with her words, the red lips saying it all, the constant chatter and music in her one message, all that was coming down on them in this life.
She said, “This other man, he another one of Tonka Teal’s spirited runners, another one his gifts come to him in his sleep one night all way from over there, Chile, from home bone, from true thickness, from a Black Continent, from A-fri-ker, from cool shadows only we knows and we talks about, pronounced over him with same words I pronounce over you and give you, Chile,” her hands sweeping across his eyes, touching his shoulders, investing.
He loved how she said A-fri-ker, three parts marked out of something special and beautiful and mysteriously dark. It hummed from her mouth every time she said it, her lips pouty, wet. She said it like it was holy. Meant it holy. A-fri-ker.
Her hands had come on him again, those soft hands and soft fingers and the red, red nails that could touch with fire.
“Chile,” she had begun another time, telling him Tonka Teal came on him like new sweat breaking. Came on him as a heartbeat full up of thunder. Came on him secret as tears before they fell. Telling him always he was the light of her horizon leaping through night, putting it aside. Telling him he was the wind in the leaves getting torn and tossed from limb, and the back end of water getting pushed up all the way up front just as if it had a ticket.
Whole pieces of things she’d said he could remember, even when he was running, the wind and the music together: That he was the panther and the cheetah loose on the grass of the most solemn savanna and all the creatures out there looking up all of a sudden with the special light in their eyes, the message: A-fri-ker. At night, nearing sleep, a cougar calls out in the darkness, the sound of A-fri-ker filled his mind, numbed his body.
And her great eyes remained wide in his mind also, and her bird-red lips and the glorious black shine on her high-borne cheeks, like new-found coal caught by a lantern down in a long tunnel, or a new enamel they hadn’t found yet in any laboratory the whole world over.
The swing of her hips remained too, leaving him on the doorstep, hands deep in his pockets, linting, reaching, knowing throb the way it’s meant to be known, the swirl of dust each night trailing behind her as she went off, “to talk to the gods as only they gets talked to, face to face, belly to belly, this blacker black of mine right up again’ them.”
She had told him, time and again, he had been roughed out of A-fri-ker diamond and all the other hard kind. “Cut, cut, Chile, like they was nothing else left in the world.” Making him believe that he was all that was left over from the fire, that he had
A-fri-ker burning down in him deeply, making his legs move the way they did, wind and fire running loose on the world.
That time her eyes had gleamed, her voice thicker, like it was coming from inside a cloud, telling him he was loose, loose and running in the wind as if Saturday never came any more except for kickoffs and him loose again, and her, his grandmother, Sadie Janelle herself, and all the lovely darkness she had hidden, all dolled up and up there in the stands watching him run as if were caught up of all the gods out of old A-fri-ker. But mostly Tonka Teal!
“You a god, Chile. You a god. You my running god. All a way En Ef El, Cincinnati, Chicago, Jets, Jaguars, Phantoms. We take our pick. Jim Dandy time coming.”
In the back of his mind, the front of his mind, in his arms, in his legs, in his whole body, the words sounding themselves out as part of his blood: Tonka Teal! Tonka Teal! Tonka Teal! the name of his grandmother’s god, his long-gone tribe’s god, his god. Tonka Teal! Tonka Teal! God of the sun and the wind and the rain. God out of A-fri-ker itself. God of sperm. God of speed. God of the necessities. God of the deep green bush he was now heading toward, coming out of that culvert.
In there, among the solid green expanses, an army of cops couldn’t find him, they try all night, all next week and then a month of cooling Sundays.
The two policemen behind him could never catch him, even if one of them was the black Dunbarton Crokes his grandmother had known for years. Shit, he can’t catch me no more, getting so old he can’t catch up to his own shit, he was saying to himself as his legs pumped with godliness.
She had told him, her lips not yet red, evening not yet come calling on those over-luscious lips, that that boy, him, that Dunbarton, Lucille’s boy, her with the Equator hips and crooked smile by which you knew she was hiding something from you, like how she spread for white and black made no difference to her, he was now different, that Dunbarton.
“He’s gone over, that boy. He’s made the journey to other side. A-fri-ker left his blood high and dry long time ago. Might’s well be a yoking Arab slaver come at night, a snake crawling on his belly never even both’ing to count. Dark’s he is, he gets no more shadows. Boy to the other side now.”
A few hours later, his fetching and running clothes hidden in the woods, he set the camera on her bureau in the bedroom of the little house on the edge of the green thickness. Saw it sit new and black and shiny on its many surfaces he did. It sat among other tokens she had commandeered in her quiet musings: the television with the VCR built right into it, the six-foot tall rack to hold her En Ef El videos, the all-white Mr. Coffeemaker soon’s it was dirty would get replaced, nothing ever too good for his grandmother.
And the string of near-perfect pearls she only wore on “Sat’dy nights so’s I can wake up all the gods from their boneless sleep, pearls that hang their wishing for hands what could crawl down there they had their druthers and their bone ready,” a nine piece vanity set trimmed in gold and silver had made her exclaim over and over again, letting him see more A-fri-ker breast from inside her loose robe than he ought to see, nipples red as ripe but burnt pears, the deep other blackness now and then showing too, a country yet too far to visit.
“Chile, if you ain’t the goddest of all the chiles I ever knowed,” her hand, one or the other, casually in his lap, casually knowing the throb.
Sadie Janelle Hobbins, moving about her love of A-fri-ker, striking in her blackness, was a forty-five-year-old grandmother.
Gwendolyn Gal, her best friend, just next door, said it, “You a looker, girl, even having Kevlar’s father when you was only fifteen ain’t hurt you yet; and Kelvar’s father, all of fourteen, tipping Tucson Angel upside down one night and having Kelvar when Tucson Angel was only fourteen also. All prime and you always saying he come vibrant and special, that grandson of yours.”
The boy runner, Kelvar Hobbins. Nobody ever caught him, or caught up to him, his grandmother vouching, time and again, that “he was going to have a halo ‘round him ever and ever. A halo ever and ever.”
But all his young life he felt something was chasing him down the dark ways.
All the way to the En Ef El.
At Florida State, Kelvar Hobbins, a heralded flanker, did the forty-yard dash in 4.26, and at graduation came to the front office of the New England Phantoms and then to their practice field just about that fast. Things he left behind but being drafted in the second round by the Phantoms made up for a lot of shortcomings.
He told himself that fast, tough, black cornerbacks, safeties and wide receivers were the standard of the league, and all he had to do was bump a guy or two ahead of him on the depth chart. Or they got bumped off the roster by other means, like injuries or stiff fingers, or not having Tonka Teal hanging out right down there inside their jockstraps. Tekla Koov and all of A-fri-ker.
Probabilities were always around and there were more ways than one of making a team, of being a starter. And looking for the big contract, a block-buster, an En Ef El blockbuster, was a boy’s right, a boy’s due.
It was not a new road for Kelvar Hobbins, though his grand-mother, Sadie Janelle, who raised him since the day his daddy and momma took a dive off a high bridge with their arms locked around each other most of the way down, said a number of times: “Some time, Chile, but not now, you got to stop running for your own good.”
She only said that when it tired her to watch the boy fly around the way he did and her trying to rest up during the day. He raced everywhere, around the house, up and down the stairs, off and back to school, to the market for pizza or some pop, doing numbers for Black Lord Anthony, the neighborhood cruiser, with who-knows-what-else under his jacket.
“Lord, look at that little sucker go, thinking him’s Jessie Owens all the time and Nazi Mustache chasing him down Berlin way. Takes my heart to faulty fluttering, think he gonna fall down and die and never get to the En Ef El and pay me back all this worrying I got to get done before he get rich.”
But she had pronounced that boy, so she had, cross her heart and then some. Her child of the wind and the shadows he was, her A-fri-ker child, all so right and proper.
He wore the sweat of Tonka Teal. No two men ever wore that at one and the same time.
She could picture him on the television, sprinting down the sidelines, some rich whitey quarterback throwing a long spiral down the field ahead of him and him running under the ball, light foot, a light-tan savanna Tommy, catching up to it, picking it out of the air on his lovely fingertips, a petal from the pale night rose drifting on the wind.
“Kelvar,” she’d yell from the side door thinking no one but him would hear her call,” her voice rising through leaf and limb, the only thing he ever thought could catch him in a sprint. “Come eat, Chile. Come feed that spirit that ‘bides in you.”
The neighbors, even Gwendolyn Gal, best friend, would laugh a bit, but Gwendolyn Gal would do so under her breath when she heard Sadie Janelle call the boy to supper, saying to herself at the same time, that she called him exactly the same time every night, just so she could go see her friends and do what she does best, and Lord, there’s times she’d like to go with her and do the same, but she’d get whipped close to this side of hell if she did.
When Kelvar Hobbins got to the Phantoms at Benton College for the mini-camp for draftees, he did not look back to Florida, not right away.
Earlier in the week of Mal Campbell’s death and Pete Goodyard’s call, Harry Krisman and Kyle Bronte sat in their offices in downtown Boston discussing the Phantoms’ draft choices.
They looked out and saw the Charles River splashed with sunshine, saw miniature cars running slowly in the streets of the city, saw the cabs, the trucks, the clutter, the people plodding in light and darkness, morning shadows moving down building faces.
At hand, steam rose from their coffee cups, day well on its way.
“The key pick,” Kyle Bronte said, putting down a copy of the Boston Herald, lifting his coffee as if toasting his selection, “is the anchor they finally got for the offensive line. The center, from BYU. Not a quarterback with that pick, mind you, but a center. And, for the first time in a long time, he’s a long-snapper. And a good one. For punts, point-afters, field goals.”
He paused, his face saying he remembered something else, one dark brow raised, his tan coming on ebony, the wide jaw a redoubt and a match for his neck. Across the back of a chair spread one of the capes he’d worn ever since being benched, his plain enough message to defrocking peers, his signature, his talisman. “It was,” as he delicately put it a few times to Harry, “a cape or an eternal fucking sneer, and grace be damned.”
“Hell, I remember one guy they had way back, got snake bit, like Tex Hughson did when he pitched for the Sox with Boo Ferris. Boo’d give up a dozen hits, some off The Monster in left, and six or eight runs, and the Sox’d get twelve runs for him. He’d get the win. Poor old snake-bit Tex Hughson would lose a one or a two hitter. They couldn’t get many runs for him. Sometimes no runs at all! Anyway, a Boston Pats center they had way back, this guy snapped a few bad ones, over the punter’s head mostly, some bouncing along the ground, crazy way a football bounces. The whole thing began to carry. Like a disease, a malady of confidence. Right in the bloodstream. Used to make me shake at fourth down and five. Times I wouldn’t look and I’d hear the crowd and know he’d done it again. Went on for a long time. Couple of full seasons, I’d guess. It was right in the cranium all the time. Not in his hands. Almost got a couple of punters and holders killed in the line of fire. Think it was Jon Morris, but I’m not sure now. Been so long. Had to go out and get a special long-snapper to do the job. Otherwise, he was a great center.”
He leveled his dark eyes at Harry, his judicious look, his bench look. “This new guy brings great credentials. Name of Barton Longstreet. Fits him, doesn’t it? Great balance. Quick feet for such a small giant of a man.”
Lightly, on his toes, he danced the Notre Dame box shift, two steps, one back and a crossover, and then a little hop, across the office floor, no creaks from his knees, leaning forward, hands on knees waiting for the snap of the ball, ready to go to work.
“My best caricature of the old days,” he explained, and went on. “The coach says he doesn’t have to pencil him in as a starter. It’s indelible right now, He’s got the job. Healthy, he might have that job for ten years, where most of them last less than four years, when they make it. Then he can go to that ranch he’s looking for right now, the one his father’s going to run for him until his career is over. Says it’s got to be in Wyoming or Montana, in that end of the world, Big Sky country. The kid’s got the ball in the right alley.”
Harry could hardly wait to bust in on him. But he waited, his good foot perched on an open desk drawer, the gold tooth hidden behind a lip.
The judge saw him waiting. “You think my choice is crappy, do you, Harry? You going with the linebacker from Georgia Tech?”
He drank some coffee, pondered, made an assessment. “For two years now, I’ve been your associate in crime detecting. I’ll tell anyone, it’s my nature, I’m still trying to make decisions for you, this kind, yes, but not the ones out in the field, not the ones on the line of fire. I know exactly where I stand on those counts, where I’ve come from, most likely where I’m going. Those on-line decisions belong to you, ex-cop, second to none, as far as I’m concerned, in the private eye business in Boston. God, I’ve seen enough of them, the shady, the putrid, the otherwise. We, that is, Boston, might have more gendarmes than crooks.”
Harry said to himself it was the judge’s morning to talk, noticing how he had turned the tone and tenor of topic, and let him go on, saying also to himself, as a qualifying statement, that
this guy never kissed ass in his life and wasn’t starting now, no matter what it sounded like.
“You’ve defended me each and every time it’s been needed since I was defuckfrocked.” the judge added. He used his favorite double-eff expression, by which by the powers-to-be in the Judiciary, tired of his finger-pointing, tired of his threats to the obviously guilty, tired of his constant references to contacts on the inside who owed him, tired of arranging blind dates coming to visit you those nights you least expect it down at MCI Walpole or any other locale of justice you might find yourself in, and there’s none I don’t know of, had forced him from the bench.
Kyle Bronte had said on occasion: “I dress well. I have the money to feed this taste. The money, and the taste, have been in my family for generations. Now, I’m the last of the Brontes, and it appears I will spend it all. The most fashionable items in my accouterments are the capes I wear in lieu of getting defuckfrocked by my fucking peers on the fucking bench. I have a collection of them, each one grander than the last one I’ve worn, any time.”
The words were never rehearsed, Harry believed.
At the moment, Harry decided, the judge was Laird Cregar stepping out of a black and white movie, wearing a diamond stick-pin as big as a pencil eraser in his tie. It could probably pay the office rent for about half a year or lease a Peugeot.”
Kyle said, “He’s one of their second-round picks, Kincaid. Had a career and a half for the Bulldogs. But he’s not my pick.”
Harry’s thin, handsome face picked up some color with his argument. His blue/green eyes flickered, but the memorable tooth was lipped out of sight. He was not building up for an argument at the moment.
He said, “Thanks for the kind words by way of diversion, Judge, but the other kid’s my pick. The other second rounder they got in that Puncher Merton trade with San Diego. The receiver from Florida, Hobbins. Clocked a 4.26 in the forty. I think he’s a secret coming down the road. Maybe next year, a little more big-league experience under his belt. He’s got Oliveria and the other flanker, Mal Campbell, in front of him and perhaps that receiver they picked up from the Bengals over the winter. Free-agent who’d been hurt, Weyruth Grambling. All those receivers were decent last year. But they don’t bust it enough or haven’t done it yet. That’s what they say; they can do it but haven’t done it yet. Great hands, all of them, but not the breakaway speed. Admit they keep the ball when it’s in their hands, but don’t do too much with it.” He folded the Boston Globe sport pages onto his lap.
Kyle said, “You’re bagging a guy who won’t even start over my guy who’s a stick-out to be a starter every game, sixteen regular and what else they have to do to keep public interest going, you name it and they’ll do it. You onto a career thing? Is that your stand? I’ll match my guy to your guy over the next ten years, for ten bucks. Meet me for lunch at Maliave’s then, we’ll match notes.”
Back over his shoulder he looked at the calendar on the wall, then at the large mahogany wall clock he’d brought with him from his own chambers. “Eleven forty-five a.m., Tuesday, August 1, the year of our Lord two thousand and eight, Ammo Donimi. At ye olde Maliave’s. Bring resume and lunch money, for imbibition if nothing else, if you’re not very hungry or don’t have a sweet tooth as a fang.”
“If I’m busy, being a working man, I’ll send Mal. She loves lunch at Maliave’s. Football doesn’t exactly break her up the way hockey does, but she’ll go for the food there. She doesn’t think there’s enough action, enough thrills, with football.”
Max was Maxine Humdroph, accounting professor at Bentley College in nearby Waltham. Harry followed her back to Bentley one day from the Boston Public Library where he’d seen her stretching for a book on a high shelf. The stretch did it. In the silent room, in the reference section loaded with tomes and thicknesses, the buzzer went off in the back of his head, the stretch did it, the push of self against clothing, the formation.
Up front she admitted her love of bird watching and her love of hockey. And no interest in football whatsoever.
The morning after Harry’s and Kyle’s discussion on odds, longevity and careers, all three of them, including the accounting prof, sat up and took notice of football and the New England Phantoms.
Wide receiver Mal Campbell, standby veteran of the receiving corps of the Phantoms, had possibly been lured from the Canton townhouse he shared with running back Luke Graham. Mal was found, shot twice in the chest, in his room mates’ Bronco parked beside a public phone booth. A patrol car had checked out the Bronco, a dome light still burning, a door ajar. They found Mal Campbell behind the wheel, sitting straight up in the seat. The bullet holes were about six inches apart. His chest was bloody red.
To the police and some to the newspaper reporters, Luke Graham said, when questioned, shaken, unsure of only some minor elements, “We were hanging out, that’s all, having a few beers. Been hot and tough that day, lotta live stuff, mixing, cracking heads some. Mal was worried ‘bout his wind not coming back like allus did. His knee kinky. He wasn’t sick, though, just a little worried. Maybe tired the hard work out. Some days it’s bitches, you know. We try to keep the phone number out of print, if you know what I mean. But every once a while some chick sneaks it off’n somebody, teammate maybe, who thinks she’s hot something, or special. Groupies, whatever you guess, they all over. Hundred reasons suppose. Anyways, a call comes for him. I get it. Sweet voice all purr, I mean downtown all purr, fire-stuff, all that darling stuff coming right down the wires must a been melting all over Ma Bell sneaky-like, says to me, ’Hi, Sugar buns. I like to talk to Mal. Saw you a day last week, Sugar buns. You a pair of something, you two. He there?’ Her voice rippling the way a rock’s thrown on water. “
“Mal gets on the phone and he talk only ‘bout ten minutes and he outta there. Takes my keys and my Bronco, ‘cause I’m last in the driveway ‘cause I’m in last last night, my own ‘pointment being hot.”
I say, ‘Where you going this hour, man?’ Must a been near eleven, maybe after, coming midnight soon, sky full of moon. Night for something else. you know.”
“He says, grabbing himself, you know, ‘She hot, man. Waiting in a phone booth says only one she could find when she got our number. Over by Leroy’s Bar, the town line, near big garage where Little League plays.’”
“‘Man,’ he says to me, ‘She says to me, ‘Know what I’m doing right now, Sugar buns, right here in this public phone booth near a streetlight, cars zipping past me, I’m warming it all up for you, wet and awful awful pow’ful hungry, Sugar buns. My skirt up ‘round my hips, don’t ever wear anything under there. Never do. No hand on the phone, darling, holding it with my shoulder, my head, being two-hand busy for you. Saw you a day last week. Can’t stop thinking ‘bout you. It hurt, that feeling. I gets hurt something awful. Cops come by now, never ever see me again. They send me off to jail for ever and ever. C’mon, Sugar buns, I can’t wait much longer. No sir. I go finger crazy right here on side a road. Oh yah oh yah oh yah. You be my Superman, the phone booth.’ “
“Outta there he goes. Never see him again ‘til the cops come, three four o’clock, blue light shaking all through the house, almost talking, coming in all the winders like them Northern Lights all shook loose last year one time, bouncing through the house a freight train coming down the tracks middle the night right outta nowhere, waking you up, making your suitcase jump alla place. It come off the ceiling where I see it first when I wake up, this blue light zapping and I know ain’t no dance hall light for juking and jiving and stuff. Scare the hell outta me, it do.”
His eyes saddened more as he continued. “Then I knowed something happen. Feel it in my back like it crawling all over me. Cop was nice, knew I shook up, kind a sad look on his face, like maybe he saw Mal catch a few ‘em long one’s once awhile. Ast me go look. I gotta call the coach three four o’clock in the morning. Gotta call somebody with the team. Ain’t going there alone, not this one. Coach Krier, me and him go there like it’s Halloween and we ain’t sure of nothing. Mal shot twice, in my Bronco, sitting right at the wheel like he minding his own business, going someplace else, easy drive, radio playing, cool. Light on overhead like he was to read a map looking where to go.”
His face went blank as if he knew where that place was, a road each one of them had known.
“Cop say shot right up close. I just tell ‘em it was a sweet young thing called. Don’t even know if she did him, did him anything, turned any tricks what else. Don’t even know she the one, whoever she is, but smoking all’s I say. Real smoking, that girl. Real smoking!”
Looking around, feeling as though he had been pushed to the wall for some kind of team declaration, he added a somber clarification. “Look like Kelvar Hobbins, he goes first team now. First offense. Hope he does it good, rookie from Florida. Mal, he had good hands, job all sewed up ‘nother year. Do him no good now, going grassing his new way. Way it goes, me and Kelvar rookies.”
Chapter Two
Pete Goodyard, new-era grocer, a rich one, who blew it open when his company went public and him holding a couple of hundred-thousand or so shares, “spreading some of his wealth onto other fields,” as he often said thereafter, was now the principal owner of the New England Phantoms, and their new stadium shone in the sunlight of the Saugus marshland just below the southerly edge of that town’s Baker Hill, Revere on one flank and Lynn on the other.
“I want it here,” he told the media earlier, “to be a part of history, near the site of the old Saugus Airport from which the country’s first air mail delivery had taken place, and the old Saugus Racetrack, both now gone into the ground, into a clutch of saline and brackish wilderness, more than 750 acres where the tide comes in and cuts grid-like. As an owner in big time football, I’m a youngster, low man on the totem pole, tyro at sports, but bringing with me a nod at sensitivity and community, a love of history, a flair for human relations, and gut feelings I always obey when they begin to talk to me, in the bone, in the soul.”
He was handsome in the blond way, light eyed, tanned well, and excelled at a number of one-on-one sports. He knew how to make money. Where to put it.
A few years earlier he had called Harry Krisman and Kyle Bronte. “I’ve heard of you and your reputation, Harry, and also admire the stand of your cohort, Judge Bronte, on some sticky issues rather close to my heart. Perhaps someday we can discuss them, but now business tells me I’m in need of assistance and want you to come to work for me, if you’re free. Your calendar, that is. Both of you. The retainer will be just, the job secret.” He threw some numbers out.
Lanyard’s voice on the phone was level, deep enough that Harry pictured a heavy-set man of forty-five or so, bright-eyed, high forehead. The man’s voice carried a shot of bounce in it.
Lanyard continued, “The thing you did in Montreal, admirable, imaginative. Ran against a few tough grains, I bet, before that one was done. It keyed my selection.” He had qualified his stand, now his voice had become friendly in the next step, and then compassionate, with a small, tight expression of awe in it.
” I admire some controlled intensity, imagination, the kind of ethic that takes over when luck goes out the door.”
“You a hockey fan?” Harry said, before he even asked what kind of a job was in the offing. He remembered L’Voner with the knife in his hand, advancing on Mal in the Montreal restaurant; a picture that’d never go away.
“No, but I hate the Canadiens. The team, that is. Always have. For some misguided reason I know, but fact is fact. It must be a Boston penchant, an Orr thing, an outgrowth come of losing something you figure belongs to you, but it doesn’t.”
“Man after my own heart. What can we do for you?” Pictures were still coming into the back of Harry’s head.
The judge had looked up from his desk at that point of the call. His cape, another gray one so honest in its cut and texture it drew eyes, lay draped over the back of a visitor’s chair. A thin loop of black material twirled at one edge, matching the black button on the other side. A thin, elegant black trim showed as collar. It could have had dollar signs stitched into it.
Kyle’s face said, “What now?” He could see Harry’s gold tooth still holding its own as far as shine or gleam was concerned. Before it was all over, Maxine would have something to say about that tooth. He’d bet his next encounter on it. Well, almost.
Lanyard said, “I have this gut feeling that some of my operations are being sabotaged. From the inside. If we can sit down and talk about it, I’d appreciate it. I need help. I’ve come to the cream of the pro’s.” He laughed as he added, “That’s from what I’ve heard from the community, the professional side and elsewhere. And we have some mutual friends. Judge Harnedy, Judge Malton, Captain Bidwell, BPD, who’s the godfather of my accountant’s son, and, I think, Harry, a friend and I followed your stay with a friend at the Blacktides Inn in Vermont, on one of your bird-watching trips. The Colsons favor you and your friend a great deal.”
It took Harry and Kyle Bronte only two weeks, or slightly less, to knock down the culprits, hired by a third party. Harry and Kyle had locked it up in “Jig time”, as Lanyard said, watching them at work, questioning in his mind at first the limp Harry exhibited, wondering about his capabilities, reaction time. He’d told himself shortly he need not have worried.
Now, two and a half years later, Pete Goodyard had dialed that same number again.
Now it was not commercial sabotage, but murder. There was still concern about assets.
They met at the Pilot House, a hundred yards off Route 1, where Everett-Revere-Chelsea bang shoulders. A simple sign of announcement hung over the front doors, a small red lobster in one corner as vague as an afterthought. Pete Goodyard was waiting for them in a side function room, the lamp on the table turned down low, the furniture dark mahogany, the shadows sufficient for tryst or secrecy or corporate takeover.
“Glad to see you again, Harry, Judge.” His head of ample blond hair nodded at each, and he offered his hand. There was a drink in front of him, Kyle thought it a margarita.
Pete Goodyard pointed at it. “Name it, Cheryl’ll get it for you.” His voice was low, but not a whisper.
Cheryl, tall, leggy, carefully dressed, possibly a true redhead, appeared out of the shadows and took their order. She was soundless disappearing, no high heels clicking on the floor, no look-at-me-guys notice broadcast within the building.
Kyle Bronte appreciated her walking style for a lost moment.
“It’s been a while, Pete,” Kyle Bronte said, turning back. “We’ve gone over your draft picks, really close. Nit pickers, Harry and I. Spent some time at it, made a few bets. Long range ones, though. Career stuff. A very interesting draft. Might shake itself down the line.”
Kyle’s face said he was sorry for a lousy pun.
He could see suddenly that Pete did not want to do any kind of warm-up, his mouth slightly ajar, deferring to the older man, the judge, but ready to step in at the first chance. Kyle Bronte appreciated the man’s paid respects as well as his attire; a well-dressed and successful business man who could put his money where it did him the most good, clothes being a very prominent part of it.
“What’s bothering you, Pete? You look like you’ve swallowed a can of sardines that’s half opened.” Kyle pushed his drink away, and reached for one of his favorite smokes, a HavaTampa cigar with a white mouth piece. His eyes darkened with interest, his chin stuck out.
“What’ve you got? We’ll handle it, give it our best shot.” There was no high-bench pose with his words.
Pete turned to Harry and could not see his gold tooth. He wondered if it had been replaced. Harry’s limp had been forgotten entirely. Was the ex-judge exercising a kind of senior attitude?
The grocer thought he better get to the case at hand, put his own observations aside. “I expect you’ve read about our wide receiver, Mal Campbell. Nice boy. Earnest, taking care of his parents, some siblings, like a lot of his teammates. Shot twice in the chest. Left to die on the side of the road in a teammate’s car, Luke Graham, also his roommate.” He sipped his drink, but not absentmindedly, his eyes drifting over the top of the glass.
“That was his account in the Globe and the Herald. Made it sound like a set up. Contrived, to say the least. Apparently lured out of their townhouse down in Canton, closer to practice at Benton College than downtown Boston where you know they’d liked to have been... Twin Towers, Four Seasons, the Holiday near the hospitals and all that uniform whiteness running loose and free. These kids, can roll out of bed and find it waiting at the doorstep for them, on the stoop, like evening can’t wait to spread its legs for them. Oh, to be that young again for some of us’d be the same kind of disaster.” There was a momentary flash on his face, a look at another time, another era.
“Takes a lot to stay on-sides, keep under control, in this day and age. There’s a lot of foul territory. Quicksand you never see from the bench. Not even from the press box. A lot of rules you’d better keep in mind if you want to last in this game. Most of them don’t see it. Can’t keep the good and the bad separated. It lasts such a short time for them. I’m aware of that. A lot of them aren’t. Knees go wacky with ACL’s getting torn this way and that any day of the week. Hamstrings start working on you. Turn an ankle the wrong way and you might be done for the year, at least the best part of a year. It’s all so hip for them, so fast and free, with a promise that it’ll go forever. But that forever never happens. Take three years, maybe four, and be happy, be thankful, take care of mommy and daddy, get the farm you’ve dreamed about, the ranch, a house on top of a hill. Mostly it’s what the family has dreamed about for a hundred years or so, hardscrabble being the way of life for many of their families since the War of the Union. Getting a hunk of this earth. Putting your brand on it.” He stopped to measure a territory or an idea in his mind.
“Then, all of a sudden, deed or no deed for that farm or that ranch, the sun stops shining. They think it’s going to shine for fucking forever. They make a run at it. They’ve got money, youth, just cares enough, after family of course who happen in most cases to be hundreds if not thousands of miles away, that Sunday afternoons go right for them. Bam! Poof!” He flashed his fingers in the air. “Just like that! Midnight coming! Carriage at the door. Late in the evening it was for Mal, eleven-ish, when he was lured from his pad, a hot voice via Ma Bell, sounds like it was a pants dropper from the word go. I don’t know if he ever closed down a nice deal for a farm for his large family. I should know, but I don’t.”
He paused, took a breath. “You up on all that?”
Harry Krisman said, also pushing his drink away, “We caught that on TV and in the papers. Sports Illustrated did a quick piece on it and some associated stuff, or I should say, similar stuff. The business gets bigger, the more fringe riders saddle up. Not just the satellite stuff, but hard-core leeches, suitors of all ilk, as you might say. We’ve been there and now you’re going through it. You feeling something we haven’t heard about? My accent on feeling is a mutual reference to some of the things you’ve encountered in business, though each of us knows a hell of a lot of intelligence goes into those gut feelings of yours. Is there something that’s not in the papers yet? You telling me we’re not up to date on all things Phantomic?”
Harry saw on Pete Goodyard’s face, even in the half-lit room, a look, first quizzical, then of worry. For this man, without a strand of hair out of place, clothes as well-groomed as Kyle Bronte’s, their cost somewhat like three hard weeks of work beyond Harry’s own price range, that look was as serious as a price drop, a change in the commodity market. Absolutely honest, somewhat foreboding.
They would talk about that conversation when they were alone, Harry and Kyle, remembering what Pete Goodyard had to say.
And some of what he did not say.
It was later in the day, after a court appearance, a five-minute testimony by Harry and then by Kyle, witnesses to a family shooting in the North End. They had gone for pizza-and-whatever to Bobby Pag’s new pizzeria, Emily Romagna’s Valley Rich, Harry ostensibly for the pizza, Kyle for the whatever. “Not a square inch of stainless steel or Formica in the whole place that you can see,” Harry’d said when asked why there. “Even the ovens are out of sight, and you can’t smell Rinso or Tide or Ajax or some industrial-strength cleaning agent floating against the best part of your palate.”
