He flinched at the loud thud. The snowball hit the wall about two or three feet above his head, just missing the window. Hell, he should be used to it by now, but it still gets him every time.
   Goddamn kids.
   He had half a mind to go out there and yell at the little bastards. Teach ‘em a lesson. Aw hell, what good would that do? His back was acting up again. Besides, it was too damn cold out there for that today. Especially today.
   He stubbed out the last smoke and knocked back the final swallow of whisky. Stumbling in to the kitchenette, he tossed the empty bottle in the trash. Right next to the others. Back on the couch, he twisted off the gold band and tossed it on the table. He watched it spin as he rubbed the smooth spot on his finger. That thing hadn’t been off his hand in thirty years.
   He scratched the back of his neck and gave the trailer a final once over, wondering if someone else would move in. He snorted. Hell no, they’ll just haul it off to the junkyard, into the crusher. They’re always hard to sell, after…
   Deep breath. This won’t hurt. Should be over in a split second. A flash and then… black. At least that's what they say. The only choice left was where: temple, mouth, or chin? He tried mouth first. Hit a tooth on the way in. Plan B. Up to the temple.
   Eyes shut tight, hand shaking. Come on, don’t wimp out again. Do it.
   Shit. One last look around.
   One squeeze and the pain will be gone. It’ll all be over...
   Fuck it.
                                                                                   #
   What? Where am I?
   The halls were filled with laughter and anticipation, and the floors were covered in paper. The banner on the wall read: “Congratulations Class of ’78.”
   Jesus, the place looks the same as it did back then.
   Time to round up Sandy and get the hell out of here. Summer awaits. He found her two halls over, standing outside her locker in that old cheerleader outfit. She was giving out hugs and signing yearbooks.
   God, she was cute as ever.
   “Smith!”
   Coach? No, it couldn’t be. He died a long time ago. But there he was, standing in the hall, hands on his hips, whistle around his neck. Beer gut hanging over his belt.
Shit it is him.
   “Hey, Coach."
   “You keep your nose clean this summer, understand me mister? And don’t forget, football practice starts the second week of August.”
   Practice? What the hell was he talking about? Crazy sonofabitch. He always was a ball buster.
    Wait a minute. Where did he go?
   He wrapped his arm around Sandy’s waist and pulled her close. She looked up at him and smiled.
    Such a sweet smile.
                                                                           #
   Whoa, what happened?
   Stucco ceiling. Green curtains. TV on top of the oak dresser. It was his old house.
   Our house.
   The alarm clock buzzed and Sandy kicked his leg. “Get up or you’ll be late for work.”    Her face dropped back onto the pillow. “And don’t wake up the baby.”
  He checked the clock. Oh shit. Up and into the bathroom. He dropped the white discs in the glass, quick shower, swallowed four aspirin with the fizz.
   Hell, I must have done that a million times.
                                                                          #
   Another flash.
   He saw the Chicago skyline in the distance through the thick window. The train jerked to a stop and the Conductor barked something about a wreck on the tracks. Late again.
   All those hours on the train—we should never have moved out to the burbs.
                                                                  #
   Big Jerry was waiting for him outside his office, grimace on his face, arms crossed.
   What an asshole.
   He checked the clock: Four thirty. Men's room stall. A quick bump from the vial, and then he was out on the street.
   #
   The blare of the jukebox and the smell of stale beer and cigarettes hit him. He waved to the bartender.
   “Hey, Tony.”
   “You’re early, Smitty. The usual?”
   He slides onto the barstool. “You got it. Dirty, extra olives. Guy’s gotta eat, right?”
Jesus, did I do that every night?
                                                                          #
   He was staring at a slip of paper.
   Oh no, please not here.
   The number two in the third at Arlington was a closer. It was also the key horse in his Pick 3. Ten-to-one odds was a little steep. He looked down at the letter on the bar, next to his drink. It read: FINAL NOTICE.
   Damn, I loved that car.
   His cellphone rattled just as the horses lurched out of the gate. He checked to see who it was.
   “Hi, honey. What’s up?”
   “Hey, Dad. Are you coming to dinner tomorrow night? It’s your favorite—Prime Rib.” She sang the last part.
   She liked to do that.
   “Is your mother going to be there?”
   Pause. “Yes, of course she is.”
   “Will he be there?”
   “Dad, come on. We’ve talked about this. They’ve been married for, like, seven years now. You need to get over it.”
   “I’ll see.” He looked up at the television screen, the one with the yellow burn-in. “Come on two—push.”
   “What? Dad, are you at that place?”
   Shit. “Uh, ho, honey—I’m, um, at home, watching television.”
   Betting slips became confetti, and a loud groan erupted in the room.
  No way she didn’t hear that. “Damnit Dad.”
  Click.
   Maybe I’ll miss her the most.
                                                                        #
  He was back in his trailer, looking down at his body from the ceiling.
  Damn it's a mess. Hope it’s not Sandy who finds me.
  It didn’t have to come to this, but at least now he knew why. He should have been there for her, for them. Maybe he wouldn't have ended up here, alone. Like… that.
Man, I wish I hadn’t taken off that ring.
   Another thud.
   Goddamn kids.
​

   Sasha pushes open the screen and slips onto the ratty porch couch. With a hand shielding her eyes she stares into the distance. Far across the flat Lost Hills Oilfields, a van streams toward her, chased by a rooster tail of dust. She glances at her wristwatch. He’s early today...beat the kids home from school. Ducking back inside their double-wide, she checks the fridge to make sure it’s stocked with beer, then stares at herself in the hall mirror. Christ, five years in this place and I look like I’m right outta the Grapes of Wrath.
   Sasha returns to the porch and watches her husband advance. The minutes tick by and Jerry doesn’t seem to get any closer. The shimmering heat distorts distances. The van turns off Brown Material Road onto the highway and streaks toward their trailer at the western edge of town. She raises her bird-watching glasses and studies her man: bare armed, close shorn and wearing a battered Angels baseball cap. He looks horny…better get him inside before he takes me right here on the porch...or maybe it’s just me.
   She hurries to the kitchen and returns with a cold Bud longneck just as he pulls up. Standing on the edge, her dress blowing in the wind, she waves. “Hey babe, how was your day?”
   He grins, “All right, I guess. Wasn’t much goin’ on, so I came home.”
   “I’m glad you did.”
   “How long till the girls get here?”
   “Half an hour, maybe more. We’ve got time.”
   Jerry takes the beer and pushes inside. She follows him to the back bedroom. He smells of sweat and tastes salty. She’s grateful for his touch and their time alone, before the rumble of the school bus makes them scramble to get dressed, before their daughters’ high-pitched voices fill their home.
   They move to the living room where Jerry bends to receive hugs and kisses on the cheek from Linda and pipsqueak Marie.
   “You stink funny,” Marie complains.
   Sasha and Jerry look at each other and laugh. He slumps onto the sofa and clicks on the sports channel with the sound turned off.
   Sasha asks, “So what did you girls learn in school today?”
   “Nothin’ much,” Marie mumbles.
   “That’s nothING much,” Sasha corrects her and the second-grader rolls her eyes.
  Linda sits next to her father. “Miss Shaffer, ya know, my science teacher, talked about global warming.”
   Jerry lets out a low groan and takes a pull from his beer.
   “Go ahead, Linda, tell us what she said.”
   “She said burning oil, gas and coal is causing the, ya know, earth to get hotter and the ice caps to melt.”
   “What kinda junk they teachin’ y’all in fifth grade?” Jerry asks.
   Linda makes a face at her father. Marie giggles. “It’s science, Daddy. Smart people around the world have been studying the weather and…”
   “It’s bull, I tell ya, a buncha Chinese propaganda. It gets hot sometimes…that’s natural. It’s happened before.”
   “Yes, but the scientists have done lots of studies that­ show–”
   “Yeah, all of them paid for by those polar bear-lovin’ fools in Washington. It’s all a big hoax.”
  Linda’s cheeks redden. “But Daddy, Miss Shaffer has been teaching us how science works.”
   “Linda, that’s enough,” Sasha says.
   Jerry grins and jabs his daughter in the ribs. “I’ll tell ya what works, kiddo, it’s me workin’ the oilfields. It pays our mortgage, puts food on the table, buys your school clothes. Do ya think any of those eco-freaks care about that?”
   “Come on, Jerry. Ease up.” Sasha motions to her daughters to help her set the table.    “They’ve got to learn about science.”
   Jerry mutters something, peels off his shirt, and turns the fan in his direction. Sasha retrieves another beer from the kitchen. She massages his shoulders, pressing her thumbs into his tight muscles, feeling them shudder, then relax. After a few minutes, she stops.
   “How long have you had this?” she asks, touching a tiny reddish spot on the back of his neck, just inside the hairline.
   “What you talkin’ about?”
   “This thing on your neck. It looks like a freckle.”
   He rubs a hand across the spot. “I don’t feel nothin’. Probably just a skeeter bite.”
   “Yes, maybe. I’ll put some cream on it.”
   “Thanks. I got spots all over this ole bod. One more’s not gonna make a difference.”
   “Ooooh, Daddy, that’s gross,” Linda says. “My gym teacher always wears a big hat when she goes outside. Says she burns easy and gets freckles.”
   “There you go again, talkin’ about those know-it-all teachers.”
   “Jerry, don’t make fun of them, please.”
   “Yeah, yeah, sorry.” He pushes himself up and goes outside to smoke a cigarette, water his pampered apple and peach trees, and set gopher traps.
 
   Summer rolls into fall. The tule fog socks in the San Joaquin, making driving treacherous. It engulfs all but the very tops of the few derricks among the hundreds of pumpjacks in the Lost Hills Oilfield. The morning after Thanksgiving, Jerry lies in bed next to Sasha, the blankets pulled to his chin, teeth chattering.
   Sasha clicks on the light. “Are you okay? I can feel the bed shake.”
   “I’ve got these chills, then I sweat like a pig.”
   “Come on. We’re going to the clinic in Wasco.”
   “Forget it. It’ll go away. It did the last time.”
   “You’ve had this before?”
   “Yeah. Must be some kinda flu. But I feel okay, just a little tired.”
   Three days later, Jerry wakes gasping for breath with a high fever. Sasha packs the kids off to school, then drives the thirty miles to the clinic. An Asian doctor gives Jerry a complete physical.
   “Well, what do you think?” Sasha asks.
   “I can’t tell much without a biopsy. But you need to get that lesion on his neck checked out right now.”
   “What…what do you think it is?”
  “I don’t want to guess. His lungs seem clear, but that shortness of breath could mean something else. They’ll know more when they remove the growth and do a biopsy and various scans. How long has that spot on his neck been there?”
   Jerry studies his shoes, seems content to let Sasha do the talking.
   “Maybe six months.”
   “Has it changed?”
   “Well, he says it feels like it’s more raised.”
    “I’ve phoned in orders to Delano Medical Center. They’re expecting you. The doctors there will take care of him. They’ll be able to answer your questions.”
    “But, our daughters are in school and we don’t have…”
    “I suggest you call a neighbor or the school. You need to get this looked at today.”
In half an hour Jerry and Sasha pull into the hospital parking lot and check in. The nurses and PAs spirit him away. She blows him a kiss as he disappears behind swinging doors. He looks scared… I wish they’d let me stay with him.
    She sits alone in the waiting room, fingering her cell and constantly checking the time. Their neighbors, a young couple she hardly knows, agree to take the girls. After a long wait, a nurse escorts her to a room where Jerry lies in bed, tubes protruding from his arms.
   He flashes her a weak smile. “Don’ look so worried, hon. They cut it off me and I already feel better. I’m jus’ so damn tired.” He yawns and closes his eyes.
   A salt-and-pepper-haired doctor wearing bifocals and a spotless white frock joins them. “Hello, I’m Dr. Spanner. Are you Jerry’s wife?”
   “Yes, I’m Sasha. Will you tell me what’s going on?”
   “Why don’t we let your husband rest and I’ll talk to you in my office. Come this way.”
   She follows him to a shoebox-sized room and sits in the only chair opposite his desk. Dr. Spanner clears his throat. “I won’t keep you long. We’ll know more about Jerry’s condition and prognosis when the biopsy comes back in about three days. He can go home in a couple of hours. But you and Jerry must come back to see me at end of this week.”
   Sasha wraps her arms around herself and shakes her head. “The poor guy’s scared. If we leave here now, I might not be able to get him back. Can’t you tell me something? Can’t you keep him here?”
   Dr. Spanner loosens his tie and leans back in his chair, as if trying to gain distance from her.  “Well…I’ve seen many cases like this before…and the scans show us a lot. I think you need to prepare your husband and your family.”
   “What…what do you mean, prepare?”
   “Jerry is showing all the signs of Stage IV melanoma that’s spread to the lymph nodes throughout his body…and to his lungs.
    “What does Stage IV mean?”
   “It means the disease is advanced…and very serious.”
   “But…but he’s been going to work…hasn’t complained about anything.”
   “That’s often the case until the cancer invades the vital organs. In your husband’s case, it’s the lungs, and most probably his heart.”
   “But…but what are his chances?”
   The doctor sucks in a deep breath. “Not very good, less than a ten percent chance of surviving five years.”
   Sasha leans forward and sobs. Her tears drip onto the tile floor.
   “I’m so sorry, ma’am. There is always surgery, chemotherapy, and some new drugs. But those would only slightly delay the disease and make his last days very uncomfortable. We can control the pain but…”
   Sasha chokes on sobs that threaten to shake her body apart. Minutes pass before she quiets. “If…if only he’d come in right away.”
   “Yes, studies show the cure rate is very high if it’s caught early.”
   “Well, Jerry doesn’t believe in scientific studies, thinks they’re rigged.”
   “That’s unfortunate.” The doctor stares at his hands. “I’m afraid it’s time for your husband to believe.”
   Sasha wipes the tears from her cheeks. “That time has already passed.”
​

