A Collection of Short Contemporary Stories

A COLLECTION OF SHORT CONTEMPORARY STORIES

Featuring the Novella: INTO TILOVIA

By James W. Nelson

Dedicated to all my best friends; you know who you are.

INTRODUCTION These are stories taken from not only imagination but personal experience with a whole lot of imagination added. Dozens, hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands of occurrences happen every day, every minute, and there is a short story hidden in each one. I am one of the lucky ones who can see that hidden short story, imagine how it could happen differently, take a note or two (I almost always have a tiny notebook and pen on me, and if I don’t I’ll take a napkin, a piece of newspaper, even my hand to write on, and I’ll attempt to borrow a pen from anyone who’s near me from an elegant-looking lady to the scariestlooking guy you can imagine!—I’ve even been known to buy a pen; I must write down that note or two!) and then, on the way home, I’ll scribble more on whatever is handy, and when I get home, I’ll drop every other household chore—including eating—until I’ve gotten those first thoughts safely stored on my hard drive. It used to be harder: I’d have to write everything down by hand and then get to the manual typewriter (In those days I could write by hand faster than I could type.) But once those basic notes were down I could take it from there. A novel develops a little differently, a lot more slowly, but that’s a whole other story.

BIOGRAPHY

James W. Nelson was born in a little farmhouse on the prairie in 1944 (many doctors made house calls in those days) and has been telling stories most of his life. Some of his first memories happened during recess in a one-room country schoolhouse near Walcott, North Dakota. His little friends, eyes wide, would gather round and listen to every hastily-imagined word. It was a beginning. Fascinated by the world beginning to open, he remembers listening to the teacher read to all twelve kids in the eight grades. The first two books he read himself were Forest Patrol and On the Fur Trail. In the tenth grade, he read Swiftwater, by Paul Annixter, which Disney immortalized as Those Calloways. Other than school papers, though, writing held off until the navy, where he kept a sparse journal. But the memory banks were beginning to fill. About 1968 he interviewed his family and got their recollections of the 1955 tornado. His first piece and immediately rejected by Reader’s Digest. But the vein had been opened. His first novel (still in unfinished hard copy) became a thousand-page behemoth, “hand-typed” four times. Then an electric—will wonders never cease?—typewriter, and two more drafts. The first computer arrived about 1980 (typewriter and monitor). One click and a correction got made, and the story got typed automatically, but, still, one page at a time. The next three novels and about forty short stories came quickly. Because the story subjects are so different he uses three pen names. He has published two short stories in small press magazines and won three short story contests (Falls Writers Workshop, Ohio). DYING TO LIVE (an autobiography) is his first book in his own name. A COLLECTION OF CONTEMPORARY SHORT STORIES is his second.

CONTENTS

THIRTY SECONDS TO THE GROUND A skydive gone really bad.

MY HUSBAND, MY HERO A nursing home love affair.

GEEK OF THE ROAD Believe it or not, the geek sometimes gets the girl.

FOR A CUP OF COFFEE Really, how much is a cup of coffee worth? For your sanity, sometimes quite a bit.

THE REAL MEANING OF A QUARTER One shiny little quarter can mean the difference between a good day, and a really bad one.

DON’T GET TOO CLOSE A nursing home resident goes from down, to way up, to really down, in the space of a couple hours.

THE ONE WHO LOVES ME A little girl is the only one who knows who she should go live with.

GIRLFRIEND FOR MOTHER Sometimes a friend asked to help can become much more than a friend.

WAITING TO DIE For a thousand years mankind has feared the pandemic, an extraordinarily-mutated virus, that vicious creature that cannot be seen by the naked eye.

VOICE FROM THE CONGREGATION A crippled girl’s voice creates new life in a young couple’s marriage.

ONE DAY AT BOXELDER COVE A young red squirrel learns a whole lot about life and survival.

HE HAD IT COMING A boss gets murdered, and nobody, not his family, and not even one employee is sorry.

INTO TILOVIA Nobody was helping the Tilovians; seven friends decide it’s time somebody did.

30 SECONDS TO THE GROUND "Three thousand!" Rod yelled, "Four thousand!" By then his parachute should have been opening. It was not. And Rod was not hearing his own words. His eyes were open but seeing nothing. He was experiencing first-timer's blackout. The jerk of the chute opening would, likely, have woke him. Even without the jerk he should have been waking up. He was not. Descent speed had reached about forty mph.

About twenty-five seconds remained before he reached the ground. **** "Hi!" came the voice over the phone, "I'd like to do a skydive!"

Jake's gut twitched. It didn't happen often, but something in this guy's voice set it off. “With experience you build up to a skydive," he replied, "What you'll be doing is a static-line, four-second-delay, parachute jump. Have you jumped before?"

"No. But I know I want to."

"OK. What's your name?"

"Rod Skokum."

Jake couldn't explain his gut twitch. But, no cause to reject a new student. The next class would begin the following evening. Peg's rotation for training. **** One pm. From the classroom window Peg saw the four students arriving. Strangers during their first class, they were now bonded with a sort of fear, the anticipation of danger. They likely had planned a meeting at some restaurant for noon lunch, now were arriving together. It happened sometimes, this quick bonding. It was good. Skydiving did that with people.

But one of the students caused her...oh, some discomfort. Peg couldn't think of his name but picked him out. He wasn’t swaggering, not stumbling over his own feet, so what was it? He reminded her of what

Jake might have looked like fifteen years earlier, except the student wore his dark hair longer, had about four days stubble on his face. Now that she thought about it Jake usually had about that much too.

This class was her fourteenth, total of seventy-nine students, also her smallest. She felt glad about that. More time to spend with, whatever-his-name-was. What bothered her about him? She shook her head. Her graying blonde hair swished. Maybe at thirty-nine she was too old for this sport, too cautious.

Keep jumping, yes, but no more students. Out of her other seventy-five students nobody had landed miles away. None in the sewage lagoon. Nobody hurt.

A hundred percent so far. Yes. Time to quit. No more responsibility for students. Let the younger skydivers do it all. After this class was safely on the ground she would announce her retirement from training.

The students were at the door, entering.

"Hi, Peg!" From what's-his-name.

She finally remembered, "Hi, Rod." That afternoon for their first jump she also had radio-groundcontrol. She would speak to her students on one-way sets, but Rod might need to actually hear his name.

She should not forget again. If only she could share her discomfort about this guy named Rod with somebody. Jake at least should know. But why label the guy? He had done absolutely nothing to cause her...discomfort.

So why did she feel discomfort?

Her students were seated. Four expectant faces stared at her, two young women, two young men, all showing a quiet but reined-in fear, but fear nonetheless. All but that Rod character.

She dismissed those thoughts. She had to. These four people depended on her. They were trusting her with their lives. She would not let them down.

Her own thorough skydive training kicked in. Now she would function without emotion. These students would understand the seriousness and listen closely. The training would enter their heads, so that their bodies, later, if necessary, would perform without cognizant thought, at least to a point. "What may seem like more endless drilling is coming up this afternoon, people," she said, "You might get tired and bored, but, listen and watch and learn. Our training method works.”

She met the gaze of each attentive face, lastly Rod. Whatever he was projecting did not affect her.

“But first a video about your equipment.” **** Another second became history. Rod’s descent speed hit fifty mph. Approximately twenty-four seconds to the ground. **** From the chute packing area, about thirty feet from the harness training rack, not a good view but enough, Jake had watched the students performing their drills. Three made at least two mistakes each. The one called Rod made no mistakes, even helped the other students with a word, or a point.

Jake finished packing a student chute, stood, stretched, then walked to the open hanger door facing west where sunshine was pouring in. What a perfect day for skydiving. It had rained that morning, but Jake kept a close watch on the weather. Satellite coverage the night before had shown a window between approaching cloud banks in the west. By 2pm the closest front had split and begun dissipating. At 4pm all that remained of clouds were low puffy fluffs and higher strings of cirrostratus, far above where any plane from the small airport would climb to that day.

Beyond the stringy clouds how blue that sky was. How it went on and on and on. How Jake loved that sky, the perfect freedom of falling through it. He glanced toward the student Rod and wished that feeling in his gut, that twitch, would go away. But it did not go away.

**** Training over. Peg watched the students lounging while they waited for the pilot, who would be leaving his job about then and would arrive in about a half hour. Sometimes that bothered her. Whether trainer or not she always wished the students could go right from class, to jump suits, to the plane, when everything was completely forefront in their minds.

She could have slowed training she supposed but boredom could have set in. A mind or two could have wandered, could have missed something. No, their method worked. All but waiting for the pilot. But everybody had jobs. Everybody had to earn money to pay for this expensive skydiving habit, this obsession of height and fear, and the thrill of that certain knowledge that each jump—if nothing worked— could be the last.

Her gaze went to Orlan, that mountain of a man who packed most of the trainer chutes. He could do it with his eyes closed, almost with his hands behind his back. He was good, the best. A bank loan officer he had skipped his afternoon off just to help pack these chutes.

The student Rod had hovered in the vicinity of Orlan, at times even appearing to be in the way as he asked questions and followed Orlan back-and-forth during canopy folding and line straightening. She thought about saying something to Rod. But, Orlan had packed chutes in the close presence of students before. If Orlan didn't mind then Peg shouldn’t either.

Jake was now packing his own chute, had his laid perpendicular to Orlan's, so his back was turned.

Earlier, as Jumpmaster that afternoon, Jake had taken up six students who had come a hundred miles the day before, completed classes and their first jump in one day, stayed overnight, then had returned for their second and third jumps. Everybody had arranged work schedules for the two-day affair, but the money was good. Something had to pay for fuel, hanger rental, new chutes, and student fees did that. So everybody had arranged their schedules to fit. It was worth it so everybody did it.

Peg wished that pilot could have stayed for this last trip. But he worked the four-to-midnight shift, so just not possible. But their own pilot would arrive soon.

The phone rang. Peg rushed to the lounge to answer.

Orlan was at a critical stage of chute packing. Student Rod was on his knees facing Orlan, bent over as close to the work as Orlan himself as Orlan inserted the static line through the metal ring hooked to the tiny canopy that would drag out the main canopy, only the static line was inadvertently mis-routed underneath a closing flap of the parachute container.

This parachute, a tan one, now would not function. The decisive mistake happened very quickly. If Orlan would have had one more second he likely would have caught it, but besides the distraction by student Rod he was about to be interrupted by Peg. The phone was for Orlan. Peg hated to interrupt anyone while they were packing a chute. She glanced through the door window, saw student Rod almost face-to-face with Orlan. Well, maybe Orlan wanted to get interrupted. She moved to the door. "Orlan, can you talk to your wife? Won't take a minute she said." Orlan would take his call, return to his packing, and his hands would begin again where they had left off.

Both men rose from the floor. Peg didn't look at student Rod but saw a definite expression of irritation on Orlan. He passed her in the doorway, "Thanks, Peg. And give that guy something to do, will you?"