With them were Maxine Humdroph, not-so-plain-professor-of-accounting at Bentley College, and a striking redhead by the name of Magnolia Comfort. Maxine was clear blonde, Nordic in facial look, but warmer in the eyes. Blue eyes but not steel blue. Blue like an ink he could remember. Kyle had noticed, much earlier in their association that when she was in Harry’s company, Maxine did a lot of talking with her fingertips, touching fingertips, at a sleeve end, on the back of his hands, at his elbow still housed in a jacket, at the strap on his wristwatch, often unobtrusively the hair on the back of his neck. It had taken him a while, he admitted readily, to define in his mind how she might have handled Harry’s prosthesis, like getting in the sack for their initial tumble, or any tumble thereafter. It had been ribald at first, but he had settled down his thoughts, Maxine coming to mean as much to him as the younger detective, scarred enough times already in his life, but dogged at every task.
“No kidding, Scout’s honor,” Kyle had said, raising his right index finger shoulder high when introducing Magnolia Comfort, adding, with a bit of nonchalance he could always muster,” Here’s dark-eyes herself, one hundred and thirty-five pounds of suppleness and sensual competence spread upward on a torso right off a European designer’s style show runway, as close to five-eleven as one can get and not have heels do the body any damage. Mother gave her the name, ‘now hear this’ she also says without abashment, ‘the same night she was conceived under a tree in a park in Savannah, Georgia,’ her mother impregnated by a Marine the first night home from Viet Nam via the Walter Reed Hospital with one hand long gone over to a grenade and to the green jungle and the other in an abortive sling.”
At all this, Harry noted that Magnolia Comfort was completely at ease, no sense of urgency in her make-up, embers at the bottom of the pile just waiting for new ignition. He wondered where her hand was under the table, was it talking.
Kyle Bronte tried to separate impressions. The first was of Magnolia, some nights earlier, holding him with two hands, one on his rigid self, one cupping the jewels gently underneath, saying without design, “When I am in this position, I am head of the firm. When you have my two hips in your hands, then you can be boss,” her hair like Fall leaves, her eyes wickedly beautiful.
Magnolia’s mother came back to him. “And her mom says, even to me,” Kyle continued, “‘I did all the touching, all of it, for both of us. I knew exactly what I was doing, what I would get out of it, because he was the most handsome man I’d ever seen in my whole life, and the saddest. And I was no virgin, had no pretenses, not puffed up about a little piece of ass with a lovely looking boy who was able to get me going as quick as any boy I’d known. Ever. All three of them to that point, as a matter of fact. All absolute incompetent boors, as I’ve since found out and made sure that she’d find out without going the hard route. Anyway, I liked what I was looking at, loved it, knew I’d love what I’d be doing, getting right down to grassing the old way. Red hair he had like some god I swear come risen out of one of those rocky-mound cairns in old Ireland, Western Ireland, Percy Spencer’s slopes, a god who’d swung his sword at the goddamn Norsemen right down there on the goddamn beach, outside the Pale. Or the Vikings or the Picts or whatever the hell they were at that time, coming at his place, coming on his piece of the earth! A god, a king of a redhead. A warrior. Ready. Willing. Able. The kind they’d sung the caoine for, the keen, the death song, rhymed or unrhymed doesn’t matter. That’s what he made me think of. And that lovely boy’s still sad except when she walks back into his life every so often. Not me, but her. I think we both knew what was coming to us, like it was a picture show just unfolding right out in front of us, old black and white. Said he’d never marry me. Could never support me. So, I let him be. Did not put that weight on him, not even on a king, a redhead king at that, king of love. King of the one-night stand, but king laying down too. I’ve always loved him, my boy of Savannah, my cairn boy. Have always let him love his girl, what he might call in the old tongue his gradh mo chroidhe, gramachree, love of my heart.’ “
Maxine loved meeting Kyle’s friends, especially his girlfriends and the stories that came around them like auras let loose from some place not quite on earth. There had been a few very special people in that caste. This one, Magnolia Comfort, tall, warm, striking in any crowd, any setting, sensual, was no exception to that rule.
Her red hair was radiant, spoke of a fire, told Maxine at the doorway that Kyle was special to her. “He’ll always be special to me he keeps using the Brillo Pad or sandpaper or whatever the household toy he uses for fun and games. Makes life interesting.”
The first pizza had come and gone. Gone also was a bottle of red wine Bobby Pag’s had sent over with a handwritten note because he had to step out for a quick visit to a sick friend, “Special delivery right from the vines of Emilia-Romagna, where my family’s roots go into the Byzantine authority of the fifth or sixth century. This jug, though, is mere 1969. But a great part of my Italia. Dig it! Drink it! Dip your bread in it if you have the urge...and the nerve. If you want more, yell! Carmen will fetch.” It was signed, “Bobby Pags, I.R.”
Maxine asked Harry, “What’s with the I.R., Harry? Is that code? Is that part of the P.I. business? Is this more than eating? Are we here on business? You work and date at the same time?”
She held the note in her hands, studying it. She looked up, a mover of numbers and statistics, bird watcher, new love of his life, the face of a Nordic cameo beauty, lips not red but a damp pearl, wet, glistening, saucy, and said, “That’s only six or so questions.” She added, “Gyrfalcon,” almost under her breath, a hurried nickname for Harry. “I could think of a lot more if you want me to.”
Harry blushed. She had a way of making him nervous. “Nothing so deep,” he said. “I.R. just means I remember.” He didn’t say any more, not then, but sent Maxine, with a slight tremor, remembering things herself, thinking she could always wait on him, oftentimes did at the very edge, but where he called it precipice she called it scarp, an inversion itself she thought. Her face, she realized, was a bit telling, not yet used to the feelings this man brought out in her, old hay mow stuff and bunched linen and moonlight falling atop them on a sixth green a quick step off the pavement of Route One just north of Ellsworth, Maine. But she’d get used to it. She was sure of that.
Magnolia Comfort caught Kyle’s eyes, rolled her own eyes, tossed her chin with a flair, and said, “What’s with the bird calls? Are we in for a lot of this aviary shit?”
The tip of her tongue was visible with every word, poking more fun at Maxine, who broadened an already broad smile.
The girls had missed the shooting when they were ten minutes in the ladies’ room, Maxine still laughing at and with Kyle’s new friend. The incident happened, while they were gone, in a small parking lot directly across the street from the window booth Harry and Kyle sat at, trying to focus on Pete Goodyard.
The sudden shooter was known to both of them and, obviously, to the victim, the straight brother of a rather crooked and bent older brother, “smoking gun in hand” as they might say in court, and “just another night in town.”
The girls had missed all of it. Only a single blue light flickered across the windows when they came back to the booth.
Maxine had said, “Some excitement while we were gone?” Blue lights somehow no longer bothered the deep Maine transplant, did not pique her interest so much, too long now on the Boston scene. “A night in Boston means blue lights, coming from one direction or the other. Sirens sometimes come before you see the blue lights, opposite of lightning.”
Now, apparently, it was old hat to the girl from Wallagrass, Maine, so far up there you can’t get there from here, at least, not today.
Magnolia Comfort, sipping the last of her wine, eyes cool, tipping her head ever so slightly at the whole North End out the window, said, “What’s the body count?”
Harry and Maxine had early noted the redhead was a smoking redhead, Kyle’s appreciative style, who used a lot of subtleties that might have come right out of a dark Savannah park. And they would believe she could say in a voice distinct forever, “Move over. Move down. Move your hand. Lower. Lower. That’s better. Oh, that’s something new for a big boy, now isn’t it?” or “What darling thing are you up to now?” If Kyle told them so.
To herself Maxine said, not surprisingly, “This is one girl I’ll meet in Harry’s business I can get to like, if I get to know her more,” not knowing the chance was coming her way soon.
Kyle said, “One,” to her body count question. Maxine’s eyes opened wider. So did Harry’s, not at the ‘one’ but at the question.
Magnolia swung slowly to Kyle, her head tipping, not a can-you-see-this-tipping-of-my-head, but a sincere tipping. “What are you boys working on now?” Her eyes went deep with interest, her mouth, slightly open, slightly lascivious about the tip of her tongue, was saying, “I am very interested. I’m waiting for you to tell me what you’re working on.”
Her face was loaded with promise, cheeks high and full of shine, lips puffy, a redder redness you knew she had sufficient control over.
” Does your work chase you?” she said. “Are you that much in demand?” Casually she pointed her chin at the scene outside, then looked directly into Kyle Bronte’s lap.
“We were just getting around to that while you ladies were in the ladies’,” Harry said, so Kyle could study his date, still finding out things about her, always hoping, as he often said, “Never wanting to know anybody completely, never quite getting to turn the last corner, never seeing the full promise.”
“You going to tell us?” Magnolia said. Her hand touched Maxine’s arm, sister enlisting sister in a project, in an association, becoming us.
“A friend of ours.” Harry said, “is the principal owner of a professional team. One of his players, name of Mal Campbell, was shot in the chest the other night, down in Canton. Sounds like he was lured from his house, sometime before midnight, by a female, hot to trot it sounds like. He was found stone cold dead, two big holes six inches apart in his chest, in his roommate’s car, beside a phone booth, by the locals. No apparent suspects on-line as yet.”
“Just another road kill?” Magnolia said, which made Harry smile and Harry nod.
“That’s the one which hit the papers,” Kyle offered, still finding out new things about his date.
“There’s more than one?” Maxine said. A quizzical look went Magnolia’s way. Maxine wanted to tip her head but thought she’d be copy-catting.
Harry nodded again. “Pete said he was very nervous about the whole situation. Moreso after the second death. A hit and run. One of his players slated for the taxi squad, if that, one of the last draft picks. Way down near the bottom of the pickings. An interior lineman, guard probably, from some small college in New Mexico. Aldo Mercantonio, called ‘Do Re’ by his friends back at school and up here. Very popular among his teammates, very spirited but at least a couple of years away from seeing any big-league action, if ever, at least so said by Pete and his drafting personnel.”
“Why’d they draft him,” Magnolia said, “if he was so goddamn hopeless?” She could hunch her shoulders so that her breasts were more visible. Maxine got an impression that the redhead was not wearing any underpants. If she tried that, Harry would go nuts.
“I got the feeling, though Pete wouldn’t say it outright, that they really drafted him to spark up the preseason, the doldrums days, the two-a-day practice sessions that are pure torture to some of the players, especially veterans, pure and unadulterated drudgery from what we hear. Give the team some life from another aspect’s what they wanted. Kid was a great kid. Lots of spirit, great line of chatter, would fight an alligator if he had to.”
“Sacrificial lamb or court jester.” Magnolia Comfort toasted Do Re Mercantonio with a sip of Emilia-Romagna after she held her glass on high. “Some guys hardly ever get what they want in life. Others get it all. Where’s Justice when you’re looking for her, out taking a pee?”
“This death is supposed to be different from the other one, that Mal person”, Maxine said, “because one is a starter jock and the other has little if any chance of playing? The other’s funny? He’s got good lines?” Up straighter in her seat she sat, face lit up, eyes igniting. “This whole out-of-line approach to big time sports really bothers me. It locks you guys in with all the other beer-swilling end-zone Jimbos wearing their fucking dogface masks or cheese head hats, the sports macho buffs, adoring their little gods, or their vastly overweight and over-rated gods, their out-of-sight-pay gods. I think it’s despicable.”
Magnolia Comfort, much of her exposed in a barely enclosing black dress, the tops of her breasts pure as snow on Kilimanjaro, put her hand on Maxine’s arm, and said, “Go get ‘em, girl. I’m with you. We got solidarity this issue. I won’t pay a nickel to see a guy boot a ball who’s getting a million or more dollars a year for game-playing and some days outright stinks at his job. We’re supposed to accept this crappy attitude and posturing and keep paying? He doesn’t want to play, doesn’t feel like it, poor baby, thinks it’s his time of the month, huh? It outright stinks!”
Her mouth was perfectly oval as she stressed stinks. “You think we’re supposed to sit there and take that kind of crap. Take another effing guess, sweetheart.” She threw her head again, but not so subtill. The union of Maxine Humdroph and Magnolia Comfort was confirmed at least on one issue of big time sports, big business sports.
“That’s the point of the issue,” Harry countered, the tooth showing itself off. “That’s what’s bothering Pete. I admit, so does he, he shoots from the hip a lot. Obeys gut reactions. Always has. You have to say he’s done remarkably well with hip-shooting, gut reactions. His empire’s still building, still growing. Christ, some days he thinks the whole enterprise is in orbit it moves so well. Could be global one day. But this thing bothers him no end. Not just the loss of two players, but something else, something macabre about it. Says it’s twisted his guts out of kilter. Feels it like he’s felt no other incident or situation. Never, he says. One death forces a domino roster change, right at the first team and back down the ranks, Mal Campbell’s death. The other one, Do Re’s, won’t do a thing that anybody’ll notice except for his parents, family, maybe a few guys who stood in the huddle with him down there in New Mexico, held the line in a big game. Some frat brothers maybe or a special girl.”
Bobby Pag’s night manager Carmen placed the second bottle of Emilia-Romagna wine on the table, the cork gone, the label like old parchment of a yellow-gray, but no note, only a smile and a nod to Harry, and one at the redhead Magnolia Comfort, who’d made another mark for the evening. The waitress placed the second pizza with anchovies on the table, along with a set of clean plates and a new pile of napkins. The air kicked itself with the odor of the anchovies.
Kyle took the waitress’s hand and exchanged a ten-dollar bill with her. No one seemed to notice.
Magnolia said, leaning lots of whiteness over the table, “What’s the greengrocer really saying to you, birdman?” She and Maxine exchanged smiles. Kyle kicked Harry under the table.
Harry, as if ignoring both pun and kick, said, “He has this crazy feeling, straight out of his gut, Marcantonio’s death was a cover-up for Cantrell’s murder. A dilution of sorts.”
Maxine said, “Harry, you’re still at it! One you call a death, the other a murder. One you use the full name of the big star, then just the last name of the lesser known. You’re a sports bigot, even though I do love you.”
“Give him no quarter, girl,” Magnolia said, looking Maxine right in the eyes, then looking at Kyle and offering him the weakest of smiles, as if to say, “How’s that, chile?”
Harry moved on. “One was murder, was planned, is apparent, bullet holes and such. The other may or may not have been an accident. Pete doesn’t think it was an accident. Has this feeling, insatiable feeling he says, that it’s a cover-up. Hardly a ripple in the team framework with Marcantonio’s death. Thinks someone who knows football, team chances, value of players to the team goals, is behind it. Thinks it’s planned, intentional, perhaps a bit of sabotage the way things were the last time we worked for him.”
He nodded at Kyle as he said, “Pete hit it right on the nail head that time. Convinced he’s hitting again this issue.”
Maxine took a sip of Emilia Romagna and said, “How does he come up with cover-up? What does that say? To make the Mal thing less than it was? To hide its purpose and intention? How do you hide murder with murder? Tell me, birdman.” Her laugh was not self-conscious, as if a reaction was expected.
It came from Magnolia. She made funny sounds in her throat, blowing air, her lips pursed and oval, sounding exactly like wings taking off... ”wooshwooooshwooshwooo,” the last sounds fading away, “shwoo shwooo shoooo,” as if flight was out of sight, out of hearing range, wing fluttering gone. Maxine kicked her under the table.
The others laughed, for her, with her, at her, with the Emilia Romagna, at unionizing.
Kyle pulled his mind away from Magnolia’s whiteness and sound effects and all the endless possibilities.
“Right on, Maxine,” he said. Pete thinks it so incidental, so accidental, so inconsequential, for the team, but not the player, that he thinks that way: that it was done only to mask over Mal Campbell’s murder. Says, and I quote, ‘Came right into my gut like so many other things do when I’m at a loss. And I’m at a loss more often than you think. And out of a clear blue sky. Had no idea my mind could contrive the thought, and there it was.’”
Kyle want on to explain how Pete Goodyard had carried on in their office in their morning meeting, his insisting that they take the job, even though he had nothing concrete to offer them, Pete saying, “Nothing more than a gut reaction which you can never take to court nor get a summons or a subpoena for, something so far out of the end zone it’s off the whole field of the arena.”
“Kept on insisting that we make out our own retainer price right on a blank check he tossed down on the desk. ‘Fill it in,’ he says. ‘Name your price. My whole future’s riding on this, I can feel it. I don’t want to come up short. You guys did it before, I want you to do it again. Find out what’s going on. Find out if there is a connection. Make my gut feeling disappear if you can.’”
Magnolia said, more breast exposed from the black dress than was hidden in it, “The pair of you going to be his tonic, his pink stuff in the bottle tastes like sweet chalk, his new yet-to-be-named drug Uncle’s waiting to flood the market with, along with a couple of chemical houses, chemists soon to be godawful rich, some druggists the same, a few labs thrown in for cover? You take the job?”
“We took the job,” Kyle said. “We just had to get the female fans’ points of view, their ideas on collusion, conspiracy, whitewash.
Magnolia kicked him under the table. Maxine kicked Harry.
The second bottle of Emilia-Romagna was gone.
Chapter Three
Kelvar Hobbins was on the telephone. “I try you yeserday, you wuz out, Grandma. Say I call anything new. Got me to first team today. First team offense, Grandma!! Gonna start big exhibition game again Green Bay.”
Inside he felt a liquid fire. “Feeling good. Feeling good. That old blood running way it suppose to, thigh down, like you say, ankle up. Tonka Teal loose New England, gonna run me new contract you wait and see. One these days old Fatpockets coming home see you, one these days the season over.”
“Chile, you makes me happy. Told you it coming long time now. You works hard, you gets paid long green stuff. I did a little shopping yesterday, over near that big flea market, Brunelle, someplace like that, whole mile a tables loaded with alla stuff they makes in the world, everything I need and then some. It so big, Chile, it go on forever seems. They gets stuff ain’t dreamed a yet.”
“You spend some that money I send you, what’s for, like I promise. More coming, lot more coming. I turn this town its ear, catch some them balls they think no one gonna catch. I’m flying, Grandma, flying, free and loose, he in me alla time now, talking me, making me go.”
“Tears is what I gets, Chile. Tears. So happy. Today I make loose some more money. Buy that dresser allus wanted, with that big mirror show alla me. You call me tomorrow any day with new news.”
“How your friends, Grandma, them you go see?”
“They keeps, Chile. They keeps. Sadie Janelle spin them propellers, they fly high in the sky.”
Her laughter was warm and filling in his ear, made him feel warm all over.
“Let you meet my roommate sometime, Grandma. Name Ephrada Jollapawatt. Don’t know any tribe can think of but like to hear ‘bout Tonka Teal. He a running back outta Texas, a rookie, too. His eyes light up, swear to alla that holy, when I say ‘bout Tonka Teal. Afriker knocking on his door alla time, he hear sound in the night, he can’t say what is it. Think he fraid to leave the window open nighttime.”
“Sounds like a luscious boy, Chile. I meet him sometime. Come up there, see what New England like, Boston, get me a lobster feed, ride on a swan boat in that piddly pool, go Filene’s Basement Gwendolyn Gal tells me alla ‘bout alla time like she to show off her son-in-law who’s working Boston for year now. You go and tell that Ephrada boy, sound like a sweet ‘nother chile, I send some Tonka Teal up to him any ways I can. Tell him he to leave the window open so he gets in he gets there.”
There was a pause in her voice. “God ain’t hard to find.”
The sport pages next day, in both the Boston Globe and the Boston Herald, announced a trade between the Phantoms and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. “Phantoms’ Director of Player Personnel Dick Rhemus and Head Coach Calvin Rocky Krier, concerned about lack of depth in their receiving corps, and not wanting to throw the weight of the season on the back, shoulders and hands of rookie receiver Kelvar Hobbins (4.26/40) out of Florida, late yesterday announced a trade with Tampa Bay. The Phantoms lose their promising offensive lineman Merlin Arthurs, second year man out of Nebraska, who started the final seven games last year, and cornerback Lonnie Freytag, four-year veteran from Augustana Presbyterian, who would have been a starter this year. In return the home town team gets a four-year veteran receiver, Ignatio del Flores, LSU, whose stats last year said he was coming to the top of his game; sixty-two catches, eleven touchdowns, and a thirteen-yard average per catch. Though not a Pro-Bowler yet, losing out to the likes of Barry Price and Campton Mitchell-Ayres, among others, Flores had some heavy support from around the league as a ‘gamer’. He had two late-game game winners in his eleven TD catches, one being the spectacular behind-the-back grab against the Bears, some believing the Monsters of The Midway are returning to the NFL fold, to put the Tampa Bay into the post-season arena.”
Before he could get out of Tampa Bay, before he could meet any of his new teammates in the New England Colonies, “Ignatio del Flores,” according to a newspaper report, “having a last meal with four of his teammates at a popular Tampa Bay restaurant, Teddy Tapadero’s the Noisy Cajun, died on the floor of the restaurant, victim of an alleged food poisoning, though that pronouncement was later changed. Diners, to a person, said del Flores’ death was an excruciatingly painful one. A local doctor, Yssef Hanovan, transplanted Bostonian, dining as he has at Teddy’s place for a number of years, pronounced del Flores dead before the ambulance arrived with EMT’s.”
Tampa Bay Police Chief Lyle Bergeron, in the same newspaper, was quoted as saying that the poison was not strychnine, but a close relative of it, from an unknown source, but possibly was nightshade, remains of which were supposedly found in a small bottle of wine that del Flores drank. It was the only kind of wine he would drink. All restaurant personnel have been checked out, from chef to dishwasher and bus boy, few of them having contact with the poison source, the bottle, which has been tested and supposedly affirmed by a local laboratory as the conveyor of the deadly dosage.
Teammates and other officials of the Tampa Bay club say del Flores had no known enemies and was a very popular player on the local sports scene. “Some question exists.” the chief said, “that the poisoning may have been entirely accidental, as there was no apparent method of how the poison was introduced into the bottle.” The chief went on to say that the heavily toxic substance, little known in local laboratory investigations, “as it has never been reported as the cause of any death locally, may have been introduced accidentally or otherwise into the container in the final preparation process prior to being filled with the wine.”
Kelvar Hobbins called his grandmother with the good news/bad news. ” They was bringing in ‘nother long receiver, Grandma, del Flores from Tampa Bay, boy can fly too, but he got killed down that way by poison. ‘Mind me not to go eat out anyplace just for fun. Think they was gonna put him up ‘head a me but now they can’t do that because he ain’t catching too good today. Gonna still have a great year, Grandma, and get that BIIIIG contract we dream ‘bout alla time. I feel like dancing, Grandma. Nothing gonna stop me now. Could dance right here phone booth, alla ‘em looking at me wond’ring what happen make a guy so happy even though a guy gotta to die make me this happy.”
“Chile, that Tekla, that Tekla, he still with you, Chile. he ain’t never gonna leave you the fire of hell come calling in the middle of the night. You know he there alla time. You tell that Ephrada boy, what sound so luscious also, he got to leave the window open he get in he come that way for him, that old Tekla, coming right from the home bone, Chile, right from the heart the Black Continent. Chile, you a good boy call old not so old grandma every chance you get. Tell me all what goes on up there. Hug that Ephrada for me. Sound like a nice boy.”
Pete Goodyard called the offices of Krisman-Bronte Private Investigations, Prudential Building, downtown Boston, within hours of del Flores’ death. The call was a message, left after midnight, on the answering machine of the Krisman-Bronte office: “Harry, Judge, Pete here. It’s just past midnight. We had a trade just completed and agreed upon with Tampa Bay. We were supposed to get one of their receivers, a good one. Was poisoned in a restaurant down in Tampa Bay having a last dinner with some teammates. It stinks to high heavens. Poison seems old fashioned for these days. It’s got my sensitive gut rolling to a fare ye well. It’s like I already told you guys, something is fucking rotten in the Phantom woodpile and it ain’t Hamlet or Rosenkranz or Guildenstern. The trade was real secret up here, our way, our front office. Not a speck in the papers, but down there in Tampa Bay it was leaked out somehow. I heard it was kicking around a day or two down there, maybe just on the fringes of the team, the buffs who hang on at practice sessions, but was not in their papers either. Four, Five and Seven didn’t air it up here. Looks like their counterparts in Tampa Bay were dogging it too, didn’t pick up this tidbit. I don’t know where to look, but it keeps coming at me inside and nasty. It’s all that I said when we last talked. It’s gut with me, now sore and tender and still talking. I’m cutting loose any tethers I might have placed on your remuneration for this, though I did give you a blank check for the retainer.” A pause in the delivery.
“This is Cost Plus for you. Wide open. Sky’s the limit. Bring this dog to bay and there’s reward coming your way. Only thing else I can say is please. I’ll be in my office, at the stadium within the hour. It’s twelve-thirty-two in the ay em now, Tuesday. Catch me quick as you can. I want a run-down on anything and anyone in or out of the organization who has a speck of anything to gain from these circumstances, if indeed there is any gain ... that means our whole office organization, team members, etc. I’d suggest player agents, too, you name it. I am paying top dollar to protect this investment. This might atone for some of the Freebies the judge mentioned as throwing sand in your economic gears. Plus, I think as an AFC entry in the NFL we can continue the good work we did last year, but we won’t be able to do that if we keep getting sudden losses thrown our way.”
There was a pause in the message. “Boston deserves a winner. It’s time for one, a good one. Perhaps we’re a year away yet, I’m not sure. But it’s more than an injury list now. The body count is mounting. It frightens the hell out of me. Bagging groceries was never like this. Call me. I’m waiting”
Over the Revere-Saugus line they road, Harry and Kyle in Kyle’s black Bentley, after dipping around the rotary onto Route 107, the Marsh Road, which headed straight as a yard marker toward Lynn. 107 went over a few bridges where stripers could be caught at the right time, flounder as often as not. Out in front of them, off to the right, could be seen the huge Resco incinerator, still undergoing modernization, and the River Works facility of General Electric Company, for years the heart and soul of local economics.
They popped up over the special access overpass, going due north over what was reclaimed marshland where the Big Sandy and Little Sandy swimming holes used to be and onto the huge Patriot complex that spread up against Saugus Avenue at the foot of Baker Hill. Phantoms’ Country had moved north from south of Boston when Pete Goodyard got his hands on all the votes he needed.
Harry had a pad in his lap with several handwritten entries on it. While he was studying it, Kyle Bronte, as he had learned from Harry in a number of narrow escapes, kept checking the road behind them; “Whatever you do, Judge, wherever you go, no matter what kind of a case we’re working on, check your back door. Not to do so is laziness. Always check your back door. Never know who’s hanging around on your back stoop, wanting to get in the kitchen and see what’s cooking.”
Kyle’d been checking it all the way from their office in the Prudential Building and believed he was getting good at it. The black Chevie faded away behind them, the mini-vans, first the blue one and then the new metallic green one, dropped off at the last rotary, like change had been made at a coin machine. He’d keep his eye on the topless jeep coming up on them, only a roll-bar visible at the top of the windshield line.
Maxine had said a number of times, during evening talk, talk over a bottle of wine, a pizza, over a fish special at Bobby Pag’s, “The numbers will prove out Harry’s theory.”
She had looked, for the moment, professorial, statistical. “Out of hundreds and hundreds of cars that’ll be behind you in traffic, in the city or out on 93 or 95 or 495, one day one of them you’ll notice and be glad. It’ll pay off not being lazy when you’ve got nothing much else to do except drive the car. Harry’s often right about these things,” she’d said, and then exclaimed. “My numbers never lie! They keep coming back, making a place for themselves, making believers out of those who pay attention. The driving’s easy. Watching takes skill.”
She had, Kyle knew, dared him on, Harry’s old ally lining up Harry’s new ally. It was good business, he thought. It was also a chunk of her love being extended, like a mother’s apron, or the shroud of Olympus. He’d tell Magnolia about this. Hell, he’d tell Lucille down Maine and the other redhead at the Four Seasons. Life was too short to keep too much under the hat. Magnolia’d probably say something like, “Hey, Buster, tell me something I don’t know.” Lucille’d most likely smile. The other redhead’d be at somebody’s buttons, his or her own. Time marches on at its own pace.
Across the back seat was thrown another of his capes, black with gray trim. It matched the interior of the Bentley, though it was casually tossed across the seat’s fabric.
“Anything coming to light out of all this, Harry?” Kyle Bronte shifted slightly in his seat, a cigar in his mouth.
Harry could see another tie on the judge he had never seen before. Unlimited resources, he was saying to himself while he was smiling. Maxine had said, some nights earlier after another double-date with Kyle and Magnolia Comfort, “I think he must recycle his ties and his shirts after one wearing. Some of his suits, some of them, I’ve seen before, but never a tie, or a shirt I could be sure of. Must have a recycling system right down in the cellar, sends his ties down there, breaks them down, has new material processed, a new design set up, a new tie made. God, he’d have trouble just spending his time shopping for ties and shirts he’s worn unless he buys a truckload at a time. Do you think some of his old friends, and I say old friends advisedly, some of those who have stood up in front of him in court for the greater or lesser of his judgments might, once in a while, swing by with a whole trailer truckload of contraband apparel for his intimate selection?”
“Nothing in the woodpile I can see, Judge,” Harry said, coming back from his reverie. Pete’s probably more right in his gut feelings than we’ll be for a while. Not that I’m uncomfortable in this, hitting at flies, fleas, guessing, looking under rugs. Like you’ve said before, there’s better and more ways of earning a living.”
“Your response is appreciated, gents,” Pete Goodyard said as he met them under the huge Patriot logo hanging half way up the four-floor office building which housed the whole Phantoms’ organizational system, offices, club store, gym, team rooms, tickets, publicity, “all the stuff that pays off when you have a good product,” Pete said as he directed them on a mini-tour.
In one office he introduced them to Clyde Allen, a sharp looking thirty year older he had conscripted out of the green-grocer business. “Clyde has every scrap of information on hand about team members, coaches past and present, scouts, office personnel, agents and reps we’ve had contacts with over the last few years, vendors in case you might find a crank who’s gone real sour over some misfortune he maintains was our fault or gone out of orbit for some other mystery...all as you say, tbd, to be determined. He’s dug up the records of every player who’s ever worn the Phantom jersey from when they were the early Boston team in the old AFL; Houston Antwine, Bob Dee, Larry Garron, Chuck Shonta, Babe Parilli, Joe Bellino, Earthquake Jim Hunt, Artie Graham, Jimmy Colclough, on and on, the good and the not-so-good, but hardly ever indifferent. If there’re any sour grapes about old injuries or disputes, he’ll have it. Personally, I know of nothing in that area, but you said you wanted to cover every contingency possible. He’ll make that possible. I don’t think it’s inside, like in the grocery thing, but I know you want to cover it all. Excuse me while I go tend the store.”