    Two women were waiting at the bus stop; the older one was calling the younger one ablacım[*]. Zehra was also waiting for her bus at the bus stop. The moment she saw them and heard that the older one called the younger one ablacım, the first thing she thought of was the possibility of their being prostitutes. The older one was wearing a saxe coat and dark sunglasses which were too big for her complexion. She had pitch black short hair which most probably was not natural. She was wearing a tight short black mini-skirt on her thick legs. She had this light air apparent in her behaviors. She seemed as if she did not care about anything else apart from herself and her own being in the world.  The younger one was just the complete opposite of the older one. She was young and thin; she was so thin that Zehra thought if this girl would be standing up, the wind could easily drift her away. She had long and straight light brown hair. She was wearing a black tight on her thin, young legs which seemed to have walked more than it would be expected from the legs of a young woman at her age. She had a brown shirt on with green leaves on it, and every treasure she held under her clothes was sealed under a dark black coat. She was not carrying any purse as Zehra noticed, but she was holding a plastic bag on which it read the name of the brand DeFacto[†] in her white and tiny hands so tightly that it seemed as if it was the only thing left to hold onto in her painful and small world. She was twisting the edges of the plastic bag nervously in her hands. Her hazel eyes were fixed on the ground, while the older one kept herself busy with going up and down the pavement while waiting for the bus at the bus stop. They did not have anything between them that can be called as a proper communication as Zehra noticed. They were anything but close. And yet the older one kept calling the younger one ablacım all the time. The older one was wearing earbuds, and she was listening to music. She even advised the younger one, “You should definitely and definitely listen to this song, tamam mı[‡]? It’s a super cool song. I’ve been listening to it for how many days I can’t even remember now.”
   The younger one just gave the older one a hesitant nod and said, “Tamam[§] ablacım.”    
     The older one seemed to be rejoiced at what she heard as she said, “I adore it when you call me ablacım; do you know this? I used to chaperon another girl in my older days, and whenever she needed anything she used to run to my arms and say to me, ‘Save me, ablacım. Please help me, ablacım.’ It was of course boosting my ego. When she did this, I used to feel so good that you can’t even imagine. It made me feel as if I was the only one in the whole world to save her. It kind of makes you feel as if you are that very person’s hero. And being the hero of a person… Ah, you know; it’s a very important job.”                                          
        When she finished her speech, she approached the young girl. Caressing the girl’s beautiful long hair, she added, “Ablam  benim[**].”            
    The girl this time responded with a forced smile which formed two little dimples on her each cheek. The older one backed away, and by looking at the clock on her phone, implored the young girl not to stay too long at a particular place which Zehra didn’t have the opportunity to know the details of.                                                                                              
         Zehra could only hear that the older one said to the younger one in a different mood which Zehra thought a little bossy this time, “After you are finished, you will go directly to that other place. If your work seems to be longer than expected, then give me a call. Okay? You know what I mean!”                                                                                   
          When the bus approached the bus stop producing a dark exhaust smoke behind it, it turned out that Zehra and the other two women would take same bus. All three moved towards the door at the same time. Zehra, afraid of going into an argument with the older woman, said, “You go first.”                                                                                                           
           Contrary to her expectation, the older woman responded in a very polite way with a gentle smile on her face, “No, please. You should go first. Please, I insist!”                         
     Surprised, Zehra accepted the offer and was the first one to get on the bus. The two other women followed her, and right behind Zehra’s seat they found two empty seats that were waiting for their owners. Zehra put her ear plugs in, and till she got off the bus at the very last stop she deprived herself of the two women’s conversation. During the journey they took together, what they talked about and what the other passengers thought of those two women remained unknown to her for ever.
                                                                         ***
    Zehra had an afternoon class that day at the university. The course was Introduction to Economics 101. She found the class boring in the extreme. As the smallest part of the economy, she failed to believe that she is able to make even a single little change in this corrupted world. She took a look around her. In the crowded lecture hall which was buzzing with the laptop screens of the other students and the fluorescent lights which filled the hall with neutralized, numb, and dull air she hated, she found it hard to focus on the professor’s lecture. She couldn’t help thinking about those two women she saw earlier that day. If they were really prostitutes, then this would mean they had a real job. They were part of this living economy. And yet no one bothered to mention their existence. Zehra found herself wondering what defines the occupation of prostitution.
     She thought, “Is there a recruiting system, a standard perhaps? Are they expected to look presentable in their work places and to show efficiency in using office programs?”                  
       No matter how much she wished to find her own thoughts funny, she failed to do so. She took another look at all those faces hidden behind the laptops.                                     
   “Can any of those faces belong to a prostitute?” she asked herself.                                   
    “How would I know? One didn’t live with a mark on his or her forehead,” she thought. She tried to track down the signs of a similarity between the world of the human crowd in this hall and that of those two women. She was surprised when she couldn’t find any. Most of those people sitting in the hall were speaking with a clean İstanbul Turkish, and along with Turkish they all spoke English fluently. Some of them even spoke a third language. She remembered that the older one of the women was talking with that thick Anatolian accent. Zehra thought that she was probably from a smaller city in central Turkey. “What sort of stories, what treasures do they keep hidden in their worlds?” she wondered.                      
 Then she realized that she had never been to a house of prostitution.                                  
    “How many of those people around her who were hitting the keys on their laptops nervously had been to a house of prostitution?” she asked herself.                                                      
  While she was still busy struggling with all those unanswered questions in her mind, the professor announced that they came to the end of their class and freed the restless birds out of the classroom.
                                                                                  ***
   The sun was about to set filling the campus with beautiful shades of orange and red in this dry and cold winter weather when she found her way out of the faculty building. She could hear the seagulls’ voices crying out on the sea. She decided to take the ferryboat instead of the bus to cross to the Anatolian side of İstanbul. When she reached the Beşiktaş ferry terminal, she began waiting for the ferryboat which would carry her to Kadıköy. The clock at the terminal showed 5:30 p.m. and there were ten more minutes till the ferry would arrive. When the ferry approached the pier and prepared to welcome aboard all those people waiting for her, Zehra prepared herself for an enjoyable 20 minute journey. Since the day she learnt to read, she always tired to read the name of the ferry before boarding it. Her name was Barış Manço, the name of Zehra’s favorite Turkish singer. Zehra’s joy was doubled. In a flood formed of hundreds of human bodies, she found her way into the ferry. Having found a seat by the window, she was lost watching the lit up beauty of İstanbul. She found herself thinking that it was really impossible to imagine Istanbul as a man. It could even be possible to think herself, a Zehra Aydın, as a man, but the fragile, seductive and colorful beauty of this ever changing body which was named İstanbul didn’t let anyone picture her as a man. İstanbul has always been one of the most beautiful women that the human eye could have the chance to get a glimpse of. At night, an ordinary human eye could have a feast seeing her adorned with three shiny necklaces in the disguise of bridges on her beautiful neck of dark waters. She inhibited her residents with valor and hunger; taking and giving, she was welcoming everyone without showing the slightest resistance.
   When she finally gathered herself from her thoughts, she noticed a young man settling down on the seat opposite her. Zehra thought that the man was extremely charming. He had fair skin which flattered a pair of blue eyes and dark blonde hair. He was thin, and Zehra noticed they were probably of the same height. He was wearing a black leather jacket on a pair of blue jeans on which spilled the hems of a white shirt. The moment when he finally seemed to be comfortable enough to be nestled in his seat and looked up, their eyes met. Although it was Zehra’s habit to avoid eye contact with other people, this time she couldn’t manage to part her eyes from this handsome stranger’s. To her surprise, she even managed to produce a smile addressed to him, and his response was quick; a smile which revealed a set of white and shiny teeth. He was quick enough to hold out his hand and to introduce himself before Zehra managed to say anything.  
   “Hi! My name is Selim,” he said.
   Zehra, without any clue of hesitation in her manners, and as if this was something she experienced every evening on her way home, shook the hand and said with confidence, “And mine is Hilal.”
   Now Zehra was nothing but a spectator of the moment. She didn’t know why her liar mouth produced a fake name.
    “Nice to meet you,” Selim said.
   “Nice to meet you, too,” rang Zehra’s voice which was accompanied with a broad smile on her lit up face.
   For a whole one moment they stared into each other’s faces. They seemed as if they were trying to decipher the magic of the moment.
“   Well. Okay, then. Umm…” mumbled Selim. He seemed to be trying to find the right words. Then he finally asked, “What do you do? Do you work or are you a student?”
   “I’m working,” lied old Zehra and new Hilal. Without waiting him to ask where she works, she continued, “Cashier at Migros[††].
   “Why am I doing this?” she asked herself. “I should immediately take back what I said,” she thought.
   Then she persuaded herself that it was too late.
   “Oh, nice!” said Selim. “What a coincidence! I also work at Real[‡‡],” he continued.
   “Are you a cashier, too?” asked Zehra with eyes wide open which couldn’t hide her sudden interest.
   “Oh, no,” he answered. “I work at the customer services. It basically means writing e-mails no one actually cares about in front of a stupid computer screen all day long, making phone calls and so on. Getting along with the customers is a hard job, you know.”
  Although Zehra didn’t have the slightest idea what it means to be getting along with customers, she nodded and said, “Yes, it is.”
  After a moment of silence, Selim must have found the courage to finally ask “Is there anything particular you’re doing tonight Hilal?”
   “No, not exactly as far as I remember,” she answered without knowing why she couldn’t make up an excuse.
   “Good then,” said Selim. “There is this nice pub in Kadıköy. Actually my brother’s friend is the owner. You wanna grab something to drink?” he asked making his eyes dashing enough to persuade Zehra who was a Hilal for him.
   Trying to act as cool as she could manage, Zehra said, “Tamam[§§], we can do that I guess.”
   Still unable to believe what was happening, Zehra was getting off the ferry with a total stranger. As he was trotting a little bit in front of her, she had the chance to take another glance at him from behind this time. She asked herself whether she actually liked this guy. When the ferry let the passengers out and waved them goodbye, Zehra found it hard to get adjusted to walking on the hard ground having struggled for balance for nearly half an hour on the sea. In her struggle to find the balance to stand on her feet, she found herself holding Selim’s right arm. Bewildered at the touch, he turned and asked, “Are you okay?”
   “I’m fine,” Zehra answered with a slight embarrassment which was visible thanks to her flushed cheeks.
   Zehra was going to pull her hand back, but Selim put it back and said, “Till you find your balance back at least, alright?”
   Arm in arm they walked to the pub. The pub was dimly lit, and this heavy rock music coming from the speakers was pounding its walls. They went directly upstairs. To put it more clearly, Selim dragged her by the hand. Instead of sitting opposite her, Selim chose to sit right next to her. Before sitting down he asked, “Do you mind?”
   “Not at all,” said Zehra unable to resist this handsome stranger in any way.
   “Umm… What would you have? I think I’ll have beer,” said Selim.
   “I’ll have beer, too,” Zehra jumped in.
   They ordered their beers and started to talk about their lives. Actually Selim was the one who was doing the talking. Zehra was busy with nodding and saying yes every now and then. After half an hour, Selim put his arm on Zehra’s shoulder, pulled her closer and made a move to kiss her. In order to weigh the response that would come from Zehra, he first put a tiny kiss on her lips. Then he moved back and tried to read Zehra’s face. He found her waiting with closed eyes for him to continue what he just did. When their lips met once again, Zehra’s lips responded passionately.
   “Let’s go to my place. What do you say?” Selim asked grabbing her chin.
Zehra nodded as an answer. She couldn’t believe what she was doing. After they finished their beers, it took about twenty five minutes for them to get to his two roomed apartment in Bostancı. After taking off his jacket, he said, “Please make yourself at home,” disappearing into the kitchen.
   The apartment was furnished in minimalist style. After taking a small tour around the room, she sat down on the white leather reading chair which stood under a lamp providing the room with a mild yellow light. The chair was facing the window. The room had a view of Marmara Sea which was dark and still at this hour of the day. She was lost counting the lights of the ships which were passing by through the darkness of the night. After three minutes Selim appeared at the door with two glasses of whiskey in his hands, and Zehra was forced to return to her role playing.
   “Sorry! I didn’t ask, but you seemed a little nervous. I thought whiskey would help. Here. Take it,” he said holding the glass to her.
    “Thanks,” she said taking the offered drink from Selim’s hands.
   Selim pulled a chair for himself and took a sip from his whiskey looking at her face with curious intent. Trying to escape his eyes, she looked down at her lap clutching the glass in her hands. She gulped and took a sip from her whiskey. Then she said,     “You have a nice apartment. I liked it.”
    “Thanks,” he said.
   At that moment, Zehra thought it was not the right decision to lie about her real name and identity, but it already seemed too late to tell him the truth. Selim was quick to finish his drink. In three sips he had seen the bottom of the glass. Feeling the need to reach his pace, Zehra also chugged the whiskey that remained in her glass. Before Zehra even found the chance to put down her glass, Selim took her hand and lifted her up. With his handsome broad smile he said, “Please, come with me.”
    Zehra found herself in a red painted bedroom that was furnished in red all over the place; the curtains, the bed, the lamps, the carpet were all red.
   “Too much red,” she protested in her first step.
   This much of red was hurting her eyes. She failed to find a reason behind Selim’s inclination for this color. Selim sat on the bed and pulled Zehra closer. She was standing between his legs now. His hands on her back, he hid his head on her belly and started to give her belly small kisses over her shirt. He pulled her down and made her sit on his lap. Her forehead was touching his left temple. Her nose was nestled in his right cheek. His right hand was resting on her hips while his left hand was holding her knees tightly. Zehra seemed to be in a dream from which she didn’t want to wake up.
                                                                        ***
    On the next morning, Zehra woke up in a hospital room with her mother sitting on a chair beside her bed. The moment she opened her eyes, her mother let out a cry which held a mixture of joy and shock all together.  Her mother cried, “She woke up. She woke up at last. Thank God!”
   After hugging her daughter and putting fervent kisses on all over her face, she ran out of the room to fetch Zehra’s father and three brothers. Zehra couldn’t understand what was going on. After she managed to sit straight on the bed, she let her curiosity be fed by the story her family told her. She was missing for the last two days. Everyone had been looking for her since that day she didn’t return from work. She didn’t tell anything to anyone from work. At the end of her shift she locked the cash register and left as usual without indicating anything unusual either in what she said or in her manners. She was missing since then, until yesterday when the police found her lying unconscious holding a plastic bag in her hands. The police found her home number on her phone and contacted her family. She stayed unconscious for almost twelve hours due to some chemicals that were found in her blood. The police were waiting for her to gain her consciousness to interrogate her on what happened. Now it was Hilal’s turn to tell her family her side of story and to provide answers for all those questioning eyes surrounding her, but what she could provide were only a pair of blank eyes locked on the DeFacto plastic bag on the table at the foot of her bed.
                                                                          ***
 