Yes, she would. She would give them all something to do. It was time anyway. Peg's Training took over, "Ok, people. Let's get the jump suits on."

All four students approached.

Student Rod picked a red and black suit that was way too big for him. In his fall the suit would

blossom in a very, very, very, vague, similarity, to a parachute canopy. **** For student Rod two more seconds passed. Descent sixty-five mph. Twenty-two seconds to the ground. **** Jake finished packing his own chute and stood. For one second it crossed his mind to give the chute he had packed earlier to the student Rod. He knew it was packed perfectly. No decisions yet as to what student would get what chute. No decision to make really. All chutes were basically the same.

He walked to where Orlan had been working. The static-line lay ready to be packed and the bag closed. Not a good time to be interrupted, if any time was good. Again, not a real conscious thought, but Jake considered checking the static line tie-off. But, no, Orlan had never made a mistake.

Jake turned away just as Orlan came from the lounge.

"Be ready in another minute, here, Jake."

"No prob, Orlan."

And yes, just as both Peg and Jake assumed, Orlan's hands knew where they had left off and began packing again.

Fifteen minutes passed. The four students stood around, ready, their eyes...Jake had never really figured out how their eyes looked. Frightened? Just nervous? It didn't matter. All students looked the same, like they were holding their breath. Almost all. Rod Skokum looked like he was heading for a picnic.

He gazed at student Rod. What was on that face? Of the four Rod appeared the least tense. No, not tense at all. Why did that twitch remain in Jake's gut?

The pilot arrived, went immediately to the plane. A moment passed before the single-prop engine roared to life. For Jake training took over, "Let's go, people. I know you're all scared to death, but soon that fear will melt away. You'll all do fine on your first jump."

They filed toward the plane. Peg called a radio check.

All four students waved they had heard.

Jake slapped Student Rod's shoulder as he climbed in. Student Rod wore the tan parachute. A picture snapped in Jake's mind of the tan bag laying, unfinished, the static-line laying loose, the bag unclosed. But it was closed now. The picture lasted no longer than it took Jake to blink. Nothing was wrong. He couldn't go around checking everybody else's work just because of a gut-twitch.

Jake slapped each student's shoulder as they climbed into the plane, then checked a couple things on his own chute, the altimeter on his wrist. Everything ready. He wore no jump suit that day. He was Jumpmaster. His job was to get the students smoothly out. He was not planning to jump himself.

With over 2000 jumps Jake did not waste his adrenalin jumping from 3000 feet, where all students began. No, nothing less than 10,000 for him, and up to 15,000 when they went on boogies to Arizona or Florida, or some other far off exotic place. Maybe soon he would do that. Just jump himself, pleasure just himself, no responsibility for students, just himself.

The pilot revved the engine. Jake crawled in, closed the door, looked over the students. Nobody looked back. All eyes were staring straight ahead, looking at...maybe looking at nothing.

All except the student Rod, who was gazing at Jake. Jake looked back for about two seconds, then turned away. What was in those pale blue eyes? He just did not know.

They were rolling, about forty mph...fifty...sixty....

**** Peg watched the plane get airborne. It would be a tense few minutes as it climbed to three thousand feet.

The students had gone in by number. The student Rod was first in so his number was four. He would jump last. Strange, she couldn't even think of the other students' names, just Rod, Rod....

Time passed. The plane was directly overhead. She watched the first student exit, one of the young women she thought. Didn't matter. On the one-way radio she would speak to them by number. Chute opening. The student had a few things to do now. She held the radio close, "Welcome to the sky, student number one," she said. "Check your canopy, and check for twists in your cascade lines. If there are any, kick in the opposite direction of the twists."

Too far away to see if the student kicked. She waited a few seconds. "Student number one, if you can hear me give me a left ninety degree turn."

Immediately the student turned. Good contact. Peg released a light breath. Evidently the steering toggles were free and functioning. Now enjoy the view. She remembered her first jump, how peaceful and calm everything was from above. She wanted to give her students as long a first ride as possible.

The plane began circling for the second student's exit.

Student number one was starting to drift west a little too far, out over the sewage lagoon.

Peg's training worked automatically, "Student number one, turn left ninety degrees."

Student Rod passed seventy mph. Nineteen seconds to the ground.

The first three students were enjoying their ride down. The first...yup, just reached the ground. In a pile.

Far back in Jake's psyche a smile, and a chuckle. But training was preventing showing any kind of emotion. Nothing that could possibly affect the next student's concentration.

He leaned back from the open door, gazed at student Rod, then eased himself behind the pilot. "Move forward." Just an order, just two words stated clearly. No time for more chatter up here. Too much windnoise. The students had heard everything in class. Now just short, crisp, orders.

Student Rod moved forward, sliding on his butt.

Jake stopped him partway, attached his static-line to an eyelet attached to the plane, then had the pilot check, then student Rod. It was secure.

Then the next order, "Get your feet out and stop."

Just a few words from close proximity. No way could it be misinterpreted. Student Rod did exactly as he was told and trained to do, grasping the door's casing in two places and placing both feet on the small launch platform, and then stopping, and then looking out at the faraway earth.

Kind of in a dreamworld. Stop him.

The unplanned thought jolted Jake. Bring him back in.

But no reason to. Absolutely no reason to. At this point most of the first-time students appeared to be in a dreamworld. Hell, they all did. And why on earth wouldn't they feel that way?

The plane began the last turn. Just a few seconds more. Jake leaned out. Almost overhead. "Move all the way out."

Flawlessly student Rod thrust his body up, grasped the airplane’s strut, then moved hand by hand into ninety-mile-per-hour wind, then swung one leg down, then the other and hung by his hands with legs spread, and looked back into Jake’s eyes.

Everything exactly as required.

Last order, “Look up.”

Student Rod looked up at a red spot painted on the underside of the wing, fixed concentration for a second, then let go, arms thrust up and out, legs spread, head back, a wild grin on his face, shouting, “Arch thousand…!”

Jake leaned out the door slightly, heard the shouted, “Two thousand…!”

Student Rod was in perfect spread-eagle form.

Though shouted at the top of Rod’s lungs, jumpmaster Jake did not hear the words ‘three thousand!’

Student Rod was falling away.

The static line came to its end, tightened briefly, then hung from the plane. It had not dragged out the tiny canopy on the parachute that would have dragged out the main canopy.

“Four thousand…!” Student Rod shouted the words but the words whipped away. **** Peg watched student Rod exit. The three-to-five-second time delay was not long. It had happened before that an extra second or two had seemed to pass before the chute could be seen trailing out.

She felt every muscle in her body tense. The tension seemed to last a long, long, time before the subconscious thoughts, the chute’s not opening. **** "Five thousand!"

Student Rod was still in perfect spread-eagle freefall position. That would have seemed exceptional for a student's first jump, but Rod's body was still frozen in the form it had been in when he let go of the plane's strut. If anything his flattened form and baggy suit was causing a slow fall, which soon would be detrimental to him.

His eyes had been open throughout, but not seeing or comprehending a thing. His thorough training had gotten him that far. "Six thousand!" At that point his instructions were to look up, to see if the chute was opening properly. His head even tilted farther up. But even if he had been cognizant he would have seen nothing except blue sky and puffy white clouds.

Later he would not remember shouting numbers at all. What he would remember was a last fading glimpse of the plane, then a feeling as if slipping underwater, a whoosh! It took him months to identify the exact sensation. Years earlier he had received barbiturates for surgery. First the prick, then that whooshing roar through his veins to his head.

An absolute sensation of SPEED! Twelve seconds had passed. Eighteen remained. **** Jake too had counted off the seconds, not out loud, not even consciously, but his training kept that timespan in his mind. His feet were already on the small launch platform.

Peg spoke calmly into the one-way radio, “Rod, pull your reserve ripcord.”

Rod did not hear her. His training was beginning to wane. By then his chute should have been blossomed fully. He should have been releasing the steering toggles. He should have been goggling down at the faraway city of Strattland, the surrounding checkerboard farmlands, the winding Brandywine River, the airport below him and the sewage lagoon.

But he was blacked-out, his mind in total suspension.

Seventeen seconds remained. **** Just once before Jake had knelt in the open door this ready to dive after a student. Just the one time had he watched the automatic-opening-device deploy the chute at twelve hundred feet. Student Rod could not be far from that altitude. But that time Jake had not been experiencing the gut-twitch. He had watched confidently, knowing the AOD would work.

And it had. This time it was not going to.

Jake braced his feet, let go of his handholds. **** "Rod! Pull your reserve ripcord!" Some calmness had left Peg's voice. But still her training held, even with the sight of that dark body hurtling toward the earth, not even tumbling but still in spread-eagle position, but she knew soon passing the 1200 foot altitude where the AOD should pop the reserve chute.

But student Rod was dropping too slowly. Peg was barely aware of her thoughts as she kept repeating the one message, but she knew she was right. She knew speed was what made the AOD function much more than altitude pressure. She knew eighty mph was necessary. And she knew that student Rod in his perfect spread eagle form was not going to reach that speed. She spoke to Orlan without looking at him, "911."

"Right, Peg." Then her feet were moving her forward. In peripheral vision she saw a second body exit the plane.

Jake was going to try catching student Rod. She knew he could not.

"Rod, pull your emergency ripcord!" Her voice still sounded calm. She knew the next time would be close to a scream. **** "ROD! PULL YOUR EMERGENCY RIPCORD!" Student Rod heard the voice. The words had no meaning. He could feel no part of his body. Nothing under his feet. Stomach completely gone. He must be dreaming. If he would have had the presence of mind to look at his wrist altimeter he would have seen 1000 feet. Descent about seventy-eight mph and holding. Ten seconds before he would hit the ground. **** Even with over 2000 jumps and Army Ranger training, nothing had prepared Jake for bulleting through the air from only 3000 feet. Thirty seconds to the ground. And that was in a normal fall. Jake, his body pointed in hard dive, would get there much more quickly. **** Peg saw Jake, shaped like a knife, streaking toward student Rod. Her mind recorded that sight. She would never forget it. She felt her voice going into the radio again, definitely a scream, "ROD! PULL YOUR EMERGENCY RIPCORD!" Again and again Rod had heard the voice. But the words continued having little meaning. Ripcord?

Ripcord...but he couldn't move his hands. Some vision began coming back. He saw the sewage lagoon.

He didn't want to land there. But he could steer the parachute away. He wondered why he couldn’t? **** Over pointed hands, head up just far enough to see, presenting as little wind resistance as possible, Jake knew he was catching student Rod. But the ground was coming up fast too. No, the lagoon was.

A chance. Getting too close even for the reserve chute.

"ROD! PULL YOUR RIPCORD!" Now the voice in the radio was making some sense...some. But all on Rod's mind was missing that sewage lagoon. That shitty water. His hands, arms, legs began moving.