Pete Goodyard walked away in a hurry, pointing to his man Clyde, the ball bouncing at Clyde Allen’s feet. Allen faked scooping it on one bounce. “Tricky dribble,” he said.
Six hours later, a mountain of material, read, sorted, put back in order, Kyle said, “Outside of a few lengthy injury complaints, perhaps tracked too long in light of the services rendered, I’ve found dick. You see anything, Harry?
“None that register murder by the side of the road, poison by a bottle of wine, or by any stretch of this imagination. I’ve got two stinky little notes and I’m throwing them away because I know I’ve been grasping at straws here. Nothing’s coming together. Like it’s all helter-skelter. No knuckles to make connections with or on, which, as we’ve seen before, is good planning on somebody’s part. Let’s knock it off for today, Judge. You lined up for tonight?”
“The Magnolia comes into bloom this evening. We’ll be at Great Woods. I’ll be sure to ask her what she thinks about this whole situation. She’s proven to be a most remarkable woman, some special insights. And her and Mal have really hit it off, haven’t they? It’s nice to see the species respond in that fashion.”
“Nice if it lasts,” Harry said.
Drew Barth is a writer living in Clermont, FL. His work can be found in The Antonym and The Drunken Odyssey.
The Skeleton
Cassandra Marshall pulled into her driveway slowly, making note of the skeleton on her front lawn. It lay across the lawn as though, in taking a break, some giant had simply reclined and lost its skin and organs. What remained was pristine, bleached white, and massive. Its head began at the path to their front door and ended with its toes just behind the line that divided their lawn and their neighbor’s. The hand brake clicked like a popped joint, and the car shuddered in the driveway. Cassandra remained in the car. She grimaced at the skeleton. Of all the days for something to appear on their lawn it had to be the one in which she lost her job. She could already hear Henry bemoaning her, telling her that her office job was only sapping her soul away and that they should have just gone off back to adventuring around Europe like they did before college. But she needed the house and the sense of stability. A thick air hung around the front of their home, only the buzz of a street lamp and a tire squealing from the main road kept the cul-de-sac from total silence.
She walked over hastily placed cobblestones and the weeds that grew between them to the front door and stopped. The sounds of the road couldn’t reach her. She went through her bag for the house keys and let them hover above the lock. Cassandra wanted to go back to the car, drive away, and simply not deal with the rest of the day. And yet she opened the door anyway.
“Welcome home, dear,” Henry Marshall said with a half nod, eyes never leaving the TV opposite him. A plate balanced on his lap, the brown stains and few grains of rice all that remained of his dinner. He placed it on the coffee table, the table leg clicking against the tile floor.
“Hey,” Cassandra said, the slightest tinge of a tremble coming off the last letter as though she wished to draw it out but changed her mind at the last moment. “You’ve been home all day, right?”
“Of course. Nothing but homework for me while you grind away at some office job that you’ll get fired from when it’s convenient to your boss.” Henry stretched his arms over the back of their green pleather couch and let out a grunt.
“Well, one of us has to make money.” Their eyes held for a moment, then Cassandra shook hers loose. She put her bag on a hook by the door. It wobbled under the weight, and she pushed it against the wall as though putting extra pressure would keep it from falling again.
“How about you, how was, what, your third late night in a row?” Henry rose from the couch and cracked his neck, just loud enough to echo.
Cassandra stayed by the front door, not wanting to cross the line in the different tile patterns that divided the entrance from the living room. Her hand wandered up toward the pocket the pink slip sat in like a bear trap. She wanted to take it out and show him, endure the snapping of metal teeth, get the whole thing out. Henry would have a blast with it. He might even dance from his excitement. Then they would be able to drop everything and go backpacking again like he wanted. But they were older now, Cassandra felt it in her own bones.
“Have you seen the skeleton?” she said.
“The skeleton?”
“The one in the front yard. Is that something you were going to ask me about or?” Cassandra let the question linger. “Did anyone come over to ask about it?” She sighed at the end of the question.
“No, but, like, I mean a skeleton? Just there, in the yard?” he asked. Cassandra nodded and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do we call the cops? Or what? What do we do here?”
“Don’t you want to see it?” Cassandra asked. She walked toward Henry but remained in the entryway, the line between tiles only a couple inches from her feet.
“I guess?” Henry paused and began to pace. His toe slapped the tile as it peeked from the hole in his sock. “Would that mean anything, though? Would that implicate us or something?”
Cassandra shrugged and said she didn’t know. Henry continued his slow pace up and down the space between the TV stand and the couch. She could feel the rhythm of his steps through the tiles, as though they were still as loose as when they first put them down together. She remembered picking the tile out, saying how perfectly it matched the ones in the entrance before coming home and seeing otherwise. Henry already had the old carpet thrown out. He told her they’d made due for a week on bare concrete. Cassandra made sure to click her shoes as loud as she could whenever she would walked by Henry.
“Do you want to join me?” she asked before opening the door and walking back outside.
Henry shuffled up behind her as he closed the door, the night air hitting them like a moistened brick. Street lamps had flickered on hours earlier, each with its own cloud of moths buzzing, harmonizing with the murmur of the lights. The heat of the day descended on the front yard after the sun went down, moisture piling up on untrimmed grass. It beaded and ran down the rough curves of the skull, pooling beneath the lacrimal that watched the neighbor’s yard next door. Henry placed his hand on the top of the skull as he looked out among the bones. Other homes had all but gone dark as the night began to drag.
“Why didn’t you mention how big it was?” he asked, fingers rapping along the bone.
Cassandra shrugged as she walked down among the left radius. “I guess you have an actual excuse now not to mow.”
“The mower’s still broken,” Henry mumbled. He attempted to step through the ribs but stopped himself. “Christ, should we even be doing this? What if someone sees us?”
She sat on the femur and looked down the road. “No one’s come to ask us about it yet. I don’t think they even will.” Henry sat near the top of the ribcage. “What do you want to do about it?” Cassandra asked.
“I mean I don’t know. Is there anything we can do with it outside of selling tickets for kids to play on it?” Henry got up and started moving back toward the house.
“Where are you going?” Cassandra asked. She moved to the other femur, traced a path around the calcaneus to the tibia.
“I’m just going back in, I need to sleep on this or something,” Henry said. He shook his head as he made his way up the cobblestone path.
Cassandra stayed on the femur and reclined into the bone for a moment, the knee cap pushing against her back. The streetlamp stopped buzzing. The only noise she could hear was her own breath and the small clink of a moth bouncing off their front lights. She got up from among the bones and put her hands in her pockets. The pink slip scratched against her skin.
***
The skeleton remained on the lawn. The Bakers pulled into their own driveway across the street. They paid no mind to the skeleton. It lay in the grass in a yard larger than any other yard in the neighborhood, on the bottom of the cul-de-sac’s circle. No bird perched on its ribs, no cat found a space to hide inside its pelvis. A caterpillar crawled across the frontal bone and stopped, reached its head up into the humid night air, and resumed its crawl. The skeleton wanted someone to recline on it, maybe talk about life if it could talk.
***
Henry was the first to rise the next morning. He opened the curtains to watch the skeleton take on a shade of green as yard clippings caked most of the feet bones. Their neighbor mowed without stopping to look at the skeleton. Henry closed the curtains and fell back into bed believing he was still alone in the house. Cassandra jostled awake and looked around the room. Henry sat up and watched her check the clock on the bedside table. He stood up from the bed and stretched as the floorboards beneath him squeaked and sighed under the pressure. Their room was the only completely finished one in the house. They promised each other that when they first moved in—that they would at least have somewhere nice to sleep while they worked on the rest. But he could never get the floorboards to sit right, no matter what he tried. He eventually took that side of the bed to ensure Cassandra would never call him out on his handiwork. And besides, he was always up after she left. She would never hear them anyway.
Henry was careful not to creak the floorboards again as he walked out of their room. The hallway leading to the stairs remained unpainted for the last three years. He ran his hand along the wall, the same few spots every morning, to see if the drywall felt ready to paint. Cassandra decided on a shade of blue years before but they never found the time to apply it. The buckets remained in the garage with bits of wood and spackling materials he’d picked up in case they ever got time.
The coffee had begun to drip when Cassandra entered the kitchen.
“Morning,” Henry said as he leaned against the counter. She made a noise as she dropped into a chair at their kitchen table, a seafoam green thing they had restored before moving in. It was before Henry kept insisting they should travel again and before they both found themselves in an office all day. At least he got out while he could, started taking some online classes so he could work overseas. “I thought you had another day at the grind?” Henry watched her back straighten and eyes bulge. She looked down at the table and swallowed. He wondered if she dreaded spending time with him or if she would notice he’d dropped out of his online courses weeks ago.
“Oh, yeah, work.” Cassandra drummed her fingers against the table. “I got an email, yeah, something about the servers being all weird today, so upper management gets the day off.” She finished and leaned back into the chair, the vinyl making a noise not unlike a croak. Henry smiled and looked at the coffee percolate.
He poured two mugs for them and sat down opposite Cassandra. They sipped their coffee and avoided eye contact until she spoke up again.
“What about you, anything to do today?”
Henry swished the coffee around in his mouth and looked up at the ceiling. Only half the popcorn he put up had taken and the rest stayed in scant patches that made him hunch over dinner when they ate at the table, as if waiting for more of it to peel off and rain down.
“Nothing much right now, just waiting to get some grades on mid-terms. You remember how that was.” Henry put the mug down and scratched the back of his neck. He hadn’t thought about classes for days, hadn’t been enrolled in them for months now. He couldn’t remember the exact day he stopped or even why, only the red marks that showed up more and more on his online assignments before he stopped looking at them entirely.
“I see,” Cassandra said. “Well, once it’s done you’ll be able to get a better job this time, right?”
Henry wanted to slam his mug against the table, cause a distraction and run out the back door. Or maybe climb on the table himself and weep, asking for forgiveness as he bowed to his wife, and vowed to never act like such a devious bastard ever again. He would plead for her to just drop it all and go back to Europe where they could rent a little cottage somewhere without offices or online schools for the rest of their lives. Instead he nodded.
“Should we at least work on the front yard today?” Cassandra asked.
“The mower’s still broken,” Henry said.
“I mean the skeleton.”
Before Henry could answer, a knock crept from the front door like a reluctant spider. Cassandra and Henry looked at each other before getting up from the table. Catherine Scott waited outside their front door, clicking her nails together and looking down at their cobblestones. Henry put his hand on the door knob, and Cassandra grabbed his wrist. She shook her head as he turned the handle.
“What do you want me to do?” Henry asked. Cassandra looked at him and back at the door, wincing at another knock. Henry opened the door anyway.
“Well, good morning to you two,” Catherine Scott was not saccharine although her voice would inform otherwise. It entered Henry’s ears and left a kind of sugary residue that felt like molasses. She stood just outside the doorframe, shorter than either of them. She switched her eyes between both of theirs, never focusing on one for more than a few moments. “Now, I’m not sure what you both were planning for Halloween but we’ve still got another six months until you need to worry about it.”
Henry had seen Catherine at other houses before, theirs maybe once or twice in the past. She was the HOA vice president and brought out a ruler to measure grass and had towed a few cars in the past for parking on the wrong side of the street. He could already feel the blood in his face boiling.
“Catherine, hi, how are you?” Cassandra put on a voice Henry only ever heard when she was at work. “We were just trying some things out the other day, you know how it is. That one just slipped our minds yesterday. We’ll get it out of the way soon, alright?” Cassandra stood and smiled while Henry pushed his shoulder against the door frame. He looked down at Catherine with one eyebrow raised.
“I’m just here to tell you that you should consider what you wish to do with your lawn ornamentation. Now I know you don’t take much pride in your own house but the rest of us do. I’ve sent an email to the rest of the HOA, so, you know.” Catherine clapped her hands twice before turning her back to them again to leave.
“Oh fuck off with that,” Henry said. He slammed the door before he could see Catherine’s reaction. Cassandra looked at him, eyes wide. He dropped his shoulders and went to lie on the couch.
***
The skeleton bleached in the afternoon sun. Everything from the phalange to the talus had been covered in grass clippings, as though it were wearing green socks. Errant moisture floated through the air, settling on the bones, keeping the grass in place on its feet. A small spider began to build a home beneath its slightly curved metacarpals. The skeleton enjoyed nature, wanted to be more of a part of it. This was its best option for now.
***
Cassandra sat with her hands opening and closing on the steering wheel, not committing to holding it. She wore the same pants, never letting them touch the hamper for fear that Henry might do laundry in his free time. The pink slip would poke out ever so slightly, enough that he would see it, smooth it on the kitchen table, and wait for her to come home. He would yell about how he knew she hated working there, that she got fired on purpose so they could pack up their things and leave the neighborhood forever.
She backed out of the driveway and watched the skeleton in her rear view mirror fade until it was just a mass of white. Her left turn signal came on but she turned right, a habit that she couldn’t forget. She corrected and turned left out of the cul-de-sac and drove down the street. Theirs was an appendage to a full neighborhood, one that didn’t have an entrance or a large brick sign that spelled out that people were entering somewhere exclusive. Only houses built together, following and adding onto the road, growing further and further back until they pushed against a dead end.
Cassandra stopped her car in a Target parking lot, pulled out the keys, and sat. She didn’t move for a moment, only breathed in a mixture of vanilla and something called “black ice” that hung from her rear view mirror.
The pink slip crinkled like tissue paper in Cassandra’s hand, didn’t have the weight she thought it still would. If she blew, it would lift off and sail onto the dashboard. The sun would hit it and burn the thing away or at least bleach it white like an old receipt. She crushed it in her fist and got out of the car. A breeze blew in and whipped her hair in front of her face. A styrofoam cup clinked in the wind, echoing around the parking lot like an out of tune bell.
Cassandra stuffed the pink slip into her pocket and went inside the store. Spring cleaning displays hung from the ceiling, bright and iridescent. She walked a slow lap and considered the things they wouldn’t be able to afford soon. Neon storage containers, desk organizers, and one of those massive TVs they could mount on the wall. And if not anchored on the wall, they could prop it up on a new entertainment center. All of their movies and picture frames and bric-a-brac lined up along the shelves would give the whole thing a sense of being their own. She wanted it all. She wanted to load up the cart with whatever would fit and bring it back home. That would be the first step before fixing everything else, painting the walls, getting the ceiling re-popcorned, laying down new tiles. Even if they left to somewhere else they would always have a house to come back to, an anchor to steady them through whatever could happen.
Cassandra drummed her hand along the storage container and continued to walk through the store.
***
The skeleton waited. No lawns needed to be mowed near it, save the one it lay on. It watched the cul-de-sac curve, the other homes all in a similar style. Like pigs’ snouts the garages jutted from the houses, tongues rolling out to form the driveways. It could only see three in a line but they kept the same shades of dark red, blue, and gray to their facades. Even the grass had been cut to nearly the same length, all green with no islands of dirt. The skeleton didn’t know what life was and wondered if that was it. A wasp nest began to form under a rib.
***
Henry sat on the couch and opened his laptop. The cursor hovered over a link to their bank account but quickly moved to a forum he began frequenting after he quit his online classes. They talked about traveling, although most of them complained about their own lives and the inability to leave their houses. Henry tried to offer advice when he first came on, but realized soon after that he was likely the oldest person there by more years than he was willing to admit to himself.
“What are you working on?” Cassandra draped herself over the back of the couch as Henry clicked away on his laptop.
“Oh, you know, things for class, getting those last-minute assignments in, you know how it is.” He fumbled with the screen, angled it further down into the keyboard.
“Is it a group thing?”
“No, no, it’s just, you know, a study group. We’re all in this together so we may as well work together, that sort of thing.” Henry fidgeted. His fingers froze on the keyboard as he looked up at Cassandra. A small smile came upon his face as though he were caught stealing a piece of candy while he held more in his mouth. “And don’t you have work today?”
“I took a day off. Call it a mental health day.” Cassandra pushed herself up and walked around to the front of the couch. She plopped down next to Henry.
“Didn’t you have a day off yesterday? Are you finally getting tired of the grind?” he asked as he angled the laptop away from her eyes. The thread opened on the screen started with people asking how to make some side cash when they didn’t make enough to get through the month. Henry came more for ideas than to impart his advice.
Cassandra sighed and said she enjoyed having the day off, but she insisted she wanted to go back. Henry shrugged and kept his computer screen low. He opened his mouth to speak before a knock on the door stopped him. He looked at his wife, and her brow furrowed. They got up from the couch and walked to the door, expecting the Hendersons to come around to complain about the skeleton. The peephole showed a small image of three people standing by their front door. A woman in a long coat and a man carrying black camera bags stood with their backs against the porch railing while a second man rubbed his hands and looked straight into the peephole.
“Hello?” he said, drawing out the last syllable. Henry winced before opening the door.
“Yes, hello, is there something I can do for you?” Henry asked. The man handed him a card that reflected in the sunlight. A camera with wings and barbed wire encircling it. The man introduced the woman and the other man carrying the camera bags. He asked if they could borrow the skeleton for a while.
“I mean it ain’t going to be long or anything—we just wanted to ask if it was cool.” The man at their door kept rubbing his hands together.
Henry scratched the back of his neck and turned his head toward Cassandra. She stood behind the door and mouthed “I don’t know.”
“Yeah, sure, I guess it’s fine? Just don’t take too long or look at the neighbors,” Henry said. The man fist-pumped the air and said his thanks. Henry walked to the end of the cobblestone path and watched them set up. A tinge of desire shot through him, of being able to come and go wherever, to go somewhere else when he wanted. Cassandra stood in the front door with her arms folded. Henry threw his hands in the air and shook his head.
“How do you think they found us?” she asked. They went back inside and shut the door.
Henry shook his head again and fell back into the couch. It popped and wheezed like a broken squeaky toy. He opened his laptop back up and continued scrolling through the thread.
“Do you think this is going to be a thing now, people coming by for the skeleton?” Cassandra asked as she walked to the back of the couch.
“Maybe? I don’t know, it’s not really hurting anyone so I guess they can use it. What else are we going to do with it?” Henry looked up at her. She asked if they could move it somewhere else, maybe bring it to the backyard. Henry told her he had been thinking of something to do with it, that he had ideas. He knew he didn’t have any, but it was better for him to make an attempt than admit he hadn’t done anything with his free time.
“But you haven’t said anything to me about it.” Cassandra stood over him while talking, her eyes pointed forward at a point Henry couldn’t see. “At least you don’t have to wake up every morning and look at Catherine fucking Scott judge you from her driveway while you wave awkwardly and the skull is just sitting there behind you so your eyes don’t have anywhere else to go but across the street where everyone else is doing the same.”
Henry got up from the couch. Cassandra didn’t move.
“How’s your class going?” she said.
Henry walked up the stairwell, passed two different shades of paint on the wall along it. Those two shades they couldn’t decide on and just let them sit there.
***
The skeleton didn’t mind people taking pictures of it. It was the most attention it had gotten. A woman reclined against its rib, posed on the sternum. One of the men kicked the wasp nest away from under its rib. The three people were all chased away by the swarm. The skeleton would laugh at their liveliness if it could.
***
Cassandra pulled into their driveway earlier than normal. She sat in her blue hatchback for a moment with her eyes closed, fingers drumming along the bottom of the steering wheel. The radio was off, and the only sound coming in was from around the rest of the neighborhood. A fuzz of white noise rose and fell with her breathing, short breaths in and long breaths out like she learned in high school band. The messenger bag of memos, papers, file folders, mail, and mock-ups had been left behind at the beginning of the day while Henry still slept nestled against his side of the bed as though it were a cliff. She waited through several parking lots throughout the day, came up with excuses as to why she hadn’t come back for her bag, why she had left it in the first place. The white noise gave way to a white tent wall that had been invisible to her despite it being right next to the driveway. A white enclosure large enough to house at least another two cars.
Cassandra stepped from her car and looked at the new object that assailed her lawn. The wind made it immaterial, just barely. The walls rippled and shook as she walked the perimeter. A laugh, nearly silenced from the constant rumble of the vinyl, crept out from under the walls. The entrance opened up to her, facing away from the street. She poked her head in as the wind flipped her hair across her eyes, and she tensed at the sight of what she thought was the skeleton.
“I’m sorry, we’re closed for the day,” a voice said from deeper inside the tent.
“Who is this? What are you?” Cassandra asked before pausing to place a hand against her head. “No, wait, never mind. What are you doing on my lawn?”
“Oh, hey, I didn’t think you had come back yet.” Henry walked forward from inside the tent. “Wait, hold on.” He went back and fiddled with wires on the ground. The white walls shone an orange glow as a circle of Christmas lights popped on around the top of the tent. Cartoon bats and cobwebs lined the walls along with a menagerie of black shadows covered in chalk dust that slightly resembled bones. A couple of other people inside the tent wore masks of different skull shapes and sizes. Others pushed the masks over their sweaty hair to get at cans and bottles better. They continued to laugh and talk as Henry walked over with black curtains hanging over his shoulders like massive, limp wings. He pushed the half skull from his face as he went to touch Cassandra’s shoulder.
“What is this, what’s going on?” she asked.
“It’s fine. It’s just something we put together.” Henry tossed his mask by the rest of the real skeleton.
“Why? What did you do? Who did this?” Cassandra’s eyes moved like a moth without a light, scanning faces and decorations. She recognized them all, the decorations from Halloweens past that they kept around despite their dollar-store quality. The Christmas lights that used to hang in the front windows when the molding was still there and the outlet still had wires attached to it.
“It’s just some people from my study group. I told them about our situation and a few of the local guys wanted to do something fun with it.” He looked back over his shoulder at raised bottles and waved.
“But this tent, the costumes, where did you get all of this? We can’t afford all of this.” Cassandra rubbed her hands as though she were washing them.
“Sure we can, I’m not bringing anything in right now but we’re thinking about selling tickets for this next time. We’ll make back twice as much in a day. Don’t worry about it.”
“I don’t want this on the lawn,” she said, the words rushing past her teeth. Henry gave her a soft look as he put his hand on her arm.
“Oh, don’t be like that, we’re just having a bit of fun. Right, everyone?” Henry looked back at the gathered dozen, and they cheered before returning to themselves, unaware of anything outside of their bones.
“When did you come up with this?” Cassandra spoke after a pause.
“Last night, after I went upstairs. I don’t know, it just seemed like a cool idea, something to pass the time.” Henry shuffled and closed his mouth as though keeping another word from falling out.
Cassandra’s shoulders dropped and raised. She straightened her back and looked at Henry, past Henry at the skeleton, all of the people looking like skeletons. A hint of worry started to flutter away in her mind, caught on the breeze that came past the tent. She didn’t know how many people had come by to see the skeleton, but Henry looked close to exhausted with his costume on, with the other people behind him looking similar. The idea of doing this, of turning their lawn into a kind of attraction, a spectacle for anyone to see, tickled something inside her. She knew it wouldn’t be enough, it would never be enough to replace her own income, but with Henry nearly done with his classes, it could be enough to make them comfortable, if only for a little while. And it was their house, their skeleton.
“When did you want to start selling tickets?” she asked.
***
The skeleton was patient. Even after the people had left and the lights had been turned off it was left alone in the tent with the plastic spiders and bats. They hung from the ceiling and the walls. But no one dared to touch the skeleton, no one wanted to add anything to it. They said it would detract from the experience if they hung cotton cobwebs between the tibia and fibula, that it would turn it into a sideshow. The skeleton paid them little attention but wouldn’t have minded a bit of adornment. It would at least liven things up bit more.
***
“It’s only a few more minutes before you too can experience the enigma of the skeleton,” Henry intoned in a voice not completely unlike Vincent Price. He danced about in his black curtain wings and mask, attempted to entertain the people waiting in the line that had begun to stretch beyond the borders of the tent. He felt as though this was his true calling, the ringmaster to some spectacle. If he and Cassandra were lucky, they could start their own circus with the skeleton. Cars lined around the entirety of the cul-de-sac, the only noise that could be heard over the small stereo playing creepy music in the tent was an almost constant beeping of horns and exhausts. Henry continued to prance, eyes went back and forth to check the line and how many people were going out of the tent. They were eyes that were unable to see the rest of the neighborhood looking on at their spectacle. Cassandra walked from the tent and pulled her skull mask off. Henry crept up next to her, always staying in character. He enjoyed it, the life of a ringmaster, of directing a crowd to see something strange. He imagined himself in striped shirts and suspenders, taking nickels from kids waiting to see bearded women and lizard men.
“Christ, why is it so hot in there?” she asked without seeing him and fanned herself with the mask.
“It’s as though it’s a portal to hell itself!” He gesticulated flames with his fingers. Cassandra let a small laugh escape. He hugged her, and she put an arm around him. Henry saw Catherine Scott, made eye contact with her from their house on the other side of the lawn. Her arms were folded. He sighed and looked away from where she stood. He patted Cassandra’s back and made his way to the line without saying anything else to his wife. “And remember to give your dollars to the skeleton holding the orange bucket ooooooooh.” Henry continued to dance about. He stopped when the sirens started. Three squad cars pulled into the neighborhood with their lights flashing and sirens whooping over the noise of the crowd. The cops parked in the middle of the street and made their way up to the tent. The line dispersed as the small crowd made their way back to their cars. Henry pulled his mask off and cupped his hands.
“Please don’t leave. We can get this sorted out.” But his voice only traveled so far. Henry’s skeleton friends from inside the tent ran off through the lawn for their own cars. Cassandra came behind him and held onto the orange bucket she had picked up from one of the running skeletons.
“I told you to get rid of it,” Catherine Scott said as she walked from her side of the lawn. “But no, you had to go make this big spectacle of your decorations and look at what I had to do.” She shook her head.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Henry shouted.
Catherine Scott shrugged. “What? HOA regulations clearly state that crowds are not allowed to gather on front lawns without proper permits and permission from the HOA. As I didn’t hear anything about this, I did what any law abiding citizen should do.” She walked off and left Cassandra and Henry to stand and watch as the cops slowly approached the tent.
“Well, we’ve got about fifty bucks here,” Cassandra jangled the bucket. Henry pulled his mask off and tossed it at the tent a few feet away. It bounced off the white tarp and landed in the grass facing down. Thoughts of a full traveling circus, of lizard men and bearded women evaporated from his thoughts. It moved instead back to the tent, to their own skeleton.
“I guess you’ll have to go back to the grind again, huh? So much for vacation time.” He dropped down and sat in the grass. The cops poked around the tent as Catherine Scott pointed them toward Henry and Cassandra. “And I thought all of this would work out.”
The cops’ questions came quick and terse, mostly about the skeleton and where they got it from. Henry told them it appeared on their lawn one night and Cassandra concurred. And the cops didn’t believe that. Henry knew cops never believed anything sincere.
Yellow police tape stretched across the white tent and along the perimeter of their home. Henry wanted to pull it all off and toss it over into the Scotts’ yard but Cassandra pulled him back to their front porch. She disappeared into the house and came back after a few moments as Henry steamed and tapped the wood porch he sat on. The pink wad of paper dropped into Henry’s lap as Cassandra sat down next to him. He read through it and his face went blank.
“It’s been two months since I dropped out of my online classes. I didn’t know how long I could go without saying anything,” Henry said. “Do you know how boring the house gets with nothing to do?” He paused and wanted to continue. He wanted to tell her about what they could do now, about how they could pack up now and run away to adventure like they had years before. But he couldn’t make the words come out, not a damn one.
“What are we going to do?” Henry said. Cassandra shrugged next to him. He knew all of their plans would evaporate like the rest of their savings and there wasn’t much either of them could do.
“Didn’t we used to have plans for our lives?” Cassandra said. Henry lay down on the porch, arms and legs outstretched. Cassandra slapped his leg. She slapped it again and again until she got tired of the leg and moved on to his chest and face. Henry’s face didn’t change the whole time. He let the short stings trace themselves across his cheeks. Cassandra got up and walked to the tent. He watched her enter and close the flaps behind her. Henry stood up, face flushed with short pain and ears ringing. He went in the tent and saw Cassandra sitting on one of the femurs. He shuffled over and she let him take a seat next to her. The backpacks and adventure spilled from his mind. He only wanted to sit on the skeleton and see what could happen with them together.
“I think we need to talk.” Henry said.
Andy N was born and raised in the bustling city of Mumbai before he moved to the UK, where he’s been living for the last twelve years. Even as a child, Andy was curious and creative with all his toys having back stories. He is fascinated by how we’re evolving as a society and channelled this creativity into world building.
THE WAY IT ALL CAME TO BE
CHAPTER ONE
Angie was still rummaging through her bag as she ran from the elevator to the lobby doors.
“Hat, hat, hat…where’s the hat?” Angie muttered as she reached the doors still looking into her bag. She was usually very organised. She had to be. Today was different.
“Everything ok there Angie?” said Victoria, the ever-chirpy night manager, who was heading home.
Angie always wondered what Victoria’s days were like. Did she just treat her days like nights and sleep through them? Or did she stay awake enjoying a whole day off before she came into work in the evenings? Maybe she didn’t need as much sleep and her body had adjusted to just staying awake. She really should ask Victoria these questions some time. She should also ask her how she was always so happy; even on a miserable day like this.
“Angie?” Victoria raised her eyebrows as she stepped closer, which made Angie realise she hadn’t answered Victoria yet.
“Oh everythi...Shit!” Angie cursed turning away quickly as a large droplet made its way through the slightly open door and hit her face. Whipping out her handkerchief, she started carefully dabbing her face, hoping her make-up was still intact.
Today was important. There was a lot to do.
“Angie!” Victoria took her name for a third time, coming even closer.
Angie carefully wiped her face while looking at her reflection in the shining glass corridor wall. “Yes, yes. Bloody rain just splashed straight into my eye.” Angie said airily trying to make her voice sound calm. “It’s been a busy morning and I’m running late. Typical, right?” she said still with her back to Victoria, hoping the attempt at humour would ease any concerns for Victoria.
“Wear your rain hat girl! They’re called that for a reason.” Victoria stepped back laughing. “Your day can only get better!” she said cheerily as she opened the door completely, stepped out and walked away without a drop of rain hitting her.
Phew, that was close Angie thought as she checked her make-up, which was holding up well. She dabbed off the water and dug out a little black pouch. A pull on the string on one end opened up a hat with a wide rim which she quickly put on her head. As she stepped out into the rain the first droplet hit her hat and bounced a good six feet feet away. The pattern repeated again as every drop of rain simply bounced away harmlessly off the rain hat. The best she could explain the technology was that the hats ‘repelled’ rain and kept the wearer dry.