[*] Big sister

[†] A clothing brand in Turkey

[‡] Is it okay

[§] Okay

[**] My sister

[††] A popular supermarket in Turkey

[‡‡] Another supermarket in Turkey

[§§] Alright

          The shimmering heat played tricks with O’Doul’s eyesight. The ravine off highway 17 looked like a sea boiling in the sun, with beds of treetops shrouded in mist along the bottom. Steam seemed to rise for miles and everything looked wavy. Mirage puddles appeared on the road and then dissolved, leaving behind a blistering blacktop.       
            “Of all the shit,” O’Doul said quietly, placing a hand near a dashboard vent and feeling only lukewarm air. Irritated, he floored the gas pedal and his Buick rattled further up the mountain.          
       A young man of O’Doul’s age sat beside him. “I’m sweating like a dog,” Hancock said. “When’s the last time you checked your cooling fans?”
             “Haven’t had time,” O’Doul said. “I work. Ever hear of that?”      
Both men had stubble on their faces but O’Doul’s wavy hair was glossy black whereas Hancock’s was light brown and receding. His thin nose protruded like a stick. O’Doul’s broad, even features promised a dashing smile that he seldom let show.                     
           Hancock made a display of fanning his face. He flapped his fingers then tugged the collar of his t-shirt. “Well I’m opening a window,” he said.
          O’Doul’s Buick leaked oil, and when he turned the wheel rightward the steering column groaned. A busted air conditioner would be just part of the same headache. “Go ahead,” O’Doul said. “But you know, the cold air could return. That happens sometimes.”
         Hancock assured O’Doul he looked forward to that occurrence, then he lowered the window. As he did so, humid air stormed in and both men’s hair blew wildly. A sheet of old newspaper lifted off of the back seat and flew outside. Distracted and tired, O’Doul let the Buick drift to the adjacent lane.  
            He shouted against the wind. “Not all the way, moron!”
          Hancock laughed and stomped his feet, delighted. O’Doul steered the car back into the correct lane as Hancock raised the window some.
           “Real funny,” O’Doul said. Soon, as he watched the broken highway lines sweep under his car, his eyes narrowed to slits and he became mesmerized. After a few dangerous moments some unconscious indicator switched on, and O’Doul managed to regain a semblance of alertness. Hancock rubbed his own bleary eyes, then he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
               The sun had started its afternoon descent, and soon they would be heading directly into its glare. Hours earlier, when they had set off from New Jersey, there was a thin sheen of clouds but it had burned off as they made their way north. The highway leveled off as it cut through Monticello, and they could see to their left just beyond the roadside a single chair lift. During winters, it was one of two dozen that deposited skiers onto the top of Holiday Mountain. Beyond it, a hillside blanketed in dark green forests rippled into the summer haze. Near a spot where several outlying hills came together, one ridge jutted far above the rest, casting an epic shadow across acres of treetops to the south.
            The view was spectacular, but O’Doul was unmoved. He hated coming back up here.  His sense of loss was still palpable, his emptiness unrelieved.
       
            Next winter would be ten years since O’Doul and Hancock had last skied on this same Holiday Mountain. One memory of that afternoon, which O’Doul could never discard, seemed to reflect the carefree spirit of their lives before everything changed. The boys were sliding off of a T-bar atop one of the medium-grade hills when their skis accidentally crossed, and the more they tried to separate the more entangled they became. Finally, they fell into a knotted heap. They squirmed atop the icy snow, so fastened to each other it was as if they shared a set of clothes. They laughed their asses off, and O’Doul as he tried to catch his breath felt that he was filling with helium, so giddy and weightless that he was sure he would float away.  
           Later, the boys’ parents planned to go out to dinner together, so O’Doul and Hancock were dropped off at a friend’s house. Long after dark, as they watched a Knicks game on TV, a phone call interrupted their evening and effectively ended their childhoods. Now, O’Doul glanced at Hancock and he wondered, not for the first time, whether their friendship would have survived if Hancock’s mother hadn’t also died that night.  
 
           “What the hell are you doing,” O’Doul barked, because he didn’t care for the odor coming from whatever Hancock had pulled from his cigarette pack and lit, hands expertly shielding the flame from the wind.
            “You idiot,” said O’Doul. But his anger was sidetracked by an unsettling image in his mirror: a state trooper cruiser following about 100 feet behind. O’Doul wondered if he’d done something stupid. He couldn’t have gone too fast, his heap could barely reach the speed limit. O’Doul tapped his brake, hoping that the cop would pass. But the cruiser only came closer, as menacing as a Sherman tank. After a long few moments, as sweat trickled from all of O’Doul’s pores, the cop car flipped on its blinking lights.           
            “You fucking idiot,” O’Doul said, louder than before, as Hancock flicked the joint out the window. O’Doul slowed the Buick further and guided it onto the shoulder.
            They lurched to a halt. O’Doul watched the cruiser slip behind them. The cop car’s lights flashed with migraine intensity.   
            “What if he searches you?” O’Doul demanded. He removed his sunglasses and gnawed a side piece.
            “He needs probable cause,” Hancock said.
            O’Doul noticed a tremor along the bridge of Hancock’s nose. He’d seen it many times before, a harbinger of an anxious smirk Hancock would employ to show defiance. As Hancock was an unconvincing tough, the expression was usually good for a laugh. It might have amused O’Doul under different circumstances.
            “What are you, a lawyer?” O’Doul said. “He’s a cop, he can do what the fuck he wants.”
            O’Doul suppressed an urge to throw up as he lowered his window. Through his side mirror, he watched the strapping trooper climb out of his car and don a brimmed hat. The cop strode toward them. He wore mirrored sunglasses, a gray tie, and a tan shirt tucked into gray pants. All these bastards look alike, O’Doul was thinking. 
              The cruiser lights continued to flash, an action that struck O’Doul as overkill. He felt embarrassed, aware that passing motorists were slowing and gaping, relieved it wasn’t them. O’Doul turned away, and stared distractedly at tall maples and evergreens bunched behind the guardrail. Thick webs of glossy weeds and vines climbed the trunks, looking so ripe and strange that O’Doul imagined that they might lead to another world. He considered bolting – hurdling the rail and leaving his responsibilities behind.  
            “Look alive,” Hancock said.  
            “What?”
             “Afternoon,” the trooper said as he arrived at the window, lowering his square head.
            O’Doul nodded.   
            “Know why I stopped you?”
            “No sir.”
            The cop glanced southward. “Back there, you were all over the road.”
            His flat face was closely shaved and a few beads of sweat had gathered on his upper lip. O’Doul’s own perspiration burned his eyes, compelling him to squint.         
            “No we weren’t,” Hancock said.
            The corners of the trooper’s mouth twitched as if a nasty grin might emerge. It occurred to O’Doul that the cop might enjoy confrontation. But the man’s jaw held firm as he bent to get a better look at Hancock.
            “And you littered. I don’t remember talking to you.”
            “Sorry,” O’Doul said. “We’re having a tough day, and I may have been distracted back there.”
            “And the air don’t work,” Hancock chimed in.
            A sixteen-wheeler roared by, vibrating the earth and O’Doul’s bowels.        
            “You don’t look too good,” said the cop.
            “I’m fine,” O’Doul said.
            “Matter of fact, you both look kind of peaked.”
            “I admit I haven’t had anything to eat today,” O’Doul said, which was true.
“License and registration.”
            O’Doul rummaged though his glove box. He glowered at Hancock, who winked back. After O’Doul handed the documents over, the trooper scanned them. “Jersey?”
          O’Doul nodded. Like nobody from New Jersey ever came up here, like his license read Mars. A few seconds passed. The incessant sunlight flared in his peripheral vision.    
            “You had anything to drink?” The trooper inhaled audibly through his nose. “Or smoke?”
            O’Doul sniffed the air and wondered, with a sense of doom, how that goddamn smell lingered even with a window open.   
            The cop took a step back. “Out of the car,” he said. “Now.”
            “We got nothing to hide,” Hancock said. “But we don’t consent to a search.”
            “No choice, gentlemen,” the cop said. “Don’t make me drag you out.”
“Man, this blows,” Hancock said.
          The cop stood tall as sunlight filled his shades. “Life can be hard,” he said. “And you just made yours harder.”
--
 
            They entered New York Police Troop “C” Station near Liberty with wrists cuffed in front. It was brighter and roomier than O’Doul would have thought, with blond wood desks and chairs and upholstered benches. Banks of fluorescent lights shone from a high ceiling. As he, Hancock, and the trooper walked through, O’Doul was beset by the racket of buzzing phones and strident voices while his stomach lurched and his sphincter squeezed tightly. He also heard, like a current beneath the foreground noise, a cool vibrating thrum that suggested the barracks might soon launch into orbit.    
             They stopped at a large elevated desk. Sitting behind a nameplate – Sgt. Brown – was another young trooper who looked as buffed and threatening as the arresting officer.
“Possession of a controlled substance,” the first cop said. “Possible DUI.”
            Sgt. Brown looked impassively at the suspects then nodded toward a row of metal chairs bolted to the floor. “Siddown.”
            In searching Hancock back on the highway, the trooper had found two more joints in the cigarette pack and, more seriously, a zip-lock baggie with a pinch of what looked like cocaine. O’Doul was furious. Of course, the trooper found nothing on him. O’Doul didn’t touch drugs; he didn’t even drink.
            O’Doul’s sobriety was one result of the car accident ten years ago, when Hancock’s father, drunk as a lord, had killed O’Doul’s parents and Hancock’s mother. Hancock reacted another way, never wholly emerging from his shock and slipping into periods of idiocy and addiction. O’Doul would never forgive the old man. But he kept his increasingly nerve-wracked friend close, driven by an impulse near desperation. If shared grief could strengthen bonds, O’Doul knew that he and Hancock would be brothers forever.       
            Now as they sat, Hancock turned to O’Doul with a face full of tears. “We gotta call my pop. He’s expectin’ me. Mike, I’m sorry.”
             O’Doul looked stubbornly ahead without responding.  Hancock wiped his eyes and slouched down in wretched surrender.
 
              After a few minutes, O’Doul watched another trooper walk by. Like the others, this one was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a crew cut. But O’Doul saw a blunt friendliness in the young cop’s face, which stood out around here like clown’s makeup. As the trooper stopped to speak to someone, his pleasant face evolved into a familiar one. O’Doul shuffled through his memory. But it was Hancock who made the connection.
            “Brooksie, you big galoot!” he cried.
            “Shut up,” said Sgt. Brown.
            But the trooper turned toward them. Hands on hips, he stepped closer.
            “Can I help you?”  
            “Monticello High,” Hancock said. “Lincoln Junior High. How far back you wanna go?”
             “That’s far enough,” Trooper Brooke said. He glanced at their cuffed wrists. “What’re you doing here?”
            O’Doul and Hancock looked at each other. “Well,” O’Doul said, “it seems they found…”
            “Allegedly found,” Hancock said.
            “Um, something on one of us that might be a problem,” O’Doul said.
            “Leave ‘em alone, Brooke,” Sgt. Brown said. “They ain’t seen a lawyer yet.”
            “Class of 2010?” Brooke said.
            “We would’ve been,” Hancock said. “But, ah…”
            “We moved away after 10th grade,” O’Doul said.
            Brooke ran a large hand along his buzz cut. “I remember.” His shoulders slumped a little. “Anything…”
            O’Doul and Hancock stared at him. Brooke had been a year ahead of them, a rowdy farm kid who excelled at sports.      
            “Anything I can do?” Brooke said.  
            O’Doul looked at the trooper’s firearm. “You could shoot me. That might help.”
            Brooke glanced upward, as if considering that. He nodded, looking thoughtful, and walked off. He put a card against an electronic reader; a door buzzed and he walked through.
            Hancock emitted a low whistle. “Well what the hell were the odds of that?” 
            O’Doul had to admit: not very large. But what did it matter? He shrugged, then watched Hancock’s eyes close and his head loll back. Freckles emerged under the bright light that softened Hancock’s face, made him appear younger. O’Doul shut his own eyes and focused on the subterranean thrumming sound of the place, pushing all other noise to the background. It was droningly hypnotic. O’Doul began to sink into a quagmire of dreams.
--
 
            “Hey guys.” O’Doul awoke to find that Trooper Brooke had returned. 
            The cop squatted before them, taller than O’Doul and Hancock sprawled in their chairs. “Hold out your wrists.”
            They hesitated, uncertain of what was going on. Sgt. Brown stared from his desk.  
            “C’mon,” Brooke said. He held a long slim key in his right hand.
            O’Doul offered his cuffed wrists. Brooke inserted the key and turned. One cuff opened and fell into Brooke’s hand. Brooke did the same with O’Doul’s other cuff and then freed Hancock’s wrists.
            “You taking over our case?” Hancock said.
            Brooke stood. “Something like that.”
            O’Doul looked around. Everybody seemed to be ignoring them, except Sgt. Brown.  
            “Get out,” Brooke said quietly. “Now.”   
            “What?” Hancock said.
            “Beat it,” Brooke said.
            O’Doul and Hancock stared up at him, waiting for the punch line.   
“Do we have to come back?” O’Doul said.
            “Only if you fuck up again.” 
            O’Doul and Hancock stood and looked at each other in astonishment.
            “And you goddamn well better not,” Brooke said. “The desk sergeant will return your possessions. Take ‘em and keep walking.”       
“Well we’ll be on our way,” Hancock said.  
            “You guys just passing through?” Brooke asked.
            O’Doul shrugged. “Not exactly,” he said.
            They hustled over to Sgt. Brown, who stared at them intensely. O’Doul thought he looked like a butcher watching the sheep get away.        
 