Jake had heard Peg's continuous radio talk. Why wasn't student Rod doing what he was told? From about 200 feet behind—if incredulity was possible in Jake's position—he was feeling it as he watched student Rod shaping his body into a knife, like Jake's, and actually beginning to increase speed, and change direction. Away from the lagoon.

"NOOOOO...!"

Rod heard the distant second voice. Barely. And what little concentration he had was lost. He began tumbling.

"RODDDD! FETAL POSITION!" Fetal position? That Rod could do.

Jake imagined he could almost make out expressions on Peg's and others' faces before he leveled out and pulled his own ripcord about four hundred feet above the lagoon. He hit the water not nearly as hard, and about two seconds behind student Rod. Peg watched the water splash at least thirty feet high from student Rod, then again from Jake, whose collapsing and barely-open chute muffled much of the splash.

As she scrambled down the lagoon banks she sensed many other people also running, workers from the small airport, the other students, other skydivers just off their jobs ready for a relaxing evening of skydiving.

Student Rod pile-drove through seven feet of water and several inches into the muck of the lagoon.

His breath was knocked from him. He swallowed water, realized there was no air to breathe, and finally came fully to life, struggling.

The muck sucked at him. He could not move. Even the automatic floatation device could not budge him.

But in seconds other hands dragged him to the surface.

His first words, "WHOOOEEE! WHAT A FUCKING RIDE!" Later, while hanging his chute to dry, Jake shared his plans with Peg of taking a boogie to some exotic far off place for some real skydiving relaxation.

"Good idea," Peg answered, "I'm going with you."

--The End--

MY HUSBAND, MY HERO “Aaa-errr!”

The woman had heard her husband calling, off and on, for, she didn’t know how long. All her life, maybe. She knew he was calling her and knew he was saying ‘Mother’. But it didn’t sound like ‘Mother,’ more like a very young child just learning to speak. The ‘M’ sound was missing, and the ‘th,’ and other sounds in his speech were missing. But she knew what he was trying to say, so she heard him as she knew he meant for her to hear.

“Motherrr! You gonna get supper on pretty soon?”

Yes, she should. She wondered if she had meat thawed. She thought so. She had dusted that day. So she should have meat thawed.

“Fresh fry the potatoes,” her husband called.

Yes, fresh fry. He had always liked them that way, sliced thin and raw and spread in the frying pan like silver dollars.

“Motherrr!”

The voice cut into her. What did he want now? She should go see. She moved her right hand, at least lifted it. Her left one didn’t seem to work at all anymore. Her right hand rested on the narrow wheel. She even gripped it, slightly. The wheel even turned, but no more than a half inch.

“Motherrr!”

The voice came again. Loud, yes. But not demanding, never demanding, and not really even too impatient. How she loved him. She gripped the wheel again. Maybe an inch. Maybe more. She even thought she felt movement.

“Motherrrrr...!”

A little louder that time. She wanted to go to him, and wasn’t really sure why she couldn’t. Oh, yes, she couldn’t walk. A long time since she had walked. She couldn’t even really remember what walking was like, wasn’t even really sure she had the word right. Walk?

She just remembered her husband. All those years on the farm, getting up early everyday, helping milk the cows. She would never forget that one time when Red had not wanted to be milked, or something. The cow had kicked, and kicked again, and then had gone a little crazy, or some such thing, and actually started bucking, even with her back legs hobbled.

She knew the cow was normally gentle, and would never hurt her purposefully. Even so she grabbed her half full milk pail with one hand, her stool with the other...

“Mother.”

Her husband’s voice had quieted again. Maybe he was just plain giving up. She wasn’t coming to him, but she should—but she just couldn’t. And sometimes she wished that voice would just plain shut up! Her mind went quiet. A few minutes passed. Gradually she thought of the cows again.

She had stood up, with no place to escape the bucking milk cow. So she simply stood there, pail in one hand, stool in the other. Then she finally realized the cow behind her—the gentle, horned Kickapoo—was lying down. So she threw her left leg over Kickapoo’s back, got herself halfway when Kickapoo decided to stand.

“Motherrrr...!” Extra loud that time. She would have to go see what he wanted, soon. “Supper ready yet?”

Supper. Supper soon should be ready. She had dusted that day. She had done what she could.

Kickapoo had gotten up from her soft bed of wheat straw, and there she sat, backward on Kickapoo, pail in one hand, stool in the other, one leg on each side of Kickapoo’s extended belly.

“Mother.”

Not loud at all that time. She should stir the fresh fries. She should check the meat, if it was thawed.

She had dusted. That was enough for one day. She didn’t remember being frightened on Kickapoo, but she had called out for her husband and he came immediately. But then, when he saw her, he began laughing.

“Well, laugh, ya damn fool.” That was what she said to him. And remembering made her laugh now.

Well, she wasn’t laughing, exactly, but she felt good, remembering.

“Motherrrr!” Loud again. She wished he would make up his mind. Either he wanted her badly, or just a little bit. And if he wanted her just a little bit she wasn’t going. To heck with him! Her right hand gripped the wheel again. Maybe three whole inches. The chair actually moved. But the wheel came right back, always, as if stuck in a rut.

So there he had stood, laughing. Well, she guessed she hadn’t been in any real danger. Couldn’t do anything though, just sit there with her pail and stool on that Kickapoo’s bony backbone, and kind of uncomfortably too.

Her husband quieted the bucking Red then and untied her legs. “You’re OK, Red.” He patted the red cow’s haunches, then took the pail from her right hand, set it back in the alley behind the row of cows.

Then, moving to the other side of Kickapoo, he took her stool and hauled that to the alley. At last, grinning, his eyes just bright, he came back a third time, put his hands on her waist and gently lifted her from Kickapoo’s back.

And then, right there between the milk cows, he put his arms around her and hugged her, tightly, “I love you, Mother.”

I love you, Mother. How many time had she heard him say that? How many times had he expressed it,

in so many, many ways, and in front of their three children, any time, any place, and always with plenty of cuddling and body contact. Hundreds of times, no, thousands. ‘Mother,’ that’s what he always called her, and she always called him ‘Daddy’. Almost always, unless she was mad at him for some reason. Couldn’t even think of his real name right then.

But he hadn’t said those words lately. Didn’t he love her anymore?

“Motherrrr!”

And where was he? The voice seemed so far away. She looked around the room. He wasn’t there.

Where are you, Daddy? All she saw was her dim room, and a doorway, and beyond that brighter lights.

“Motherrrr!” His voice seemed to come from the doorway. If he would just come to her. She couldn’t go to him. It was so frustrating sometimes.

“Motherrrr...!”

And what did he want? He always wanted something. Always. He had always, always, wanted something. If he would just say what he wanted.

“Motherrrr! Is supper ready?”

Supper? Ready? She didn’t know. She had dusted that day. She had done as much as she could. She couldn’t work all the time.

“Motherrrr! Where are you?”

Where am I? Where are you?

Something appeared in the doorway. She blinked. Her husband. Lying down. His confused eyes were looking around. He was moving his hands and arms, a little. She blinked again.

“Mother, where’ve you been?” His head raised, a little. His eyes brightened for a second and he looked right into her eyes, “Is supper ready?” Then his eyes returned to confusion and his head fell right down again.

No, I don’t make your supper anymore. Her mind began to clear. For a moment she remembered where she was. She saw clearly what was happening. A young woman in a white uniform was pushing her husband in a reclining jerrychair. And she, herself, was sitting nearly helpless—no, she was helpless—in a wheelchair. She and her husband were in a nursing home, at least together in the same room but more separated then they had ever been in their sixty-five years.

No, longer than that. They had met when she was nine, he eleven. He had kissed her on sight, and right on the lips. She didn’t remember if she slapped him, or not.

Probably not.

So handsome her husband had always been, such a hero. Always, a hero, a great and wonderful hero, “Daddy....” She barely uttered the word. She knew what she wanted to say but he wouldn’t hear her anyway. She always had to repeat and repeat and repeat. It was too hard. So she just thought, I love you too, Daddy, but I can’t fix your supper.

Her mind muddled again. She returned to the far, far, past, where events remained clear, always clear. It was best in the happy past.

--The end--

GEEK OF THE ROAD Engine exhaust hung in smoky plumes in the frigid twenty-five-below-zero air over the parking lot. The sun hovered barely above the western horizon. In January northland night came early.

Twenty-six-year-old Hillman closed the driver-side door for the eighteenth time, then stepped into the Honda Accord driver seat and began opening and closing from inside. All the way open. All the way closed. Then he had the passenger door to open and close, then the trunk and hood, power windows and side mirrors, cubby hole, everything the consumer would ever use Hillman had to test.

One of the other drivers walked past, "Hey, Hillman. Open that door. Close that door," then walked on, laughing.

Hillman didn't answer, just continued doing his job. But from the corner of his eye he saw that the other driver did only about half his checks and tests. He didn't care. Hillman would do the job as he had been told to do it.

Eighteen. Hillman left the door closed, started the engine, and began running tests of the radio, heater and other electrical checks.

A Dodge Neon was parked directly ahead of him. Most of the drivers didn't like the Neon. Too small.

No leg room. Rides like a lumber wagon. Hillman didn't agree. He liked the Neon. His legs were a little too long for it too, and he would never buy it for his personal vehicle, but he liked its styling, especially its back end, the way it...angled up.

It reminded him of a woman's back end. And when he drove behind the Neon, which was the order they drove in, that's what would go through his mind. That he was looking at a woman's back end. He could look at a woman's back end and not get in trouble for it, because the woman would never know he was looking. But sometimes he got caught anyway. But it was safe looking at a Neon's back end because nobody would know what was going through his mind.

He stopped his checks and looked directly at the Neon's back end. A bright red one. A woman should own that car, he thought, a real cute one.

A few seconds passed, then he went on with his job, and on and on, until every last text and check had been completed. He finished before anyone else, even though, he felt sure, that most of the other drivers didn't do all their checks. But he didn't care. He would do the job right.

Hillman was considered, by some, to be a geek. And slow, too. Not slow in intelligence, but very slow in getting it. Continually the brunt of jokes, he rarely understood what everyone was laughing at, and almost never, if ever, knew when people were laughing directly at him.

But, geek or not, Hillman was about to meet an angel. A real live, flesh-and-blood, girl, angel. **** About five minutes remained before they would take the cars out for road-testing. Hillman's vehicle was running and he was enjoying seventies classic rock music by the group Journey. He loved almost all types of music.

A rap came on the window. Hillman turned and saw the lead driver, the only one in Hillman's group who never teased him. But who also rarely talked to him. Hillman opened the window. The lead driver looked at him with an expression of, well, if Hillman had been less of a geek, or been one of the other guys watching from the side, the expression maybe could have been read as restrained amusement, because of what was coming.

"You've never been trainer, have you, Hillman?" Lead driver asked.

"No." "Well, it's your turn."

From lead driver's left side stepped, well, what Hillman saw first were the gentlest blue eyes he had ever seen. The impression was made but Hillman didn't really think about it right then. Instead he opened the door and stepped out.