Wonder what they did back in the day? Angie thought as she walked out the door and past the History Museum. She lived only a few feet from it but had visited it just the one time. It showcased all the beautiful, weird and wonderful artefacts from the days gone by, including a huge section referencing the time before the Event in 2020. She paused for a second and looked through the glass façade. Will this all change? What will the new story be? Her wrist receiver beeped indicating that she needed to be on her way, and so she continued walking.
Not long now. Not long at all.
As she walked down towards the parking meter to swipe her building card, she saw a few brave women in summer dresses with large rain hats having a cheery conversation. “Seriously?” Angie wondered out loud. “In this weather?”
One of the women might have heard her, because she stopped and waved. For a second Angie was unsure if they were waving at her and she looked around just to make sure. When she didn’t see anyone else, she smiled and waved back.
“Glorious weather huh?” she greeted them.
“Ooh! Do you know her? We’re heading that way too!” one of the women replied.
Angie was confused and thought for a moment about clarifying, but then realised she was late and didn’t have time for a conversation about nothing. Instead, she brightly replied, “Go ahead, I’ll catch up!”
The women giggled and carried on. They entered a wine bar around the corner with a large banner outside proclaiming ‘Gloria’s 40th Birthday!’. Now that conversation made a little more sense. Maybe she could blow off work and go chill with Gloria and her friends instead!
But she didn’t have the time; she had to be somewhere. She got to the meter, swiped the building card to verify her identity and slid into the driver’s seat of her Society issued City Squad cruiser. Immediately her steering wheel beeped with a message.
“Yes, read” she commanded as she pulled out of her spot letting the car switch to autopilot and head off towards the main highway.
“Message from Antonia. Male on Male crime. Meet at 12 Junction Road.” the voice reader in the car said with its usual human intonations.
“Fuck. . .” was all Angie could manage, as she reset the auto pilot for her new location.
CHAPTER TWO
Male on Male crime in itself was not serious. But it was the frequency lately that was worrying. After the Event in 2020, the Council had been formed and the decision was taken to make sure something like this never happened again. Men, it was decided, were the problem. The answer? A new society created, led and nurtured by women. This new civilisation was creatively named ‘Society’. Angie guessed women didn’t see the need for an interesting name as a crucial point at the time. To be fair they did have bigger issues they were dealing with.
Society had no place for men. Initially all the existing men were forced to live in Fringe Towns on the outskirts of the Society locations. There was the question of what to do with new male children born in the early days. In-vitro fertilisation still had 50% chance of a male birth. The question was debated long and hard in the Council and the decision was made to deal with it dispassionately. The male babies were quickly shipped out to the Fringe Towns for the other Males to raise them. The sanctity of the Society came first. Families were allowed to send care packages to the Males at an agreed frequency, if they chose to do so.
As technology advanced steps were taken to control childbirth to ensure only new female births. In the last fifty-four years there had been only a handful of cases of male births. It was all a little cold and calculating, but decisions were made. Actions were taken. It had to be done.
It had to be done. . .didn’t it? Angie pondered this thought again, as she so often did when alone. Before she could delve deeper into the reasons for it this morning, her car beeped to signal that she was close to her destination.
As the car parked itself Angie looked out the window to see Antonia who was impatiently tapping her heels by the side of the road. Angie was tempted to switch to manual drive and take her own sweet time parking just to wind Antonia up some more but decided against it. The car slid smoothly into an empty space and opened the door in one swift motion. Angie jumped out and walked over to Antonia who was now practically hopping from one foot to the other in impatience.
“Too much coffee honey?” Angie offered as way of greeting.
“Fuck you” Antonia countered as she turned and strode away towards the crime scene tape.
Antonia was a lot of things, but patient was not one of them. At 35 she was the youngest detective and Angie’s partner on the City Squad. Antonia was a beautiful woman. Slender with short blonde hair, incredibly fit and with un-matched stamina as a result of her seven days a week workout routine. “You sure she isn’t a robot?” her colleagues had whispered to Angie many times when they all went running, hiking or taking on obstacle courses. “Not sure,” Angie usually answered shrugging her shoulders, “the other day she cut herself and some oil leaked out, but you never know.” This answer drew howls of laughter as the other Officers just stood and admired Antonia’s sheer athleticism.
Angie herself was not at the same level as Antonia. She was stockier, with jet black hair which she wore tied up and while she was not as fit as Antonia, she could hold her own with most people. The honest truth though was that she was quite unremarkable. And at 45 she was ok with it. As you grow older you stop caring what people think of you.
City Squad was not large, but it was the only crime fighting unit the world needed these days. They had all heard stories of the days before the Event, when there were a number of investigative and police bodies that did different things. But after the Event all that had stopped. You didn’t have…scratch that…you didn’t NEED, more than one crime fighting unit. Afterall the only criminals were the Males.
Antonia had walked briskly away, so Angie jogged after her to catch up. “Hey hold on. What? No hug?” she pretended to plead holding her hands out wide.
“No” Antonia snapped. “These assholes just don’t stop. What is with these fucking Males. Why can’t they behave?” She was clearly in a mood.
“Awww, did someone not get enough sleep? Does someone miss their blankie?” Angie imitated a baby voice for Antonia’s benefit but stopped abruptly as she saw the scene. She needed a quick moment to gather herself, so she looked down and rubbed her temples. These incidents made her head hurt. How did it come to this?
Crime scene bollards had been erected and switched on at four points to form a mis-shapen square approximately ten feet wide on each side. Thin red beams of light connected them to form a digital crime scene tape with the words - CRIME SCENE. DO NOT CROSS – scrolling across like a stock market ticker. Officers moved in and out of the cordoned off area with their badges being scanned automatically to let them pass. Any curious onlooker who managed to get near the scene would set the alarms flashing if they tried to get through the tape without a badge. The scene itself was quite disgusting. Two unconscious Males in tattered clothing lay on top of each other in a pool of, what Angie could only assume was, a mixture of blood, vomit and alcohol. The rain that morning had done it’s share in mixing with the dirt on the ground to make it all look like the bodies were floating in a viscous brown sludge. Bottles of alcohol lined the sides of this liquid pool. One bottle had just been caught in a small wave and was now starting to float towards the bodies dripping the remnants of its contents into the putrid mixture.
“Was it The Caller again?” Angie asked no-one in particular. A few heads nodded while others sniggered and ignored her.
“Of course, who else!” Antonia snapped. “Fucker is riling these Males up and then they end up giving Society a problem.” she finished. Or at least it seemed like she did, before she added “…and some people make it more difficult for us by giving him notoriety with their talks to the media.”
Angie lifted her eyes to meet Antonia’s and saw that same look she had seen on so many Officer’s eyes. She, Angie, had been the one who had gone to the media with the news of the ‘vigilante’ Male who was going by the name ‘The Caller’. She had wanted to let the people know so that they could find him faster, but it had backfired. He had got more of a following now and even some of the women were clearly sympathetic. It had been a cluster fuck and she had set it in motion.
“That’s not fair Toni” Angie answered using the nickname they used when they were not on the job. “That is just not fucking fair.”
Antonia’s eyes softened, as she walked up and put her arms around Angie’s shoulders and squeezed her hard. “I’m sorry. It’s just that these cases get to me. But it’s not your fault and I’m sorry.”
Angie smiled back and nodded towards the two drunk men, “What’s their story?”
One of the uniforms on the scene started reading from her notes, “They picked up a broadcast on the wrist receivers and decided to act on it. The alcohol is from the store down the street and they purchased it using the hacked currency code The Caller released last week. They were able to get their hands on two whole bottles and as you can see…” she gestured dramatically at the two sprawled bodies on the street with vomit and blood around them “…they got wasted and started fighting. The limiting agent in the alcohol interacted with the testosterone and they passed out till we stumbled on them. Our lucky day!” she finished as the rain started washing a mixture of vomit, blood and dirt onto the shoes of all the officers at the scene.
“Ain’t that beautiful?” Antonia said sarcastically as she walked towards the other side of the bodies for a final scan and the officers chuckled. Some shook their head in disgust and started walking away. Nothing to see here, just another mindless Male crime. They were getting used to it now but there was no denying that the frequency and severity was increasing.
“Right, clean them up, and take them into custody. Run a chemical clean and send them back out.” Angie shouted instructions to the uniform who had just read out the report. “We don’t need this to be any bigger than it is. Keep it quiet.” she added for good measure.
Where is all this heading? Angie thought to herself as she turned around to stare into the distance at the Monument.
The Monument was a huge marble structure that towered over the buildings around it. You could see it from anywhere in the city as the spire on top reached for the sky. It was a symbol of the renaissance of the world after the Event. The Council headquarters were located on the upper floors and you could only reach them by walking through the lower floors of the Monument. Floors that were filled with relics from a past life. Remnants of brutal battles, pictures of towns destroyed and families torn apart, scriptures that preached violence and oil paintings of men who led the world to its end. It was intentionally built that way to ensure that all who went before the Council to answer for their actions realised the full weight of the rules and why their actions had to have consequences.
No-one alive remembered these events but they trusted the Council. They believed in Society and they knew that they were better off now than they were before. Every major city in the world had their version of the Monument. And all the Monuments were connected by a network that let the Council make decisions, share information and maintain the integrity of Society.
As Angie was contemplating these things, she didn’t notice Antonia walk back over to stand beside her until she felt her breath. “Do you think we’ll ever find out the full story behind the Event?” Angie asked her.
“No, not this again Ange!” Antonia groaned with more than a twinge of desperation in her voice. “Why can’t you let that go. And be careful, if anyone hears you speaking like this, you could be in front of the Council.”
“Aren’t you curious?” Angie continued without missing a beat. “It’s been a hundred years since the Event and yet all we know are bits and pieces. We’ve become a society of women because the Males cannot be trusted. They’ve been relegated to the side-line and live off the allowances we give them. And this. . .” she said with obvious pain in her voice as she pointed to the scene of the two Males being loaded into a truck “is what they are reduced to. Doesn’t that make you wonder what they did that was so bad, that we had to do take these steps?”
Antonia had heard these thoughts from Angie before and like always her views were more straightforward. She was from one of the rare families in which the in-vitro had failed in recent years. Her mother had a daughter and a son. Antonia had a brother, not that she ever acknowledged it. As per the law, her brother had been dispatched to the Fringe Towns immediately to live with the other Males. Society was no place for mMales. But Antonia had taken it hard. She somehow felt that she had let the Society down by having a brother and every crime scene was a reminder of it. She believed in what the Society stood for and she didn’t need any other reason.
“No Ange, I don’t wonder. And I don’t lose sleep. And I don’t wish better for them. The archives tell us that Males were responsible for all the war, murder and major crimes for decades. Centuries even! We’ve got a society of peace and understanding now. The Monument is a reminder of everything we have worked for. A celebration of everything we have achieved ever since the Event. It’s what we all know, what we all signed up for and what we all work towards maintaining. You need to stop with this nonsense.”
“But Toni…” Angie started but it was too late. Antonia had turned and walked away.
Angie shook her head. She knew she had overstepped. She needed to maintain control. She needed to be careful.
CHAPTER THREE
Back at the car Antonia was already in the driver’s seat and the car was calculating the shortest distance to the Council where they would have to write up another event report. The tenth of the week. That was more than the entire previous ten months put together. There would be tough questions to answer.
“Look Toni, about that back there…” Angie started
“Forget it. Talking about it isn’t going to end well. Let’s just move on ok. The Council is going to mind fuck us anyway. Tenth incident report this week. Jesus fucking Christ.” Antonia was looking at her feet like a little girl who had been admonished by her parents. Angie felt bad for her and tried to cheer her up.
“At least we don’t have to spend as much time writing it. We’re practically experts now and can deliver it in double quick time. We’ll be finished before the bars open!” she said pointing to the neon lights that were all switched off now but would be buzzing with life in an hour.
“I’m staying till last call!” Antonia answered.
Toni was back. That made Angie feel better. With everything she was coping with the last thing she needed was an angry Antonia. Life would get so much more complicated.
Even as Angie was patting herself on the back for diffusing the situation and getting into the car, their wrist receivers started buzzing.
FRINGE TOWN CENTRE. 6PM. BE THERE AND LEARN THE TRUTH ABOUT THE EVENT. HOW MUCH DO YOU ACTUALLY KNOW? THEY AREN’T TELLING US EVERYTHING. LET ME LEAD YOU TO THE LIGHT.
The words flashed on both their wrist receivers in bright red text that cast an eerie glow inside the dimly lit car.
Angie just stared at Antonia in complete silence with her mouth trying to form words. The wrist receivers were supposed to be fire walled and ‘un-hackable’. How the hell had he broken through the encryption? And what was this call to arms all about?
“The motherfucker fucked up” Antonia said triumphantly.
“What?” Angie was confused. “He hacked into the main network!”
“No, I don’t think he did. I think he accidentally tapped into the main network.” Antonia said confidently with a sly grin.
“Do you know something I don’t know?” Angie asked.
“Well, you know how he’s always been sending signals using the wrist receivers to only the Fringe Town residents? I kind of, sort of, hacked them.” Antonia was beaming with pride.
“What do you mean ‘hacked them’? You mean you got the Males to help you? How? And why would they do it?” Angie had so many questions.
“No, nothing of that sort. They would never voluntarily help me.” Antonia paused for effect. “I slipped a transmitter into the care package my mother sends my brother every month. It was one of the new models the Council released to us recently that’s totally undetectable. Once his wrist receiver came close to the transmitter it paired and Voila! We now receive The Caller’s mass transmissions!”
Angie didn’t know what to say. “Toni! You’re a genius. I knew your IT smarts would come in handy some-day.”
“Oh and guess what. The entire City Squad team have received this. We’ll all be there to nail this fucker to the wall now!” Antonia was loving the moment as she got on the radio to the whole unit.
“City Squad, do you copy? The message on the wrist receivers is from The Caller. It’s part of a sting. Head to the border of the Fringe Towns and wait for tactical backup. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. Let’s get him!” the radio crackled with the mock sounds of the old analogue radios, even though these were state of the art digital transmitters. Apparently, the sounds were designed to give a sense of messages being received instead of the complete silence the digital transmission actually produced. Hearing the crackle to signal that the message was out there to the whole City Squad, Angie could see why.
As if in answer to Toni’s message, the steering wheel vibrated with a reddish glow. The universal sign for a message from the Council. Angie had only ever received this once before, but any CS Officer recognised it in an instant. She tapped the wheel to display the message as the car switched to autopilot immediately.
“Officer Viali, this is…” Antonia visibly winced at the mention of her last name. Viali was a good name, Angie had always thought. Much better than her own, which was Burke. When she had started out as a cadet, the girls always called her “Burke, the jerk!”. It was good natured banter, but not a great name to have.
“…Council Woman Arietta” the message continued. “Excellent work. You have a shoot to kill order when you confront The Caller.”
“What?” Angie almost shouted into the wheel.
The message continued “Society is built on the principles of the Council and we cannot tolerate these…” there was a pause as the Council Woman tried to find the right word. “…discrepancies. We need to nip the problem in the bud. Great work and may Society prosper.”
“Well, good thing this isn’t a two-way system, huh?” Antonia was giving Angie a hard look. “Trying to get us suspended missy?”
“Shoot to kill? Wouldn’t it make more sense to take him alive so we can find out his agenda and uncover any other accomplices?” Angie countered, as she took manual drive control back. The feel of her hands on the steering wheel and navigating traffic usually calmed her down and allowed her to think.
“He’s the leader Ange. We take him out and the rest will collapse.” Antonia proceeded to unload her weapon and check the magazine as she switched to lethal rounds. Angie knew when she’d lost an argument with her partner and continued to focus on the road. She was not happy about this. Not one bit.
They arrived in silence to a cacophony of activity. The Fringe Towns were at the borders of the cities, with a wall protecting Society from the vagabonds, discards and criminals. Or put simply, the Males.
On the way over Antonia had not said a word to Angie after the argument over the message, but she had not wasted her time. Getting on the radio to City Squad she had quickly, and carefully, described how she got the transmitter in place. She followed this up with a tactical approach plan to help them get set up as soon as they arrived. Most Officers used the autopilot and were already briefed and ready when they arrived on location. They all knew the protocol. As the Officer responsible for the lead, Antonia called the shots unless she decided to nominate someone else. But this was Toni they were talking about. She was never going to let someone else bring The Caller down. This was her bust.
It seemed the entire City Squad had responded. There was no way The Caller was going to get away.
As Angie was gearing up, she felt a tap on her shoulder and looked up to see Antonia. “Team A, right? Follow the side roads, stay out of sight and wait on point till the air support is in place before we move in. I’m ready.” she smiled at Toni, hoping that her memorising the plan would make up for the disagreements. “Look even the rain has let up. It’s a sign” she finished looking for some support from her partner.
“Look Angie. You’re an incredible Officer and I would trust you any other time, but with this kill order, I’m not sure you’re up for it. I’m placing you in the support van. Sorry.” Antonia said looking Angie straight in the eye.
“But Toni! We’ve tracked him together all this time. You know that no matter what I would never compromise an operation. Especially not one you’re in command of. And one so important!” Angie practically screamed.
“I’m sorry Ange.” Antonia paused for a second, and then continued in a formal tone speaking not as her friend, but as the Commanding Officer “Officer Burke, please report to the support van.”
It took Angie a few seconds to adjust, but you never question your Commanding Officer. She smiled meekly, nodded her agreement and walked away towards the van. Everyone has a part to play and today her role was to be ready in the support van, if anything went wrong.
CHAPTER FOUR
Antonia had never led an operation before. She’d been second in command to Angie twice before but had never been in command. This felt different. She had given orders, set strategy and led the offensive as the second in command, but being the woman everyone looked at for leadership was…thrilling. She was loving it.
And she would have loved it more if she had her friend and partner with her. But she could not risk it. Angie was as fine an Officer as they come, but she was against the kill order and that would jeopardise the mission. This was way too important to blow on sentiments. Angie would understand.
For now, Antonia had a mission, and nothing could distract her.
She checked her own equipment and then ran a safety check on her partner’s – Officer Jade Mallory, who was a veteran and Antonia felt assured having Officer Mallory by her side. Plan? Check. Weapon? Check. Communications? Check. This is it. I’m going to bring the biggest threat to Society down today. Will I see my brother? How will I react when I do? Antonia pushed these thoughts out of her and focused on her equipment one last time, then turned to face the rest of the City Squad.
“Ok, the plan is simple. We get in there, we identify this fucker, and we take him out. No prisoners. He’s fucked with us enough and now he’s going to pay for it. Society depends on us for protection and we’re responsible for ensuring that the law is maintained. May Society prosper!” she tapped the badge on her chest. The rest of City Squad followed suit. The Caller did not stand a chance.
They split into their designated teams and walked through the entrance to the Fringe Town. As they crossed to the other side of the wall, the Males started walking up to gawk at them with curiosity. Filthy animals Antonia thought to herself. The Squad didn’t have to stop because the Males were kept away from the roads with force shield fences. These 40-foot high electronic fences were easily identifiable by their blue colour and dull hum. Only the smallest microbes could get through them and anything larger was stopped with a polite electric current. It worked perfectly to keep the Males within the bounds of the Fringe Towns. They could get close to the roads but not get on them. It gave the Officers the space they needed to regularly police the area. The Council had decided this was a better barrier than walls for two reasons – The Males were not given the obvious feeling of being caged and more importantly, it gave the Officers a clear view of everything inside without being obscured by walls. It was a clever solution that served both sides. For this evening’s operation, the barriers had been extended higher and a wider path had been created by dynamically moving the force shields inwards creating more space for the Officers.
As her team walked deeper into Fringe Town, Antonia got a nagging feeling that something was off. The fence was lined by Males who were watching the Squad with interest. Such a large Squad presence had never been seen before in Fringe Town and it created a buzz. Antonia looked around thinking to herself, if all the Males were standing looking at them, who was The Caller talking to? Surely these Males would all be gathered to listen to him, right? Unless…
Antonia felt a pit in her stomach and hoped what she was thinking was not true. Maybe she was just being paranoid because this was her first mission. Yes, that’s what it was, just sheer…Her thoughts we disturbed by murmurs among the Males. They were all pointing to the sky behind Antonia as they moved away from the fence to look at something. Antonia turned around to see what all the fuss was about, and she felt her her mouth run dry.
Smoke billowed from somewhere inside the Society. It was a massive explosion she could tell without even being able to see it. That amount of smoke could not come from a small building.
“The Monument” her headset screamed. “Someone has hit The Monument!”
Antonia didn’t waste a minute.
“Fuck! Retreat! Retreat! Support van, head back to the Monument now. Everybody else, seal the exit as soon as we are out and then all but four units head to The Monument. I want four units covering this entrance till we find out what’s going on. Fuck!” Antonia was screaming into her mouthpiece as she ran. She didn’t really have to scream because the mouthpiece picked up vibrations and she could whisper her instructions and still be heard crystal clear over the network. But she didn’t have time to think about it. The Monument had just been hit!
As she got back to the car Office Mallory ran up beside her screaming, “What the hell is going on?”
“I’m not sure,” Antonia said absent mindedly as she put the car into auto pilot back to The Monument and played through the situation in her head trying to work out what was happening.
Officer Mallory looked out the window as the car sped towards the smoke and then turned to look at Antonia with some words of comfort “You did all the right things Antonia. You led the operation exactly as per protocol. We had him cornered. This must be a…”
“You’re right,” Antonia mumbled almost indistinctively.
“Pardon?” Officer Mallory asked, looking a little confused.
“You’re right,” Antonia said, this time with more purpose. “We did everything as per protocol. The Caller anticipated our actions and went after the Monument instead.”
They sat in silence letting the realisation sweep over them.
“But the Males,” Officer Mallory continued almost as an afterthought as she played with her weapon holster, “they didn’t seem to know what was going on.”
“Do they ever?” Antonia sniggered
“Well, but if The Caller had sent them all the transmission, shouldn’t they have been…more clued in. They just seemed genuinely surprised by everything. The CS presence, the smoke, everything.” Officer Mallory was almost speaking to herself by the time she completed her thought.
“Yes, I know what you mean. It’s bothering me too.” Antonia agreed and smiled at the older woman, grateful for her support. This was her first big operation, and it was going downhill. Fast.
“I think The Caller had planned this out. Once we get to The Monument, we can re-group…” Antonia stopped talking when she saw Officer Mallory looking nervously down at her shoes, then fiddle with her wrist receiver. Her mouth opened a few times to form words, but she didn’t say anything. “What?” demanded Antonia. “Spit it out, if it’s something that will help us Jade!”
Office Mallory shifted in her seat and looked out the window again, almost as if she was willing the car to get to the destination faster to spare her the conversation.
“Jade!” Antonia was never one for patience.
“We all received the message from The Caller right?” Officer Mallory started slowly.
“Yes” Antonia replied.
“And we got it as a normal alert, the way we always do?” Officer Mallory continued.
“Correct. Because the transmitter I placed in my brother’s….” Antonia trailed off as she slammed her fist on the car window repeatedly. “Mother Fucker!!” she screamed at the window as if it had personally wronged her.
“He played us Antonia. We didn’t hack him. He hacked us” Officer Mallory said. “You couldn’t have known.”
But none of that made Antonia feel any better. The Caller had outsmarted her and used her own plan against her.
“How many of us went out there today?” Antonia asked meekly. She felt responsible.
“Look Antonia, it’s not…”
“Jade, just answer the question. How many?”
“All the units. This was the biggest break we had. We were all there” Officer Mallory said calmly. “But the support van would have taken only 30 minutes to get back to The Monument. They’ll get him there”
The support van! Angie was in the support van! Antonia’s spirits lifted immediately. If there’s anyone who she would have wanted to be the first person to get there it would have been Angie. If The Caller wanted to take down The Monument, he was going to go down as well.
Antonia jumped forward in her seat surprising Officer Mallory as she reached for the radio. “Angie! Angie! Support van come in!” Antonia waited but didn’t hear anything back, except the tell-tale artificial crackle to signal that the message had been transmitted. She was about to scream into the radio again, when the car took a sharp right and The Monument came into view. There it was in all its glory rising towards the heavens, the spire on top glistening with a bluish hue from a combination of the evening sun and the heavy smoke billowing from the building next to it.
“What. The. Fuck” Antonia muttered as she turned to Officer Mallory to see her looking just as confused. If The Caller hadn’t done all this to hit The Monument, what was he doing?
CHAPTER FIVE
“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Officer Mallory was saying “where’s that smoke coming from?”
Antonia was trying to put the pieces together as the car sped forward on the special lanes reserved for emergency crews. They were still five minutes out and Antonia needed to know what was going on.
“Angie, Angie, do you copy?” she pleaded into the radio again but was greeted with silence. “Fuck! Support Van 1, do you copy?”
“Maybe they’re resolving the situation?” Office Mallory offered as way of an explanation.
“And left no-one in the support van? No. Unlikely. They know the protocol…” Antonia paused even as she said it and when her eyes met Officer Mallory’s she knew they were thinking the same thing.
“We should assume all our protocols are compromised.” Antonia went back to resuming command as the car started slowing down to park. “Officer Mallory, we need to…”
“But why?” Officer Mallory interrupted. She was sitting back in her seat, almost reclining and shaking her head from side to side as if trying to dislodge a thought. “What was his end game? Something isn’t right here. The Caller clearly knows our play book, brought us all out to Fringe Town, had The Monument completely unguarded and then…doesn’t attack it?” she narrowed her eyes and tilted her head slightly towards Antonia quizzically.
The car had almost stopped now and both Antoni and Officer Mallory could see the smoke outside, but that seemed a distance away now, as they both got that nagging feeling of having a thought that was just out of grasp.
“What was his end game? What was he trying to do? Was he trying to clear the building? What did he stand to gain from…” Officer Mallory kept throwing out questions.
“What if this was a dry run?” Antonia blurted out urgently as her eyes widened, eyebrows shot up and her mouth opened to let out a little gasp of air. Antonia looked away from Officer Mallory and down to her left, as she continued speaking with extravagant hand gestures. “Set up the City Squad to be out of the Society and launch a false attack near The Monument to create panic. That gave him the perfect opportunity to see how the City Squad responded and what actions The Council took. With response times and escape routes easily mapped out, he could launch the real attack at a later date.” she completed, moving her right hand in a fist over her mouth and blowing into it.
“That’s a carefully calculated move.” Officer Mallory agreed “He had never got it wrong before. He had always been one step ahead of us.”
Antonia knew things were bad, but she still had a small feeling of victory. She had figured it out and she was going to beat The Caller at his game. She had to warn everybody now! Antonia jumped out of the car and broke into a sprint towards the large double doors of The Monument. Under the cover of thick smoke and the persistent rain, the mighty façade of The Monument looked down at her like an angry giant. She felt she was running into the mouth of the enemy. But she had to do this. She had to warn the Council. She had to warn the Squad. She had to warn…Angie?
Antonia almost tripped herself up as she tried to slow down when she caught sight of her friend running out of The Monument looking from side to side.
“Angie! Angie! This is just a ruse. There is no attack,” she started shouting. Antonia was about to say something else, when she noticed her friend bleeding from the right hip. Taking a quick glance past Angie into the doorway, Antonia could see bodies sprawled on the foyer floor of The Monument surrounded by broken pillars and shattered glass. But she didn’t have time to think about that now. Angie was stumbling, as her legs gave way under her. Antonia could see the edges of a laser burn just above Angie’s holster, where it seemed a shot had hit her. Blood had stained her uniform and was running down her leg. Angie had just reached the small flight of steps leading away from The Monument and her left foot slipped over the edge of the first step to send her pitching forward in a twisting motion.
Antonia fell into a graceful slide on her knees and caught her friend just before she hit the ground. “What happened Ange? You’ve been shot! Was it The Caller?” she said.
“What…do you…mean?” Angie was gasping for breath.
“What happened?” Antonia repeated.
Angie gripped her arm tightly as she said again, more clearly this time “What do you mean, ‘ruse’?”
“I thought there wasn’t an explosion at The Monument. The smoke is from the building next door. I thought this was a ploy to get us all out of The Monument and to test response times. But clearly…” Antonia paused glancing up into the foyer of The Monument and the carnage inside. “...I was wrong. What happened here?” she repeated for a third time, as Angie tried to sit up.
“Look Ange, you need to lie down and stay still. Let me call this in. The rest of the Squad are at the scene of the smoke or on their way. This should never have…” and Antonia never finished her sentence. She felt a sharp pain in her chest as if someone had reached in and squeezed her heart. Blood spurted from Antonia’s mouth and the last thing she saw was Angie’s flabbergasted face as she collapsed lifeless on top of her.
Angie was pinned to the ground now. She tried to stand up, but her legs buckled, and her eyes got hazy, as she hit the pavement and passed out. The doctor would later tell her it was out of exhaustion and shock.
CHAPTER SIX
“She’s coming around now” the doctor said as Angie’s eyes slowly fluttered open. She felt groggy and tried turning her head to clear the haze.
“Easy there Angie, easy…” the doctor said in a calm but firm voice. “Your neck is immobilised. Do you understand? Blink if you do.”
Still groggy, Angie managed to blink once in confirmation.
“Good. Do you know where you are?” the doctor asked.
Angie racked her brain as her eyes darted around to take in the surroundings. The smoke, the rain, The Monument towering over her. Her ears started to pick up the commotion of noises including the Squad sirens, the Society alarm and the horns of vehicles.
“Toni!” she screamed as she tried to sit up. A sharp burning pain in her back meant she didn’t get very far.
The doctor held her down as she struggled to get up. “Angie, you need to stay put. You are injured. You’re lucky to be alive.”
But all Angie could think of was her friend, her partner. “What happened to Toni?” she asked urgently with panic in her voice, because she already knew the answer.
“She didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”
Memories came flooding back. Tears escaped down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and sobbed silently, her body shaking with sorrow.
The doctor tried to ask her some questions, as did some of the other Squad officers. They were still trying to piece together what happened. But Angie stared silently at The Monument.
“She’s in shock” the doctor explained to the rest of the officers. “I’d like to move her to the hospital for recovery now and she’ll be released as soon as we’ve run some tests.”
Angie followed instructions in a haze not really understanding anything. Getting into the medical van, she lay down on the single medical table inside it as the doctor attached an IV and signalled to the driver “We’re ready to go”
Angie shut her eyes. This was just the start, she promised herself. She would fix this. She would make sure it ended. She would end it for Toni.
CHAPTER SEVEN
(A week after the attack on The Monument)
“Officer Ranko was closest to the door and you saw her being hit as you ran out?”