         Fifteen minutes later, O’Doul and Hancock rolled into their hometown, Roscoe, a small village at the foot of the Catskill Mountains. At Revonah Hill Road, bordering the Beaver Kill River, O’Doul turned the Buick right and navigated up a gradual incline, steering carefully around potholes and watching for deer. On their left, behind a line of birch and maple trees, the afternoon sun was bright off the water and shone hazily in their eyes. Their destination was Hancock’s old house, which looked onto the river from the opposite side of the road, and O’Doul recalled the two-story brick home as part of a rambling panorama of meadows and corn fields, with cattle feeding on adjacent hills.
          Today Hancock’s father, seriously ill and just released from prison, sat in that house awaiting a visit from his son – their first meeting in years. As O’Doul drove alongside the river, it all came back to him: the car rides along here with his parents, the joking conversations with Hancock, the energizing anticipation of activity. Like most boys O’Doul knew, his life had appeared to flow furiously against the very possibility of misfortune.  
          The Beaver Kill was known for its bountiful trout harvest, and the area attracted sportsmen from all over. In decades past, Hancock’s father had often rowed the boys out to try their luck. Carrying rods nearly as long as O’Doul and Hancock were tall, the boys would root around a pail of mud for a thick, juicy worm to hook as bait. Excitedly they would cast out, releasing their forefingers at one o’clock and hearing the line click through as it arced over the current. Hancock’s father would genially encourage them, a can of Bud in his hand.
         Now as they pulled up in front of the house, O’Doul felt a blast of cold air. The damned air conditioner had decided to work. 
        “See I told you,” he said half-heartedly.
       But Hancock wasn’t listening. He was absorbed in staring at his old home. To O’Doul, the house’s familiarity emerged only gradually. Time had weathered away much: the building looked bleached out and smaller, listing to one side. The fields were vacant except for yellow-ish patches of weeds and brush. The hills still soared but held no livestock.  
          “I can’t believe he’s in there,” Hancock said softly.
        Then he looked at O’Doul with that nose-twitching facsimile of a grin. “Sure you don’t wanna come in?”
        O’Doul shook his head. “Can’t do it.” He felt the sting of a tear. He tried to compose himself, and he clapped Hancock on the shoulder awkwardly. Hancock’s grin stiffened, and the expression around it crumbled like a mask.              
             O’Doul looked away. “Call me when you’re done,” he said.   
         Then he watched Hancock open the car door and step out. Soon Hancock walked toward the house with his frail body hunched forward, moving slowly like a man with nowhere to go.
--
 
             O’Doul pulled the Buick away, turned around and headed back toward town. The river now ran to his right, and through breaks in the trees he caught glimpses of dark water flowing away from the sun that hovered over the mountains behind him. Soon O’Doul passed a line of parked SUVs and pickups awaiting the end to the day’s fishing, and then he came to the spot where Revonah Hill Road met Foster Street. He continued along. If you went down Foster for about a mile and turned right, you would find his old house. He hadn’t seen it in eight years and had no intention of doing so again. 
            O’Doul reached the small center of Roscoe and saw that the drug store, with its vintage red and white Coke sign above the door, was still in operation. Across one street was a gas station, while a farming supply store took up the opposite corner. Maples lined the street and behind the store fronts, hills sloped toward the late afternoon sky. O’Doul figured he’d go inside the drug store, drink water, maybe finally eat if the acid ever took a break from ripping apart his stomach.  
            Hancock would be in some kind of awful shape when the visit was over. Well no matter, there wasn’t much else to do except point the Buick south and head back to Jersey. O’Doul pulled up curbside and for the sake of killing time fiddled with the radio. Tomorrow was supposed to be another hot one, they said.  
 
                                                              THE END

 
   Sofia had just fallen back to sleep when she heard the gunshot. At first she thought she had dreamed a gun firing. She groped her way downstairs in the near dark. Feeling reassured no one was in the house, she entered the garage and turned on the light. Ari was slumped against the wall, sitting on a stack of Helsinki Times she had tied into a bundle, an advancing line of red spreading slowly over the headlines dated 18 September, 1952:  Zarja Sets Sail for Russia to Pay Off Last of 300 Million. In his hand was his service pistol.
   The funeral was held on Wednesday afternoon. They had picked a plot out together at the church cemetery, but the pastor said sorry, but no, suicide was a sin. Sofia took it up with the bishop; he agreed with the pastor. A military funeral at Hietaniemi Cemetery was granted. The chaplain was non-denominational and told her such things were not to be judged by men, and he would perform a full service.
   The burial consisted of a small gathering of Ari’s and her families and an American wearing a camel hair coat and a Homburg hat.  A gun salute and bugle sounded the end of the service, and seemingly on signal, it began to rain.
   Her mother rubbed her shoulder and told her she and her father would be waiting in the car. Sofia remained at the end of the grave, feeling and unthinking. After a few minutes, she felt a light touch on her arm.
   “Mrs. Salonen, I’m Jack Williams. I managed the IBM project for him at the bank.”
   She recognized the name. “He had spoken of you highly. I hope you don’t judge him too harshly.”
   “He was a deep thinker, a good man. It must be hard for you.”
   “Thank you.”
   “I have something of his you should have.  I have to go back to the States tomorrow, so I thought I should give it to you now.” He handed her a manila envelope.
   “What is it?”
   “It’s a story he wrote. He wanted to have it published and asked me to help him with the grammar, but you know, his English was excellent.”
   “He never mentioned it to me. Thank you, Mr. Williams.”
   He handed her his card. “Call me Jack.” He offered his arm and they walked back to the road.
   “Why don’t you stay with us tonight?” her father asked as she climbed in the car.
Sofia shook her head.
                                                                                   *
    Ari had handled their financial matters, collecting the records and bills in his desk in the study, always paying them early. As the bills started to accumulate, Sofia began going through them. In one of the drawers was a stack of correspondence. As she examined the letters she came across one with a return address from Salla. It was a personal thank you for a loan to refinance a hotel. The last few lines caught her attention: I had the piano rebuilt, and the remodeling of the hotel came out better than I had hoped. The basement is a bistro with a wine cellar now. You and your wife must come to visit. I’ll always remember your kindness. Your loving friend, Verá. Sofia went to the living room and sat at the piano, playing the first few measures of the Appassionata too slowly. It was Ari’s favorite piece, but she never could get it right. She poured herself a drink and sipped slowly, looking over the shelves filled with busts of composers and Hellenic vases they had collected over the years. They both loved music and history. She loved his sensitivity. Sometimes he would hide the tears in his eyes when he was moved by a passage of music, and she would pretend she didn’t notice.
   Sinking down on the sofa, she picked up the envelope Jack Wilson had given her from the coffee table. She opened the flap, sliding out the manuscript Ari had been working on, neatly double spaced with wide margins.
 
IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE
 
 I had served in the Finnish Jaeger Brigade during The Winter War in June of 1941, transferring to the 6th Division in July 1944, as a major.  The advancement was more due to my language skills than fighting skills; I speak English, Russian, German, Swedish and Finnish.  They decided to send me to Salla in eastern Lapland near the Salpa Line where a liaison was needed to coordinate operations with the German Mountain Corps. 
   When I arrived, it was held by the Soviets on the eastern fringes.  Finland's resources had become depleted from the struggle against Russia, and we allied with Germany, hoping to quickly gain our lands back.  Stalin threw everything into the fight, knowing Moscow was Hitler's next stop via Finland.
   The locals had been evacuated, but among the few remaining was a woman named Verá who ran the hotel on the edge of town near Lake Märkäjärvi.  Salla had been a popular tourist spot that advertised itself as the middle of nowhere, but the war had put an end to tourism. Verá’s hotel was used as quarters for both Finnish and German officers and the rest of the soldiers were given temporary barracks just outside town.  Some of the billets were trenches with log and earthen roofs, hard to spot from a distance.
   My duties were to brief our new allies on the techniques of Arctic warfare and facilitate communication between the officers of the two armies.  We made some inroads against the communists, but British naval blockades and a constant influx of Russian equipment and troops pressed us to hold on to our gains.
   On an unusually hot day in August, I returned to the hotel from a briefing at headquarters.  As I walked through the lobby, a German major sat in a battered leather chair next to the piano, pulling sheet music from under the bench lid.
“Wie gehts? Ari Salonen,” I said.
   He extended his hand. “Jon Ehler. I think we will be working together.”
   We shook as the other officers began filing into the dining room. “Let’s get something to eat, before it’s too late,” I said.  We found two empty places at the end of a crowded table. I yelled across the room: “Verá, go to the basement and bring up a bottle of cognac off the top shelf for my friend and me.”
   “Why don't you come down and help me pick out something good?  You can reach on top better than me.”
   “We might be down there all night.”
   Verá laughed defiantly. “The longer the better.” It was a little flirty banter we all played to take our minds off things; she enjoyed it as much as the men. Her husband was killed when he ran into the Soviets while picking up supplies. The staff had fled when the town was evacuated, so she had to serve the officers single-handedly. She was the only woman left in Salla.
   She reappeared with a bottle and two glasses. “Don't you two make trouble, I've got my hands full already.”
I poured and nodded with a Kippis to my German counterpart.  Jon was finely chiseled and handsome, looking too young to be a major, yet not having the superior air many Nazi officers had. We drained our glasses.
   “Everything tastes good with cognac,” I said.
   “Or with butter,” said Jon.  “When’s the last time we’ve had any of that? So, you have a wife and family?” He held the glass in his palm with the stem between his fingers, warming the cognac with his hand and sniffing.
   “I’m engaged.  Her name is Heleena. She’s going to get her degree in history, then we’ll get married. How about you?”
   “Pianos are my passion.  My family has been building pianos for generations.  At first I thought I wanted to do something else, so I got a job designing elevators, but I couldn't stand it.  Then I went to work at Rönisch Piano in Dresden.  Before the war I was designing a self-playing piano that plays the violin and cello sections. How about another?”
   “Good idea,” I said, and poured. “That's incredible, I've never heard of such a thing. When this is over you can go back and finish your work.”
   “There will be nothing but rubble by then. What are you going to do?”
  “I have a degree in economics; I'll get a job in a bank.  With a little luck, we may end up with a nice house and kids, and maybe a summer place on the beach.”
   “That sounds nice.”  He emptied his glass.
   An SS captain leaned over and tapped Jon on the shoulder.  “Play something before you're too drunk.”
  “The piano is out of tune.”
   He continued tapping. “Come on, play.”
  Jon raised the lid before sitting at the bench.  Composing himself briefly, he began the first few notes of the Appassionata, feeling out the tired whippens and jacks of the old grand, adjusting himself to its eccentricities and worn spots, then filled the lobby with waves of music, taking us up and out of the battered hotel and away from the tasteless food and tiredness.  His large hands were ten kings, coaxing the soul from the piano with long, slim fingers. We sailed above the war on the wings of Ludwig Von Beethoven, suspended in mother of pearl twilight. It wasn't the cognac. When he ended, I fell back into the lobby, wondering, how could someone like Jon, with such a gift, end up in a shithole like this?
   He had won me. There was a time when he could have played anywhere in Europe if he had the desire. In the days that followed, he would pull out sheet music from the piano bench and his orderly, who had an excellent voice, would accompany him, and so I became his prisoner.
   One evening, as we sat in the lobby, he asked, “Major, where is your orderly?  I haven’t seen him.”
  “Killed. Hardly eighteen. They haven’t been able to spare anyone to replace him.”
   “I'll send over one of ours.  His name is Walter Unrau and he's a skilled batman.”
  “You're generous. I've been borrowing the other officers’ orderlies and they're growing tired of it.”
   Corporal Unrau was very personable and efficient.  He had things ready before I asked and seldom needed drawn out instructions.  I came to rely on him a lot.
   As the war dragged on it became apparent things were going wrong.  Due to bad intelligence, Hitler underestimated the Soviet's ability to build new armies.  Fresh communist forces slowed the advance to Moscow until the winter set in, bogging them down with snow and frostbite.
   Reports in German, Finnish, Russian and English were sent to headquarters in an unending stream. News of the German offensive falling apart came in, warning of a darker outcome for Finland.
   As August wore on to September, I received word that we were beginning talks with Zhdanov in Moscow.  An armistice between Finland and the U.S.S.R. would be signed within a week, putting an end to our collaboration with Germany. 
   I had returned to my room late one evening. Corporal Unrau always checked in on me to see if I needed anything or had orders for the next day, but it was late. I knocked on his door and poked my head inside. He jumped up from his cot and snapped to attention looking pale. His eyes were swollen.
   I’d seen the look before. “Everything okay, corporal?”
   “My brother was killed in action. His destroyer went down.”
   The look on his face was the loneliest I had ever seen. I embraced him and patted his back.
  “I apologize, sir. I'm the last one. My family is gone.”
  “The uniform can't protect us from these things. There's no reason to.”
  I wanted to get him off the front, but he was under German command. “You must stay alive,” I said to him. “I’d send you away to a typing pool, but it’s not up to me. I’ll ask for you. When things are better, maybe they’ll send you to Berlin.”
   The next morning there was a clean uniform in the closet. I picked up my papers from the desk, neatly arranged and clipped together, then went down to the dining room and found Jon.
   Verá came to take my breakfast order. The officer across the table was pounding his fist on the table, ranting: “No butter, no juice, no toast.”
   She frowned at him sternly. “Stop your whining.”
   “There are worse things that can happen,” I said.
   “Worse than no butter?” asked Jon, cracking the top off his egg and getting yolk everywhere.
  “You could be Walter Unrau – he lost his brother and his family. We have to get him out of here.”
   He dabbed at the yolk with his napkin, making the mess worse. “We break them down with words and put them back together with words. We command them with orders to do our bidding, unspeakable things beyond description. When we ask why God, God is struck dumb by our folly. It would be better if musicians ran the world, then none of this shit would happen. I’ll say something at headquarters. It may take a few days.”
   There was a light still burning inside him. Verá came to take my order. “What will it be today, Ari?” she asked.
   “Just coffee.”
   “You seem very glum. How about eggs and ham? Get off to a good start.”
  “No.”
  Jon scooped away the inside of the egg with his spoon. “He’s in a quiet mood, Verá.”
  She moved on to the next table.
   “You’re right,” I said to Jon. “Musicians should run the world. There is something else we need to talk about, but not here, it's too crowded. There's something in the wind.”
   “More bad news?”
   “We need to meet somewhere private. Did you ever have a real Finnish sauna - a savusauna?”
   Jon raised an eyebrow. “I don't think so.”
   “The stones are heated by a wood fire without a chimney. The smoke fills the room, then when the fire dies the smoke is let out.  The stones stay hot for hours. There’s one by the lake, I’ll have them get it ready. We can drive out before dinner.”
   “I will go only on condition that I will be beaten by an old woman with a stick.”
  I hadn’t laughed in a long time. “If I can’t find one, I will beat you myself.”
 