"Trudy," lead driver said, "This is Hillman. You'll ride with him tonight and then...," he pointed, "you'll drive that red Neon tomorrow night, because tonight is that driver’s last night."

Trudy stepped forward and held her hand out, "Hi, Hillman."

Hillman took the hand, and experienced softness like he never knew existed. But again he didn't think too much about it. He was a geek, remember? Yet the impressions were made on him. Gentle blue eyes.

A soft hand. "...Hi...." He didn't know what else to say so he just started telling her about the job. Words tumbled out nonstop. In the next two minutes he told her everything she needed to know‌up to that point, and a lot of things she would never need to know.

But, that's how geeks operated.

Engines were revving.

"Let's go, Hillman!" came the voice of one of the other driver's.

"Lay'er on your own time, Hillman!" came another.

Hillman heard the comment but did not grasp the hidden meaning. That's how geeky he was.

"Radio check, Hillman," came lead driver's voice.

Hillman climbed into his Accord, grabbed the CB microphone, "Loud and clear."

"Roger."

Trudy stepped into the passenger side and would have, likely, in another second or two, done what Hillman told her, "Put your seat belt on, please."

She did it, then smiled.

The smile made its impression, but for the moment was mostly lost on geek Hillman, "So, have you

driven before?"

She smiled again, "Yes, a few times."

Even Hillman realized how that had sounded, "I meant..."

She touched his right forearm, "I know what you meant, Hillman. And, no, I've never done anything like this before."

The autos started moving. Fourth in line, the middle car of seven, Hillman shifted into gear and they moved onto English Avenue. He glanced in the mirror. "Looks like everybody made it," he said, "That's important, for everybody to stay together."

"I'm sure," Trudy answered.

"We'll go thirteen blocks north," lead driver said over the CB, "Then a block west on Meridian Street, then six blocks east on Almanac Boulevard, then the interstate."

Hillman chuckled, "Ol' Number One Driver, he always tells us where we're going, as if we might get lost or something."

"You mean he tells you stuff you already know, or even stuff you don't even need to know?"

"Yeah, right, ol' Number One acts kind'a geeky sometimes."

Trudy laughed, then threw her hand to her mouth and feigned a cough.

"He's all right, though, and knows what he's doing. Hey, you OK?" "Yes, I'm fine." She smiled again. The smile again made its impression. Trudy was making a real impression on Hillman somewhere deep in his subconscious. On the surface, though, everything was going right over his head.

They came to a red light. Hillman stopped just short of the bumper of the car ahead of him, the red Neon. He knew Trudy glanced at him but she said nothing. He stared at the red Neon’s back end, and had his usual thoughts about it, but wished he hadn’t had those thoughts. Green light. Hillman let the red Neon barely get moving before he moved too. He thought, again, that the Neon's back end reminded him of a woman's back end, but just for a second. He also remembered that Trudy would be driving it the next night, and, he wasn’t quite sure how he should think about that, or even if he should think about that, and felt his head and chest getting a bit extra warm. He wasn’t totally sure what that was about, either.

The fourth red light went to green. They moved ahead.

"Aren't you following kind of close?" Trudy finally asked.

"I know it looks that way but we have to follow close. That way it gives the last guy behind us a chance to make the green light too."

"But what if the guy ahead of you...stops...?"

"He won't."

"Why?" "Because he's a good driver, just like me."

"Oh, so you're all just a bunch of good drivers, huh?"

Hillman didn't know how to answer. He knew what he was doing, and why, but he had never had to explain before. A minute went by, then, "The guy ahead of me knows I'm following this close away from a red light, and the guy behind is following just as close, but as soon as we're away from the red light we all space out again."

"I'm sure you do."

What Trudy said, and the way she said it, with that hint of irony, was lost on Hillman.

"So, you guys all got together and discussed it?"

"Discussed what?"

"How to get through red lights."

"No." "Yet you think everybody is just doing it right, the way you think is right."

They reached the interstate before Hillman thought of how to answer.

Lead driver broke into his thoughts, "We'll go north for seventeen miles, then west on county road 76."

"There's ol' Number One actin' like a geek again."

Again Trudy had to stifle a laugh.

"I guess it's a matter of trust," Hillman began, "We never got together and talked about anything, but, well, we've all been driving together for a while now, and, well, we've just come to expect what the other guy's going to do. I know the guy in front of me isn't going to stop unnecessarily and the guy behind me knows I'm not going to either."

They began pulling onto the interstate and accelerating, "Watch." Hillman pointed ahead, "We'll be going into a curve." He kept pointing as the three lead cars entered the curve, "You see how they're all accelerating, and spacing out?"

"Yes, I would say that they are all spacing out."

Again Trudy's words were lost on Hillman.

"Now look back." He gestured with thumb, "The cars behind are doing it too. We're all in formation, just like jet planes." He grabbed the CB mike, "Lookin' good, guys. We're driving in formation."

"Fuck you, Hillman," came one voice in answer.

"Yeah, Hillman, you ain't in a goddamn airplane."

A silent moment went by.

Finally Trudy spoke, gently, "They don't sound, too...trusting...Hillman."

"Aw, they always talk that way. They don't mean anything by it."

"Oh." Hillman was staring straight ahead, and missed completely the very soft expression on Trudy's face.

They went into another curve. The moon was already up, and beginning to brighten in the twilight.

"Look." Hillman pointed.

Trudy looked. A few seconds went by, "OK, I'm looking…what, am I looking at?"

"The moon. By the next time we go in this direction, in about two hours, there'll be three planets with it...course, they're already there. It's just that we can't see'em yet."

"Oh." "Yeah, it's an astronomical phenomenon. We'll see'em in harmony like that for about a week and then, well, not again for about a hundred years."

"Oh." Another very silent moment went by.

"So keep telling me what we're doing, Hillman. I want to know all about this job."

He glanced at her. She was smiling, and all the smiles she had yet given him seemed, to Hillman, to be projecting from her right then. He thought she was the most beautiful female creature he had ever seen.

"OK." He smiled back, "Coming up is the antilock brakes test. We'll be leaving the interstate soon and going onto gravel."

For the next two hours Hillman kept up a nearly continuous monologue about cold weather automotive road testing. He told Trudy everything she needed to know and everything she would ever need to know about everything he could think of.

When they came around again to where the moon filled their windshield, this time it was Trudy who pointed, "Look, they're all there now."

"Yep, that's Saturn on the top of the triangle, Jupiter on the bottom right, and Mars a little to the left."

"It's beautiful, Hillman. Thanks for showing me."

"You're welcome. **** The end of the shift came. Geek that he was, even Hillman knew enough to leave what he was going to say until the end of the shift, so that if she said 'No', well, then he wouldn't have to face her again, not up close anyway, "Trudy...?"

She looked his way and smiled, "Yes, Hillman?"

He hunched his shoulders, "You want to go for a Dairy Queen...sometime...?"

"A...Dairy Queen?" A different smile came to her face. She looked away. Her hand came up to her face for just a second, "I...let me think about that, Hillman." She reached and, quickly, patted his right forearm, "But don't ask me again, OK? I'll think about it, and, if I decide I want to, then I'll tell you. OK...?"

He glanced at her. For the first time that night there was no sign of a smile on her face. "OK." Again she patted his forearm, and squeezed very lightly, then withdrew.

They reached the parking lot. He had already shown her every test and check she would have to do the next night when she had her own car, the red Neon. They stopped. Trudy stepped out immediately, then looked back in, "Thanks for all your help tonight, Hillman. I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome. I'm sure you won't have any trouble."

"Bye." Then she closed the door and was gone. **** The next night came. And Hillman was correct. Trudy had no trouble, for all five of the other men on the crew, including lead driver, helped her perform—in fact did for her—most of her checks and tests.

Finally Trudy stood alone by the passenger side of her car, appearing to make a last-minute visual inspection. Then she walked to the back end of the Neon, ran her hand over the trunk, then walked toward the driver side door, giving Hillman his first glimpse of her back end.

And he looked, for just one second, then tried to put his eyes anywhere else, but knew where he had been looking, and knew he liked looking there, and suspected Trudy would know where he had been looking, and, and...

Trudy grasped the door handle, pulled the door open, then glanced back to Hillman, and sent a small smile, then a wave, then climbed into her Neon.

After she could no longer see him Hillman realized she had waved, so he returned the wave.

After the radio checks no further chatter came over the CB system during the first two hours on the road, and Trudy drove her first time in formation like a pro.

Hillman was proud of her.

For their first break lead driver lead them into a 7-eleven store parking lot. They parked in a row, as usual, and in the same order as on the road. Hillman pulled in behind Trudy. Everybody got out and headed for the store and their cigarette and coffee break, except Hillman, who began writing a comment on his checklist sheet about how the transmission was acting.

He had made the comment before, so he wasn't real sure why he was wasting time writing it again, but he did know he didn't really want to be the first or even the second or third person into the store. He wasn't sure, exactly, why he felt that way either. Through side vision he saw Trudy hesitate and look back, toward him, but then five more bodies swept her along into the store.

He finished his comment. Now if he could just slip into the store and get his coffee, and then, well, maybe just slip out again. Hillman wasn't sure, exactly, why he was having these unusual thoughts. But he knew it had something to do with Trudy. He knew she would never 'get back' to him about the Dairy Queen date. He had been stupid to ask her in the first place. Girls probably didn't want to go on dates to the Dairy Queen.

Geeky as he was, Hillman was pretty sure he had been rejected.

But he finally went in for his coffee. **** For that break and the half-time break Hillman avoided the crowd, and the laughing and joking and foul language, and he avoided Trudy, although he occasionally felt her eyes on him. But he didn't know why she would look at him at all. He also didn't know why she would want to be with the others either, especially the way some of them were talking. But she didn't appear to be minding. Hillman didn't like how things were going, but he also didn't know what to do about it.

Things came to a head at the beginning of the last break when one of the other drivers approached Hillman, "Hey, Hillman, why're you hanging out by yourself?" Then he grasped Hillman's arm, "C'mon over'n' join the rest of us."

So Hillman went.

"You must'of trained Trudy pretty good last night, Hillman," lead driver said, "She's driving just like a professional."

"That's Hillman all right," one of the other drivers said, "Master trainer."

"Ha!" another added, "Master trainer and driver."

"Hillman, king of the road."

"Ha! Geek of the road!"

Laughter roared from everyone present, except Trudy, "Hillman," Trudy said, quieting the laughter, "Is the invitation for a Dairy Queen still open?"

The silence that followed almost hurt Hillman's ears. He also couldn't believe what his ears had just heard.

"Dairy Queen?" someone smirked quietly. More smirks and chuckles followed, and would have erupted again into raucous laughter, had Trudy not walked to Hillman's side, took his arm, and smiled, "Are we still on, Hillman?"

Some of Hillman's geekiness disappeared right then, forever, "Yes," he said.