Wearing an oversized sweatshirt, track pants and comfortable trainers Angie didn’t look a City Squad Officer. She looked more like an average citizen. The dark bags under her eyes, the hair held together with a simple clip and the lack of any make up made her look distinctively tired. She cupped her coffee mug with both hands, staring into it without seeing the coffee or the mug. Occasionally she would shake her head and look out the window of the debriefing room at the bright day outside. The room itself was friendly and welcoming, painted with bright colours. But it still had an official feel to it and Angie longed to be outside.
“Officer Burke? Was Officer Ranko closest to the door as you ran out?”
The question jarred Angie out of her thoughts. She turned to look at Officer Carol Murphy and nodded slowly. “Yes, Officer Ranko was the last Officer to go down. Her covering fire is probably what gave me the chance to run out The Monument to get help.”
“I know this is difficult Angie,” Officer Murphy walked up next to her and squeezed her shoulder “thanks for talking to us again.”
Angie smiled weakly. “Anything to help track down the attackers”
Officer Murphy walked back to the other side of the table and shuffled some papers. She picked one of them up, adjusted her glasses to read it and put it back down. “We still can’t figure out why they didn’t take anything. Nothing was missing, nothing was stolen. Just the shootout in the foyer of The Monument. Do you have any thoughts Angie?”
Angie picked up on the fact that Officer Murphy had switched to calling her ‘Angie’ and not ‘Officer Burke’. Whenever you’re interviewing someone, put them as ease. Gain their trust. Even if it’s the victim. Remember: your job as an Officer is to get to the truth. She’d been through this training and had to smile at how skilful Officer Murphy was.
“Maybe we surprised them by how soon we got there?” Angie offered
“How many of them did you see?” Officer Murphy followed up
“It was all crazy and so sudden. All I recall were the laser flashes from all sides.” Angie answered
“You didn’t see anyone?” Officer Murphy asked again
Angie shook her head. There was a pause as Officer Murphy waited expecting Angie to continue. “Did I not mention this in the first interview? I thought I did. But they talked to me so soon after…”
“Yes, yes. I see here that you did say you didn’t see anyone. My mistake.” Officer Murphy said looking down at the papers in front of her.
Confirm the story. Ask the same question in different ways. See if the story changes. You’re not trying to trick them; you’re simply making sure you get to the truth. Angie knew the drill.
“I heard someone shout ‘the roof’. At least that’s what it sounded like.”
Officer Murphy perked up immediately. “Did you mention this in the first interview?”
“I think so.” Angie shrugged
“OK. Give me a minute. I’ll be right back” and with that Officer Murphy walked out of the room with purpose.
Angie knew she had to be careful. Officer Murphy and her partner Officer Calhoun, who were now interviewing her were part of the Council Guard – a special branch of City Squad dedicated to protecting the Council Women. They were the sharpest minds in City Squad. And the most experienced.
Outside the room, Angie was being closely observed by a woman in her early fifties with grey hair tied in a neat bun. With her arms crossed, stiff stance and stern expression she could be mistaken for a head mistress looking over a class of naughty young girls.
“So, she just thought of new information. Just like that…” Officer Murphy was saying “What do you think Agatha?”
The woman turned away from observing Angie and uncrossed her arms to reveal a small but elegant gold clip with her name, just above the left jacket pocket. Officer Agatha Calhoun was not just a member of the Council Guard, she was also its head.
“Could be that she forgot. She did lose her best friend. That kind of shock can do strange things to the best.” Officer Calhoun said.
“But…?” Officer Murphy pressed “I know that look Agatha.”
“But, it is convenient that she’s the only one who survived. We can’t verify her story.” Officer Calhoun said stroking her chin with her left hand, almost like she was thinking out loud.
Officer Murphy continued “Maybe we should go over the radio messages from the time of the attack. If someone said anything to do with ‘the roof’, maybe one of the radios picked it up. The technicians have already transcribed all the messages. We can have it sent to our devices immediately”
Officer Calhoun nodded “Make it happen.”
Officer Murphy’s tapped a few keys and a second later both their handheld devices buzzed to signal that a new message had been received. It was the transcribed radio messages neatly catalogued by name of the Officer, time of message and location from which the transmission was picked up.
“‘Where are they?’, ‘Can you see anything?’, some jumbled words the techs couldn’t make out, ‘Can’t get through’, ‘Stop!’” Officer Murphy pursed her lips as she continued scanning through the messages. “It’s mainly just a lot of confusion and scrambled words.”
“Did she mistake ‘through’ for the ‘the roof’ perhaps?” Officer Calhoun said.
“Hmm…Maybe…” Officer Murphy mumbled.
“Like I said, convenient.” Officer Calhoun sighed as she picked up a glass of water from the table. “We have the audio files of the radio messages as well, right?” she asked Officer Murphy. Getting a nod in the affirmative she walked to the door to the debriefing room and paused for a second. Straightening her posture, she put on a warm smile and pushed the handle down to swing open the door.
Officer Calhoun? Wow! They must really not trust my story. Angie swallowed and looked up at Officer Calhoun nervously. She allowed herself a weak smile. She’d been in that room for three straight hours now and was starting to feel really tired.
“I’m so sorry for all the time it’s taking Officer Burke” Officer Calhoun said as she slid the glass of water towards Angie.
It was Officer Burke again.
“…just clearing up a few more details before we can confidently shut this case.”
And you think I’m hiding something? “Of course, Officer Calhoun. Anything I can do to help.” Angie replied. She did really want to help.
“Let me start off by saying I’m sorry about Officer Viali. She was a tremendous asset.” Officer Calhoun said.
Angie felt a twinge of deep sadness at the sound of Toni’s name. She mustered a nod.
“You two were close?” Officer Calhoun asked leaning forward, placing her elbows on the table and clasping her hands.
Show the subject that you care about them. Build a connection. Let them know that they can trust you. There was a reason Officer Calhoun was the best. Angie had done this herself a number of times, but here she was watching a master at work. She needed to tread carefully.
“Yes. Were had been working together for nearly ten years. Toni was a friend more than a partner” Angie said sincerely. It was true. Toni had become such a large part of her life that Angie sometimes wondered whether they knew too much about each other!
Officer Calhoun nodded understandingly. “Did you trust her?”
Where are you going with this? Angie ensured she kept her shoulders relaxed as she answered “With my life. Toni believed in everything the Society stands for. More than anyone else I know.”
“Yes. That’s what I hear. Very impressive young woman. And very thorough reports as well. Some of the best I have read actually!” Officer Calhoun was now scrolling through her handheld device. She stopped at a message. Tapped it to open it. And started reading out. “‘Officer Burke’s opinion on the Males is more tolerant. She is reluctant to engage in decisive actions.’” Looking up at Angie she continued “That’s from Officer Viali’s last report. Did you know your partner had her doubts about how you operated?”
“She didn’t have doubts. She was expressing opinions. Valid opinions. Opinions she also expressed to me. I knew Toni had filed those reports. I knew what she’d said. We were partners and I didn’t feel the need to lie to her.” Angie said a little too firmly.
“But you’d lie to us?” Officer Calhoun jumped on it.
Well played. Angie took a breath to calm herself “I haven’t lied to you about anything.”
“Well Agent Burke, we can’t verify anything you have told us.” Officer Calhoun kept pressing
I just have to keep my answers short and to the point. Don’t give her anything else to work with. “OK. How else can I help you then?” Angie threw her right hand up in frustration and set it back on the table.
“How about we listen to the radio messages and you can talk us through your version of events.” Officer Calhoun set her handheld device on the table, folded her arms and looked at Angie with a challenging look.
“Sure.” Angie shrugged. Let’s go. If that’s what it takes.
Officer Calhoun held up her left hand and gestured at the camera with her index finger in the universal sign asking someone to come into the room. Officer Murphy immediately entered the room and took a seat.
“I always find it better to have a second pair of ears to verify things” Officer Calhoun said.
Don’t take the bait. Short answers. To the point. Angie simply nodded.
“Right, let’s start then, shall we?” Officer Murphy said
Yes. Let’s. Angie was ready. She’d prepared for this.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“‘We need backu…’, ‘…shooters’, ‘Where are they?’, ‘Officer Burke!’”
“Yes, that sounds about right. Like I said, it all started suddenly. It was very confusing. We were trying to figure out what was happening.” Angie interrupted the replay of the radio messages.
“That last transmission was Officer Ranko shouting out your name. Is that right?” Officer Calhoun was leading the interview.
“Yes.”
“And why was she panicking?”
“Because we were getting shot at from all sides.”
“Like an ambush?”
“Hard to say. I couldn’t see anything. I don’t know how many shooters there were.”
“And when did this happen?”
“When?”
“Yes, when during the fight would you say Officer Ranko called out to you?”
“I would say towards the end. Just before…”
“Did you say the end of the fight?” Officer Calhoun stepped in to pause the to and fro.
“Yes. It was towards the end that Officer Ranko shouted at me to find my way out The Monument.” Angie answered
“In that case Officer Burke, why don’t we start from the beginning.” Officer Calhoun put down the handheld device and sat back in her chair like she was settling down to hear a story.
Keep it simple. Use the facts as the basis. Every good story is based on truth. Angie repeated the mantra to herself as she drew in a deep breath.
“We were at the Fringe Town when we saw the smoke from The Monument” Angie started
“You thought the smoke was from The Monument” Officer Murphy added helpfully
So, you’re good cop and Officer Calhoun is the bad cop. OK. Got it. “That’s right. We then got the radio message about the attack on The Monu…sorry…the apparent attack on The Monument” Angie corrected herself and smiled at Officer Murphy. “We immediately left Fringe Town to get here.” Angie gestured out the window to the plaza where The Monument stood.
“This was you and Officer Ranko?” Officer Calhoun asked
“That’s right.”
“Why wasn’t anyone else in the support van?”
“With The Caller thought to be at the Fringe Town, most of the force was distributed there. Only Officer Ranko and I were in the support van.”
“And this was normal for you? To be in the support van in an operation of this magnitude?”
“No.”
“So, why then were you in the support van…with a rookie?”
Angie took a minute to stare straight at Officer Calhoun. She swallowed to clear her throat. “Because that’s the decision Toni…Officer Viali made”
“Any particular reason your partner would not want you by her side?”
You’re good Officer Calhoun. I’ll give you that. “We had a dis-agreement on the handling of the situation.”
“What did you want to do?”
I see what you’re doing Officer Calhoun. I’m not falling for it. “Council Woman Arietta issued a shoot to kill order. It caught me by surprise.”
“You thought it was excessive?”
“I thought we’d be better off taking The Caller alive to find out what his plans were.”
“Did you discuss this with Toni?” Officer Murphy jumped in again.
Build trust. You get more from the interviewee by getting them to trust you. Officer Murphy was playing the good cop perfectly. These two work well as a team. “I did.”
“She still wanted you in the support van?” Officer Murphy was now leading
“Officer Viali felt that because I had conflicting feelings about the kill order, I should stay in the support van.” Build a good story from the truth. Besides, this was all exactly as it played out. Angie had nothing to hide.
Both Officer Murphy and Officer Calhoun were taken aback a little by the blunt honesty. They recovered quickly.
Officer Murphy continued. “And you were OK with it?”
“Absolutely. In that operation Office Viali was the commanding Officer and I was following instructions.”
Officer Calhoun looked at the handheld device in front of her where the whole interview was being transcribed in real time. She picked up the device and read through the last few lines. She then scrolled back up to read some of the earlier answers.
“You said you heard the radio message from the Officers at The Monument and headed back.” Officer Calhoun asked, putting the handheld device down. “What did you see when you arrived?”
The mantra again. Keep it simple. Use the facts as the basis. Every good story is based on truth. Angie looked out the window reliving those moments all over again.
***
The support van pulled up to The Monument and Officer Ranko was the first out of the car. “Officer Burke, the scene looks clear. No hostiles.”
Angie stepped out and had to smile. The exuberance of youth. “Officer Ranko, what do we do now?”
“What?”
“What do we do now?” Angie repeated
“But…”
“Officer Ranko. There’s no training like on the job training. Focus. What do we do now?” Angie needed the young rookie to step up.
“Check the target of the attack. Move out all civilians.” Officer Ranko said confidently
“Other way round. Civilians come first.” Angie corrected her
Officer Ranko nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll go move the civilians out and check with the other Officers on the scene as well.”
Angie tapped her on the helmet and gave her a quick nod. Officer Dani Ranko was the youngest member of City Squad. At a mere twenty-two years of age, she was fresh out of the academy.
With Officer Ranko busy, Angie could do what she was here to do.
***
“Officer Ranko was the first out of the car.” Angie was recounting the events of the past week to Officer Murphy and Officer Calhoun. “We started moving the civilians away from The Monument.”
“Was it just the two of you at the scene from City Squad?” Officer Calhoun asked
“No. There were three other Officers at the plaza as part of regular patrol.” Angie pointed towards the papers on the table “I think their names will be in the original report”.
“Yes. They are.”
Angie nodded and carried on “We cleared the plaza and then made our way to The Monument.”
“Is that when the shooting started?”
“No. That came later.”
***
“Clear on the approach roads to the right and left. Main exit road blocked by barriers to stop anyone leaving. Air support incoming, but at least twenty minutes to target. Three Officers on regular patrol.” Angie was narrating into her personal recorder. So far, so good.
“Officer Burke…” Officer Ranko was running towards her “…civilians are all clear. The patrol Officers are also here now.”
“Good.” Angie was impressed by the rookie so far. “Let’s head in slowly. Clear the foyer and then we head upstairs. OK?”
The other Officers all nodded, and they set off towards The Monument in a close group in case of any hostile fire. They encountered no resistance and entered The Monument quietly. The foyer of The Monument was a large circular chamber. There was one main entrance, where the Officers were all now standing, and a smaller side entrance halfway round the left-hand wall. This led to the stairs to the upper floors and the adjoining storage building. From their position at the entrance, the room curled off to both sides with pillars intermittently as the only cover in case they took any fire.
Angie held up her left hand in a fist. The group immediately stopped. They listened for sounds, but all they heard was the echo of their own breathing and the cacophony of the noises outside as everyone was reacting to the attack. Angie held up two fingers on her left hand and then four fingers stretched out close together with the thumb tucked in pointing to the left. She repeated the gesture pointing to the right. Immediately two of the patrol Officers broke off and headed to the left side of the foyer. Officer Ranko and the other patrol officer took the right. Both groups would carefully circle round the room looking for any signs of intruders and meet in the centre on the other side.
Angie was left covering the entrance. She stepped outside, then away from the entrance…and relaxed as she dropped her weapon to her side.
“Both approach roads still clear. Entrance road starting to fill up with first response vehicles which have all stopped 2 kilometres away to establish a perimeter. Air support still incoming, only one support helicopter has landed so far. Time since attack: 35 mins” Angie dictated into her personal recorder again. This was going very smoothly indeed.
***
Officer Murphy had leaned forward in her chair now. Officer Calhoun was still sitting back.
“We walked into the foyer and there was no disturbance that we could see.” Angie continued her interview. “We split into groups to clear the room.”
“No sign of any hostiles?” Officer Murphy asked
Angie shook her head.
“And no indication that anything had been taken or disturbed in any way?”
Angie shook her head again.
“Anything suspicious at all?”
“Could I get some more water please?”
Officer Murphy opened her mouth to say something, then reached over to pick up the glass and walked out the door.
“Why didn’t you radio in immediately?” Officer Calhoun asked
Angie cleared her throat before saying “We were radio silent in case there were any hostiles. We were still clearing the foyer and at this time we all still thought The Monument had been attacked.”
“Did you see anything at all when the room was being cleared?”
“Officer Ranko and I were working our way on the right side. Two of the patrol Officers were working the left. The third Officer covered the entrance. Thank you.” Angie said reaching for the glass of water Officer Murphy had just brought in. “We converged at the far side of the room satisfied that nothing had been touched.”
“Not that there was anything of value in the foyer of The Monument.” Officer Calhoun said.
“Exactly.” Angie nodded in agreement. “We were about to head to the side entrance to move upstairs when we heard the first shot and one of the patrol Officers was hit and killed. And then all hell broke loose.”
CHAPTER NINE
***
With the latest response times noted, Angie headed back in. The two teams were just finishing up their sweep and had met in the middle on the far side. They turned around and headed back to the entrance.
Easy peasey, lemon squeezy. Angie was pleased by how well this was all going.
“Nothing.” Officer Ranko said as she walked over “This all look suspicious to you Officer Burke?”
“What do you mean?” Angie asked, playing along for now.
“Well, with the amount of smoke outside I expected a fire in here.” Officer Ranko said
“The upper floors still need to be cleared.” Angie replied
“Isn’t that the air vent?” Officer Ranko was pointing to the ceiling on the left.
Angie slowly moved her hand towards her secondary weapon, the stun stick. It shot a quick high voltage pulse to incapacitate the victim. Very effective to subdue someone without firing a shot.
“If there was a fire upstairs…” Officer Ranko continued. Angie took a step to her right trying to position herself behind Officer Ranko.
“…we’d see some smoke from that vent.” Officer Ranko moved closer to the vent to take a look.
Angie was behind Officer Ranko now. The other patrol Officers had moved towards the side entrance to go upstairs. They had their backs to Angie.
“No, I don’t think there’s a fire upsta…” Officer Ranko turned around suddenly.
Angie had pulled out her stun stick. Officer Ranko stared at her for a second, her eyes jumping from Angie to the stun stick. Then her eyes widened as her confusion turned to shock. She quickly flipped her weapon up towards Angie.
“Office Burke! What are you doing?” Officer Ranko said
Angie plunged forward to hit her quickly, but Officer Ranko was ready. She deftly took a step back and Angie’s stun stick missed. Officer Ranko pulled her trigger at the same time and a blue laser shot out of her weapon straight towards Angie.
Angie felt a searing pain on her right side, as she rolled behind the nearest pillar. Officer Ranko took cover behind the pillar next to it. The other patrol Officers reacted to the shots and were running for cover trying to discern what was happening.
This is not what she wanted to do, but she didn’t have a choice. The Resistance comes first. You’ve trained for this. This is your mission.
One of the patrol officers attempted to make a radio call before taking cover “Where are they?”
Angie took aim and pulled the trigger. The Officer fell to the floor immediately.
Blue lasers flashed back and forth as the two remaining patrol Officers fired randomly towards the entrances. Marble crashed to the floor as the walls and pillars were shattered. Paintings ripped apart. Urgent radio messages added to the confusion.
“How many shooters?”
“We need backup!”
“It’s Officer Burke!” Officer Ranko’s voice trying to cut through the noise.
Angie took advantage of the commotion “Help! I’m hit”
One of the patrol Officers stepped out from behind a pillar and Angie took her shot again. It hit the Officer in her neck right above her breast plate. She went down with her finger still pressing the trigger of her weapon spraying the foyer with more shots.
Zing. A shot whizzed past Angie’s pillar. It was Officer Ranko.
Zing. Zing. Two more shots peppered the pillar.
Angie pointed her weapon around the pillar and squeezed off a few shots. They were met with return fire immediately. I have to end this quickly before the rest of the Squad gets here.
Angie acted quickly. She slid her stun stick out towards the pillar Officer Ranko was taking cover behind. At the same time, she also pressed the button to activate the radio.
Officer Ranko saw the stun stick come towards her. She knew Angie would be out in the open now. She had been standing with her back to the pillar firing round the corner, but she now turned around to face forward. Crackle. Officer Ranko started to look down at her radio and her heart skipped a beat. She realised too late what had happened and looked up just as the laser hit her.
Angie rolled back behind the pillar and closed her eyes. Officer Ranko was a talented Officer and she took no pleasure in killing her. It had to be done.
Angie looked around the foyer of The Monument trying to locate the third patrol Officer. She couldn’t see anything and there was no more firing. It was eerily quiet. Angie fired off a few rounds towards the other side of the room to get a reaction. All she got was silence. Scrambling to her feet, Angie slowly moved behind the next pillar still seeking cover as she continued to scan the room. Did the Officer make it out? If she did, it was all over.
As Angie made her way round the room, she saw the body of the third Officer with multiple shots on her arms, legs and neck. She lay just a few feet from the Officer Angie had shot in the neck, who had then fired off a few more rounds before she died. The stray shots must have killed the third Officer.
***
“Three, maybe four” Angie said
“You saw these four shooters?” Officer Murphy asked
“Maybe four. And no. I didn’t”
“The patrol Officer was the first to get hit?”
“Yes.”
“And the rest of you returned fire?”
“We took cover and tried to assess the situation.”
“How many of the attackers did you hit?” Officer Calhoun asked
“I don’t know.”
“Most of the foyer was destroyed…”
“Yes. There were a lot of shots fired.”
“And yet, you didn’t hit any of the attackers?”
“Like I said, I don’t know.”
Officer Calhoun locked eyes with Angie till Angie looked away.
“Officer Ranko was closest to the door?” Officer Murphy asked
“Yes. She held off the attackers as I ran out.”
“Yet, nobody saw anyone else come out The Monument. Can you explain that?” Officer Calhoun asked
“I can’t.” Angie said truthfully
CHAPTER TEN
“Officer Viali was the first person you saw?” Officer Calhoun asked
“We know this is hard Officer Burke. We’re all still hurting.” Officer Murphy added
The interview had moved to the events after Angie exited The Monument. It was the part Angie was anxious about.
Just stick to the truth as closely as possible.
“Yes.” Angie said
“And did you see who shot her?”
“No.”
Angie slumped down and a few tears rolled down her cheeks.
***
“Angie! Angie! This is just a ruse. There is no attack.” Antonia was shouting as she came running towards her.
Ruse? How much had Toni figured out?
Angie had one more thing to do, but it would have to wait. Her wound was bleeding giving her a good excuse. Angie intentionally stumbled towards the steps and let her left foot catch the edge. This made her pitch forwards and she braced herself for impact. Instead, she felt Antonia’s arms grabbing her just before she hit the ground.
“What happened Ange? You’ve been shot! Was it The Caller?” Antonia asked concerned
“What…do you…mean?” Angie said slowly. She needed to know what Toni knew.
“What happened?” Antonia repeated.
Angie wanted to scream at her “Just tell me what you know dammit!”. Instead she gripped Antonia’s arm tightly and said again “What do you mean, ‘ruse’?”
“I thought there wasn’t an explosion at The Monument.” Antonia started saying “The smoke is from the building next door. I thought this was a ploy to get us all out of The Monument and to test response times. But clearly I was wrong.”
Oh Toni. Why did you have to figure it out!
“What happened here?” Antonia asked for a third time
Angie sat up. Or at least tried to. Antonia held her down.
“Look Ange, you need to lie down and stay still.” Antonia said.
Angie was hoping she could distract Toni long enough to get them both out of there. She could then sit her down and explain everything. Toni would understand…right?
“Let me call this in…”
No! No Toni! Don’t!
“The rest of the Squad are at the scene of the smoke or on their way…”
Toni! Just stop! Don’t do it!
“This should never have…” Antonia stopped mid-sentence. Blood started filling her mouth and she looked down at Angie in complete shock.
Angie’s weapon let out a dull hum as it cooled down after firing a round. The laser round had gone straight through Toni’s neck just above her armour.
The few seconds just before Toni’s body collapsed to the pavement seemed to take forever. Angie’s mind filled with thoughts. What choice did I have? Toni would never have let it go. She would have alerted the whole Squad? All this work would have been for nothing. The Resistance is bigger than me. It’s bigger than Toni. I had to do this. It was the only way. I didn’t have a choice! Did I?
Most of all, Angie felt an unbearable weight on her chest. She tried to undo her vest so she could breathe, but she couldn’t find the strap. She was gasping for air. She was drowning. She wanted to scream.
“No!!!!” Angie finally let out a scream as she tried to stand up. The sight of Toni’s body was too much. Her legs buckled, and her eyes got hazy, as she hit the pavement. Her last thought before she passed out was “Did I have a choice?”
***
“Losing a partner is tough.” Officer Calhoun said meeting Angie’s eyes with an understanding look. “It gets easier.”
“Does it?” Angie asked
Officer Calhoun adjusted her collar and sighed. “No.”
Angie nodded. She didn’t think so.
“Let’s take a break.” Officer Calhoun said. “Would you like some coffee Officer Burke?”
“No thank you. How much longer do you think this will take?” Angie asked
“Just a few more questions.” Officer Calhoun answered heading for the door. Officer Murphy followed her out.
“The grief was genuine.” Officer Murphy said as soon as the door to the interview room was shut.
“She’s still not telling us something.” Officer Calhoun answered. “About the attack on The Monument anyway. Officer Viali’s death…that she’s honest about.”
Both women looked at Angie through the window as she sipped her water.
“Has anyone asked her about the painting?” Officer Calhoun asked
“We just found out earlier today.” Officer Murphy said.
“Good.” Officer Calhoun said. Picking up a glass of water, she turned and headed back to the interview room. “Let’s see if she knows more than we do. Oh. And anything on the radio message about ‘the roof’?”
“No. The techs tried cleaning it up the best they could. No mention of the roof.” Officer Murphy said
“Hmm. Send a unit to check out the roof of The Monument anyway.”
Officer Murphy typed a quick message on her handheld and looked up. “Done.”
Both women entered the interview room. Officer Calhoun placed the glass of water on the table, sat down and took a sip. Clearing her throat, she looked at Angie and said “Officer Burke, I’ll get straight to the point. Some parts of your story can’t be verified.”
“Because everyone else who was there is dead.” Angie said.
“You see how this is a problem for us?” Officer Calhoun asked
“How can I…”
“Why were they trying to steal the painting Officer Burke?” Officer Calhoun cut in
“What painting?” Angie replied. Ah! They did notice the painting.
“The painting celebrating the day the Society was officially set-up.” Officer Calhoun said
“The canvas near the entrance?” Angie asked
“Yes. Why did they try to steal it?” Officer Calhoun asked again
“I didn’t see anyone try to steal it.” Angie answered.
“We can track it using the tracking chip in the canvas.” Officer Calhoun said
“That may give us some answers.” Angie answered
Both Officers on the other side of the table nodded their heads. Office Calhoun then looked at Officer Murphy and back at Angie.
“That’s all for now Officer Burke. We may need you to answer some more questions as we continue looking into this.” Officer Calhoun said
“Of course.” Angie replied “Something like this needs to be resolved. The Caller cannot be allowed to get away with it.”
“You’ll continue to be on leave till we have concluded the investigation.” Officer Murphy added.
“We’re still calling it that?” Angie asked
“You lost a partner and a friend…”
“But you want me off the Squad because you still don’t believe me.” Angie added before Officer Murphy could finish.
“You need to take all the time you need.” Officer Murphy simply smiled and said.
Angie smiled back. This was the story the rest of the Squad was going to hear. Can’t have the Officer who was the only survivor being victimised now, can they?
Officer Calhoun extended her hand to shake Angie’s. Officer Murphy did the same. Angie got up from her chair and walked out the room to the escalator leading to the lobby of the City Squad Headquarters.
As Angie descended out of sight Officer Murphy turned to her superior with a quizzical look “You said we could find the painting using the tracker, but it wasn’t stolen. Only partially cut out of the frame.”
“And Officer Burke didn’t know that.” Officer Calhoun answered
“If she did, she would have mentioned that the painting was not actually stolen!” Officer Murphy’s eyes lit up as she understood the reasoning “You were testing her.”
“A little…yes. But I still think she’s holding something back.” Officer Calhoun said.
“Upstairs then?” Officer Murphy asked pointing to the escalator going up “Council Woman Arietta did ask for an immediate update.”
“In a bit. I need to collect my thoughts first.” Officer Calhoun said with a sigh. She wasn’t looking forward to face the Council Woman without having all the answers.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Angie walked into her silent apartment locking her door carefully behind her. It had been a long day, and she still felt nervous.
“Damn, that was intense.” Angie said to the empty room. Angie sat down on her bed and rubbed her forehead.
Beep. Beep.
Angie looked up towards her bookshelf.
Beep. Beep.
She got up, walked over and pulled out the ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’ and opened it.
Beep. Beep.
The book was hollow. Only a box, masquerading as a book. It had been Angie’s chosen hiding place for the old-fashioned mobile phone.
Beep. Beep.
“Hello.” Angie answered the phone
“You know who this is.” It was The Caller. That’s how he started every call.
“Yes. Yes of course.” Angie replied
“Great work. I hear everything went well today.” He always knew everything immediately. Angie didn’t know how he did it. And she never asked.
“Yes. It was OK. Officer Calhoun still doesn’t believe me, but I think I can manage her.” Angie said
“Do they have something to chase?” The Caller asked
“I mentioned that I heard a radio message about ‘the roof’. That should keep them busy for a few days.” Angie replied before quickly adding “I’m sorry to ask you this, but are you sure this mobile phone is secure? They can’t tap into it?”
“Don’t worry.” The Caller was calm as always “Nobody monitors the remaining ground cell towers anymore. This phone is completely separate from the satellite communications relay. We’re secure.”
“Old is gold, right?” Angie joked
The Caller remained silent
“They…they know about the painting.” Angie said
“Do they?” The Caller replied
“Well, they know that someone tried to steal it. I don’t think they know why. If I knew why you wanted it, I cou…”
“It’s better if you don’t know.” The Caller said “We all have a role to play.”
“Of course. Of course. I understand.” Angie quickly answered
“You should get some rest. There’ll be more to do soon.” The Caller said
“I’ll be awaiting any instructions.” Angie answered and ended the call. She replaced the mobile phone in the book and placed it back in the shelf. The Caller was right. She needed to get some rest.
Angie stood up and walked to the full-length mirror. She looked at herself for a long time and then slowly undressed. Turning to her left, she moved closer to the mirror to get a better look at her hip. Carefully she peeled away a layer of false skin to reveal a tiny rectangular device with a flickering green light. She had created it herself. She ironically called it XY. With a flick of a switch, the light changed from green to red. It was a ritual she had to do every night to ensure that the exposure didn’t get too much. There were side effects. As the light changed from green to red, Angie’s hips narrowed, her muscles grew, and her breasts shrank. The camouflage began to drop away as her real self was slowly revealed.
When it was done, Rob turned to the mirror to look at himself. It felt good to be Male again. He returned to the bed, laid down and pulled the sheets over himself. He’d have to do it all again tomorrow.
***
Officer Calhoun always felt like she was about to get a telling off when she stood on the escalators climbing up towards the chambers of the Council Women in The Monument. She could never quite understand why. She’d done it a million times since she joined the City Squad twenty-five years back. She’d even been personally chosen by the head of the Council to head up the Council Guard. But today, she felt she had a reason to feel nervous. The biggest attack in the history of the Society was still not solved. The Council would look to her for answers and she had none.
“C’est la vie” Officer Calhoun said out loud to herself as she stepped off the escalator and headed towards the double doors to the Council chambers.