   The sauna was forty yards from the shoreline. The smoke had cleared, leaving a clean scent of maple and birch in the dark interior.  We undressed and went in.
   “Some prefer to jump in the lake to cool off, but one time I was bitten by mosquitoes so badly I decided to use the shower from then on,” I said.
  He looked at me disapprovingly. “Is that why you’re always scratching your ass?”
  I threw some water on the stones and we sat down. “I didn’t invite you to talk about mosquitos.  We have been meeting with the Soviets and will sign an armistice that will end our alliance.  We must turn over all Germans. Or shoot you if you don’t cooperate.”
   “We've fought together side by side. Could that happen?”
   “I don't know, we're caught in the middle.” The water stopped its hissing as it dissipated.
  “What about you? Would you?” He began rubbing his forehead mechanically.
  “I give you my word I'll do everything in my power to help you and your men escape.”
  “When is this to happen?”
   “In two days.”
  Jon wiped the sweat from his brow and slid to the lower bench. “We could do it under cover of darkness.”
  “There's a problem; they want prisoners. The Russians are five kilometers to the east and they'll be watching. We must make it look good.  If you put your men in the underground billets, we can come in from the south and fire into the ground as they escape.  That might fool them long enough for you to get to the north to rejoin your forces.”
   He leaned back on his elbow, frowning. “And I have your word your men won’t hit us?”
   “We’ll only shoot to miss,” I said, “you have my word.”
“And the other officers – they will all cooperate?”
   I nodded.
   Jon let out a sigh. “You are a good man, Ari, I mean it.”
 
   At headquarters, I explained my plan to the other officers and they agreed. I turned in early that night.  After I fell asleep there was a knock on the door. I forced myself awake and opened it to find Verá standing there in the hall. The weather had been getting cooler, yet she was wearing a thin summer nightgown that let the light from the hallway pass through around her body.  I sometimes wondered if our playful words about the basement were a little more than just words.
   “What is it, Verá?”
   “I need to know exactly what's going on. There's a rumor going around the Russians are taking Salla back.”
   “Don't worry, the Russians will need a good hotel to stay in. When I see their commanding officer I'll tell him you'll be serving his head on a platter if he isn't respectful.”
  She shook her head. “I can’t stay. Not after what they did to my husband.”
  “I can get you a letter of safe conduct. Is there someplace you can go?”
   “My family is in Niesi.”
   “I’ll have it for you tomorrow.”
   “Ari, what will happen to you, will you be leaving?” Verá stepped closer.
   “They'll keep me for a couple of days, then send me off somewhere, I suppose.”
   She threw her arms around me. “Thank you, Ari.”
  I cannot say I wasn’t tempted, but the moment passed and we separated as friends.
 
  The next morning I was informed the Russians were sending a small contingent of Allied Commission observers ahead of their troops.  I contacted Jon and informed him they would have to move out immediately. The timing was not good now, but the plan could still work.  We moved into position near Lake Märkäjärvi and began firing as soon as they began to leave.  To fool the Russians, reports were issued that there were casualties but they managed to escape.
   When I returned to headquarters that afternoon, I was told by the aid de camp Soviet officers were waiting to see me.  They were congregated in the hall.
   I saluted. “I'm Major Salonen.”
   “Poltzin,” said a haggard-looking colonel, without returning the salute. He looked up from the report and eyed me rudely.  “Where are they?”
   “I’m afraid they got away. They knew we were coming.”
   “Do you think we're idiots?”
   “Colonel, there was no way to keep anything from them.”
    “Go after them.  If you can't capture them, kill them.”
“We don't have the trucks or tanks to pursue. The few we had, you took away. Those are your terms in the treaty.”
   Poltzin stared in a cold rage. “There will be severe reprisal if you don't capture or kill all Germans, no matter how you do it. Those are the terms you agreed to.  All Nazis will be captured or killed.” 
   His face was nearly touching mine, the eyes dead and gray, as though covered by a third lid, like a shark's haw.  
   “Is that clear, major?”
   “Yes, Colonel, I understand.”
   “These are your new orders, effective immediately,” said Poltzin.
   I took the dossier he waved under my chin, then saluted.  After reading through them, I had Verá’s safe conduct letter drawn up and stamped, then headed back to the hotel and slipped it under her door.   As I walked out the lobby door to return to headquarters, a truck driven by Walter Unrau pulled up.  Jon got out carrying a leather satchel.
   “What the hell are you doing, get out of here,” I said.
   “I forgot something.”
“The Soviets are here. Get out now.”
   He ran inside, returning in a moment with the bag bursting full of sheet music. Halfway to the truck it split open, spilling music on the ground. As he snatched up a handful of sheets, Poltzin came running down the street with his revolver drawn, leading a dozen of my men.
  “They're escaping, shoot!”
   Jon jumped into the truck. “It's no use, it’s too late,” I shouted through the window.
He motioned to go forward. “Remember your promise.”
   “We have orders to shoot for God’s sake!”
   He nodded to Walter and the truck lurched forward.
Poltzin aimed from across the street, but couldn’t get a clear shot. “Salonen,” he shouted. The men looked at me, waiting.
  Ammuskella!” I said.
   The barrage sounded like one shot and the horn went off.  Jon fell out and stumbled to the ground, landing face down, his coat tattered with holes.  I ran to him, kneeling down beside him.  He was groaning deeply and making a rattling sound, trying to raise himself while still holding the music in his good hand. The other was a mangled pulp, slipping in the blood. 
  I unbuckled my pistol and held it to the back of his head. I had never killed once myself in all my time in the service, only by the orders I had given. When I pulled the trigger and felt the life go out of him, so did my own. I have been his prisoner ever since, reliving that day every day, in the middle of nowhere. 
 
   Sofia shuffled the pages together and stuffed the story back in the envelope. Weeks grew into months and she came to blame herself. He wasn’t the same when he came back, but she thought that was just something wars did. She thought of herself as a good listener, but she must have missed something. He had never talked about any of it; the story he had written was the only attempt he had made. She told herself it was only a story.
   The house reminded her of Ari and she needed to get out. Sofia accepted her parents’ invitation to spend Christmas with them. During Christmas Eve dinner, her father suggested she do some traveling, then she remembered the letter from Verá.
The day after Christmas she returned home and got the hotel address from the envelope. Uncertain if she was ready to confront the ghosts of the past, she made the reservations anyway. It was fourteen and a half hours to the railway station at Kemijärvi, then an hour and a half by bus to the town of Salla. The bus let her off on Savukoskentie Street near Verá’s hotel, the Borea. It was three in the afternoon and the town was lit by street lamps and Christmas decorations.
   The Borea was rustic with square cut logs painted red and balconies with views of the water. The interior had a new feel to it. It had been remodeled in a Scandinavian design of whitewoods and grays with wooden ceilings. On one side of the foyer was the dining room, on the other, the lobby with a grand piano. A life size Yule goat stood next to the desk by the door. Sofia tapped the bell gently, wondering if she might be greeted by Verá.
   “Moi,” said a college-aged girl, appearing from a door behind the desk.
   “I’m looking for Verá Pedarson.”
  “What is this in reference to, may I ask?”
   Sofia smiled. “I’m not selling anything.  I have a reservation. Would you tell her Sofia Salonen is asking for her?”
   The girl spoke on the phone, and a moment later, a tall athletic looking woman walked to the desk. “You must be Sofia,” she said cheerfully, “I’m glad you decided to come.” She looked about the empty foyer. “Where is Ari?”
   “He passed away recently. It’s just me.”
   “Oh no. I’m very sorry.” Her eyes began to tear.
   “I wasn’t sure I should come,” said Sofia. “I should have written back, I’m sorry.”
   Verá shook her head. “You mustn’t apologize. Let’s sit in the lobby where we can talk.” They found seats near the piano. “I saw him less than a year ago when I came to the bank to sign the loan papers. He seemed healthy then.”
   “He shot himself in the temple with his service revolver.” The piano loomed in the silence. “It was on the day after the war debt was paid to Russia.”
   Verá turned away. “Something happened here.”
   “That is why I came to Salla. I want to know.”
   “Ari had a German friend, an officer named Jon Ehler, who was different than the others. He was a gifted musician and used to play on this piano. He didn’t believe in the war any longer, and neither did Ari. When the armistice was signed, Ehler and an orderly named Unrau tried to escape, and Ari was ordered to have them shot. He had to use his own pistol on Ehler.” She let out a deep sigh.
    “It’s true,” said Sofia.
    “What is true?”
   “Something Ari had written. Thank you, Verá.”
                                                                                                                                                              
   When Sofia got to her room, the first thing she did was open the balcony doors and look out over the frozen expanse of Lake Märkäjärvi.  The Lapp sky had taken on a deep blue. Along the horizon on the far side, the clouds were tinged serenely with nacre. After a few minutes the deep cold penetrated into her pores and she backed into her room and closed the doors.
   Sofia spent several days exploring the villages nearby and went on a cross country skiing expedition along the Salpa defense line. She found the earth covered billets where the soldiers stayed, and the Sotka cellar where four Finns had defended themselves against Russian grenades. They were the only reminders of the war she could find. Everything was freshly painted and inviting. The war debt had been paid, settled by the bankers and accountants. Reconstruction had hidden the scars, but she was not finished healing.
   On the morning of her return to Helsinki, she sat down to breakfast with Verá. “I’m coming back. I was looking for something and I think I found it.”
   “What is that?” asked Verá, cracking the top off her egg.
   “There is no museum here. I have a purpose now; I’m going to build a war museum.    Will you help me? Ari left me some money – I know he would want it.”
    Verá soaked up the yolk with her toast. “I will do all I can. I promise.” 
​

Noreen Hernandez-will finally receive her Bachelor’s degree in English with a minor in Creative Writing in December ’17 from Northeastern Illinois University. Her non-fiction work has been previously published in peoplesworld.org and beckysarwate.com. She recently left a career in banking to pursue her writing goals and other adventures. She lives and flourishes as a life-long resident of Chicago, Illinois.      