Then Trudy squeezed his arm and guided them to a corner, and a measure of privacy, followed by five

sets of disbelieving eyes.

Yes, Hillman was a geek. And he would always be a geek, to a point. But, geek or not, he walked away with the girl.

--end--

FOR A CUP OF COFFEE Nine o'clock. When Charmaine McCarla arrived an hour earlier only two floral orders had hung by her work station. Then the phone had started ringing. She glanced down the ten-foot horizontal wire. Twentythree clothespins in use. Each order different. Each wanting best, prettiest, delivered now.

Right now.

How good a cup of coffee would taste right then. She imagined the aroma wafting up. But no time.

She positioned a white papier-mâchÊ container, grasped the tallest lavender gladiola, glanced at the order. Funeral bouquet. Sixty dollars. Nice, colorful, original, delivery within the hour. Five more also funeral, then birthdays, get-wells, just-becauses. And she knew one lurked, insidiously, with A.M. circled.

Always one A.M. Just to throw a wrench into every morning, destroy what could be a well-coordinated assembly line. She didn't agree with assembly-line designing anyway, and loved creating unique bouquets, but usually no time.

She hadn't searched for the A.M. yet. Another designer should arrive soon, then he or she could look.

But lately the other designers, both older than Charmaine's twenty-seven years, had been coming in late.

And together.

And no coffee. How she wished for a cup.

The showroom door opened. "Here's an A.M., Charmaine. Thelma asked me to bring it in."

Charmaine inserted the gladiola, reached for another, glanced up. Snapping dark eyes Billie, brand new salesgirl, sixteen, pure innocence, anxious to accommodate everybody and holding the order plain to see.

"Thanks, Billie." Charmaine read 'Dozen red roses delivered before ten-thirty,' clear across town. She couldn't believe it. How could Thelma take a vanity order like that? But of course Thelma was in the main office, and wouldn't know the true flower shop situation. Dang it.

Coffee. She was sure she could smell it from the lunchroom, where everyone else would be having some about then.

Delivery boy Darius slammed in from the loading area to her right, "Boss! We on the move?"

Third gladiola poised she measured by holding the stem against the container, sliced it, placed it, pushed down till it felt stable. An inverted symmetrical triangle clustered from the center of the papier-mâchÊ. She placed two more, one extending from each side, completing the base of a normal triangle of a normal bouquet. No time for fancywork.

Finally she nodded at the flamboyant nineteen-year-old. From beneath short, well-groomed brown hair, apathetic brown eyes looked back at her. Again, "We movin' Boss?" The mouth broke into a grin, outwardly disarming, but the unchanging eyes dominated.

She hoped no situation ever arose where one of them would have to bend, maybe severely, "How about getting me twelve red roses, Darius. Long straight stems, OK?" The brown eyes flashed, "You bet, Boss." Darius turned toward Billie and intensified the mouth grin, which brought a flush of color from the young girl, a shy, "Hi, Darius."

Darius threw his shoulders back as he grasped the heavy cooler door, jerked it open, disappeared inside.

"Hang your A.M. in front of me, Billie." Charmaine inserted a sixth gladiola in the lower front, "Then come around and check for other circled A.Ms, will you, please?"

"Sure." Billie opened a clothespin, stuck the order in and released. The wire jumped and reverberated.

Billie's right hand gripped the work counter, her left flew to her mouth.

"That's all right, Billie, but do check the other orders."

The girl turned so fast that her hand swept a bucket of peppermint carnations. Crash and splash. Both delicate hands flew to her mouth as the young girl stared at the small disaster.

"That's nothing to worry about, Billie."

From the showroom entered the manager, slim, six-foot Jason. Instant replay of the previous night swept Charmaine as she stared at the handsome face, the rugged jaw and chin, the trim red moustache, as the man, without even acknowledging her, knelt to help Billie.

After two years she had finally given in to his insistence and dated him. He was manager, she head designer, a perfect match he had said, 'I man, you woman. Get the idea?' The pressure had gotten to where she had felt her job threatened.

So she had agreed. Now the jerk wouldn't even look at her.

The cooler door slammed. Still grinning, Darius headed for Charmaine's side of the counter, then stopped, staring toward the disaster area. Emotion flickered in his eyes. The grin disappeared. She felt sure the boy liked the girl, but at the moment the man held the girl's attention.

The two stood, Jason with the empty bucket, Billie with about twenty dripping eighteen-inch carnations, several with snapped heads. "Now don't you worry, Billie-girl." Jason spoke in his deepest voice, "I'll get Ward in here to mop up." He patted the girl's slim shoulder, massaged her silky-black, waist-long hair, then handed her the bucket, dried his hands with three quick slaps, then headed for the showroom door, "Ward!"

His voice boomed.

"Ow!" Charmaine glanced at Darius. A thorn must have gotten him. He threw the armful on the counter, "Damn roses," then headed for the door to the garage and loading area.

"This funeral bouquet'll be ready in a few minutes, Darius, and another one before ten-thirty—" Slam

She hoped he had heard. Billie was leaving.

"Billie, you still haven't checked for A.Ms." Billie spun and hurried back, then, half skipping, began checking the long clothesline of scribbled orders.

Charmaine sighed and ran both hands through her sorrel hair. Bringing her hands to her mouth she rested her elbows against her stomach, folded her arms and rubbed them, and glanced at the floor littered with flower and foliage clippings. One wet piece clung to her dark gray skirt.

She brushed it off. It landed on one of her black flats. She kicked it off, then wondered why she bothered dressing so nice—coffee. "When you're finished, Billie, would you get me some coffee?" She hoped she hadn't sounded too desperate, "Please?"

"Here's one!" Billie took the A.M. order down, again made the clothesline jump and reverberate, "I'm sorry."

"That doesn't hurt it, Billie." Charmaine reached for the A.M., "Now, please, will you get me some coffee?"

"Sure." Billie spun, long legs appearing to skip again as she started around the corner.

"BILLIE!" came the booming voice.

"Oh, I must have a customer." Billie threw a worried look, "I better go."

"Yes. Yes, go."

Billie skipped through the door as Ward, a slim man about sixty with black and gray crewcut, entered, carrying mop and pail, "Hear ya got some loose water in here, Charmaine." He laughed, a refreshing, mouth-open laugh, causing long vertical cheek lines to deepen, a warm, full-of-humor man.

She wished he were twenty or thirty years younger, "Yep, loose water, Ward." She sighed again and returned to work. **** Charmaine inserted the last yellow daisy pompon, spun the last A.M. bouquet for final check. Pretty. But whipped together. She did not like whipping together. She liked creating exquisite and beautiful. But time just didn't allow it. However, the round Victorian was adequate. The poms, Nora pink carnations, miniature red carnations, purple statice, baby's-breath, leatherleaf, would please some lucky damsel, express A.M. delivery. Twenty minutes had passed in which she had finished the funeral bouquet, arranged the red roses, and whipped the colorful Victorian together. Now if Darius would just appear.

The loading door cracked open. Eyes like two chunks of brown ice drilled her, "We makin' the moves, Boss?"

"Yep. Just need to be wrapped."

Darius pushed through the door, grabbed a sheet of green waxed paper and stapler. Charmaine leaned on her counter, began reading the remaining orders, began relaxing, thinking about coffee again. Maybe now she could slip out.

"Another A.M." An unwelcome voice, "This has to go."

Charmaine absolutely could not believe it.

Thelma, white hair and trifocals, stopped, held out the order, "Delivery exactly at ten-fifteen."

"Thelma, why on earth...?"

"Because the recipient will be home for a clothes-change then, and leaving again immediately."

"Darius cannot be in two places at once, Thelma. A funeral bouquet has to be at Richter's Parlors before

ten-thirty."

Thelma's nose lifted slightly. Aged eyes squinted, "It's what the customer wants, dear. You can do it. I have great faith in your miracles." The lady in her early seventies then turned and left.

Sure, miracles. Fine. Wonderful. And still no coffee.

Maybe a bouquet already in the display cooler would do. She read 'mixed, one-sided, mostly blue, please add pink sweethearts and pussy willows with matching ribbon banners'.

No stock cooler bouquet would match that description. Nobody ever bothered selling what was already arranged. Just give the customer whatever the heck they wanted!

Coffee. Her veins ached for just one sip.

She set up a milk-white glass container and headed for the cooler. Darius stood up from leaning over his wrapping counter, stepped back, managed to graze his buttocks against her right thigh. She moved quickly to end the contact.

"Whups. Sorry, there, Boss. Didn't see you."

Groan. Egoist manager, uncouth delivery boy, one nice guy but too old. She glanced at the man with the mop just leaving, having swept and mopped the entire flower shop floor, "Thanks, Ward. I'll hollar if there's anymore loose water."

"You bet'cha, Charmaine." Ward tossed his open-mouthed smile, waved, disappeared.

The cooler door against her hand felt cold and hard, like her life. She squeezed the latch, pulled it open, then glanced back, "How about getting me some coffee, Darius? I'd sure appreciate it."

"Get it yourself." He didn't even look up. Little turd. What a lot the college boy had to learn about how to treat girls. How she hated it when she allowed him to drag her down, even to call him names under her breath. She stepped into the dankness of the cooler, shivered, gathered the necessary flowers, then returned to her counter by the longer route in order to avoid Darius, which brought a pleased smirk from him. With an inward sigh she began inserting greens. If she had thought she would have asked Ward to get her coffee, but she didn’t think.

A few moments passed.

"Gotta move, Boss."

She felt Darius' eyes but did not give him the satisfaction of any kind of response, just willed her fingers to fly, whipping together again. How she loathed whipping together.

"Let's move, Charmaine."

The boy never used her name except when impatient, and never accepted that his job, too, depended on customer orders, regardless of how long they had to prepare them. Vanity-customers made her mad too, but they were the way of the world, and the flower shop's reputation depended on Darius to deliver on time what she created.

But not alone. Where were the other designers?

"Move, Charmaine."

Darius stepped to within one foot of her, way, way, too far inside her territory, his slim frame hovering about three inches above her five-feet-five, impatience yet indifference emanating from him. How that boy pushed her to the very brink sometimes. A power struggle. But why? Why always fight? With everybody. Darius. Jason. Thelma. The other designers. Even at times the customers.

Another minute passed. There, last flower inserted. She didn't spin it for final check, just pushed it toward Darius and began reading the remaining orders. Coffee. But no time. Orders piled too high. And if she received no help she would be stuck the whole day. Darius would be back, demanding more

completed orders, demanding to keep moving, demanding the world rotate around his personal orbit— why?

And why was the lunchroom so far from the flower shop?

COFFEE. For a few seconds caffeine desire surged through her. She felt angry, used, dominated by arrogant men, vain customers, controlled by her own desire to do well, do right, get the job done—if she could just have some coffee! She deserved it. Her bosom heaved in a near sob. She wanted to cry. Her eyes burned, but she bit her lip. **** Darius had just finished wrapping when Charmaine heard the loading room door open.