“Officer Calhoun?” it was one of the attendants who served the Council Women
“Not now please. I have a meeting with..” Officer Calhoun started
“Yes, precisely Officer. The Council Woman is wating for you in her Office.” the attendant said
“Oh? Aren’t we doing this in the Council chambers?” Officer Calhoun asked
“The Council Woman thought it would be better to meet in her Office.” the attendant said walking away down the corridor.
Officer Calhoun hesitated for a second in front of the chamber doors and then spun round to follow the attendant. They walked down past a row of offices with the names of the Council Women displayed on placards.
They came across a group of rookie Officers walking towards them, being taken on their first tour of The Monument and the Council offices. The attendant guiding them was explaining the layout of the floor. Something all Officers had to learn for evacuation protocols.
“As we move towards the Council chambers, you can see the offices of the Council Women to your right and left.” the attendant gestured to both sides as some of the Officers made notes “The longest serving Council Women are at the end we just came from. This is to ensure they are closest to the evacuation route in times of emergency.”
“Salute!” the lead Officer called as the group approached Officer Calhoun and her attendant.
“That’s quite OK Officer…?”
“Diego. Officer Diego.” The young Officer said with pride
“Officer Diego. You don’t have to salute me every time you see me. We’re colleagues now.” Officer Calhoun said. She saw the young Officer’s eyes widen and cheeks blush as she took in the moment. Officer Diego was proud and excited to be viewed as a colleague by the head of the Council Guard.
Officer Calhoun gave her a smile and a quick wave as she walked past her. She’d just made that young Officer’s day.
Her attendant had stopped to take in the interaction with the rookie Officers and now turned to continue down the corridor. They walked past Council Woman Jones, Council Woman Zichenski and Council Woman Frei. They eventually stopped at the fourth door for Council Woman Arietta.
“The Council Woman will be just a minute. If you could wait here please?” the attendant gestured to a chair by the door.
“Thanks.” Officer Calhoun said as the attendant nodded and walked away. She was just about to sit down when the door opened and a woman with white hair, dressed in the green gown of a Council woman opened the door.
“Officer Calhoun!” she said with a warm smile
“Council Woman Arietta. It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Officer Calhoun said as the women shook hands.
“Indeed. Much as I like you Agatha, I prefer not seeing you. It means everything is as it is supposed to be.” Council Woman Arietta said dropping the official titles.
“Are you saying I’m the harbinger of doom Valentina?” Officer Calhoun did the same
“Ha! Ha!” Council Woman Arietta threw her head back and laughed. “No such thing. Just wish we met more often under better circumstances.”
“I work right downstairs. You could always pop by for a quick chat you know?” Officer Calhoun said
“We all have our parts to play Agatha.”
“And as you’re now a Council Woman, I’m no longer the same friend you played darts with?”
“I play chess now.”
“It’s far less active.”
“It’s far more intellectual.”
Both women laughed and hugged.
“You’d think that for two people who have known each other for twenty years we’d be more alike.” Officer Calhoun said
“Opposites attract.” Council Woman Arietta replied
Officer Calhoun sat down on one of the plush chairs in the office. The Council Woman remained standing. “I find it easier to think on my feet.” she always said.
“Much as I’d like to catch up Agatha, we both know why we’re here.” Council Woman Arietta wasted no time in getting to the point.
“Yes indeed.” Officer Calhoun said. “I’m sure you read the report summary. I can fill in any gaps.”
“It’s not what’s in the report I’m interested in.” Council Woman Arietta walked round to the other side of the table “I’m interested in what’s not in the report.”
“I can tell you, but you can’t use any of it Valentina.” Officer Calhoun said
“I don’t want to use it. I just want to get the full picture.” Council Woman Arietta answered
“She didn’t plan it.” Officer Calhoun said
“But she could have been a part of it?”
“Officer Burke is hiding something. I’m not sure what.”
“Is she under surveillance?”
“Satellite phone tapped. Her badge is also tagged for location tracking.”
“What do you expect to find?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. Everything.”
Council Woman Arietta walked back to the front of the desk to stand besides Officer Calhoun. “Where does this leave us?”
“You want me to close the case, don’t you?” Officer Calhoun said
“Where would you take it Agatha? How do you see this ending?”
“You can’t answer a question with a question. Or two questions.”
“Can’t I?”
“That’s still a question Valentina.”
Council Woman Arietta smiled. “If there’s something we could get out of this, then we should absolutely pursue it.”
“But because there isn’t, we should drop it?” Officer Calhoun said.
“Now who’s asking the questions?”
“Valentina. I know there’s more to this.”
“And I have always trusted your instincts Agatha. But the reality is that this is the biggest threat the Society has faced, and we need answers. The longer the questions remain, the more people will feel unsafe.” Council Woman Arietta had sat down now.
“And the Council can’t afford to have questions, can they?” Officer Calhoun said
“Agatha. Even you can understand the gravity of the situation we’re in now. This isn’t a typical case.” Council Woman Arietta said
Officer Calhoun shifted in her seat and nodded her head.
“If you think we can get somewhere, by all means chase it. You’ll have my full support and I’ll hold the other Council Women off.” Council Woman Arietta said
“Yes. I know that Valentina. There’s just something about this whole thing that doesn’t sit right with me.” Officer Calhoun replied
“A week.” Council Woman Arietta said standing up again.
“What?” Officer Calhoun asked confused
“I can hold the rest of the Council off for a week. That’s the time you have to find your answers Agatha. After than you will have to shut it down.”
“That’s more than I thought I’d get. I’ll take it. Thanks Valentina.” Officer Calhoun said getting up. “And if a week is all I have; I’d better get to it than sitting here reminiscing with you.”
Council Woman Arietta pretended to catch an arrow in her chest “Ouch! You know how to hurt me.”
Both women laughed and hugged again before Officer Calhoun left the room.
***
Council Woman Arietta walked her friend to the door. Turning back inside, she walked over and sat down behind her desk. Officer Agatha Calhoun was a good Officer. Probably the best and would find answers within the week. Some at least, if not all. But enough to keep this conversation going and Council Woman Arietta needed this to go away. Quickly.
She knew what she had to do.
Taking a key from her robe, she unlocked her bookshelf and removed a book with a well-worn cover which said ‘The Three Musketeers’. Opening it she removed a small square device from the hollow within the false book. The device had a wire dangling from it, which was connected to a mobile phone, also in the hollow book. Switching on the square device, Council Woman Arietta tested it.
“Hello” she said into it.
“Hello” the device dropped the bass in her voice morphing it into a male voice.
Satisfied, she pressed a few buttons on the mobile phone to make a call. It was answered within the first few rings.
“You know who this is” she said as she started the call.
The Caller had work to do.
The End
Steven Prevosto is the author of the four-star reviewed novel, The Defending Guns, a Western, also published by World Castle Publishing. His Christmas story, Christmas in The City, is published in the 2021 Anthology of Christmas Stories by Texas Sisters Press. Nina’s Salvation for Joey is his second published novel. He has written contemporary as well as classical plays. He was an actor in New York City for ten years, came home to be a woodworker, then earned his master’s degree in Education and is currently a Para Educator in English for a local high school. He currently lives in Carroll County, Maryland with his wife. Please, visit him online at Prevosto@Weebly.com |
Something Pulled Away
While weaving through the loud, rapid chatter and clanging of locker doors along the hallway of Walkersville High School Tuesday morning, Brian Richter and Sean Wilson were walking toward their first period class. Brian saw Kaylee Barton at her locker up ahead with a few friends. Ever since middle school he was attracted to her even though his friends said she looked kind of quirky cute and a little flabby with a pudgy face. But she had a wild sparkle in her eyes that mesmerized him. She was a solid looking athlete with firm, good size breasts. And her long, straight black hair and solid body with a tight ass made her so sexy that he couldn’t stop imagining them both naked with her on top of him; but her ‘Git-er done’ attitude in what it took to compete and accomplish anything that she set her mind to was just like his. And that really made him want to have a relationship with her. She was also like a magnet to girls who clung to her moving snail-like through the hallways. Walking behind them sometimes, he’d overhear anger venting loudly through them with a passion about guys cheating on them or lying to them. Anxiety clamoring over problems at home, or other girls being mean to them or making fun of them on Instagram. Yeah, being a girl sounded tougher than being a guy. They seemed to bond closer with their feelings than guys. Even now a pretty girl who was also a soccer player but who had broken her ankle was brushing a tear away and Kaylee was giving her a hug and stroking gently her blond hair. Kaylee always was a very caring person. Pulling Brian into the moment, Sean said, “Hey, Pam McBride’s walking toward us with her friends.”
“So?”
“Brian, she’s gorgeous.” He smiled nodding his head at Pam, a slender girl with firm breasts, a pin on braid hairstyle wearing a black, sleeveless dress just above the knees with sandals. Venus smirked then sneered while turning and saying something to her friends who laughed.
“She dresses so – elegantly. Brian, why would you dump such a hot goddess?”
“Pam’s – all about her,” Brian said decidedly. “Her friends, her phone, and what she wants. I was just a conversation piece worn around her neck. Half the time she wouldn’t even look at me when talking to me. She’d be on her phone. Her friends knew some of my friends. So, I
was of use to her.” Suddenly, he mimics her voice saying, ‘Oh, Brian, you got to bring Ken and Todd to Emily’s party Saturday night. And bring your friend Rick Sha! He’s popular too. But don’t bring, Carl! Nobody likes him.’ “I was so bored with her. She didn’t like camping, didn’t want to go on a hike. We went concerts that she liked. With her friends! She didn’t want to go shooting or ice skating.”
“Pam shooting a gun?” Sean snickers and mimics Pam talking with a girl’s voice: ‘Brian, what gun clothes should I wear? Do I need goggles, ear plugs, and a helmet?’” They both laugh. “Brian, I’m thinking about the prom this year, dude. I wanted you to introduce me to her friend, Amy. Is that still doable?”
“You’re on your own with her, dude.”
“Thanks, buddy. Paybacks are going to be tough.”
“I can’t even keep track of what you owe me,” snickered Brian. “I give you rides here, there, and lend you money. Hell, I pushed you to get in shape for wrestling!”
“O.K. You’re right. Luckily, I love riding in your super Dodge Challenger.”
“Watch your fat ass, Emma!” burst through the clamoring babble. “If you ran more during a game you’d lose it! You and slow ass Zoe!”
“Just move your ass out of the way!”
“Up yours!”
“Whoa! Now playing at Walkersville High School, ‘Kaylee Unleashed’!”
“She definitely tells it like it is. She’s pretty frustrated with some of her teammates. They don’t hustle. Miss practices. And Kaylee plays her heart out.”
A smirk from Sean blurts, “Are you kidding me? You go to her games?!”
“I went to her first game against Urbana and she shut them down. They’re ranked number three in the state! She’s very physical. Aggressive. In your face tough. And, she was an all-state goalie last year! Gave up the fewest goals than any goalie in the state last year! I’d like to ask her out.”
“Brian she’s a dyke! Logan said...”
“Logan’s an ignorant ass. Kaylee’s mom is a friend of my mom and she told her that Logan took Kaylee out on a date and afterwards wanted to stop somewhere to show her a meteor shower then forced himself upon her by taking her clothes off! She kneed him in the loins, got out of the car and ran. Kaylee called her dad to take her home. And he called Logan’s dad and said he’d call the police on him if he ever touched Kaylee again. Then he called the principal, Mr. Kingston, and told him. Kingston made Logan write a letter of apology to her and was suspended for two days.”
“Logan never said anything about that.”
“And he won’t unless you confront him about it.”
***
Later that day Brian was walking down the hallway from the bathroom and noticed Mrs.
Cousin’s science class. She taught a simple, very basic science and astronomy course to seniors who could fulfill their science credits to graduate if they didn’t pass or they had barely passed the science courses required during their freshmen, sophomore, and junior years. Kaylee was in Mrs. Cousins class. He stopped to glance into the classroom to see where she sat. He saw her a few seats from the back bringing a pink, construction paper mask that she drew up to her face that was a caricature of Mrs. Cousins. The girl across from Kaylee was giggling with her hand over her mouth as was Kaylee. Mrs. Cousins had her back to the students writing something on the blackboard. Brain couldn’t help laughing as well. On his way back to his classroom he recalled himself as a sophomore in Mr. Egan’s chemistry class anxiously taking notes on whatever he said in anticipation of it being on the test the following week. So it was in every class every year. High expectations for him and his sister being in a family of decorated military men going back to WW1. His parents wouldn’t dare accept anything less than a B. Even with his four-year scholarship to Virginia Military Institute his father wanted him on the honor roll his senior year.
He knew Kaylee in middle school. She was always around friends who were in training for soccer, going to camps to improve their skills, and playing games locally or out of town. She was also very involved in church sponsored activities. He went to church as well, but never had the time to volunteer his services to help out in the community like Kaylee did. He’ll never forget while he was running along the trails through Kenmar Park last Spring and saw a group of teenagers picking up trash in the woods. He recognized some of the kids from The Church of The Holy Spirit. They were volunteering to help clean up the park. He heard a girl yelling at another kid who didn’t want to pick-up trash because he was afraid of snakes. “They don’t eat plastic or paper cups! So, you brush the leaves and branches away and pick-up the fricking
trash, Ryan!” It was Kaylee yelling at Ryan Snyder who plays on the varsity baseball team. He was laughing for the next quarter mile. Kaylee didn’t care how big or strong you were. He heard stories about her where in a soccer game if a teammate didn’t cover her opponent or wasn’t giving their best effort, she’d leave the goal and run-up and yell at the girl on the field during the game! She not only set high expectations for herself, but for everyone on her team. Not unlike himself.
Brian chose to stay after school today with Dr. Fritz, his GT Physics teacher, to ask some nagging questions about density that were going to be on the test next week. He had been obsessed with them for the past few days. It was like he was carrying around this mass of stress disrupting his peace of mind and now wanting to be sociable with his friends. After about an hour he left Dr. Fritz feeling much at ease and having a better grip on the matter of density and its formulas. He hurried to the gym to work out and enjoy the feeling of his muscles stretching and bulging. He acknowledged the few guys still there from the football team with “Hey, Tommy, Darnell. How’s it going?”
“Great. Chasing that All-American again, dude?”
“You bet.” And he headed toward the dumbbell rack. A little further down the room he noticed Kaylee lifting alone. Sometimes she’d be working out with a couple girls on the soccer or the volleyball team. But they must’ve left earlier. She was sitting on the workout bench facing him with her head down breathing hard. She must’ve just got done lifting several reps. She always was so intense looking and staying focused on each exercise. Not too talkative and never noticing who else may be in the room. Momentarily, a cough was followed by a growling, hacking sound and Brian saw Kaylee spit upon the floor to her right. He was shocked. He never saw any guy, and especially a girl, ever spit upon the floor in the weight room! It was crude.
But, a girl doing it? He started laughing to himself. Shortly, she rose, took the weights off of the barbell, and was leaving.
“Hey, Kaylee! I watched you play against Urbana last week. You shut them down girl! Great game.”
“Hey, Brian. Thanks. Coach had to kick a few girls’ asses at half time to make them play tighter coverage and be more aggressive when defending them. It worked. So, they better keep up that the momentum and pressure in each game for the rest of the season!”
“I hear you! Hey, ah, you think maybe you’d like to go out for a sub or a pizza after school one day? Maybe after you practice.”
“Sure. That be nice. I’m usually starving after practice. We got an away game Wednesday, so how about Thursday? We always have a short practice the day after a game. We’ll look at film, talk about the positive things we did, how we can improve, then those girls who didn’t hustle or blew their coverage will run laps while the rest of us leave. How about four o’clock at Zacchi’s?”
“Great. I’ll see you there.”
“O.K. Brian.” She left and he couldn’t believe what he just did. He felt nervous and shaking. He looked around the room and he was alone. So, he burst out laughing hysterically. He never, ever spontaneously asked a girl out! For the first time in his life he didn’t know what to expect on a date. Every other girl he dated, he pretty much knew what their expectations were, what their interests were, and what they liked or didn’t like to do. He would talk to his friends, talk to her friends, and knew what to expect on his first date with that girl. But with Kaylee he would be surprised. They knew each other since middle school and their moms were friends. Suddenly, a trembling of panic, like a wave, rolled through him that maybe now he’d become too scholarly and serious for her. Would he be able to talk to her? Would they have anything in common? Doubt now plagued him that he wouldn’t know what to say to her. He shouldn’t have asked her out. Well, it’s too late. He did and he was going to enjoy it.
***
Zacchi’s Pizzeria was a large one room restaurant that served great subs and a variety of pizzas with a homemade tomato sauce that was excellent. Brian was staring out the window across the highway at a fallow field with a deep forest behind it drenched and dripping in red, orange, yellow, and red-yellow leaves dazzling in the late afternoon’s sun. What a glorious view he thought. Then, flashing before him was the very sad letter of his great-grandfather’s death in the Battle of Argonne Forest in World War 1. He was recalling the letter’s sorrowful details when shortly, “Hey”, yanked him from his memory. Kaylee was striding toward him with her long legs, muscular thighs, and her long black hair swaying. His joyful smile greeted her.
“I just got out of our meeting.” She slid across the plastic covered upholstery of the bench across from Brian.
“How’d it go?”
“We barely won yesterday. Three to two. Some girls weren’t covering their opponents. Not hustling. That left me defending the goal a few times against two or three opponents alone! We should’ve lost that game. Coach was all over those girls’ lazy asses today. And two are seniors who don’t give a shit. Can you believe that?” Their backups are good but they’re still learning the technique of covering their opponents along with having confidence in themselves. I get so angry giving my all and some of my teammates don’t give a damn. Two of them actually said they didn’t want to get hurt because they were going to a dance over the weekend. You believe that!?”
“I hear you, Kaylee. When I was a sophomore, we had a chance to win the county championship and a good shot at the state. But Chad Simmons, a senior, didn’t play up to his potential. Said he was tired. It was frustrating as hell after we were working our butts off for months.”
“Yeah. Coach said a couple of colleges are interested in me. But I need help from my
teammates. I can’t do it alone.” Brian nodded in understanding. -- He turned to look out the window. “This is a great time of year to go camping and running through the park.”
“My dad took me and my younger brother and sister camping last year in Gettysburg
during the Fall. It was gorgeous. I’m thankful there’s a lot of trees along my property when I run. It calms me.”
“You and I have a lot in common,” his casual smile said.
“Yeah. I can’t believe we’ve known each other since middle school.”
“Time flies. Thanks for coming out with me.”
“Of course, Brian. You were the only guy who asked how I did in my soccer games.”
“Because that’s what you loved doing.” She nodded and not knowing what else to say glanced through the menu as Brian did as well. Shortly, the waiter came over.
“Ah - how about a chicken, onion, and pepper pizza with extra sauce,” said Kaylee.
“Sounds good. And two cokes and water, please,” said Brian.
“You got it guys. Thank you.” And he took the menus and left. Unknowingly to the other, each one was tapping gently the bottom of the front or the heal of their tennis shoe nervously and quietly upon the floor while staring idly around the room or smiling uneasily at one another whenever their eyes met. Then, “I don’t think I told you, but when my mom, me, and your mom saw you wrestle at the state’s last year, it was amazing how you stayed so focus and patient circling around that guy. Waiting to make your move. Then you faked a move to cover up the one you really surprised him with to bring him down. That was so cool, Brian.”
“Thanks. The sport is just as much brains as it is brawn. As you saw, we don’t draw that much of a crowd. Not that much action. But we have our moments of roughhousing with finesse and some trickery.”
“Yeah, but you got a scholarship to college for it. That’s awesome.”
“I love the sport. I give one hundred percent time and effort. Even through pain. But –
knowing there was a chance for a scholarship, it was an extra incentive to do my best.”
“Exactly. The same with me. It’s worth it for that scholarship.”
“What do you think you’ll major in?”
“Soccer,” she laughs. “I don’t know. Mom thinks I should go into business, but – I’m not that good in math. My aunt’s a coach at Oakland Mills High School in Howard County, and she teaches phys ed. I might think about that because I do love sports.”
“That sounds great, Kaylee.”
The waiter brought their pizza, plates, drinks, knives, and forks. Brian took a slice and laid it on Kaylee’s plate and then took a slice for himself.
“Thank you, Brian. That was very thoughtful.”
“My friends and I usually go to Pizza Hut or Ledos because they’re bigger and we usually run into people from school there. But Zacchi’s hands down is better.” He takes a bite of his
pizza and satisfaction smiles. “This sauce cannot be beat. It’s great.” Kaylee smiled while nodding and chewing. She was famished. She was nearly finished her first slice before Brian
took his third bite.
“I am so hungry. Excuse me while I pig-out.”
Brian laughed saying, “Go right ahead. There was a long pause while they were eating. The sun’s rich buttery glow was slowly dimming and about to perch upon the trees as voices entering the dining room summoned their immediate regard at who was a possible acquaintance.
“I remember my mom saying that your mom told her that you’re going to college to be an officer in the marines. You still want to do that?”
He finished chewing, swallowed, and wiped his mouth with the napkin while staring at the table momentarily. “Yeah, that’s still the plan. -- There’s a general, two colonels, two captains, a major, and a few lieutenants on my mother and father’s side in every war going back to World War 1. It’s in my blood. I like the discipline; the challenges of being an officer. And I love telling others what to do, a smile said self-assuredly.” Kaylee nodded looking at him and thinking ‘He doesn’t belong in the military! He’s not the type. He’s too nice.’
***
Later that evening after finishing reading a few pages in science, struggling with a few math problems, Kaylee forced herself to labor through reading a chapter of Frankenstein for English. Afterwards, she took a shower. Drying herself off with a towel, she paused and stared at herself in the mirror. ‘I’m pretty,’ she thought. ‘I am not quirky pretty that she overheard some guy saying to his friends walking pass her in the hallway. My face may be a little puffy. And my thighs big from working out. O.K., some flabbiness. But I am pretty. And I have beautiful eyes.’ She hung the towel on its rack and turned toward the mirror again. She raised both of her arms to her shoulders and let them gently slide down her body feeling her breast, ribs, stomach, and genitalia. Her body throbbed with exciting, myriad tingling sensations like little needles pricking all over her body. She loves being a young woman. Hanging out with her girlfriends. Enjoying their musk. She had even imagined being kissed and held by a few. But not until her friend Chloe surprised her by wanting to make love to her last Saturday, did Kaylee realize how much she wanted it to happen. ‘I must be a lesbian. But I hate how people label you and know nothing about you! Chloe’s a beautiful person and friend. She went into her bedroom, put her pajamas on, and got under the blankets. Thinking of Chloe sent a trembling sensation of pleasure rippling through her body. She met Chloe last January playing indoor soccer for the Keymar Rec league. She was a little taller than Kaylee and just as stocky and firm. She was pretty with her long, straight silky brown hair. She shadowed and attacked relentlessly an opponent with the ball. Like Kaylee, determined and tireless. One of the very few girls on the team who were. Her family moved to Frederick from Florida a year ago. Her father was a Colonel in the army and was now working in Washington D.C. at the Pentagon. She was smart but shy in the classroom. Didn’t want to attract attention by participating too much. Kaylee suggested that her and Chloe play together in the county Rec league in the Spring. Chloe was all for it. They’d meet after school in the gym with a few other girls to work out and practice once or twice a week; sometimes Kaylee would invite Chloe over her house to practice fine-tuning passing skills or defensive techniques that Kaylee had learned from going to summer soccer camps over the years. Friendship embraced them with a smile as they’d hang out with friends. Then, late in May, during a soccer game while driving the ball to the opponents’ goal, two defenders, one coming up behind and the other from the side, slammed into her crashing down on her ankle and severely breaking it. She couldn’t play sports for at least four months. Kaylee visited her sometimes alone or with a friend to help cheer her up, help her with homework, or watch a movie. During the summer, Kaylee was playing in a soccer league where she’d play games locally throughout the week; but on the weekends she’d play in neighboring states. They saw each other very infrequently but would call or text one another. Then, toward the end of the Summer, practice for Walkersville’s varsity team demanded her attention. Chloe would visit but her sadness for not playing with them was obvious. After practice, however, going out with Kaylee and some of the girls to Zacchi’s or Ledo’s did cheer her up. But last Saturday she and Chloe had finally released their frightened, guilty, and wonderful pent-up longing for each other. They were sitting on the sofa downstairs in her parents’ basement that was converted into a comfortable club room listening to music, talking about school, friends, and life after high school next June. Abruptly, Chloe stared tenderly, timidly, into her eyes while raising her hand to Kaylee’s face. Resting it upon her cheek, she let it gently flow down. Then, Kaylee laid Chloe’s head on her shoulder and stroked it affectionately. Chloe raised her head and brushed her moist lips across Kaylee’s cheek and gently kissed her and laid her head on Kaylee’s breast. Chloe’s vanilla scent of body lotion and her peppermint breath sent a warm, arousing sensation through Kaylee. She lifted Chloe’s head and kissed her with feeling on the lips. Chloe gently kissed her and wet kisses rained upon each other. Their tongues in each other’s mouth sucked arousing desire and fueling feelings of exciting pleasure rushing through each. Chloe eased Kaylee to lie down on the couch and laying on top of her began kissing her and slowly moving her body up and down upon her. Abruptly, she stopped. Lifting her head staring into Kaylee’s eyes, tears streaked down her cheeks falling onto Kaylee’s shirt. Then, Chloe laid her head on Kaylee’s breast crying. “I’m sorry, Kaylee. I shouldn’t of – I just enjoy being with you so much and – If I’m offending you or disgusting you, I’m sorry.” With tears streaming down her cheeks she bolted up as Kaylee’s arm shot out grabbing her hand and gently pulling her down to sit beside her.
“Please, stay with me.” And she drew Chloe close to her and gently began stroking her head and embracing her. Chloe brought her feet up on the couch, laid down beside Kaylee, and snuggled with her.
“Guys were rough with me. I was shy and they only wanted to maul or paw me instead of talking and having a nice time. It frightened me. I did go out with a few nice guys, - but I always felt more comfortable in being in a relationship with a girl. But my father was in the military and we never stayed in one place longer than a year or two. It was hard for me to make close friends. Especially, with a lesbian like me. You and I were lucky. Soccer brought us together. You teaching me skills, spending time working with me to be a better Midfielder.”
“You just had to work on your technique. And it came easy to you because you’re dedicated like me. You’re beautiful, Chloe,” said Kaylee. “I’m proud to call you my lover.” And she kissed her passionately and held her tight. - “I also haven’t enjoyed going out with guys. The last guy I went out with I kneed in the balls because he was taking my clothes off!”
“What!” exclaimed Chloe in shock.
“Yeah. I got out of his car and ran while I called my dad. Then this other guy after we came out of Taco Bells and got into the car, right away started kissing me and shoving his chip breath and salsa tongue down my throat. And was shoving his coarse and calloused hands up my blouse to feel my breast. What an animal!”
“Close your eyes.”
“What?”
“Please, close your eyes.” Kaylee closes her eyes and Chloe tenderly kisses each eye. “You have beautiful eyes.” Kaylee laughs.
“No one has ever kissed my eyes!”
“Then I’m the first.” She held her tightly. “You know, we might walk the hallways at school hearing ‘lesbian’ sneering at us,” snickered Chloe sarcastically.
“So, we’ll act no different than the other girls who are close friends and very touchy feely with one another.
***
Two weeks later on a Friday night a friend of Brian’s had a Halloween party at his house and Brian asked Kaylee to go with him. She said ‘yes’. She told Chloe that she knew him since middle school and he was very nice. “Besides, it would be good for me to be seen with him by our friends.” Chloe didn’t care about that. She wanted Kaylee to go to a Halloween party with her, but she accepted it. Two friends of Kaylee were at the party as well and she was glad because it was necessary to be seen with Brian by them. Brian dressed up as the Walt Disney Character Goofy and Kaylee was a witch. Brian was funny goofing around with his friends. He’s very laid back when he’s with them. Just like she is around her friends. She laughed and enjoyed herself. She feels safe with him. But she learned how very serious he was in getting A’s in all of his courses. If he doesn’t, he’ll do extra credit and study harder. A character trait that she wishes she possessed. But she’s never really been one to enjoy reading and studying. And her grades now were borderline passing. Barely. Her mom invited Brian’s mom over the house tomorrow, Saturday, for a traditional family get together of making tomato sauce and raviolis. Kaylee had such a wonderful time with Brian that she thought since his mom is coming over why not ask him to join them. He said, “Great. I love Italian food. But it’ll taste better with you there.” She laughed. Chloe called her late Saturday morning, and asked Kaylee if she wanted to see a movie that night. But Kaylee lied and said she couldn’t because of her family’s traditional get together and said they’d get together next week.
Brian came over Kaylee’s house around four thirty. Brian’s mom, Sharon, was mixing ingredients of the tomato sauce with Kaylee’s mom, Jeannie, and her two uncles, along with her thirteen-year-old brother, Ethan. While her uncles were cooking they talked to Brian about college, studying to be an officer in the marine corps, his family’s history in the military, and how proud he was to continue that tradition. Ethan soon came over to Brian and asked him to wrestle with him and teach him some skills. He wanted to try out for Walkersville’s jv wrestling team next year. Brian was more than happy to. After dinner Kaylee and Brian, Sharon, and Ethan each made and decorated a ginger bread house. Kaylee couldn’t resist adding some bloody Zombies around her and Brian’s house. Jeannie was the judge and she declared that Sharon’s house was the winner. They won a ten-dollar gift certificate to Zacchi’s Pizzeria. While the ginger bread house builders, Sharon and Ethan, were gingerly picking and tasting their work of art, Kaylee was smashing it and rubbing some in Brian’s face. He was laughing and while Kaylee was preventing him from face painting her with green, white and red icing, Brian did manage an uppercut leaving thick ribbon streaks of green and red icing up her chin, nose, and right cheek. Sharon took a picture of it on her phone and posted it on Facebook so laughter could go on forever.
***
For several days Chloe felt Kaylee was a little stand offish and not too touchy feely at school.
She wasn’t returning her texts or calls. Did she not want to see her anymore? Was she having doubts of her sexuality? Something was wrong. At lunch she saw Kaylee at her locker and asked her if the two of them could walk down to the cafeteria alone. Kaylee said sure and told two other friends that she’d see them downstairs. With the hallway practically empty, Chloe got her lunch and the two of them started walking. “Have you changed your mind in how you feel for me? Do you still love me? Do you regret what we did together?
“Of course not Chloe. I do love you. I just want to be cautious.”
“You want being with Brian?”
“What?! No. He’s a nice guy. We’re just friends.”
“Then be cautious. But tap my shoulder when you see me. Stroke my back while walking with me. Let your hand slide down my arm. I want to know you care about me in some little way.”