​   On the drive home after Palm Sunday mass we—my sisters, Mary, Joan, and I—listened while Dad began his campaign to banish Mimaw’s Easter Lamb Cake from the holiday sweet table. Every year she picked up the cake from the bake shop section of the neighborhood Piggly Wiggly. The grainy frosting tasted like sweet greasy Crisco which sometimes helped the dry pound cake from getting stuck in your throat. Normally, Ma held to the ‘only one glass of soda with your meal rule’, but she understood it took at least two glasses to swallow the cake. She brewed a large urn of coffee for the grown-ups, and we enjoyed the excuse to drink more soda. Maybe the extra cup of coffee wasn’t enough of a treat for him, because every Easter Dad tried to convince Ma to serve a different cake.
     We lived for her treats. She baked her luscious German chocolate cake for our birthdays, and Dad blew out his candles on a towering, triple-layer, cream cheese-frosted, carrot cake. Her magic rivaled any bakery in the area, and we wondered why Mimaw insisted on carrying the dessert torch every Easter.
     Dad opened the conversation with a casual lob, an attempt to distract Ma from his true intent.
     “I can’t believe next week is Easter. The years are going by faster and faster, aren’t they May?”
     “Uh-huh. They sure are.”
     Dad didn’t hear her practiced, but casual tone. We recognized it though, and watched the familiar game play out from our vantage point in the back seat. In an attempt to appear casual, Dad replied with a loud, but clearly fake yawn.
     We silently signaled to each other. Mary answered my nudge with a sidelong glance while she smoothed her hair, and Joan replied by pursing her lips and slightly nodding her head. Oblivious to his tactical misstep; he carried on.
     “That Palm Sunday mass seems like it gets longer and longer each year. How many people fainted this time, May? Two? Three? I don’t know why we can’t sit down instead of standing up for the entire Gospel, or at least shorten the story up a bit. Don’t give me that look, May. I don’t think it’s blasphemy to edit the Bible. Listen, it makes sense. The congregation knows the story. ‘Jesus Triumphantly Enters Jerusalem’. Any person who regularly studies their Catechism knows this. I don’t understand why it’s repeated verbatim year after year.”
     Ma’s turn to yawn; a real yawn.
     “C’mon May, you know me. I’m able to stand for the whole shebang. I’m only thinking of the seniors. Year after year pretending to listen to the same story go on and on and on. It’s not right. One of them will hit their head on the pew and get hurt. Pastor Paul needs to look into this. Just a little editing can’t hurt. It’s the same familiar story for Chrissakes, it’s not like there’s a new episode or something.”
     Ma watched Dad squirm a bit. “You’ve got a point, Rich.” But our giggles broke her concentration. “Just what is going on back there?”
     During Dad’s diatribe Mary scrunched down, so they wouldn’t detect her in the rear-view mirror. She silently imitated Dad by mouthing every word right along with him, and even expertly mirrored his driving motions of steering with the left hand and pointing with the right.
     Right on cue, Ma yelled at us to keep the noise down, “…before you give your father a headache and cause an accident.” We wondered how Ma kept up the tradition every year, or did she really have no idea what Mary was up to? Hard to tell, but Mary cracked us up again by whispering, “Wait for it, wait for it…”
     “What’s on the menu for dinner next week?” Dad asked.
     Mary remained scrunched down, and mimed him word for word. Joan and I almost died. Joan slapped her hand over her mouth to imprison her laughter. But it escaped as a projectile snot rocket, which hit the back of the front car seat. We died again. Ma turned to say something to us, but gave up. Ignoring the riot in the back seat, she assured Dad there were no changes to the traditional Easter dinner menu; baked ham, Aunt Sarah’s sweet potatoes topped with broiled marshmallows, Aunt June’s famous red Jell-O mold, green beans and bacon prepared from a now-forgotten relative’s recipe, biscuits Ma always made sure were baked just like Dad’s late mom, Grandma Esther baked them, and Mimaw, and only Mimaw brought the Easter Lamb Cake.
     “May, how about this year you take care of dessert. Not that it matters to me one way or another, but I’m only thinking of the other guests. They deserve a nice dessert to top off the wonderful spread you lay out. A dessert should extend and wind down the celebration at the same time.”
     “Rich, you know my mom always brings her lamb cake, it’s tradition.”
     “Tradition May? It’s not even her cake. It’s a God-awful, dry, factory-made Piggly-Wiggly cake.”
     “C’mon hon, you aren’t all that fussy about your sweets. You’d eat a whole box of Little Debbie’s for dinner if I let you. What’s your problem? So, what if she brings the cake?”
     “I can get store-bought cake anytime. You don’t bake every day, and I’m not saying you should. It’s too much trouble, but a special occasion warrants a special dessert. One that will leave people with a good taste in their mouths. Wouldn’t it be nice for once to enjoy a nice cup of coffee with a slice of your carrot cake, instead of needing a cup of coffee to choke down that damn lamb cake?”
     “She’s my mother I can’t hurt her feelings.”
     “Impossible to hurt what she does not possess…”
     “What did you say?”
     “I said it must be almost impossible for her to pay for the cake. She doesn’t…uh possess the funds. It must be tough for her. Being on Social Security now?”
     “Uh-huh.”
     “Please talk to her?”
     “How? You know how she is. She only talks at people. Besides, I have enough to do this week without dealing with her. It’s easier to just let her bring the cake. Are you girls okay back there?”
     Our silence alarmed Ma more than our noisy laughter. She amazed people with her ability to ignore the everyday loudness of squeals and arguments that surrounded us.
     Friends and family always remarked, “How do you keep from going crazy, May?” or “I wish I had an ounce of your patience, hon.” This led to comments on what a good mom she was, or how lucky we were that the angels gave us to the right mother. Everyone spoke highly of her child-rearing skills. Well, everyone except Mimaw.
     “I swear May, those brats drive me crazy. When are you going to teach them to behave?”
     Ma tried to explain to her that we were only playing, but Mimaw responded with her rules on the necessity of discipline.
     “Any mother who allows commotion shirks her duty to society. Forget the college fund May. Mark my words, you won’t need it with these idiots. You’ll be paying their bail instead.
     Ma ignored her because she understood problems flourished in silence. If you could hear children they weren’t getting into too much trouble. That’s why she abruptly turned around in the car. For once we weren’t hiding in sneaky silence. We’d been stunned. Ma normally shut the cake argument down before it went on this long.
     Dad seized the opportunity. “Just call her, May. I understand she’s proud, but you’ll be giving her an out if you tell her we’ll take care of dessert. She’ll act upset, but deep down she’ll appreciate not having the financial burden of buying dessert for everyone.”
     Ma dropped her blank stare and looked softly at Dad. She turned away for a moment and looked out the passenger window. She straightened up, and suddenly seemed more relaxed than she usually did around the holiday.
     “Okay, hon, I’ll call her tomorrow. And just what is going on back there? You girls are way too quiet.”
     Our silent sister radar filled the spaces between us in the back seat.
     As soon as Dad parked the car, we ran straight to the backyard to figure out what just happened, and why Dad hated the tradition of the Easter Lamb cake. Mary thought it was the frosting; swirls of sweet and fluffy buttercream. She noticed most of the grown-ups scraped the icing off on their plates.
     “Why do they do that? I think the best piece is the butt,” I said, “hardly any cake and all icing.”
     “It’s hard to explain, it’s just an adult thing to do,” Mary explained, “you’ll get it a couple of years.”
     Mary understands more grown-up stuff now. She’s only three years older than me, but I passed our bedroom a while back and heard Ma talking to her. Mary was crying.
     “You’re not crazy hon, your feelings are completely normal. Soon you’ll notice some changes, but don’t worry about any of it. I’m here to explain it all to you,” Ma said.
     They started talking about cycles, not bicycles, something else I still don’t understand. Mary felt better after talking to Ma, but I hope I never get a cycle if it changes my feelings about frosting.
     I reminded Mary and Joan that Dad always ate two pieces of birthday cake and didn’t scrape off the excess frosting. Mary looked confused when I asked her if Dad’s love of frosting had anything to do with becoming an adult and cycles. Joan changed the subject. She thought the lamb’s creepy eyes bothered him. No, I proved Dad possessed a very high tolerance for creepy eyes. When we visited Mimaw, he always made fun of the picture of Spying Jesus. We named it Spying Jesus because no matter where you stood it seemed like Jesus’ eyes followed you. Dad liked to sneak up next to it and yell “Boo”. Mimaw sent him to Hell every time he did this, but we laughed and relaxed a little while we sat stiffly on her brocade sofa
     “Hey Mary, what’s brocade?”
     “Why?”
     “You ever notice how Mimaw never says ‘my sofa’, but says ‘my brocade sofa’? What’s brocade?”
     “I asked Dad once, he said Mimaw has a need to proclaim she has the best sofa.”
     Before we reached a conclusion about Dad’s aversion to lamb cake, or why Ma agreed to broach the subject with Mimaw, we were called in for lunch.
     There wasn’t time the following week for any mystery solving. Ma called Mimaw, and convinced her not the bring the lamb cake. She promised Dad there would only be German Chocolate and carrot cake for dessert. We helped her clean the house, and she helped us pick out dresses and hats. She promised us if we stayed out of her way while she baked there would be time to color eggs.  Easter Sunday finally arrived. It was the only Sunday we looked forward to attending church services because we could show off our new outfits. Mary was especially proud that year because Ma agreed it was time for her to graduate from a wide brimmed bonnet and tights to a pillbox hat and pantyhose. Dad smiled and called her Jackie Kennedy when she came out of her room.
     Ma gave Dad the last-minute rundown.
     “After church, just drop us off, and head over to Mimaw’s. I’ll call her to let her know you’re on the way. And no stopping for gas or cigarettes, you know she’ll be waiting outside on the front porch for you.”
     “No problem, hon.” Usually he sounded like a beaten down man, but today he was almost perky. He was still Mimaw’s chauffeur, but he was through choking down her offering. During Mass his Alleluias and Amens inspired the congregation to lift their voices even higher. Pastor Paul clasped Dad’s hand with both of his after the service.
     “Amen, Brother Rich. I heard the voice of our Risen Lord in your hearty responses and you filled our small church with blessings. Your happiness inspired the whole congregations to partake in His goodness.”
     “Uh, thanks,” Dad mumbled. Ma saved him from more theological compliments. She squeezed Dad’s hand, and thanked Pastor Paul for a lovely service.
     “You’ll have to excuse us, Pastor. Rich still has to pick up my mother, and I have a ham to take out of the oven.”
     After we were out of earshot, Ma let out a laugh.
     “I swear to God, Rich, I didn’t realize cake could lift your spirits to such heights.”
     Dad slid behind the wheel, and looked serious for a moment.
     “Don’t take this the wrong way, May. I know you love me, and everything…but this week, I listened to you stand up to Mimaw, and watched you sing while you bake. It’s…I don’t know how to say this right…May, you take such good care of things. You listen to Mimaw, handle the kids, the house. You’re the most popular neighbor around here. Jeez, even those Christian crones at church can’t gossip about you. People feel like they matter when they’re around you. And now, I feel like I matter.”
     The silence in the car lasted all the way home. Not an uncomfortable, I’m-not-talking-to-you-after-a-fight silent. Or an I’m-so-bored grumpy silent. Or an invisible, if-I-stay-real-quiet-no-one-will-know-I’m-here silent. No, it was a perfect, my-heart-is-too-full-to-hold-anymore-goodness kind of quiet. Ma scooched over next to Dad, and laid her head on his shoulder. They held the pose the whole drive home. We sat back, and, I swear to God-no lie, the three of us held hands. No hidden hand spit or squeeze the fingers either. A perfect ride home.
     Dad dropped us off, and before long the aunts, uncles, and cousins poured into our home. The perfect chaos of our noisy family replaced the perfect quiet we felt after mass. The uncles helped us serve whiskey sours to the women, and beers to the men. We refilled the bowls of nuts and chips, while Ma and the aunts moved between the kitchen and the dining room. Right before Dad and Mimaw were due, Ma told us to pick up the empty glasses and bottles. It was our favorite job because we could sneak the whiskey-sour marinated cherries from the bottom of the glasses before Ma or one of the aunts dumped the ice and washed them. The front door slammed. My cue to take Mimaw’s coat.
     “Now make sure you hang it up, Audrey. Don’t just lay it on the bed,” Mimaw said.
     “She knows what to do,” Dad replied with his head down.
     “I’m just making sure I don’t carry everyone’s lint home with me.”
     “I said, she knows what to do.”
     In thirty seconds Mimaw sucked the perfect out of the gathering. The women scurried into the kitchen. The men grabbed another beer, not to be sociable, but because they knew they needed something to get through the next couple of hours with Mimaw. I noticed the package Dad carried when he pushed past me on his way to the kitchen.
     “And watch how you’re holding the cake, Rich. We can’t have a decapitated lamb at the table. It’ll be all your fault though. There is no extra frosting for repairs. So. You. Be. Careful.” She raised her voice on each word because he didn’t answer with his usual ‘Uh-huh.’
     He stomped into the kitchen and yelled, “Everybody out. Everybody except you, May.”
     Ma and the aunts froze. Dad never yelled. He complained, grumbled, talked under his breath, ignored, rolled his eyes, sighed, hung his head, straightened up, looked away, but he never yelled. He opened his mouth, and before another word came out the aunts left to pour themselves another whiskey sour in the living room. Ma faced Dad alone.
     At that moment, we hated Mimaw because she made our Dad yell. Mary clenched her hands. Jan’s eyes teared up, and I felt sick. Mary cracked open the kitchen door so we could peek in. We held hands to stay strong while we spied on them
     “You told me, May. You promised,” he pointed towards the package.
     “What are you talking about? Oh no! Hon, I swear. I told her. Look, I even baked both cakes for you.”
     “It doesn’t matter,” and before Ma could speak, he turned and walked out the back door into the yard.
     “Why are you girls crowded around the door? Get out of my way, so I can get this dinner started.” Mimaw barged into the kitchen just as the back door slammed shut. “Everybody is standing around like it’s a funeral with no body. Why do I always have to take charge? I swear there wouldn’t even be a ham on the table if I didn’t order it for you, May. I pray he didn’t wreck the lamb cake. You should have seen the way he grabbed it from me. No thank-you, no nothing. And May, he didn’t speak one word to me on the whole drive over here. Not even a Happy Easter or a how-do-you-do. Do I ever bring up my friend, Adelaide? No! How she receives an Easter Lily every year from her son-in-law? No, I swallow my pride in the name of family peace. I try so hard. I even remember to bring the cake without being asked.”
     “I told you not to bring it.”
     “That’s silly. Why would I allow you to break our tradition? I bring the Easter Lamb cake every year.” She glanced at Ma’s cakes resting proudly on the kitchen table. “You have too much dessert. You’ll have to give those to your neighbors.”
     “I decided to serve a different cake this year.”
     Mimaw smirked, “Hon, stop being silly, and help me with these green beans. By the way, Mary is too young for pantyhose. People will get the impression she’s a whore. I don’t know what you’re thinking sometimes. I said, help me with these green beans, May. Get a move on. Don’t look at me that way. At least I’m concerned about Mary’s reputation. Spend less time baking, and more time inspecting your daughter’s wardrobe. You know I’m right.”
     Dad came in from the yard, and I swear if we didn’t see this with our own eyes we wouldn’t have believed it. In fact, we debated for weeks what really happened. Joan decided it was a drunken hallucination from too many whiskey-sour marinated cherries. Mary believed the door wasn’t open wide enough to give us enough perspective on the event. I know what I saw.
     Ma glanced up when she heard Dad come in the back door. She stood at the kitchen counter and carefully unwrapped the package to reveal the Easter Lamb cake in all its fluffy white-frosted splendor.
     “Pay attention to what you’re doing there, May. I can’t repair any mishaps.”
     “Don’t worry, I am paying attention.”
     On my honor, no matter what Mary says, I was not drunk on maraschino cherries. I know what I saw. For a moment, Ma and Dad silently looked at each other as if nothing else mattered. Then Ma turned away and placed the lamb cake on its special platter. Slowly, but with a focus I hope I never witness again, she picked up the carving knife held it over her head, and slashed it through the lamb’s neck. Mimaw’s eyes looked as wide as the creepy pair of jelly bean eyes staring up at Ma from the kitchen floor. For good measure, she smashed the head into a pulp with one stomp of her patent leather pump. Ma looked back at Dad.
     “Rich, you and the girls get dinner on the table while I clean up.”
     We stopped spying, and rushed into the kitchen to help.
     “Here Audrey, take the biscuits. Mary, you grab the Jell-O mold. Oh, here Joan, God forbid we forget the sweet potatoes. Rich, you start carving the ham.”   
     Mimaw regained her voice, “I’ll do that. May, he’s using the wrong knife, and he’ll ruin the slices.”
     But we were all too busy to pay attention to her.  Mimaw pouted and tried protesting with silence, but it didn’t matter. Dinner was delicious, and Ma still let us have two glasses of soda with our desert even though we didn’t need it.
     “It’s tradition after all,” Ma said.
 