"Here's some jonquils and gerberas." Twenty-year-old Jennifer plopped them down, "Fresh from our own greenhouse."

"Darius, will you take care of the flowers?" Charmaine asked, knowing he had at least five minutes before he absolutely had to go, "Please?"

"No way, baby. I'm gone." He dropped the stapler with a bang, grabbed the last bouquet and started for the door.

"Hi, Darius." Jennifer sent an adoring smile.

Slam went the door. Darius didn't even look at her.

"Jennifer, will you re-cut them and put them in water, please?"

"Sure." Jennifer, short auburn hair and large freckles, placed a white bucket under the tap, turned on the cold water.

"Needs floral preservative, Jenny, and adjust the temperature so it feels good to your hands, OK?" "Sure." Shortly, two buckets had steaming water. Jennifer began cutting the flowers and letting them lay.

"Get them into the bucket right away, Jenny."

"You're so by the book, Charmaine. What difference does it make, anyway?"

"Several days extra life is the difference, Jenny. Dry air clogs the drinking tubes."

"Yeah, I know."

Well, if you know, why weren't you doing it right?

"Jennifer, what are you doing in here?" Jason had entered unnoticed and stopped beside the girl, staring.

Jennifer's shoulders wilted, "Just helping Charmaine."

"The greenhouse is where you belong." He put his hands on his hips. His suit jacket flared open, "So get out there."

"It'll take her just two minutes to re-cut those flowers, Jason," Charmaine cut in, "I need the help."

Jason lifted his hand, index finger pointing, "Go, Jennifer. You're wasting time in here."

Jennifer dropped her cutter and fled. Jason turned to Charmaine, hands back on his hips, suit again flared, "If you can't get your underling designers to work on time it's your problem. Not the greenhouse's."

She began setting milk glass and pastel-colored containers for her next orders, "You should put the fear of God in them, Jason, like you have everybody else around here." Her stomach felt queasy. She had not asserted herself to the man before.

"No, Charmaine. I'm manager. I have given you the responsibility of head designer, and that includes keeping your people in line. As a woman you should appreciate that."

Enough vases set out she leaned her front against the counter, feeling light-headed from bending, stretching, too much stress, and suddenly felt a little bold, "I do, Jason." Even reckless, "Say, how about getting me some coffee."

"Ha!" Jason guffawed, "One date with me should entitle you to favors, McCarla?" He laughed, loudly, and keeping his hands on his hips, jacket still flared, left the room.

And no coffee. She would do almost anything for a steaming cup, but asking Jason was going a bit far.

Oh, well. If no other interruptions she should finish the mid-day deliveries and be ahead by the time Darius returned. **** In full gear Charmaine was moving back-and-forth on twelve assorted bouquets, spinning them, finishing off backs, adding final touches, at last in true assembly-line mode.

Darius appeared at the door, grinning lavishly, "We on the move, Boss?"

The boy acted almost sweet sometimes. She felt an ephemeral rush of affection, "You bet." And, thankful for being ahead, though barely, she pushed the first bouquet toward him, began finishing the next.

Sweetness gone, Darius grabbed the bouquet, furiously began wrapping. He hated being even a teenyweeny bit behind. It would be a race now, which she didn't feel like, but with luck would stay ahead.

"Got some freesia for ya." Fragrance preceded Jennifer as she entered and laid down a vivid armful of mixed colors.

"Darius...," Charmaine winced at the pleading note in her own voice, "Put them in water, please...?"

"No way. I gotta fly."

"Jennifer...?"

"Can't. I'm just supposed to bring'em. Jason'll get mad."

"Here's some orders." Billie skipped in.

She sensed Darius beside her, "Let's move it, Charmaine."

Her stomach tightened. Enough, "Darius, get back to your counter and wait, or you'll get an elbow in the stomach."

The boy stiffened. Impatience poured from him. But her patience had come to an end too, "I'm serious, Darius. And while I'm catching up, you re-cut those flowers."

"Here's a delivery before two o'clock," Billie piped.

Great. Wonderful. "Do it, Darius." But he didn't move.

Jason entered and walked directly to the still-laying freesia. Just then she realized the jonquils and gerberas were still laying too.

"Charmaine, why are these flowers still laying here?" Then Jason glared at Jennifer, who still had her hands on the freesia.

Charmaine turned slightly toward Darius and nodded. The boy's icy eyes glistened, but he moved to the flowers, jostled Jennifer aside, began adding them to a bucket without re-cutting or even using fresh water.

She was about to stop him.

"Here's two more." Billie hung them in front of Charmaine, snapping the clothespin's jaws and causing the line to jump worse than ever, "That's three. All before two o'clock."

"Thanks for your help, Billie."

"Your flowers are in water, Boss. Now let's move it."

"You didn't do it right, Darius. You have to use fresh, lukewarm water. You know that, so do it."

"Wrong," Jason growled, "That's man-hours wasted."

Charmaine gaped. Never had Jason overruled her in front of other employees. Why would he do it?

She felt like screaming, quitting, and now she really, really, wanted some coffee, and might have said something foolish if Darius had not taunted her.

"Guess he told you, woman."

"No." Her voice sounded too high, uncertain, "No, you are wrong." She sounded better, under control, "Do it Darius, or we will find a new delivery boy." A threat she doubted she could deliver. But Darius' eyes popped, evidently unable to believe she would argue with the big boss. He grabbed the flowers and dumped them on the counter.

"Do it gently, young man. I mean it."

Darius shot a glance but began handling gently, correctly.

"Billie...," Jason held his voice in check for the new girl, "There's customers out front." But he held nothing back for Jennifer, "Get out to the greenhouse, and if I see you in here again today I'll have your job."

Shoulders bowed, Jennifer ran out the door.

Then, eyes bulging, he glared at Charmaine and blew a loud breath, a woman-defeating gesture. Her insides cringed but she held her ground.

Jason turned sharply toward Darius, huffed again, then shook his head twice, both ways, intimating he had spared her his wrath, then put his hand on Darius' shoulder, gave the boy three heavy pats, "Doing women’s' work there, huh, big guy?"

Darius dropped his cutter and flowers, looked unrestrained daggers at Charmaine, then took three backward steps to his wrapping counter, leaned against it, folded his arms.

Charmaine dropped her poised-to-insert flower, and cutter, then, taking her time, grasped her coffee cup and rinsed it though it didn't need rinsing, took a slight breath, and walked past Darius who straightened to give her plenty of room, and past Jason, without looking at either, ignoring the astonishment she knew was on both faces.

Hand on the door she stopped, "Delivery boy Darius, I'm going after coffee. I expect you to work on those flowers." She didn't turn around, would not dignify their crudeness by looking at them, "Jason, from you I'll hope for more cooperation in the future." She could have said more—a lot more—but chose not to embarrass nor offend him. Then she left the room. **** Outside the loading door Charmaine stopped. In her hand steamed a second cup of coffee. She had enjoyed one in the lunchroom, then had stopped in the restroom to freshen her eye shadow. She felt better, and was terribly aware of her responsibilities, but the company had a responsibility to her too.

No sound came from the flower shop. Suddenly she just did not care, and turned the doorknob.

Five faces looked up. Darius, working on the flowers, grinning. Jennifer, training Billie on singleflower bud vases. Both other designers, a single man and a single woman, who glanced furtively at each other, then at Charmaine. Not much secret there. She didn't care, but would speak to them about their responsibilities.

And Jason nowhere in sight. Of course his manliness would have been bruised, but at least she had

learned he did feel some sense of fair play. The rest of the day would pass more smoothly now. Maybe even the rest of her life would, and all because she had finally stood up for herself. To everybody. And all for a cup of coffee.

--The end--

THE REAL MEANING OF A QUARTER Burke’s expression did not change as the man approached his setup. The tentative customer, about sixty, well-tanned, stopped at his book display. Burke shifted his large frame in the deteriorating lawn chair, crossed his right leg over his left knee, folded his arms, subtle movements calculated not to attract attention but to relieve tension, make a deep breath less noticeable.

And nobody in the weekend flea market crowd did notice.

The man reached. From the corner of his eye Burke could not tell for sure, but guessed it was for one of the dime novels from the thirties. He lifted his stained, gray felt western hat, rubbed a sweaty brow, and turning slightly saw...ah, Poor Richard’s almanac. Forty titles in that line and he knew them by sight the whole length of his setup, more than twenty feet.

Raising the cover, the man thumbed the pages, leaned back to see better through bifocals, began reading. Burke’s insides rippled. He began to hum, again a ploy to relieve internal tension.

Almost eleven and no big sale yet. Normally his small plot was more than paid by noon, but today still short three dollars. Dozens of other setups filled his view. Awnings stretched from colorful campers and vans, poles and canopies, some simply in the sun, like Burke’s. Other dealers wore gaudy hats, bright shirts, suede vests, and had spouses or children helping. All promoted their wares displayed on card tables, or plywood on folding sawhorses, like Burke’s, each draped with lustrous fabrics and filled with stuffed animals, crafts, paintings, antiques, and just plain junk.

Mid-July in Minnesota lake country had seen a slowdown in business. Memorial Day had been very good, then June OK. But July had leveled off, then dropped to slow, very slow, sometimes hardly worth setting up for.

Twenty years earlier, Burke had piddled with flea marketing, had surmised it a good way to make a living after retirement. It had not worked that way. Ten years retired, savings locked in merchandise but not getting rid of it, least not at a speed allowing re-investment power and a comfortable and interesting living.

The customer finished thumbing Poor Richard, looked the book over once more, then turned toward Burke. Wind chimes from a nearby setup clinked in a sudden breeze. Streamers and windsocks fluttered.

Balloons jiggled and danced.

“How much?” the potential customer asked.

“One dollar and it’s yours.”

The man stared at Burke, then again at the book and not through bifocals, thumbed once more, meaninglessly, then dropped the book back into the display and moved on.

The breeze gusted, raised dust, then fell again to nothing, stifling all around it.

Burke’s heart sunk, not so much that he did not make the sale as the feeling that Poor Richard’s Almanac was worth that and more. Ah, the man likely would not have provided a good home anyway.

The man paid scarce attention to the rest of Burke’s setup, antique harness hames, mirrors, silverware, oodles of other old things, and picked up speed. In passing he turned slightly and nodded, “Some nice stuff you have here.”

Burke leaned back, uncrossed his legs, rested his arms on the dilapidated lawn chair’s arms, a movement making the chair creak and grind in the gravel, “Thank you, you bet’cha.”

Twenty minutes passed. Several more lookers had come and gone. One had examined, closely, an old pop bottle capper that would have put Burke way over the cost of his setup.

Twenty-five past eleven. A woman in red top and yellow shorts stopped, and began examining his silver table settings, an heirloom from his great-great-grandmother. Lord, how he would hate to part with it. Always he had hoped to remove it from his displays, but always earned just enough to get by, so left it.