Kaylee stared into Chloe’s eyes and – feelings for her melted at ease. She glanced down the hallway in both directions. No one in sight. She kissed Chloe tenderly and gently stroked her face. “I needed that. I love you. C’mon. Let’s go to lunch.” She held her hand a little while then released it. In the cafeteria they joined their friends at a table and one girl asked, “What kept you two?”
“Chloe had to calm me down.”
“How’d you that Chloe?”
“Looked her in the eye and gave her some tough love.” Kaylee and the girls laughed.
“Good. She’ll need it tomorrow against Liberty.”
“You coming, Chloe?”
“Damn straight,” said Chole. “I got to make sure she shuts down Liberty.” And she playfully punches Kaylee in the arm, and Kaylee gives Chole a hug. Hearing how frustrated Kaylee was with some of her teammates, Brian, who was sitting a few tables behind her, was glad to see her bonding with those around her.
***
Throughout the coming weeks Brian had asked Kaylee out, but she always had plans with her friends, Chloe in particular. The team was winning and seemed destined to play for the state championship again. The girls were partying and having pizza and movie nights at one another’s houses. On a Friday or Saturday night Kaylee would go back to Chloe’s house or Chloe would sleep over Kaylee’s house in her comfortable and lavish clubroom basement for more privacy. There were in love and sleeping together waking up joyfully in each other’s smiling, naked embrace. On this particular Saturday morning while holding Kaylee lovingly, Chloe said, “What do you say after we graduate, we find jobs and get an apartment together?”
Yanking Kaylee’s attention from deciding what to fix for breakfast, she said, “What!? You’re talking about a serious commitment, girl.”
Her eyes smiling gently, said, “Yes, I am. So, can’t we?”
Thoughts were racing across Kaylee’s mind. Yes, it would be a wonderful! She loves Chloe. But a full-time job? Doing what? Briefly, a flashing thought of friends and Brian would know
she’s a lesbian. But she didn’t care. However, what would Brian think of her? She didn’t want to lose his friendship. But there was also college. “Chloe, I have to go to college.”
“You can’t go to a four-year college on a scholarship because your guidance counselor said your grades are too low.”
Sitting up, Kaylee’s hands flew into her hair and flung it behind her. “I have to go to Frederick Community College.” Shaking her head in frustration, she says, “I’m not a student. Mom’s hiring a tutor to help me graduate this year. If I don’t go to college, I have to sign up for the army reserves. I have no control over my life!”
“That’s insane, Kaylee!”
“Dad says they’ll train me for a career if I choose not to go to college.” She turned and stared at Chloe lying down. “So, I wouldn’t be able to work full-time anyway. But if I go to college part-time, and pass my courses, then I can live at home for free. I’ll still have to find a part-time job on the weekends, probably waitressing, to help pay my bills. But we will be seeing one another. Just not living together. That’s as much commitment as I can give right now. And you know how hyper and active I am. I’ll have to be playing soccer so I can be tired enough to sit down in class and then come home and focus on homework.” She stared earnestly into Chloe’s eyes looking helpless and a little desperate. “I love you so much, Chloe. But if I don’t pass the first semester, I’ll be in the army. After a long pause while staring at Kaylee, Chloe stroked Kaylee’s face tenderly and sat up embracing her while kissing her passionately. Then, lying down and gently letting her hand slide through Kaylee’s hair, tenderly onto her shoulder, and flowing slowly and sensually over her breast and down her abdomen and resting between her thighs, Chloe said thoughtfully, “You’re right. I – we should be thinking about the future. I’ll go to Frederick too and study nursing. We’ll be together. “We’ll take courses together!” she said excitedly. “We’ll study around your work schedule. I’ll come over your house and you can come over mine. Especially over the weekend!” burst a beaming smile.
“I love it!” said Kaylee. “You’ll make a wonderful and caring nurse, Chloe,” and she bent down to kiss her. “Come on. Let’s take a shower together. My little brother will be coming down to play with his games.” And they gathered up their clothes going into the bathroom.
***
After Walkersville lost their last game of the season to Liberty, they were eliminated from playing Urbana for the county championship. Injuries to a few key players along with some seniors’ lackadaisical commitment and earnestness during the last two games, in spite of Kaylee’s angry tirade while running toward them on the field to rally their school spirit, didn’t allow them to come from behind to win. Kaylee was so upset that she didn’t want to speak to anyone, even Chloe, on the bus ride back to Walkersville. She sat angry and alone in the rear of the bus on her phone texting friends why the team lost. She worked so hard not to graduate without another state championship. Brian called her when he read on Instagram that the team lost, and he wanted to cheer her up by asking if she would like to go to a movie tomorrow night, Friday, then to Zacchis afterwards with some friends of his and their girlfriends. She thanked him and said she and a few close friends on her team were having a board game and Wii night with pizza and homemade brownies and chocolate chip cookies. He said that sounded like more fun than what they were going to do. He said he hoped they could see one another soon. She said they will and thought that was so sweet of him to call and want to cheer her up. She’s in love with Chloe, but she enjoys being with Brian. She wouldn’t sleep with him; he’s a good listener. He has a soothing presence. She admires his strict discipline and his untiring work ethic to be the best you can be. Chloe is like him, but it’s nice to be with a guy who is like her.
***
Kaylee spent Thanksgiving at home until around five o’clock, then went over Chloe’s to have dessert with her and her family and spent the night and Friday and Friday night. Saturday, she was helping her mother around the house, studied for her math and English tests next week, then went out to dinner and saw a movie with Brian. Sunday, Chloe came over to help Kaylee with her math homework and study for her tests. They ate dinner around six o’ clock, then watched a comedy on Netflix downstairs in the club room for privacy while holding each other. “Are you feeling o.k.?” asked Chloe.
“Fine. Why?”
“Because you always have this angst look that something is coming to make you miserable.”
“Babe, school is so on my mind now.” Brian was also. His positive attitude, calm temperament, and making good decisions. With a good career ahead of him they could have a comfortable future together. No! That won’t happen. She kicked that out of her mind.
“But that’s not an excuse to stop running or working out. That isn’t like you. Now, I’m not being judgmental, but you’re eating more junk food than ever before.”
“Chloe, I’m failing math and English!” she burst out angrily. “Mom’s ready to ground me and
suffocate me with a tutor if my grades don’t go up by the end of the quarter! Soccer’s over and all I’m doing is busting my ass studying and doing homework. I’ve never been a student!
Studying is so difficult for me.”
“But you’ve been working very hard today. And I am so proud of you, Kaylee. You made some great progress.”
“Because of you.” She held her putting her head on her shoulder. “You’re very patient and good for me, Chloe.”
“Because I love you, babe. And I want to help you.” She starts chuckling. “Turns out breaking my ankle was a blessing so I could focus on getting my grades up as well.”
As the Christmas holidays were approaching, the weekends were all about partying. Kaylee went to one party with Chloe one night and with Brian the next. During the day Saturday and Sunday, she studied. However, before Christmas break, Kaylee’s mom visited her teachers. Thanks to the work she did over the Thanksgiving break, Kaylee was just borderline passing now. So, mom got what other work Kaylee could re-do from her teachers to complete over the Christmas break to guarantee her chances of passing all her subjects for the second quarter and the semester. She was grounded until all the work was completed. During that vacation week following Christmas, Chloe was more than willing to come over and help Kaylee complete her missing assignments. And fortunately for two nights Chloe could stay up late helping Kaylee and spend the night with her in the bedroom downstairs in the clubroom.
***
The threats of Kaylee’s mom grounding her and making her join the army, along with Chloe’s cajolery with gentle but demanding insistence over the weekends, albeit overwhelming and stifling at times, enabled Kaylee to pass the first semester. But Kaylee had a glimpse of what life might be like if she and Chloe chose to live together: a too motherly and organized Chloe who could be both demanding and loving yet holding her accountable. Her tough love. Kaylee thought it time for a Brian break. She hadn’t seen him for over a month. It was now February and seniors were counting down to graduation and thinking about college and jobs in life after high school. Brian was very busy taking AP courses and with wrestling practice. But maybe she could coax him into taking a Zacchi’s Pizza break after practice one day or going out over the weekend. She wanted space without Chloe for a while. She’ll tell her that she wants to see a few friends who aren’t in their circle of friends because they haven’t seen one another for almost two months. So, on Friday night after seeing the movie, The Goldfinch, Kaylee and Chloe went to Zacchi’s to share a medium pizza.
“I enjoy watching movies on love and relationships. They reinforce what you need to say to stay in a relationship; or give you the courage to say what’s necessary to get out of a relationship instead of just lying to one another and hurting each other in the long run.”
“Yeah, they pretty much mirror relationships today,” said Kaylee confidently and thinking she can tell Chloe now that she would like to be with friends that she hasn’t seen for over a month. “Chloe, you know I love you. I want you to know that so you don’t get upset when I ask you if we can take a break from seeing each other for a few weeks.”
“Why?!” blurted being caught off guard with confusion and shock seizing her.
“I need to catch-up being with friends I haven’t seen because of doing school work every
weekend. You and I will see each other in school, call, and text one another.”
Quietly absorbed in focusing on what might be another reason that Kaylee’s not telling her of why she wants a break from her, she shortly said, “You’re not having any second thoughts on being a couple, are you?”
“No, of course not!”
“You want to see Brian?”
“Yes.” She gave her an accusatory shock and ‘how could you’ look. “Stop it, Chloe. We’re just friends. I told you we’ve known each other since middle school.”
Not wanting Kaylee to think that she wants to control her life, Chloe says with a faint smile, “I understand Kaylee. We were pretty close and in each other’s face for a while.” She felt a pang of regret recalling being a little too hard on Kaylee and ignoring the vibrations of feelings that Kaylee was giving off in wanting to stop and finish studying or writing on a specific assignment and do it later. ‘But if we do it now you won’t have to do it later!’ Chloe insisted. And she did surprise her with treats as if she were a ten year old to goad her on to finishing some difficult assignments. But she remembered how hard her father was on her during her first two years of high school. No social life what so ever until grades went up. She loved Kaylee and if keeping her meant giving her a break from being together, then she would. She realized that there were a few girls she’d enjoy seeing as well. “You’re right, Kaylee. It’ll be good for us,” she said decidedly but not sincerely. Pulling into Kaylee’s driveway, Chloe turned the car off and stared into her eyes. “I love you Kaylee. Don’t forget your smile tapping me on the shoulder or squeezing my hand in the hallway. O.K.?”
“O.K.,” she said grinning. They hugged and kissed each other tenderly and passionately.
Breathing a little heavily, Kaylee chuckled and said, “Love you”.
“Love you more.” Chloe watched her enter the house then drove home praying that she’ll see her again.
***
Friday night Kaylee was invited over her close friend Autumn’s house for a spontaneous party
once she learned her parents were going away for the night. Autumn, a soccer teammate, invited several mutual friends who also invited a few friends. The older brother of one of them bought and dropped off a few six packs of beers for them. Kaylee was talking to friends in the kitchen having a beer, a slice of pizza and picking at some veggie snacks talking about soccer. Even though the season was over, some girls were still upset over not going to the state championship. Others were sharing their joy over scholarships to their favorite colleges and finding friends from other schools on Facebook and Instagram who won scholarships to rival colleges that they’d be playing against. Kaylee shared in their excitement but had to sadly admit that because of her grades she’ll have to attend Frederick Community College to play soccer instead of going to Penn State or West Virginia which offered her a scholarship. The girls sympathized with her and tried to console her saying that if she did well at Frederick she may be able to transfer to either one.
“Yeah, I could!” she said jump-starting her self-confidence and becoming enthusiastically more of a participant in everyone’s conversation instead of a gloomy listener. Leaving the kitchen, she saw Paige Richard and a friend circulating clandestinely through and among everyone’s conversations in the dining room. Paige was among Pam McBride’s sycophants whose false smiles devoured gossip and returned to regurgitate it into Pam who’d use it to nourish mistrust and hostility among friends and those in a relationship. Kaylee heard that she liked Brian and wanted to go to the Valentine Dance with him even though he dumped Pam. Entering a hallway that took her to the family room, Kaylee saw Autumn talking to Julia and Linda on the sofa. Kaylee knew them both and joined them. Autumn was giving Julia advice while Linda was listening. Shortly, Julia thanked Autumn and the two girls said hi to Kaylee and left to get a drink and some pizza.
“Ted Ryder problems,” said Autumn. “I told her just hang in there a few more months then you start fresh in college.”
“Hopefully, not to meet a liar there as well.”
“Right. How’s Chloe?” asked Autumn. “You two have been inseparable since whenever.”
“She’s great. Her ankle’s better. She’s been helping me big time with school work. Mom and dad threatened to put me in the army if I didn’t graduate. And Chloe made me bust my ass so I could pass the first semester,” said Kaylee. She’d come over my house or I’d go over hers.” Paige McBride and her friend appeared just behind the sofa. Coincidentally? Of course not.
“Hey Kaylee,” said Paige obnoxiously loud. Glad to hear you passed the first semester. You should’ve had Brian helping you. It wouldn’t have taken so long. But I’m sure you and Chloe were glad that it did.”
A sneer flashed upon Paige’s friend’s face while two girls standing several feet from them were whispering and staring at Kaylee with a smirk. “Not really,” said Kaylee matter-of-factly. We would’ve been glad to do something else.”
“And as pretty as you both are, I’m sure you two did spending the night together,” added Paige sarcastically cutesy while she and her friend were laughing walking away as were the two other girls beside them. Anger glared in Kaylee’s eyes as she shot up off of the sofa ready to bolt after her when Autumn’s outstretched hand stopped her.
“I’ll take care of her. Sit down.” She followed Paige into the hallway. “Paige! Get out of my house now! You don’t talk to my friend like that.”
“Somebody should. She’s not normal. It’s gross.” Autumn came back shortly as Kaylee was walking toward her.
“Thanks, Autumn,” and she hugged her. “I have to go. I can’t stay and feel I have to explain to my friends and others why another friend of mine and I are very close and enjoy each other’s company. If they’re my friends, they’ll understand. If not, then they’ll think whatever they want about us and screw them.
“I’m sorry to see you go. Call me so we can get together, ok? Love you,” she said as she hugged her.
“Love you. I’ll call you.” Once Kaylee got into the car, she started texting Chloe to warn her of verbal assaults that could be flung at her from the fallout of Paige Richard’s accusation of her and Kaylee being lesbians. Suddenly, she stopped. ‘No, it would be better to call Chloe and ask if I could come over now to talk,’ she thought. She did, but only got her voicemail: “Chloe, call me if I can come over sometime tomorrow to talk. Please. Love you. See you tomorrow.”
After helping her mom clean the downstairs club room, Kaylee arrived over Chloe’s around one o’clock. The weather wasn’t too cold and Chloe suggested they take a walk around her neighborhood. After Kaylee was done telling her what Paige said, Chloe was quiet for a while walking and staring thoughtfully into a forest of gray, dreary, skeletal trees behind houses.
“I guess it was necessary after all taking a break from each other now.” She wanted to say how convenient it was for Kaylee, but didn’t because Kaylee knew a lot of these girls from middle school. She only arrived this year and suddenly, the few friends she did make, have been avoiding her and not inviting her to join them when they go out together. “We can still text and call each other, right?”
“Of course, we will, Chloe.”
And while walking back to Chloe’s house her hand slowly reached over and put itself into Kaylee’s. “I love you.”
“I love you to.” They kissed and hugged each other.
*At school they acknowledged one another with a smile, or a surprise tap on the shoulder from behind while one passed the other in the hallway on their way to class. And, of course, a sneer or a smirk would fling toward either Chloe or Kaylee from Paige’s friends in the hallway, in the cafeteria, or from someone in their classroom. And no verbal or cyber bullying wanted to face suspension. They were quietly shunned. But Kaylee and Chloe had some strong friends who wouldn’t abandon their friendship with them over hearsay. And those strong friends had friends as well who if listening to such gossip would rather quietly tolerate Kaylee and Chloe than lose a friend they had for years. Brian surprised Kaylee by asking her to his wrestling match on Wednesday that was at Walkersville after school. She said yes. Obviously, Brian was immune to Paige’s poisonous tentacles of slanderous rumors. While watching Brian against his Urbana opponent, Kaylee noticed how muscular he looked in his chest, shoulders, and thighs. He had been working out and was hot looking. She hasn’t wanted to run or lift weights and the extra lbs. we’re making her clothes a little tighter. She assured herself that she’d get back to working out. ‘I need a brake now’, she’d tell herself while struggling with her love for Chloe and her psyche clashing with reason over her sexuality preference. Brian won his match and the team beat Urbana. He took her to Zacchi’s to celebrate and he ordered their favorite pizza covered in green and yellow peppers, chicken, cheese, and extra sauce. Once its smells and succulence appeared before them, Kaylee told herself that she’d start dieting this weekend.
“Your mom told my mom that you’ve been studying a lot this past month and haven’t been going out at all. Sounds like me this semester so far.”
“I was failing a few subjects last semester, but I passed them. Soccer and working out consumed me. But my mom, my friend Chloe, and I have come up with a schedule to help me focus more on schoolwork. I’m only going out once over the weekend until I graduate.”
“That sounds like you’re really disciplining yourself. Believe me, you’ll find out that’s
definitely what it takes to get what you want.”
“It got me scholarships to colleges that I can’t benefit from now. But if my grades are good at Frederick Community College, they’ll change their mind.”
“That’d be great, Kaylee. - Would you like to go to the Valentine Dance with me this Friday?”
Shock radiated from her face. Her sparkling hazel-blue eyes said, “Yes.” Eyes that always entranced him. With Brian’s hand in hers at the dance, the scene would squelch any doubts of her being a lesbian. And she’d enjoy herself at the dance with Brian and his friends. Around school in the hallways and cafeteria Kaylee resigned herself to be more casual with Chloe. She wanted both of them to avoid any cause for critical, sneering attention that would interfere with enjoying their senior year with friends. But Kaylee was thinking more of herself since she knew a lot of seniors from going to middle school with them, and Chloe only arrived at Walkersville this year. Chloe would have to understand that they could resume being a couple after graduation since they’ll be in college and can focus on their classes and goals.
***
Up until graduation there were parties aplenty every weekend. On a Friday or Saturday night Kaylee would attend some with soccer friends and some with Brian. Chloe, however, was never invited. In the hallways during school, Kaylee was always with a select group of friends,
while Chloe was usually alone walking slowly behind others indifferently introspective. Seeing Chloe, Kaylee would nod with a vivacious smile and then turn toward her friends while Chloe, if she noticed Kaylee, would smile half-heartedly and observe the weight Kaylee was gaining. They had promised to call each other or text one another, but it was Chloe doing the calling and texting. Kaylee would return her call or text whenever and sound glad to hear from her apologizing for the delay saying she had to stay in touch with friends because graduation was coming and she probably wouldn’t see many of them after they went away to college. She promised that after graduation they would spend time together and work on their relationship. But Saturday, Chole called Kaylee and asked if she could briefly stop by to say hi. “We’ll take a run around your property for exercise.” Kaylee knew she wanted to talk about their relationship. She really did miss being with her. But Chloe will just have to wait until her friends are gone away to college, and she’s ready for a serious commitment to being only with her. So, she told Chloe to come over. For an early afternoon in late April, there was a slightly frisky breeze cooling the warmth from the glaring sunlight. It was invigorating, wonderful weather for running. When Chloe arrived in the driveway, Kaylee sauntered out of the house smiling and they hugged one another. Brief questions and chitchat about school and grades followed until an awkward silence escorted them across Kaylee’s backyard.
“Want to try two laps?” interjected Chole’s smile nonchalantly.
“Sure. I can do that.” They started in an easy jog across Kaylee’s wide-open grassy meadow of a back yard. A burning spasm started shooting through Kaylee’s body in rebellion to such an unfamiliar activity. Nurturing herself among loyal friends since middle school who would be gone after graduation, she was on a steady diet of junk food and beer to enjoy their camaraderie while at the same time avoiding the ongoing battle with her psyche over her sexuality and love for Chloe. Heading toward a barbed wire fence separating her property from a recently plowed and seeded corn field, they were jogging lightly together heading up a slight hill toward a gleaming, budding wood on their left. They were following a gradual turn while on their right was a not too broad copse of scraggly, blooming, maple trees along with a few tall and thick Weeping Willows. Chloe abruptly stopped and suddenly blurted out, “We have to talk!” and she stopped while Kaylee did as well. Tears were welling up in Chloe’s eyes.
“I want to know how you truly feel about me! No more, ‘After graduation we’ll be together.’ You want to play it safe and not be rejected by your friends or Brian. I get it!” She was wiping her tears away with her hands and sniffling. “I know I’m new in this area. I’ve never had an iron bond to friends from childhood like you have. My father being in the military we never lived too long in one town. But you and I made a commitment to love one another. Regardless of what others said. So, either you love me or you don’t. You’re either proud of who you are and us being a couple or you’re not!” She turned away walking aimlessly in a circle. Then, the sparkling blue sky with huge, fluffy white clouds pulled her attention to an image of a flying monkey and a small dragon spreading its wings. Facing Kaylee, she screamed, “I am miserable! I don’t like myself loving you or being with you! I can’t wait to graduate, go to college somewhere, meet new friends, and be proud of who I am!” She turned away sobbing. Kaylee was crying as well while staring at the Weeping Willows. After a very long moment until their agitated and excited emotions became calm, Kaylee faced Chloe and said, “I’m sorry.
I can’t - be in a lesbian relationship now. I feel – I believe I am a lesbian. I do love you, Chloe.
Love being with you. But not now.” Nodding gently, a faint smile kissed her eyes.
“Thank you for freeing me. Good-by.” Drying her tears, Kaylee stared after her feeling something being pulled away. Walking around the perimeter of her expansive pasture of a back-yard, she was feeling detached from herself. Once in the house she wanted to clean her room and do her laundry. For dinner she wanted to bake brownies and take a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream out onto the back porch to watch the sunset. Her and Chloe use to do that. ‘Your porch has the best view I’ve ever seen of the sunset! You’re so lucky,’ Kaylee was hearing Chloe say while sitting out there. Then she felt Chloe take her hand and they’d quietly stare in peace at twilight’s soft ivory-pink glow in the horizon until slowly easing into night when Chloe said, “This is what I want to do with you forever. In our own place.”
“I can’t wait,” Kaylee said eagerly giving Chloe’s hand a tender squeeze. Abruptly, soccer barged into Kaylee’s memory saying that Frederick Community College’s team starts practice in a few weeks and she better start getting into shape. Then, she saw the faces of the girls on the team that she’s known since middle school who excited her anger by not giving a hundred per cent every moment while on the field. And she decided she wasn’t playing. Since she was a child soccer was her passion! It taught her discipline, dedication, persistence, loyalty to team, purpose, friends. And commitment! - Night was easing slowly into the fading twilight while warm tears slowly streaked down Kaylee’s cheeks realizing what it was being pulled away as Chloe left her.
The End
Bijit Sinha is currently working as an English Mentor at The Ardee School, Gurugram, He has previously worked as an Associate Desk Editor at Cambridge University Press India. He has also published his short stories in two motivational anthologies, Hope Reborn and The Other, and in online journals, such as Down in the Dirt and The Stray Branch. He is presently working on two manuscripts concerning with mythopoeic fiction. |
Bloodmoon
It is a stormy night indeed, as I gaze unto the heavy laden sky from the precipice of bronzed contraptions. What I have perceived of her is not as obvious as it may seem. After all, the moon dances through the heavens with a subtle stride.
With a steady direction, one gradually captures her in full glory until she eventually disappears from my view. Then there is the definitive illusion that the moon is going to descend from the heavens.
Even then, I lose sight of the movement of the clouds, and then direct it all to the transfixed one. I lose sight of what in fact had initially directed my gaze.
The moon stays unmoved.
It was never a given that she would notice me. Rather, I had felt her gaze creeping up on me as soon as my back was turned. For even as I profess my love on the easel, I doubt she would have ever walked the distance and reach out to me.
For she might still retain her brilliance as the moon, and yet never traipse upon the darkened array of clouds branching from me. I can certainly recount several times that we have passed each other, and with each passing encounter, I have been able to capture the minute details of her presence, be it the way she ties her hair in an upright bun or the stride that she maintains.
But never has been there any sort of utterance between us. Each movement of hers is captured well away from her physical presence, for it must not tend to the flattering perception I have made of her in her absence.
As I tread upon the unkempt path of the dark unknown into the heart of the Ridge, there is no retracing back.
This night could easily be my initiation, as I traverse over to the farther parts of the forest laid amidst the concrete skyline, and perceive her celestial movement in all its glory.
Within this uncharted expanse, one might have heard hoarse tales of the wandering spirits of a foregone and oft-forgotten rebellion roaming around in the vicinity. I would rather want to distance myself away from the airs of civility contained within the 1857 memorials of the unnamed rebels wasted in the pilfering dust.
The unnamed individuals listed upon the polished stone of marble, registered in the dusty archives of the glorious days gone by, are seemingly free of their antagonisms against the colonial institutions. Even still, they turn over in their inexistent graves, as they are celebrated within the red-bricked premises, for which they had shed their blood over.
They are wrongfully remembered in the marked gravestones of the monumental establishments, of which they were never a part of. It seems as though after they were freed from their mortal vessels by being dumped in the blood-soaked rivulet, they had ascribed themselves to the wrong sort of immortality.
That is something I would never desire for her in the first place.
It is a moonlit night indeed, as I secure my space upon the creaking bridge while hoping to capture a definite glimpse of her. The sensation of the swaying winds draw near me, as the unnatural chillness makes itself known to my presence.
Nevertheless, the canvas remains immovable from the stationary rotten planks of the yesteryears. And even though the clouds might still be ranked in the lines of the unfaithful, they are destined to be blown away by the turgid winds of yore.
But this time, I would make out my mortal calling against the billowing of the wind, as it envelops her again and again.
I make an incisive cut across my wrist and smudge it on the canvas, thus forming the bloodmoon.
But the resultant seems to be a far cry from what I had perceived. For the moon seems to be too afraid of the consequence.
It phases through the black masses over and over, as the slashes on my wrist occur repeatedly in my ardent need for more ink.
It does not help matters, as she takes a momentous lead while I keep smudging upon the darkened strokes of the coagulated mass.
After all, I would be the one who would drop to my knees first, wouldn't I?
With a steady direction, one gradually captures her in full glory until she eventually disappears from my view. Then there is the definitive illusion that the moon is going to descend from the heavens.
Even then, I lose sight of the movement of the clouds, and then direct it all to the transfixed one. I lose sight of what in fact had initially directed my gaze.
The moon stays unmoved.
It was never a given that she would notice me. Rather, I had felt her gaze creeping up on me as soon as my back was turned. For even as I profess my love on the easel, I doubt she would have ever walked the distance and reach out to me.
For she might still retain her brilliance as the moon, and yet never traipse upon the darkened array of clouds branching from me. I can certainly recount several times that we have passed each other, and with each passing encounter, I have been able to capture the minute details of her presence, be it the way she ties her hair in an upright bun or the stride that she maintains.
But never has been there any sort of utterance between us. Each movement of hers is captured well away from her physical presence, for it must not tend to the flattering perception I have made of her in her absence.
As I tread upon the unkempt path of the dark unknown into the heart of the Ridge, there is no retracing back.
This night could easily be my initiation, as I traverse over to the farther parts of the forest laid amidst the concrete skyline, and perceive her celestial movement in all its glory.
Within this uncharted expanse, one might have heard hoarse tales of the wandering spirits of a foregone and oft-forgotten rebellion roaming around in the vicinity. I would rather want to distance myself away from the airs of civility contained within the 1857 memorials of the unnamed rebels wasted in the pilfering dust.
The unnamed individuals listed upon the polished stone of marble, registered in the dusty archives of the glorious days gone by, are seemingly free of their antagonisms against the colonial institutions. Even still, they turn over in their inexistent graves, as they are celebrated within the red-bricked premises, for which they had shed their blood over.
They are wrongfully remembered in the marked gravestones of the monumental establishments, of which they were never a part of. It seems as though after they were freed from their mortal vessels by being dumped in the blood-soaked rivulet, they had ascribed themselves to the wrong sort of immortality.
That is something I would never desire for her in the first place.
It is a moonlit night indeed, as I secure my space upon the creaking bridge while hoping to capture a definite glimpse of her. The sensation of the swaying winds draw near me, as the unnatural chillness makes itself known to my presence.
Nevertheless, the canvas remains immovable from the stationary rotten planks of the yesteryears. And even though the clouds might still be ranked in the lines of the unfaithful, they are destined to be blown away by the turgid winds of yore.
But this time, I would make out my mortal calling against the billowing of the wind, as it envelops her again and again.
I make an incisive cut across my wrist and smudge it on the canvas, thus forming the bloodmoon.
But the resultant seems to be a far cry from what I had perceived. For the moon seems to be too afraid of the consequence.
It phases through the black masses over and over, as the slashes on my wrist occur repeatedly in my ardent need for more ink.
It does not help matters, as she takes a momentous lead while I keep smudging upon the darkened strokes of the coagulated mass.
After all, I would be the one who would drop to my knees first, wouldn't I?
Born and raised in Sioux Lookout, Ontario, John Tavares is the son of Portuguese immigrants from Sao Miguel, Azores. Having graduated from arts and science at Humber College and journalism at Centennial College, he more recently earned a Specialized Honors BA in English Literature from York University. His short fiction has been featured in community newspapers and radio and published in a variety of print and online journals and magazines, in the US, Canada, and internationally. Following a longtime fascination with economics, he obtained certification in the Canadian Securities Course. His many passions include journalism, literature, photography, writing, and coffee, and he enjoys hiking and cycling. |
DAY-TRIPPERS
Corie snatched her father’s Toronto Blue Jays baseball cap from his head, of thick dark hair, and tossed his hat onto the pedestrian crosswalk. Javier chuckled as he picked up his hat, dusted the visor, and returned it to his head. He pushed Corie’s stroller along the busy sidewalks of Bloor Street West. They strolled near the neo-Victorian house, which Olivia’s salary and fees as an international trade lawyer allowed them to buy. Olivia made precisely that argument to her husband, when she shouted at Javier in the morning before she sped off in her hybrid electric car to work. That morning, during the huge row, which was rather one-sided since Javier maintained his silence as Olivia shouted, she threw her personal smartphone over his head and struck the wide screen television, broadcasting business news. Then she hurtled her work smartphone at him, hitting the enlarged snapshot of the happy couple posing in front of the mist and tumbling waterway and waterfalls at Niagara Falls, knocking the framed picture to the floor, where the glass cover broke and shattered to hundreds of pieces, causing Corie to squeal with laughter.