 
 
     

   Bart slept over on Friday because his mom was having another one of her parties. I’d never been to one her parties but I liked them anyway because Bart got to sleep over at my house. We listened to the radio, talked about baseball, and played checkers. We were pretty even in checkers, but I think I won more games than Bart did.
   In the morning, Bart helped me with yardwork. We were nearly done weeding the beans when we saw his mom marching across the street. The high heels and floppy dress she was wearing were not gardening clothes.
   Bart stopped weeding. “I know that look. Someone’s in trouble.”
   “But you’ve been with me all night. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
   She continued right up to the garden and said, “Bart, come home now. We have some planning to do.”  
   “Thanks for the help in the garden,” I called to Bart as he left with his mom.
Something big was up. It was never good when adults made plans because their plans always interfered with ours.
   I fretted the rest of the morning. I even had a hard time finishing my PB&J and chocolate milk for lunch. Man, I had to know what was going on.
   As I put my dishes in the sink, I saw Bart out the window. He was walking quickly, almost skipping. Whatever his mom thought he did, it couldn’t have been that bad.
I dashed outside and before I had a chance to ask what was going on, Bart said, “We need culture.”
   “So you didn’t do anything wrong?”
   No, we need culture, that’s all.”
   “Huh?”
   “Some college professor from somewhere who was at my mom’s party said there’s no culture in our town. He sounded like an egghead.”
   “What does that mean, no culture?”
   Bart sat on the front steps and said, “Theater.” He hunched over and picked at crack in the front steps with his finger.
    “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I said. We have a movie theater in town.”
   “Nah, theater like live actors and plays and stuff.”
   “The high school puts on a play every year. I hear they’re pretty good.”
   “I dunno. My mom went on and on about being stuck here with no culture when Dad is out of town travelling all the time, getting culture and stuff. And museums. There’s no museum in town.”
   “They always have antique tractors in the parade.” I was trying to be helpful and cheer Bart up.
   “No. museums with great works of art and stuff. Paintings and things. That’s all I’ve heard about for hours this morning.”
   “So, do you have to get cultured, whatever that means?”
   Bart thought about it for a minute. “I’m going to have to do something, but I’m not sure what. Mom’s talking on the phone to the professor guy. Figure I’ll know soon enough.”
   The next morning Bart came over and said “We’re going to The City and we going to The Museum of Modern Art.”
   “Neat. When?” I asked.
   “This Friday. All day. At least I won’t miss our baseball game on Thursday. My mom already asked and your mom said you could come, too, if you wanted.”
   “Sure. Sounds like fun, I like looking at paintings of trees and mountains.”
   Friday morning came and we three were off in Bart’s Mom’s car to the City to see a “Rauschenberg Exhibit.” I didn’t know what it was but it didn’t really matter, as I couldn’t remember the last time I’d visited the City.
   Me and Bart rode in the back seat so we could talk. After an hour, I dozed off and when I woke up, Bart was asleep. We parked in a big garage full of cars. Bart woke up when the front bumper hit the parking garage wall.
   “We’re here?” Bart asked.
   “Yup.” Was his mom’s response.
  “I’ll bet that’s the professor guy,” said Bart, pointing at a tall man wearing a suit jacket.
   “He has patches on his elbows. He kinda looks like an egghead,” I said. “His elbows must’ve worn through his sleeves.”
   He kissed Bart’s mom on the cheek like they do on TV in Europe. It was a little weird and I was glad Bart didn’t see it, he was too busy looking out the window.
   She looked at Bart and said, “Enjoy the museum. Here’s some money for lunch. The cafeteria is on this first floor. At 3:30 sharp, be right here. You boys won’t be late, right?”
   “No, Mom.”
  The museum was huge. We followed Bart’s mom and the professor to the “Rauschenberg Exhibit” on the first floor, but lost sight of them as we entered the room. We saw a painting that was all white. Nothing but white paint. A small crowd had gathered around it.
   “It’s blank,” I said to Bart.
   “I guess,” Bart said. “Let’s listen in to what they’re saying.”
  Bart started repeating the comments from the museum patrons. “Stunning.” “Captures the era, the hopelessness.” “Brilliant.” “I see the trials of everyday life.”
   “Bart, I can hear them. Stop, you’re gonna make me laugh.”
   Bart started making up comments like, “White paint because he ran out of blue. “I ran out of ideas to paint. I want to make people look silly commenting on it.”
   The last one made me laugh uncontrollably. The crowd stopped speaking and looked at me. I laughed harder. Then a fat museum guard pried himself off a stool and shook his head at us.
   “Maybe we should go somewhere else,” Bart whispered. 
   I finally stopped laughing. “It’s blank. How can they see anything in it?”
   Bart smiled. “At least we’re getting culture.”
   We stood back and watched people looking at it for a while.
   Bart pointed to the opposite wall, “Look, there’s a black one.”
   Sure enough, there was a painting that was all black. No trees, just black paint. I didn’t need to hear people talking about that one, I was sure they’d see a lot of underlying meaning it.
   “Let’s get a hot dog at the cafeteria,” Bart offered.
   “Sounds good to me,”
   Bart’s Mom had given him enough money for two hot dogs, two Cokes, and two fries for each of us. We had money left over but didn’t have room left over. We were stuffed.
   After sitting for a while and moaning about eating too much, we decided to see more art. In the room next to the one with the black painting and white painting, was a life-sized stuffed animal, like in the fancy sporting goods store.
   “Would you look at that,” Bart said.
   “Is that a car tire around the hairy goat?” I asked.
   “I guess,” Bart said. “Look – there’s a hat flattened under the glass and part of a tee-shirt hanging out. That’s modern art?” 
   “Can we go now?” I asked. “I think I’m done being cultured. We should find some paintings of trees and hills and stuff. This stuff is boring.”
   Bart nodded.“Gotta be better on the second floor, let’s go.”
   We found a room with paintings of scenery from France. Trees that looked like trees; hills that looked like hills. They were nice.
   “Bart, I remember my grandfather talking about scenery like this. Do you think we’ll ever get to go to France?”
   “I don’t think so. It’s a long way from home.”
   We both spent most of the next hour and a half looking at the paintings.
   Bart asked, “Do you have room for another hot dog?”
   “I wish. I can hardly move.”
   “Well, it’s almost 3:15 so we should head back to the lobby to meet up with my mom.”
    “Okay, we’ve seen all the paintings in this room. It’s my favorite room so far. I’m glad I came. Thanks, Bart.”
    “Me too. The paintings were as good as the hotdogs.”
   “There’s your mom, coming into the building. She must’ve gone outside to look for us. Are we late?”
   “Nah, the clock says 3:20. We’re okay.”
  Bart’s mom smiled and said, “Hi, boys. Did you enjoy the museum? Were you amazed at Rauschenberg’s White Painting?”
   “We thought it was dumb,” Bart said. “The black one, too.”
   “The black one?” she asked.
   “Yeah, it was in the same room,” I said. It was painted black and nothing else.”
   “And the hairy goat,” Bart chimed in.
   “There was a goat painting?” she asked.
   “Not a painting of a goat, but a real goat that died and was stuffed and had a tire around it. It was dumb, too,” Bart said.
   “My, you boys really did the museum, huh?”
   “Yes,” I replied. “We liked the paintings of scenes from France on the second floor. They were our favorite. Well, after the hotdogs for lunch, thank you very much. What was your favorite painting?
   “Uh, I liked them all. Well, all right now. Let’s head home. Come along boys.”
   On the ride home, me and Bart talked about how silly the white painting and the tired goat as Bart called it, were. We both had the same favorite painting, one of a countryside in France with rolling hills and a big tree in front. A brighter sun and maybe a baseball diamond might improve it, but it was pretty good as it was. Today we had hot dogs, Coke, and culture. All in all, it was a good day and who knows, there is always tomorrow.

Andrew was born many years ago in Yorkshire, but now lives on the Wirral where he writes stories and works as a support worker. His stories have appeared online and in print magazines.

​Death in the Castle
There he was, just as I expected him to be, sat in the castle grounds reading The Times, a respectable looking man enjoying the last few moments of his respectable life. The people we kill are often esteemed and loved, with no tarnish to their name. But they have to die because of who they work for, for what they know or perhaps because they just got greedy.
 
I cannot see her, but I know she is close by; after so long together I can sense her and know she will do what we agreed. Our victim, Mark Hyland, gets his pen out, and starts on his crossword. He always sits on the same bench, during his lunchtime; twelve fifteen until just before one, it is hidden away under a grove of trees and so is always empty. The bank where he works is one of Nottingham’s smallest and is two minutes’ walk from the castle entrance.
 
There is a slight wind, and his newspaper rustles slightly so that with a tut he folds it more tightly onto his knee, his pen in his mouth as he ponders the next clue. He does not notice me as I approach and sit down next to him, I am dressed similarly to him in a dark suit and holding a briefcase, in it I also have The Times as well as a syringe filled with poison.
 
He looks at me as I lean back on the bench and take a deep breath, he seems slightly annoyed and swiftly gets back to his newspaper before I can start a conversation. I can smell flowers and a cigarette, this part of the castle is usually quiet although I can hear a child shouting from the playground over on the other side. I open my briefcase and get out The Times, folded within is the syringe.
 
Hyland’s thigh is close to mine, covered in expensive cloth. For a moment I contemplate it and then I grab the syringe and with one quick jab I thrust in the needle which is fine and meets little resistance. He gasps and holds his suited leg and looks at me with horror in his eyes, already he will have lost the power of speech and, within two minutes at most his heart will have stopped beating. I stand up and swiftly walk away, back towards the castle building, not looking back.
 
My arm is taken lightly and she is at my side, her perfume, specially chosen is expensive, as is the jacket that she is wearing.
“Darling?”
“Shall we look at the paintings?”
She nods and we walk into the castle building which has a small gallery. There is an exhibition of paintings by Mark Gertler and we look at half a dozen; bright coloured pictures reminiscent of government propaganda posters and some darker drawings of the ghetto from whence he came. We talk briefly of what we are looking at, there will be time for a debrief when we get to the office later tonight, now we are a young couple in well-paid jobs enjoying a brief lunch with each other before going to back to our respective places of work.
 
There are no police about as we head towards the exit, presumably Mr Hyland’s corpse is lying unnoticed, his newspaper still clasped tightly in his hand. We walk out of the castle, and both smile at the young man on the gate and then share a brief kiss before going our separate ways. I have promised to do a small food shop whilst she is going for a drive in the countryside and after she has made sure she is not being followed, will meet me at home this evening for dinner.
 
 
Arise
I love the sound of her as she starts to wake in the morning; she breathes slowly, as if acclimatising to wakefulness and her teeth chatter briefly, and then she is conscious, lying there thinking, possibly wondering where she is and what her name can be, and who this man is lying beside her.
 
We were given names when we were put together eight months ago, but they are only in use for this relationship, when we are moved on we will be given new ones. I often long to know what her real name is; the name her mother called her, the name her first lover murmured to her as he lay inside her and kissed that hazel hair and around her dark brown eyes. I often think of different names as I lie waiting for her to awaken; Jane, Miriam, Esther, but in the end I decide upon Catherine, and I whisper it to myself when I am on my own or working in the office.
 
It is strictly forbidden for her to tell me her real name nor can I tell her mine and I do not dare ask. Perhaps I can trust her, but who knows just the slightest illegal question and I could be reported and maybe sent back home, certainly the end of this comfortable life in a pleasant and green suburb of Nottingham with a beautiful partner in a large house which suits the modern couple that we are supposed to be.
 
“Good morning” and she smiles at me. It is still only a week since the job in the castle and so we are unlikely to be called out again today. I will go to The Office for midday and do various administrative tasks whilst she will go out and do her job, something to do with newspapers I understand. If we were really lovers we might fill the couple of hours with languorous lovemaking but I do not feel comfortable suggesting it.
 