Probably didn’t matter anyway for he was the end of a line. Widower with no children. No cousins, nieces, nephews who ever contacted him. And just one sister left who he did not get along with.

The woman picked up a gleaming knife. Burke took care of his merchandise, the silver best. She looked it over from every angle, then laid it down, carefully. No doubt she recognized its value. Then she picked up a serving spoon, turned it, gazed at her red-haired reflection in its shimmering surface, and set it back down. Then she moved to the next table. The magazines. More of his treasures.

Regular merchandise, bottles, vases, figurines, miscellany he could pick up from other dealers, was not bringing enough money, so he had begun liquidating, but soon found that his own valuables brought no more, sometimes less. And each time he sold something personal for much less than figured another piece of him would wither.

But, eleven-thirty. He stared at the wrist watch with a broken band he carried in his left front pocket. His setup had to be paid by noon. He had never missed noon, and then in the afternoon he had always managed to at least pay the rest of the day’s expenses. Gas. Food. Sometimes lodging, shower.

Usually he left his bulky articles outside under plastic, then wriggled his six feet into the back of his rusted ‘75 Ford station wagon. But a real bed and shower at least every three days was almost a necessity.

The woman picked up a magazine, a big, thick copy of the early Post, leafed through for perhaps thirty seconds, then moved to his book table, picked up...Shakespeare. He recognized it immediately and began to hum again. He didn’t know the name of the song but had heard it on the radio just before arriving from his trailer home in northern Iowa.

The book was more than three dollars. He would earn his setup. That woman was going to make a purchase. He just knew it. She had to.

She laid down Shakespeare, picked up another—too quickly for him to recognize it—and walked to him, book under her arm, opening her purse, “Two dollars and seventy-five cents for this, I believe.” She set her purse down and held the cover open.

He could not believe it. Two-seventy-five. Still short a quarter. “Sure is, ma’am. Thank you, you bet’cha.”

Then the woman was gone and Burke did not even know which of his books had sold. He stood, hauled up sagging gray trousers, stuffed a faded blue shirt into them, flinched slightly as an arthritic knee straightened, then walked to the front of his book display, determined the one missing, then returned to his chair, which groaned horribly as he sat. He entered the sale in his ledger, and knew soon he would have to invest in a new chair, but all on his mind right then was earning his setup.

Ten to noon. He looked both ways. The crowds had thinned. It was like that. One minute people everywhere, the next, nobody. Course, it was lunchtime. People would be hungry. Most of the other dealers were already eating. He was hungry too, and glanced at the dusty cooler holding milk and sandwiches in the shade beside his car. But he couldn’t eat right then, could not give up earning his setup before noon. Close sometimes, but it had never absolutely happened.

Five minutes passed.

Burke’s stomach felt tight. His stomach had not been so tight in years. In fact he could not remember being so tight, if ever. He closed his eyes, clenched them, gotta make it...don’t know what I’d do...

A sound. Someone sifting through the items on his miscellaneous table. Holding his breath he opened his eyes. Peripheral vision showed a woman, older, about seventy, but younger than Burke. She wore a dark blue coat that must have been hot, a matching old-fashioned hat. She stirred again, scraping, making noise, the sound of an interested customer.

He let out a breath with the noise, but would not move, would not look at her or speak. Too often just a “Hello,” would make them leave. He wished he knew the time, but didn’t dare reach for his watch, did not dare move for fear of frightening his potential customer.

The woman picked up a used hand mixer, a fifty-cent item. Joy, he would make it, and more. He began to hum, an out-of-tune musical sound nobody but him had ever heard of. The woman turned the handle. The mixer whirred.

“Take a quarter for this, young man?”

He turned to the woman and smiled, “Yes, ma’am. Today I’ll take a quarter for that.”

The woman approached, not fast. Burke stood up, towered over her, quickly pulled up his trousers, tucked in the shirt. The woman set her purse on the table with Burke’s change box and ledger, set the mixer beside her purse, a huge one, then began rummaging, searching in one small pocketbook after another.

Burke hummed louder, loud enough for the woman to hear. How he wanted to feel that quarter in his hand. How he wanted to look at his watch.

She stopped rummaging. He saw the slim knuckles on her hand had turned white. He looked at her face. Bright eyes. Wrinkles, yes, but, pretty— no, charming. Her face was charming. He felt a bond with her. She was giving up a quarter. He was getting one.

She smiled, then pulled her hand from the purse, in it a shiny quarter, “Here you are, young man.”

She held it out.

Burke’s hum had intensified until it hurt his ears, then stopped completely when the coin touched his palm.

“Thank you, young man.” The woman closed her purse with a snap and walked away.

Burke gripped the quarter in his right hand, shoved his left into his pocket, jerked out the watch and held it close.

The sun sweltered down. The temperature seemed to rise by ten degrees. He blinked, several times, and just as his eyes focused, the sweep second hand joined the other two hands all pointing at twelve. He had made it.

The breeze returned, not gusting and raising dust but cooling, suggesting new hope and life. He squeezed the coin, felt its metal digging into his palm, and felt the hardness of it, the quality, and knew the real meaning of a quarter.

--the end--

DON'T GET TOO CLOSE Ernestine sat in her wheelchair. She saw nothing, looked at nothing, just was there, breathing.

A flash of blue entered the room, a bright-smiled aide, one that Ernestine...cooperated with. The young woman knelt before her, put both hands on the wheelchair's arms, and smiled. Her eyes gazed directly into Ernestine’s.

Eye contact. Ernestine blinked, then gazed back.

"Do you need to go to the bathroom, Ernestine?"

"I don't...," she cleared her throat, "I don't know." She cleared her throat again, "I think so."

"But you're not sure?" The young woman moved her hands to Ernestine's forearms. Skin contact. The warmth caused her to blink again. The young woman became a little clearer.

"Do you know my name today?"

Ernestine looked at the young face, the brunette curls like rich chocolate, blue eyes like a summer sky.

Familiar. She felt the hands squeezing her arms, then patting, then saw a hand pointing to something white.

She blinked again, then stared. Large black capital letters began coming clear.

V A L E R I E..."Val...er...ie...Valerie...?"

"That's good, Erna." Valerie lifted Ernestine’s feet from the foot pads, then flipped the pads to the side, rose and held out both hands, "So, should we go to the bathroom then?"

"Yes." Ernestine reached for the hands, and gripped them. Human contact. She felt...something, move through her arms, her body, her legs. She stiffened, her feet attempted to grip the floor. She tightened her grip on Valerie's hands.

"Good, Erna." More strength transferred. Ernestine rose. "That's real good, Erna. Now, let's take a step."

One tormenting step at a time they entered the bathroom.

"Close the door, Erna."

"I can't."

"Yes you can." Valerie dropped her hand, "Just push it."

Though with effort, Ernestine closed the door. They did the procedure, then settled Ernestine back into her wheelchair.

"You're stronger today, Erna."

"Yes." "When I first started working here you wouldn't say my name." Valerie moved around and helped her to sit straight, then put her hands on Ernestine's upper arms, and patted, "You wouldn't even look at me, Erna."

She leaned over.

Ernestine turned her head, looked into those two shining eyes, "You're nice, Valerie."

"The others are nice, too, Erna."

"No." Ernestine faced ahead, "You're nicer."

Valerie leaned further, put her cheek against Ernestine's face, "Thanks, Erna. I'll try to live up to your praise."

The contact ended.

Valerie walked to the door, turned, "Bye, Erna. Just use your buzzer if you need anything." Then she was gone.

Alone again. Well, not alone. She looked toward the woman in the other bed. Could as well be alone.

The other woman lay, never moving, the eyes open but likely not really seeing, the mouth open but never making a sound. The only movement from that other bed was a three-times-daily feeding. Just a spooning of food from a dish into a mouth.

Staff had said the other woman would be temporary. But all rooms were full. Some mixing of levels of awareness had been necessary. She did not know the other woman's name, did not even care to. Was that her future too? Must life begin and end as a helpless infant?

Would her daughter come today? Her son?

Two hours passed.

For Ernestine two seconds, or an eternity. She had learned to blank her mind, so that time passed without meaning. Aware of what she had learned, she feared sometimes of not coming out of the blankness, of going into a stupor as her roommate. She feared it, yet did not try to prevent it.

In the beginning she had held out hope of again going home, had asked her daughter at every visit. Her daughter had always been vague, not really answering and then changing the subject, probably thinking she didn't comprehend the evasion.

But she did, and kept asking the question anyway. Her son had been less vague, just saying "Not yet, Mother". He must have thought she would soon forget too.

But she did not forget.

Also in the beginning she had participated in the home's activities. Wheelchair volleyball, games, crafts...but what was the point? Her stay was temporary. As she recalled she had even walked into the home on her own two feet.

But then came the wheelchair. Easier to go the long distances they had said. She would also walk plenty they had said. But she had not. They should have reminded her. Now she could not walk, could not dress herself, could not go to the bathroom alone, could not do anything alone.

Ernestine saw the man enter the room. He walked in slowly, looking in her direction, and stopped in

front of her.

"Hello, Mother."

Her son. Why wasn't she happy to see him? She wasn't unhappy. But she wasn't happy, "Hello, Thomas."

Thomas moved to the bed, sat, looked in her direction, but not into her eyes. So she didn't look into his eyes, either.

"You used to call me 'Tommy', Mother."

"Did I?" She didn't remember.

Minutes passed, with empty words. The man stood, walked to her, leaned, touched her shoulders, kissed her, somewhere.

No real sensation of contact. Just a brushing. A duty.

"Are you taking me home soon, Thomas?"

"Not yet, Mother."

Then he was gone. Ernestine was alone.

The blankness of mind returned, if it had ever left.

Ernestine saw the woman enter her room. She walked in slowly, looking in her direction, stopped in front of her.

"Hello, Mother."

Her daughter. Why wasn't she happy to see her? She wasn't unhappy. But she wasn't happy, "Hello, Nadine."

Nadine moved to the bed, sat, looked in her direction, but not into her eyes. So she didn't look into her eyes, either.

"You used to call me 'Nadie', Mother."

"Did I?" She didn't remember.

Minutes passed, with empty words. The woman stood, walked to her, leaned, touched her shoulders, kissed her, somewhere.

No sensation of contact. Just a brushing. A duty.

"Are you taking me home soon, Nadine?"

"Your grandson made his first hockey score today, Mother."

Then she was gone. Ernestine was alone.

The blankness of mind returned, if it had ever left.

Evening came. Both her children had visited but she had little memory of it, mainly just the appearance, twice, of people wearing street clothes, then their disappearance.

She knew they were her children, borne by her, but something between them had gone away. The bond was gone. Maybe there had never been a real bond. Was that how it had been? Had there never been a bonding between herself and her children? Was it her fault? Had there been a time when she called Nadine 'Nadie'? Thomas 'Tommy'?

Why? Why would she shorten their names?

A person appeared in the doorway, then immediately knelt before her, put both hands on her arms, squeezed them, looked into her eyes, "Hi, Erna."