Needing to return to her regular routine and career, Olivia decided she could no longer work from home during the pandemic. Olivia shouted at Javier she needed to return to work at her law firm in the office tower downtown in the financial district, or else she was afraid she would suffer a nervous breakdown. She needed to return to her corner office, her law colleagues and trade practice, her firm in the financial district, her regular hours, and her well-heeled clients, multinational corporations scattered across industrialized and emerging market nations, with most of her clients and their companies having head offices in the United Kingdom. If she did not have her career, she did not have her identity, and then she felt worthless and depressed. As she tried to explain this, she became overwhelmed with emotion and started to argue and fight with Javier, who became a stay at home father during the coronavirus pandemic. Javier did not understand her aggressive attitude and tried to reassure her he understood entirely. He was surprised she had not decided to return to her law office and big tall tower in the financial district earlier. During the pandemic, Javier felt relieved to stay at home and care for Corie, since he still managed to earn a healthy income advising loyal clients, managing their investments and portfolios, from his home office, work that seemed ingrained, part of his DNA, even though he never talked shop and disliked the pretensions of corporate finance and the head office.
As Javier pushed her in the stroller along the sidewalk, Corie sang, shrieked, and laughed with energetic, boisterous hilarity. “Oh, Daddy, the cars are moving like freight trains. You’re pushing the stroller fast, but I like it. And you said you were afraid Mommy would get into an accident when she drove to work.”
“Absolutely not,” Javier said, “No accident is going to happen with my daughter. I’d never compromise her safety.”
This first day of summer, Javier promised Corie he would take her on a grand tour of the city, focussed on what he considered its best summer attractions and fun venues. He loaded Corie into the stroller and took her, his precious passenger and cargo, through the Bloor Street intersection. He pushed her quickly past the shoe museum at the edge of the University of Toronto campus as the green light turned red through the busy traffic intersection with Saint George Street. He opened the gates, for the stroller, and passed through the adjacent turnstiles, paying his fare. He returned to push Corie and the stroller into the subway station, down the mechanically droning escalator, and along the train platform and onto the subway train, whose roar and speed Corie, squealing in delight at the noise and bustle, loved.
“So which sight shall we visit first, my dear?” Javier asked.
In her British English accent, a speech pattern she acquired from her mother, Javier concluded, Corie said she would like to first tour the CN Tower, thank you very much. So, they rode the long train southbound from St. George station to Union Station downtown. Several subway train passengers and commuters considered Corie rather large and developed for the stroller; as a vigorous, energetic, bubbly child, they figured, she seemed perfectly capable of walking herself. Javier did not like the bustling pedestrian traffic on city sidewalks, though, and worried Corie or the stroller might get bumped or struck. Olivia loved her curls so much, she figured the less they trounced the less her hair became tussled and the more photogenic she looked for that modelling and acting scout she hoped might discover her daughter.
Olivia did possess hopes and aspirations for her daughter as a child actor. She eagerly awaited the day a model and acting scout recognized Corie’s innate talent, prodigious ability, and irresistible personality. Every night Olivia painstakingly set Corie’s abundant hair with bobby pins for exactly sixty-four curls.
Javier pushed Corie in the stroller along the promenade and the boulevard towards the CN Tower.
“Mommy found a different man, Daddy-O,” Corie said mischievously and gregariously, as Javier pushed her stroller closer to the massive concrete needle of a tower looming in the distance.
“A different man?” Javier asked chirpily. “But she works with plenty of different men in the office.”
“Whatever.” Delighted, Corie playfully twirled her shiny, gleaming tresses, kicking her roundish legs in the stroller. As they rode the empty high-speed glass panelled elevators to the main observation deck, Corie hummed and sang. After they toured the observation deck, Corie protested, her insistence growing to screeches: she wanted to ride the elevators to the highest floor, closer to the pinnacle of the CN Tower. They rode the elevator to the skypod where they stood before the windows and portholes. Corie pressed herself against the glass and gazed in utter fascination, while Javier, cringing at the height of the tower, looming above the clouds, stood back from the window. As they toured the highest sections of the tower, Corie continued to gaze awestruck at the panoramic view of Toronto from different perspectives on the observation deck, but Javier felt preoccupied coping with his fear of heights, vertigo, and nausea. Suddenly, Corie decided she was tired and bored with this venue and insisted on sightseeing elsewhere. They needed to visit a different place, Corie said cheerily, from the highest point in Toronto, with her usual boisterous bluster, a different venue, in the city where she was born. She did constantly feel the need to remind her Daddy she was born in big beautiful Toronto, while her Daddy as born and raised in a dingy, remote town in Northern Ontario.
“Well, Daddy is glad that you remember where he was born.”
“Of course, I remember where Daddy-O was born. And Mommy was born in London, and her new friend was born in Kuala Lumpur.”
“Wow.”
“Does Daddy know where Kuala Lumpur is?”
“Yes, I do, honeybunch. I have a rough idea where Kuala Lumpur is located. Your mother has clients in Kuala Lumpur and I even have a client from Kuala Lumpur.”
“Kuala Lumpur is such an exotic and faraway place, Daddy, a land of fairy tales. But Mommy says Amir—that’s her friend—offers the opportunity to visit exotic and faraway Kuala Lumpur.”
“As in a tour guide?”
“Yes, Daddy, precisely, exactly.”
Her word usage, clear enunciation, and diction in a child at such a young age reminded him Olivia’s psychologist found her to possess an exceptionally high intelligence. Earlier, Olivia, disturbed with the tone and voice Corie used around her father, insisted they visit her psychologist. Olivia believed Corie was bossing her father around, controlling and dominating the father-daughter relationship. She confided these observations when she privately met with her psychologist in her office afterwards.
“I would love to visit the zoo, thank you very much, Daddy-O.”
“A visit to the zoo means a long bus trip. If we want a fun time, it means a walk around the zoo, since the monorail is still closed.”
“Yes, that was horrific, Daddy-O. I saw the accident on TV.”
“Mommy let you watch the monorail accident on television news?”
“She sure did. Her friend was stroking her hair, and she was resting with her head in his lap, not paying attention.”
Javier thought Olivia agreed they would try to keep their daughter from exposure to gratuitous violence on television, not permitting Corie to watch the broadcast or cable news until she reached adolescence at least, even though they believed she was intelligent enough to comprehend the nuances of media and reality. Olivia insisted.
In any event, with Corie an aficionado of journeys on the subway, streetcars, and buses, they rode the commuter train to the easternmost edge of the main line at Kennedy Station. Then they took the epic bus ride through Scarborough to the Toronto Zoo, Corie still riding as a passenger in her stroller, which Javier laboriously lifted, step-by-step onto the bus. With the bus virtually empty of passengers, Corie tried to warn Daddy-O and whispered, sotto voce, “Daddy, I think Mommy is ready for a new man.”
“She is, is she?”
“She says so—a man with a different way of thinking, a man who speaks like a song, a man with darker skin.”
“Well, your mother always believed in diversity,” Javier said. Absent, lost in thought, and even mourning, Javier noticed Corie’s English accent, which varied between Cockney and Estuary, seemed even more pronounced.
“Yes, Daddy, whatever you say.”
Father and daughter took a long hike around the zoo, touring the exhibits and pavilions, Javier pushing Corie in the stroller past the various animal exhibits, cages, pens, enclosures, and hutches. With the digital single lens reflex camera Olivia bought her husband to take pictures of Corie and document her growth and development, Javier took pictures of their daughter posing beside the zebras, elephants, giraffes, polar bears, and gorillas.
“Please, Daddy,” Corie said, “let’s take a picture of us together near the panda bears.”
“Come now, darling, you know Daddy doesn’t do selfies.”
“Oh, Daddy,” Corie said, “I’m so disappointed.”
After he bought Corie postcards, knickknacks, and souvenirs at the gift shop and a soft ice cream cone at the snack bar in the rest area of the zoo, Javier, indulging her taste for adventure, said, “Okay, the zoo is fine, but the day is yet young. Where to next?”
“Oh, yes, I love Daddy-O, and the day is yet young. Let’s visit the islands with the swans, the amusement park, the ferries, the water taxis, and the boardwalk. You know I love Toronto Islands. I love to ride the quadricycle, and walk along the boardwalk, and munch on the BeaverTails, and see the lighthouse.”
So Javier hoisted Corie back in the stroller. Lean, muscular, not a large man, Javier preferred to dress in athleisure, as opposed to the formal business outfits, suits, ties, and vests of his colleagues in the back offices of banks and brokerage firms. They boarded the city transit bus for a ride downtown, to the subway station still in the suburbs and the ferry terminal downtown, another exciting adventure for Corie, with plenty of sightseeing through the bus windows. They made the long, winding ride on the bus through the eastern suburbs of Scarborough. While Corie hummed and sang, they rode the subway back across the city of Toronto and south downtown to Union Station. After Corie attempted to direct traffic in the station, ordering the men to wait until the elders and then the women and children boarded, they rode the streetcar to the Harbourfront and the ferry terminals.
As father and daughter waited to board the ferry terminal, they comfortably reclined in the Muskoka chairs. When Corie suggested a cool drink, or even a snack to eat, Javier bought her a bottled ice tea. The ferry was delayed due to mechanical difficulties, but Corie squealed in delight as he swung her around like a merry-go-round. She said she was still hungry, since she had only a light lunch, he bought her a second snack, an ice cream sandwich, if she promised not to tell her mother. When Corie became bored waiting for the ferry, she started poking and giggling at a security guard, inquired of a young woman about her faded, tattered denim shorts and crop top, and then slapped repeatedly a young woman’s floating helium birthday balloons.
As Corie demanded her father pay close attention, Javier seemed lost in an absent state of mind. Corie mentioned her mother had been constantly reminding her of the age difference between them; Daddy was a significantly older man, with grey hair, wrinkles, and weathered skin, which tanned darkly in the summer, causing people to believe he was indigenous, Hispanic, Middle Eastern, or South Asian.
“Daddy, Mommy tells her new friend that you try too hard.” Javier laughed nervously and absently. With her brow furrowed intently, Corie asked, “What is that supposed to mean?”
“That I try too hard to please her?” Javier asked. “She also says I push you around in the stroller too much, that you’re old enough to walk. But, today, for instance, we covered an awfully long distance on foot for a youngster like you to walk.”
“But, Daddy, you’re my chauffeur,” Corie said, as she reached up to embrace her father. She hugged him tightly, and kissed him on his coarse silver and black stubble. Javier needed a shave, Olivia complained, adding he always needed a shave as his stubble and beard grew furiously. Javier simply did not like taking razors to his face and claimed shaving was a barbaric practice. Olivia tried to give him tips to avoid razor burn, cuts, and nicks, but he said he only shaved because he liked her kisses and caresses more than he disliked shaving. In the waiting area of the ferry terminal, he hugged their precious, pudgy daughter, lifted her from the stroller, and held her high as she laughed exuberantly.
“Oh dear,” Javier mused, “I stained my shirt with ice cream.”
Corie tilted her head and held her chin thoughtfully. “Funny you mention it. Mommy says something’s wrong when you get more upset at a missing button on your shirt, than when she screams and yells at you for an hour.” Corie gripped Javier’s shirt and tugged downwards, tearing a button from its dangling threads to his annoyance, but he forced a nervous laugh. Amidst the crowds of day trippers and tourists, screaming and crying children, in baseball caps, short-sleeved shirts, short shorts, and sandals, as well as wagons, strollers, bicycles, they boarded the ferry. They rode the ferry, older than its passengers, across the inner harbour channel to Wards Island, before Javier started to push the stroller along the roadway that encircled the island. They toured the beaches, strolling the boardwalk, the trails, and roadway, past the pier, beaches, shorelines, and the lighthouse.
When they passed the eatery at the Centre Island beach, Corie became frantic and restless in her stroller. She asked for the local treats, sugar pastries, but Javier did not want to buy her the doughy BeaverTails; he did not want to take a chance on Olivia discovering that their daughter had snacked and eaten sweets. Corie threw a temper tantrum, finally managing to persuade Javier to buy her a tasty sugary BeaverTail pastry before the takeout restaurant closed for the evening. Further along the roadway and down a trail, they watched the sunset at Hanlan’s Point Beach, the shoreline and stretch of sand virtually empty of sunbathers and swimmers, even though it was the first day of summer, the solstice, the longest day of the year. A few homeless men sat around a campfire along with a nudist and hipster couple. A cool chill in the air did not bother Corie in the least; her tummy was full, and she was hot with excitement. She would not even allow Daddy to make her wear her sweater over her frilly light skirt.
“Daddy, mommy says, she’s ready to float the idea of separation as a trial balloon,” Corie said, matter-of-factly. “Those are her exact words.”
Even as Corie said this Javier, impressed with her precise English enunciation and unmistakable British accent, mused at speech patterns he never expected in a Canadian born and raised child, particularly his own. She tugged at the long thick tangled strings of his hoodie and he caressed her blonde curls absently.
“Daddy, should we be concerned?”
“It’s another day in paradise,” Javier murmured.
“My thinking exactly,” Corie murmured.
They watched the orange glowing ball of the sun set across the lake and harbour channel behind the towering windmill and geodesic dome of Ontario Place, as sailboats, yachts, motorboats, and personal watercraft plied the waters around the island airport. They strolled along the asphalt and cement pathway, a cross between a road and sidewalk, to the ferry dock at Hanlan’s Point. They rode the ferry across the harbour, the natural light dimming, as the city grew alight from the illumination of office high-rises and condominium towers, urban developments stretched and growing from the shores of an inland sea.
“This is so romantic—that’s what Mommy tells her new friend. Isn’t this so romantic?” Corie asked.
Lost in sombre thought, Javier pushed the stroller from the ferry to the terminal. Forgetting the traffic light at the pedestrian crosswalk flashed red, he barely missed getting broadsided by a city transit bus, which only left Corie with a case of hilarity and giggles when the bus driver called him a disparaging name and cursed him through his open window, as he loudly honked his alarming horn for a prolonged period, startling motorists and pedestrians alike. When Javier saw the streetcar station near the ferry terminal remained closed due to street construction, infrastructure upgrades, and building renovation, he softly muttered, to Corie’s amusement. He decided the pair would walk from the foot of Bay Street beneath the expressways and through the bleak tunnel and the traffic filled thoroughfares and concrete intersections to the subway station. When they reached the intersection beneath the expressway, still south of Union Station, the lanes buzzing and humming with fast and heavy motor vehicles on the underpass below the speedy laneways.
“Daddy-O, I think you know exactly what you need to do.”
Javier gazed deeply into her green eyes, as she firmly pressed her lips together. A double chin formed as she lowered her head in a mock stern expression. She solemnly nodded her head, as Javier distractedly and gently patted her curly blonde locks, before he kissed her on the forehead. Javier tossed his baseball cap into the boulevard, where it hit the asphalt and rolled and blew slightly with the light wind. He left Corie in her stroller on the pedestrian traffic island at the intersection of the street with the fast-paced traffic, speeding louder on the wide boulevard, beneath the narrow elevated expressway with its racing cars and trucks. Without looking in either direction, he stepped into the busy lanes, crossing to the far lane to retrieve it. The last thing he thought before he hurtled through the air and tumbled like a thrown dressmaker’s dummy and was smacked and knocked down and crushed by a heavy freight transport truck was that his daughter, as Olivia feared, possessed some strange mental and psychic powers. Then Corie screamed, in anticipation of a spectacle of carnage, the collision and crash of metal, the skidding and burning of rubber, the crushing of flesh and bone, on pavement and cement, alongside his baseball cap, crowning the whole messy affair.
Needing to return to her regular routine and career, Olivia decided she could no longer work from home during the pandemic. Olivia shouted at Javier she needed to return to work at her law firm in the office tower downtown in the financial district, or else she was afraid she would suffer a nervous breakdown. She needed to return to her corner office, her law colleagues and trade practice, her firm in the financial district, her regular hours, and her well-heeled clients, multinational corporations scattered across industrialized and emerging market nations, with most of her clients and their companies having head offices in the United Kingdom. If she did not have her career, she did not have her identity, and then she felt worthless and depressed. As she tried to explain this, she became overwhelmed with emotion and started to argue and fight with Javier, who became a stay at home father during the coronavirus pandemic. Javier did not understand her aggressive attitude and tried to reassure her he understood entirely. He was surprised she had not decided to return to her law office and big tall tower in the financial district earlier. During the pandemic, Javier felt relieved to stay at home and care for Corie, since he still managed to earn a healthy income advising loyal clients, managing their investments and portfolios, from his home office, work that seemed ingrained, part of his DNA, even though he never talked shop and disliked the pretensions of corporate finance and the head office.
As Javier pushed her in the stroller along the sidewalk, Corie sang, shrieked, and laughed with energetic, boisterous hilarity. “Oh, Daddy, the cars are moving like freight trains. You’re pushing the stroller fast, but I like it. And you said you were afraid Mommy would get into an accident when she drove to work.”
“Absolutely not,” Javier said, “No accident is going to happen with my daughter. I’d never compromise her safety.”
This first day of summer, Javier promised Corie he would take her on a grand tour of the city, focussed on what he considered its best summer attractions and fun venues. He loaded Corie into the stroller and took her, his precious passenger and cargo, through the Bloor Street intersection. He pushed her quickly past the shoe museum at the edge of the University of Toronto campus as the green light turned red through the busy traffic intersection with Saint George Street. He opened the gates, for the stroller, and passed through the adjacent turnstiles, paying his fare. He returned to push Corie and the stroller into the subway station, down the mechanically droning escalator, and along the train platform and onto the subway train, whose roar and speed Corie, squealing in delight at the noise and bustle, loved.
“So which sight shall we visit first, my dear?” Javier asked.
In her British English accent, a speech pattern she acquired from her mother, Javier concluded, Corie said she would like to first tour the CN Tower, thank you very much. So, they rode the long train southbound from St. George station to Union Station downtown. Several subway train passengers and commuters considered Corie rather large and developed for the stroller; as a vigorous, energetic, bubbly child, they figured, she seemed perfectly capable of walking herself. Javier did not like the bustling pedestrian traffic on city sidewalks, though, and worried Corie or the stroller might get bumped or struck. Olivia loved her curls so much, she figured the less they trounced the less her hair became tussled and the more photogenic she looked for that modelling and acting scout she hoped might discover her daughter.
Olivia did possess hopes and aspirations for her daughter as a child actor. She eagerly awaited the day a model and acting scout recognized Corie’s innate talent, prodigious ability, and irresistible personality. Every night Olivia painstakingly set Corie’s abundant hair with bobby pins for exactly sixty-four curls.
Javier pushed Corie in the stroller along the promenade and the boulevard towards the CN Tower.
“Mommy found a different man, Daddy-O,” Corie said mischievously and gregariously, as Javier pushed her stroller closer to the massive concrete needle of a tower looming in the distance.
“A different man?” Javier asked chirpily. “But she works with plenty of different men in the office.”
“Whatever.” Delighted, Corie playfully twirled her shiny, gleaming tresses, kicking her roundish legs in the stroller. As they rode the empty high-speed glass panelled elevators to the main observation deck, Corie hummed and sang. After they toured the observation deck, Corie protested, her insistence growing to screeches: she wanted to ride the elevators to the highest floor, closer to the pinnacle of the CN Tower. They rode the elevator to the skypod where they stood before the windows and portholes. Corie pressed herself against the glass and gazed in utter fascination, while Javier, cringing at the height of the tower, looming above the clouds, stood back from the window. As they toured the highest sections of the tower, Corie continued to gaze awestruck at the panoramic view of Toronto from different perspectives on the observation deck, but Javier felt preoccupied coping with his fear of heights, vertigo, and nausea. Suddenly, Corie decided she was tired and bored with this venue and insisted on sightseeing elsewhere. They needed to visit a different place, Corie said cheerily, from the highest point in Toronto, with her usual boisterous bluster, a different venue, in the city where she was born. She did constantly feel the need to remind her Daddy she was born in big beautiful Toronto, while her Daddy as born and raised in a dingy, remote town in Northern Ontario.
“Well, Daddy is glad that you remember where he was born.”
“Of course, I remember where Daddy-O was born. And Mommy was born in London, and her new friend was born in Kuala Lumpur.”
“Wow.”
“Does Daddy know where Kuala Lumpur is?”
“Yes, I do, honeybunch. I have a rough idea where Kuala Lumpur is located. Your mother has clients in Kuala Lumpur and I even have a client from Kuala Lumpur.”
“Kuala Lumpur is such an exotic and faraway place, Daddy, a land of fairy tales. But Mommy says Amir—that’s her friend—offers the opportunity to visit exotic and faraway Kuala Lumpur.”
“As in a tour guide?”
“Yes, Daddy, precisely, exactly.”
Her word usage, clear enunciation, and diction in a child at such a young age reminded him Olivia’s psychologist found her to possess an exceptionally high intelligence. Earlier, Olivia, disturbed with the tone and voice Corie used around her father, insisted they visit her psychologist. Olivia believed Corie was bossing her father around, controlling and dominating the father-daughter relationship. She confided these observations when she privately met with her psychologist in her office afterwards.
“I would love to visit the zoo, thank you very much, Daddy-O.”
“A visit to the zoo means a long bus trip. If we want a fun time, it means a walk around the zoo, since the monorail is still closed.”
“Yes, that was horrific, Daddy-O. I saw the accident on TV.”
“Mommy let you watch the monorail accident on television news?”
“She sure did. Her friend was stroking her hair, and she was resting with her head in his lap, not paying attention.”
Javier thought Olivia agreed they would try to keep their daughter from exposure to gratuitous violence on television, not permitting Corie to watch the broadcast or cable news until she reached adolescence at least, even though they believed she was intelligent enough to comprehend the nuances of media and reality. Olivia insisted.
In any event, with Corie an aficionado of journeys on the subway, streetcars, and buses, they rode the commuter train to the easternmost edge of the main line at Kennedy Station. Then they took the epic bus ride through Scarborough to the Toronto Zoo, Corie still riding as a passenger in her stroller, which Javier laboriously lifted, step-by-step onto the bus. With the bus virtually empty of passengers, Corie tried to warn Daddy-O and whispered, sotto voce, “Daddy, I think Mommy is ready for a new man.”
“She is, is she?”
“She says so—a man with a different way of thinking, a man who speaks like a song, a man with darker skin.”
“Well, your mother always believed in diversity,” Javier said. Absent, lost in thought, and even mourning, Javier noticed Corie’s English accent, which varied between Cockney and Estuary, seemed even more pronounced.
“Yes, Daddy, whatever you say.”
Father and daughter took a long hike around the zoo, touring the exhibits and pavilions, Javier pushing Corie in the stroller past the various animal exhibits, cages, pens, enclosures, and hutches. With the digital single lens reflex camera Olivia bought her husband to take pictures of Corie and document her growth and development, Javier took pictures of their daughter posing beside the zebras, elephants, giraffes, polar bears, and gorillas.
“Please, Daddy,” Corie said, “let’s take a picture of us together near the panda bears.”
“Come now, darling, you know Daddy doesn’t do selfies.”
“Oh, Daddy,” Corie said, “I’m so disappointed.”
After he bought Corie postcards, knickknacks, and souvenirs at the gift shop and a soft ice cream cone at the snack bar in the rest area of the zoo, Javier, indulging her taste for adventure, said, “Okay, the zoo is fine, but the day is yet young. Where to next?”
“Oh, yes, I love Daddy-O, and the day is yet young. Let’s visit the islands with the swans, the amusement park, the ferries, the water taxis, and the boardwalk. You know I love Toronto Islands. I love to ride the quadricycle, and walk along the boardwalk, and munch on the BeaverTails, and see the lighthouse.”
So Javier hoisted Corie back in the stroller. Lean, muscular, not a large man, Javier preferred to dress in athleisure, as opposed to the formal business outfits, suits, ties, and vests of his colleagues in the back offices of banks and brokerage firms. They boarded the city transit bus for a ride downtown, to the subway station still in the suburbs and the ferry terminal downtown, another exciting adventure for Corie, with plenty of sightseeing through the bus windows. They made the long, winding ride on the bus through the eastern suburbs of Scarborough. While Corie hummed and sang, they rode the subway back across the city of Toronto and south downtown to Union Station. After Corie attempted to direct traffic in the station, ordering the men to wait until the elders and then the women and children boarded, they rode the streetcar to the Harbourfront and the ferry terminals.
As father and daughter waited to board the ferry terminal, they comfortably reclined in the Muskoka chairs. When Corie suggested a cool drink, or even a snack to eat, Javier bought her a bottled ice tea. The ferry was delayed due to mechanical difficulties, but Corie squealed in delight as he swung her around like a merry-go-round. She said she was still hungry, since she had only a light lunch, he bought her a second snack, an ice cream sandwich, if she promised not to tell her mother. When Corie became bored waiting for the ferry, she started poking and giggling at a security guard, inquired of a young woman about her faded, tattered denim shorts and crop top, and then slapped repeatedly a young woman’s floating helium birthday balloons.
As Corie demanded her father pay close attention, Javier seemed lost in an absent state of mind. Corie mentioned her mother had been constantly reminding her of the age difference between them; Daddy was a significantly older man, with grey hair, wrinkles, and weathered skin, which tanned darkly in the summer, causing people to believe he was indigenous, Hispanic, Middle Eastern, or South Asian.
“Daddy, Mommy tells her new friend that you try too hard.” Javier laughed nervously and absently. With her brow furrowed intently, Corie asked, “What is that supposed to mean?”
“That I try too hard to please her?” Javier asked. “She also says I push you around in the stroller too much, that you’re old enough to walk. But, today, for instance, we covered an awfully long distance on foot for a youngster like you to walk.”
“But, Daddy, you’re my chauffeur,” Corie said, as she reached up to embrace her father. She hugged him tightly, and kissed him on his coarse silver and black stubble. Javier needed a shave, Olivia complained, adding he always needed a shave as his stubble and beard grew furiously. Javier simply did not like taking razors to his face and claimed shaving was a barbaric practice. Olivia tried to give him tips to avoid razor burn, cuts, and nicks, but he said he only shaved because he liked her kisses and caresses more than he disliked shaving. In the waiting area of the ferry terminal, he hugged their precious, pudgy daughter, lifted her from the stroller, and held her high as she laughed exuberantly.
“Oh dear,” Javier mused, “I stained my shirt with ice cream.”
Corie tilted her head and held her chin thoughtfully. “Funny you mention it. Mommy says something’s wrong when you get more upset at a missing button on your shirt, than when she screams and yells at you for an hour.” Corie gripped Javier’s shirt and tugged downwards, tearing a button from its dangling threads to his annoyance, but he forced a nervous laugh. Amidst the crowds of day trippers and tourists, screaming and crying children, in baseball caps, short-sleeved shirts, short shorts, and sandals, as well as wagons, strollers, bicycles, they boarded the ferry. They rode the ferry, older than its passengers, across the inner harbour channel to Wards Island, before Javier started to push the stroller along the roadway that encircled the island. They toured the beaches, strolling the boardwalk, the trails, and roadway, past the pier, beaches, shorelines, and the lighthouse.
When they passed the eatery at the Centre Island beach, Corie became frantic and restless in her stroller. She asked for the local treats, sugar pastries, but Javier did not want to buy her the doughy BeaverTails; he did not want to take a chance on Olivia discovering that their daughter had snacked and eaten sweets. Corie threw a temper tantrum, finally managing to persuade Javier to buy her a tasty sugary BeaverTail pastry before the takeout restaurant closed for the evening. Further along the roadway and down a trail, they watched the sunset at Hanlan’s Point Beach, the shoreline and stretch of sand virtually empty of sunbathers and swimmers, even though it was the first day of summer, the solstice, the longest day of the year. A few homeless men sat around a campfire along with a nudist and hipster couple. A cool chill in the air did not bother Corie in the least; her tummy was full, and she was hot with excitement. She would not even allow Daddy to make her wear her sweater over her frilly light skirt.
“Daddy, mommy says, she’s ready to float the idea of separation as a trial balloon,” Corie said, matter-of-factly. “Those are her exact words.”
Even as Corie said this Javier, impressed with her precise English enunciation and unmistakable British accent, mused at speech patterns he never expected in a Canadian born and raised child, particularly his own. She tugged at the long thick tangled strings of his hoodie and he caressed her blonde curls absently.
“Daddy, should we be concerned?”
“It’s another day in paradise,” Javier murmured.
“My thinking exactly,” Corie murmured.
They watched the orange glowing ball of the sun set across the lake and harbour channel behind the towering windmill and geodesic dome of Ontario Place, as sailboats, yachts, motorboats, and personal watercraft plied the waters around the island airport. They strolled along the asphalt and cement pathway, a cross between a road and sidewalk, to the ferry dock at Hanlan’s Point. They rode the ferry across the harbour, the natural light dimming, as the city grew alight from the illumination of office high-rises and condominium towers, urban developments stretched and growing from the shores of an inland sea.
“This is so romantic—that’s what Mommy tells her new friend. Isn’t this so romantic?” Corie asked.
Lost in sombre thought, Javier pushed the stroller from the ferry to the terminal. Forgetting the traffic light at the pedestrian crosswalk flashed red, he barely missed getting broadsided by a city transit bus, which only left Corie with a case of hilarity and giggles when the bus driver called him a disparaging name and cursed him through his open window, as he loudly honked his alarming horn for a prolonged period, startling motorists and pedestrians alike. When Javier saw the streetcar station near the ferry terminal remained closed due to street construction, infrastructure upgrades, and building renovation, he softly muttered, to Corie’s amusement. He decided the pair would walk from the foot of Bay Street beneath the expressways and through the bleak tunnel and the traffic filled thoroughfares and concrete intersections to the subway station. When they reached the intersection beneath the expressway, still south of Union Station, the lanes buzzing and humming with fast and heavy motor vehicles on the underpass below the speedy laneways.
“Daddy-O, I think you know exactly what you need to do.”
Javier gazed deeply into her green eyes, as she firmly pressed her lips together. A double chin formed as she lowered her head in a mock stern expression. She solemnly nodded her head, as Javier distractedly and gently patted her curly blonde locks, before he kissed her on the forehead. Javier tossed his baseball cap into the boulevard, where it hit the asphalt and rolled and blew slightly with the light wind. He left Corie in her stroller on the pedestrian traffic island at the intersection of the street with the fast-paced traffic, speeding louder on the wide boulevard, beneath the narrow elevated expressway with its racing cars and trucks. Without looking in either direction, he stepped into the busy lanes, crossing to the far lane to retrieve it. The last thing he thought before he hurtled through the air and tumbled like a thrown dressmaker’s dummy and was smacked and knocked down and crushed by a heavy freight transport truck was that his daughter, as Olivia feared, possessed some strange mental and psychic powers. Then Corie screamed, in anticipation of a spectacle of carnage, the collision and crash of metal, the skidding and burning of rubber, the crushing of flesh and bone, on pavement and cement, alongside his baseball cap, crowning the whole messy affair.