“There is a concert tonight. Cheryl suggested going to it.”
“What is it?” I ask, a little excited, at the thought of dressing up and going out and the perfume she wears for special occasions. She has mentioned Cheryl before, but I have no idea who she is.
“An English composer, Henry Purcell, an opera called Dido and Aeneas. One of the earliest in the English language.”
One thing I know about her is that music is her love; more than her job, the organisation, certainly more than me. I fear for her because of this, I learnt long ago to put aside or personal loves, sacrifice them at the altar of the cause. Even my children have disappeared with barely a thought.
 
“Okay, is at the Royal Concert Hall?”
She nods and throws me a brochure and I read it whilst she gets up and walks out of the room. She still undresses and dresses in the bathroom; even after making love she puts her nightdress or pyjamas back on and sleeps with her back to me. I long to wake up in her arms, both of us naked and talk; talk about what we care about, who we love, our fears our hopes. Not worrying that the other is taking down notes ready to report the conversation and earn a point or two in the eternal league table.
 
I hear the shower going and get up. The room is bland; we are told to make our houses personal but tend to use catalogues, and the knowledge that we might leave at any time of day or night means you are not likely to spend too much effort on it. I have put some copies of novels by Thackeray, the only truly great English novelist, in the front room, but otherwise the house could have been part of a set for a television programme.
 
We sit and eat breakfast; Catherine my pretend wife, offering me toast and coffee. We sit opposite each other. She is smartly dressed as always; her clothes chosen for her as mine were for me.
“Have you got the music? This Dido and thingy?”
We listen to the opera on our kitchen stereo, I don’t think I have ever sat with someone for almost an hour listening to music at home without talking. At a concert it is different, you have no choice but to listen and keep quiet, but at home amongst the conveniences of a modern bourgeois kitchen, I find it strange, at least at first. The opera has love and lust, wickedness and abandonment. Dido left bereft and wanting to die. A tear drips down my face and I swiftly wipe it away.
 
I am sure the concert will be lovely tonight, but we will be on show, with no idea who might be watching us playing a role, whereas here, at home I can relax lose myself in the music and in the presence of Catherine who is the centre of my world, for the time being at least.
 
The music finishes and we walk towards each other and hug awkwardly. Her body seems fragile for a moment, although I know how strong she is, and I feel close to her, have this urge to kiss her with love and care, but she breaks away before I do so.
“See you this evening” she tells me and leaves with her thin brown case. I do not know where she goes, not really. The newspaper story could be untrue, she could be somebody’s mistress who she has been ordered to blackmail, or perhaps she is somebody senior and is reporting on me, these my final days.
 
I catch a bus to the city centre and then walk along the canal to my office; the old industrial buildings with their more modern neighbours made of glass and iron, often fill my thoughts, even though I know as well as anyone that life is ephemeral. By instinct I constantly check that I am not being followed, but the towpath is empty as I head to work.
 
 
House Call
We knock on the door with Bibles in our hands. Apparently they are expecting us and the door is soon opened by a young woman who looks Japanese and who bows slightly as we walk in. She does not say a word but leads us into the front the room which has a large table out with more Bibles on it and other books. There should be a man here, but he isn’t so I rush into the kitchen which is also empty, as I do so I hear a thud and as I walk back into the front room the Japanese woman is lying on the floor about to be shot.
 
I hurry up the stairs; the first bedroom I come to is small and dark and it takes me awhile to realise that there is nobody in it, and then I hear murmuring from another room and I push in to find a man reading to a young child, the man looks up at me and I shoot him in the head, twice. I cannot bear to look at the child and hurry downstairs.
 
We get in the car and we are soon driving down the motorway towards Nottingham.
“There was a child.”
“Shit. What did you do?”
“I left it, it was only two. I couldn’t… we weren’t told.”
She drives us back home quickly, not even checking whether we are being followed and then we go to bed, both of us awake but silent until the winter morning sun eventually peeps through our curtains when we get up.
 
We get dressed and speak no words. Is this how marriages end I wonder. The shame, the silence, the knowing too much. Will she be gone when I get back? Do I care? How can I not?
 
 
Passionate Night
I look into her eyes as I am inside her. She keeps closing them as if to avoid my gaze but then for a moment she gazes back at me with an expression I do not understand. She clasps my back with her hands and then pushes me deep into her and moans into my ear and she collapses around me.
 
I kiss her body; partly because it is beautiful, the hips so pale and the surprise of her large breasts, but also because I do not want to lose the moment, do not want her to get up and wash me off her and put on her nightdress and chastely go to sleep. She lies there languidly as I worship her body, and I hear a chuckle. She hauls me up and we kiss again, long and passionately. I cannot remember a kiss like that, not from her, not from anybody; a kiss that knows me and accepts me, that wants me. And then I am inside her again and we kiss as we make love again and for a moment I am her and she is me.
 
Afterwards she lies in my arms.
“Who is Catherine?” she asks after a moment, tickling the back of my neck.
“Oh and old girlfriend”, I tell her untruthfully “sorry”. I wish I had told her the truth. She kisses me on the lips and gets up, and I watch her walk out of the room and hear the tinkle of the taps. Will this be the last time? We have been together over a year now and the end is surely due.
 
The first woman I had been partnered with called herself Eve, we were together for seven months, living in a council house in South London. We had mostly been spying on someone who worked for the government and his mistress who we then had to kill. From the first night we made love; loudly and with laughter, and that is how I remember her, large and on top of me, smiling down at me, no love but affection and happiness.
 
The second partnership lasted for only three months, just for one assignment in Walsall, an ordinary housewife that we trussed up and tossed into the canal, I have no idea what she had done or who she was. That night we made love and when I awoke in the early hours she was gone, with just a faint trace of her aroma on the pillow.
 
She comes back into bed and lies with her back to me. I put my arm around her and she sinks into me and then slowly she starts to sleep. For a moment I could be any man with the woman that he loves.
She's all states, and all princes, I,/ Nothing else is /.Princes do but play us; compared to this,/ All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
 
 
Goodbye to Catherine
I am in Glasgow, I live alone have done for three weeks, biding my time and getting to know the city. This evening I have been given a name, a photograph and a list of places where she is likely to be. I feel unbearably sad and lonely as I walk through the darkness; it is quiet here, posh, not far from the university. I really like Glasgow, have enjoyed exploring it every day. I know that I will be moving elsewhere tomorrow or the next day and soon it will be just a memory.
 
She is sitting alone in a pub, looking as if she is waiting for someone.
“Hello” I say, she is just the same as before although slightly less well-dressed; her beautiful brown eyes look at me at first in surprise and then in resignation.
“Would you like a drink?” she nods and I get us both a beer. We drink slowly and talk about Glasgow; she has been here for a longer time than me; since she left a year ago.
“It doesn’t have to be like this” she tells me. Underneath she is afraid, knowing what is coming. I say nothing, just look at her, trying to memorise that face that for so long was so familiar.
 
We walk to the park, and to my surprise she takes my hand, the first time we have ever held hands. They feel dry and slightly warm. It is dark here and quiet, the city just a slight buzz in the background.
 
We find a metal bench, near the art gallery.
“Sit down next to me” I tell her, and I feel her shiver.
“I missed you” she says, “I hoped we would stay together.”
“That never happens” I tell her.
 
I bend over her and kiss her on the cheek and she holds me tight, as if never to let me go, her breath on my face. After a few moments, and with reluctance I push her from me and walk away, the needle I had pushed into her thigh drops to the floor with the faintest of clinks.
“Goodbye Catherine,” I murmur, “my love, my heart.”
 
 

Sierra Tiller is nineteen years old author who was raised in Redmond, OR. She is a current student at Full Sail University perusing a "Creative Writing for Entertainment" bachelors degree. Tiller dreamed of being a writer before she could even spell her own name. At the age of 4, she would have her mother write down the stories she told. As she grew she fell in love with reading. On many occasions she would be late to class because she was so enthralled in a book she didn't hear the bell ring,. Tiller publishing on website like "Quotev" and "Wattpad" to share her stories with others. After high school, she began pursuing her dream of writing. Her schooling focuses on screenplay writing, but she uses what she learns to elevate her storytelling and writing skills for writing off of the big screen. To read more of her works visit https://blackxrosexangel.wixsite.com/sierratiller.

       Silence. Static. Lights flickering. Thunder booms outside. Jared watched the screen blankly. His eyes burned, struggling to stay open. Lights cast shadows on the yellow floral paper, battling the blackness for control. He tried to hold tight to his body, not letting himself drift off. He held a small, thick card to his chest, a date past sketched elegantly on it. He rested his head on his out stretched arm, gripping the remote in one hand, yet he did not try to fix the snowy screen. A voice mingled itself into the static that echoed through the room, it sounded much like his own, but drawn out with metallic undertones. Jared lifted his head from the turquoise couch that he rested on and stared at the small television before him, the static moved configuring a portrait of him, black suit, a smirk etched onto his lips. Its catlike eyes sent chills through him.
            “What are you doing here? We had an agreement you would never return,” Whispered Jared, “She was very clear, you wouldn’t come back”
            “It is time to become one, again,” the creature says, snarling.
            “I won’t become you again! I beg you not to do this. Anyone else just not me.”
            His white, gloved hands gripped the edges of the television and the duplicate dragged himself from the confines of the screen, knocking it off the table in sat on, it crawled across the floor, its back arched to a snapping point, his arms bent backwards at the elbow, and its neck snapped, facing the ceiling. Jared shot up, ready to fight the monstrosity, but the/ creature stood before him and snapped his head back into place, staring into each other’s eyes each waiting for the other to move. Jared slams his full weight into the creature, pinning it to the wall. Jared looked around for the transparent orange bottle. He needed his pills, now. It laughed maniacally. Pills. Please.
            “You can’t keep me away. They can’t save you now, I’m here.” The creature said, “It’s too late now, Jared.”
“No, you are not real. I got away from you once before,” Jared said, “You have no power now.”
            “It wasn’t the pills, Jared. It was her. That’s what kept me from you.” It said
            NO. NO. I won’t. You’re not me. You will never be me. The creature grabbed Jared’s shoulders, pushing him backwards. The metallic voice sounded in his head, echoing in his mind, no escape. I am not you, Jared, I never have been you, you have forever been a part of me, regardless how much you deny it. Jared stumbled backwards, he tried to push the creature from his mind and his hands coiled in his hair, ripping chunks of hair from his scalp, the voice only grew louder.
       Stop fighting me, Jared, you and I both know it is true, you know I am not lying. The creature stepped towards him, arms out stretched offering as if offering a hug. Jared whipped his head back and forth, frantically looking for an escape, but found none.
           “Please. Please don’t do this. I don’t want to go back, I came so far on my own.” Jared said, pleadingly.
           “But you are not your own. You are me,” The creature said, “and it is time for you to come home, now.” He moved swiftly, encircling Jared in his arms.
         Jared fought against the beast that held him, he fought for his life, for everything that he had accomplished in his short time. He failed. He felt the force dragging their bodies together, like the moon to the earth. His own body began to weaken, visibly falling limp. The two flickered, and fused into one. The creature. Jared clawed the throat of the creature from the inside trying to escape, but he was home. This is where he belonged, he always had. The creature returned to television, still filled with static. He smirked as he crawled back from wince he came.
            The room lay still as if nothing had happened, but Jared was gone. He had never been here, no one would know he ever existed, he never had. The storm has passed, peaceful. Silent.
 

Lola enjoys writing about things close to her heart.  She loves to reads especially crime and psychological thrillers. Lola also loves to garden and the sound of rain on the rooftops.  She enjoys spending time with her fiance and going on long walks in the woods.

​​

​The evening was dark as she made her way down the road to town. Ashley knew what she had to do today. Being a housewife in a terrible situation, she knew she had to abandon the life she had. The feelings of being trapped were overwhelming.
            Her desperation to get out was killing her soul. She had ran out of options in this town of nothing. She was all alone and felt hopeless. There ha to be somewhere to go to start over where he couldn’t find her Ashley had to find that place.
Following her dreams, she fastened her pace down the road to freedom. She had no idea where she was going but she had to get away.
            Her only other option was staying and him killing her.  Ashley did not believe in killing but she wanted to live.  The abuse was escalating, getting worse each day.  The verbal abuse cut through her like a knife.  The physical abuse had left so many scars she had lost count.  It was going to end with him killing her.  She had weighed all her options and leaving was the best choice.
            Ashley had no family or friends to turn to, he had ruined those relationships over the years.  She felt so alone as she made her way to town.  All she had with her was a backpack with clothes and all of her important papers.  The nearest Domestic Violence shelter was two towns over.  She would walk if she had to, just to escape for her life.
            It had all stated with on blow up and his anger got out of control.  It had escalated to daily abuse and broken bones.  He was always trying to break her spirit as well.  But she was leaving and never going back.
            Ashley had her own dreams that she would never be able to achieve with him.  Now she was going to start over and pursue those dreams.  She finally felt a twinge of hope, an optimistic look at her life.  The dreams that she had given up on, mainly because he had told he for years she would never be anything and that she was nothing.  Now she would prove him wrong.  Why did he have to be so mean?
            As she was walking, a woman in a car stopped and offered her a ride.  Ashley was grateful, she was exhausted and going on pure adrenaline and fear. Ashley explained where she was going and the woman took her to the shelter.  As they drove, the woman told Ashley about her own experience with abuse.  It made Ashley feel less alone to know others have gone through her situation.
            They slowed down and turned into the driveway of the shelter.  Ashley thanked the woman and she wished Ashley good luck.  Ashley had taken the first step just by leaving.  Now her life was going to change for the better and be positive.  Ashley wouldn’t die at the hands of the man who said he loved her.  She entered the shelter to start her new beginning.