Eye contact. Human contact. It was Valerie, "Hi, Valerie."

"How're you doing, Erna?" Valerie patted her arms, then squeezed them again, gently, "Are you ready to go to supper?"

Ernestine gazed directly back into Valerie's eyes. What was there? What was different that her children's eyes lacked? She didn't know. She just knew looking into Valerie's eyes made her feel like talking, "Valerie, why do you call me 'Erna', instead of 'Ernestine'?"

Valerie's eyes widened, "Don't you want me to call you 'Erna'?" The smile faltered, slightly, then came right back.

"Yes, but, I just wonder, why do you shorten my name?"

"It's what people do, Erna."

"Why?" "Well, let me think...," Valerie glanced toward the ceiling, "When you like someone, oh, I don't know, you just give them a nickname." Valerie's smile brightened still more.

It was like extra sunlight in the room, "Do you like me?"

Valerie's face sobered, for a second, then her smile came back a little different. She leaned closer, "Of course I like you."

"Do you give everybody a nickname?"

"No, not everybody."

"Don't you like everybody?"

"It's not that, Erna. Just some more than others. You know what I mean."

"Yes." A few seconds passed. Ernestine gazed at this friendly and bright person at eye level with her. Valerie.

Her name was 'Valerie'. Suddenly she wanted to call her 'Val', "I like you too, Val. May I call you 'Val'?"

"Of course you can." Valerie's eyes appeared wet, then she came even closer, her arms opening, "All my friends call me 'Val'."

A hug. Valerie was hugging her. Ernestine felt her own arms rising, felt them touching Valerie's arms, then moving to her back. Warmth flooded her. She felt her upper body leaning toward this warm person, felt her arms taking a tighter grip, felt tears coming, felt a sob in her throat.

Valerie's arms tightened, then she leaned back. Still the brightest of smiles.

A person in street clothes appeared at Ernestine's door, "...Valerie...." At the same instant a flutter at the window took Ernestine’s attention. She stared toward the window as Valerie left.

A bird. Many had landed near her window, but in her recent memory none had sparked interest. She and her late husband's life list had contained over a hundred species, all seen at their farm nestled in the crook of the Wild Rice River. She should start a new list right there at the home. Yes. She would do that. Her daughter or her son would bring her bird books and she would start a new list. Maybe the home would even set up a feeding-station by her window. She would ask.

She would ask Valerie. Valerie would help.

She could hear talking just outside her door. She couldn't hear what they were saying. But it didn't matter. They weren't talking about her.

She kept watching the bird. Some kind of warbler, she thought. If she just had her books. She felt her

face smiling, felt her body—she didn't know—gaining new life? Her gaze moved to her roommate, her roommate who did not speak. Maybe she would enjoy watching a bird feeding-station too. Maybe she should try talking to her roommate. Even if the woman would not speak, maybe she would hear Ernestine speaking to her. She would try. Wouldn't hurt. She gripped her chair's wheels, would try to get closer... "...Ernestine..."

She heard her name mentioned from the hall, not loud, but heard it. She listened more closely. "...take my advice, Valerie. Don't get too close to them...."

To Ernestine it felt like a board hit her whole body.

Fully within view the small bird still perched at her window. Ernestine no longer saw it. She no longer focused on anything.

--the end--

THE ONE WHO LOVES ME It seemed to Amanda that a whole lot of time had passed. At least an hour, although she wasn’t sure exactly how long an hour should be. Her favorite TV show was a half hour and it had sure been longer than that. She wanted to play, she wanted to collect some of the shiny little stones scattered on the edge of the parking lot. Or maybe just run for awhile.

She looked up at the man gripping her hand. Carl. He didn’t look back. In the courtroom she had been watching and listening to the grownups talk. But then the judge said Amanda shouldn’t be there.

Why, she wondered. Maybe the judge didn’t like little kids. Carl had gripped her hand then, took her out of the courtroom, and had held on tightly ever since.

Her hand was beginning to feel sweaty. She didn’t like that feeling. It reminded her of some things she didn’t like to think about, like when Carl or Uncle Bill teased her. But sometimes she couldn’t help thinking about them. She would be playing or watching TV, and, sometimes she would just…think about them. And she wasn’t sure why she didn’t like thinking about them.

She wished Carl would let go of her hand.

But he was just doing what Aunt Clarette had told him to do right when they were leaving the courtroom, “Hang onto her tight, Carl. Don’t let her wander off.”

As they left she had searched for Henry. After everybody had sat down in the courtroom she had searched for him too. She even stood up once but Carl told her to sit back down on that hard bench. But at the last second, as Carl was pulling her through that heavy door, she saw Henry’s face. He was way up in front with his attorney. His mouth was open like he wanted to say something. His eyes looked like he was scared or something. Or sad, maybe. But Henry almost always looked happy.

And before they went into the courtroom too, Aunt Clarette wouldn’t even let her go say hi to Henry. He sat way down the hallway with his attorney. A lady. And her real daddy didn’t even get there until they were all going into the courtroom. And he never even looked at Amanda. **** Finally the courthouse door opened and everybody started coming outside. First Aunt Clarette, with the

most people. Amanda counted. Eight with Aunt Clarette, and Carl made nine. Then her real daddy, Len. She counted again. Seven in his group. Then she looked for Henry and, without even thinking, tugged her hand. But Carl tightened his grip, “Stay put, Amanda.”

She watched as the people walked onto the parking lot. Aunt Clarette’s group stopped by Uncle Bill’s shiny red pickup. Len’s group stopped by Len’s shiny black sports car. Then everybody just stood around. Hardly anybody said anything. It was as quiet as the day of Mom’s funeral.

Then Aunt Clarette started walking toward her and Carl. Amanda hoped she was going to tell Carl to let go of her hand.

But Aunt Clarette didn’t even look at Amanda, “Did she give you any trouble, Carl?”

Amanda sometimes wondered if even Aunt Clarette liked little kids.

“She was kind of fidgety,” Carl said.

Amanda didn’t think she had been too fidgety. And even if she was only six she knew what was happening. Aunt Clarette had told her. Well, she hadn’t exactly told her, but she always talked about everything in front of her as if she wasn’t even there. Probably thought a little kid wouldn’t understand anything. Well, she did. She understood everything. Everybody had attorneys and were fighting with the judge over her. And one of these groups of people were going to be her new family. She would have to go live with them. She wondered if any of them loved her.

They should ask her who she wanted to go live with.

She searched again for Henry. Where was he?

She wished Mom was there. She missed Mom so much. And she missed being with Mom and Henry and walking between them and holding onto both their hands, and being between them when they all hugged. She knew where her mom was.

Mom’s in heaven.

Why did her mom go there? Did she get mad because Amanda told on Carl?

She thought about her mom dying, how her heart had broke and she just died. She didn’t get to see her mom again. Closed casket, Aunt Clarette said.

She had watched the casket disappearing into the ground. She could barely believe Mom was in there. There was no room to do anything. All Mom could do was lie down. And why did she have to go in the ground? Why couldn’t the casket just stay in the house? Or the garage? Why couldn’t they keep Mom close by forever?

Aunt Clarette said they couldn’t do that.

She looked at her aunt and all the people with her. Before Mom died she barely saw any of these people. Some never before. Nobody hardly ever came over. And when they did nobody ever talked to Amanda, just to Mom. And it always sounded like they were mad at Mom. And maybe at Amanda too.

But as soon as Mom died it seemed like everybody then wanted Amanda. But still nobody really talked to her. Just dumb stuff that should be said to real little kids. Not to big girls like Amanda.

Everybody just seemed to want her around, but not to talk to. Why, she wondered? And why didn’t they want her before Mom died? Didn’t they like her before?

Uncle Bill stood by Aunt Clarette. And Uncle Bill’s brother, and his parents. And Aunt Clarette’s attorney. And other people she barely knew. The Lawsons. And their daughter, who Aunt Clarette insisted she must start thinking of as a big sister. She had never heard that word insist before, but Aunt Clarette said, “I insist, Amanda.”

But that big sister’s breath smelled like beer sometimes, like Mom’s sometimes used to. She had stayed at the Lawson house a couple times. But she didn’t especially like them, and she hoped she

wouldn’t have to stay again. But Aunt Clarette said she might have to, might even have to go live with them. She hoped not. She didn’t really think the Lawsons even liked little kids.

She told her aunt too, but Aunt Clarette laughed, “Of course they do.” But Amanda wasn’t so sure.

She wondered too why she couldn’t just live with Aunt Clarette. Of course, she didn’t really want to do that either. Still she wondered, why? Her Aunt had said, well, she “…wouldn’t really have time to give Amanda a good upbringing.” She wondered what that really meant. And wondered if Aunt Clarette really loved her. And Uncle Bill. Did he love her? She didn’t think so. Uncle Bill was too rough. She told her aunt about that, too, but again Aunt Clarette just laughed, “He’s just teasing you.”

Well, when they were alone he teased pretty hard sometimes. And long after Amanda wanted him to stop. And she felt sweaty sometimes when he got really close to her. And he just kept teasing and teasing, and sometimes said, ‘Fuckin’ kid…’. And when he finally stopped teasing he would go outside and leave her alone. She always wondered if she had done something wrong. And she always felt sweaty for a long time afterward.

Then there was Carl. Again she looked up at him. Again he didn’t look back. Carl had raised her, almost. He was there a lot more than Mom because Mom was always working. And he almost never played the games she wanted but always his games. More teasing, but different from Uncle Bill’s. She didn’t always mind Carl’s teasing, too much, because he was Mom’s boyfriend. So maybe it was OK that he teased her sometimes when they were alone. But she remembered crying a lot when he just kept on teasing, long after she begged him to stop. But he wouldn’t stop. And sometimes he did some things she thought maybe he shouldn’t have. But they were just games he said. Fun games that Mom didn’t have to know about.

She didn’t think they were so much fun. And they hurt her sometimes. And she always felt sweaty during his games. And she didn’t want to think about it. She wanted to tell Mom about Carl, but was never sure, exactly, what to say. But just before Carl left she did tell, kind of, “Mom, can I go to day-care today?”

“Well, why, Amanda? Carl’s here.”

Then she had felt really sweaty. She didn’t know how to tell Mom why she didn’t want to stay with Carl. “He tickles too hard sometimes, and hurts me.” Then Amanda laughed. She didn’t know why because it wasn’t funny. Then Mom, too, laughed, “Oh, he’s just teasing you. Carl wouldn’t hurt you.”

But Carl had hurt her. Many times. But she didn’t say anymore. Then Mom turned away, and kind of quickly. But she saw that Mom’s face changed. Maybe Mom didn’t think it was funny either, or maybe she was mad at Amanda.

That night Mom made her go to her room. Then she heard Mom and Carl arguing. She felt so sad, and afraid. The argument must have been her fault. She shouldn’t have said she wanted to go to day-care.

She liked Carl, she thought. She had never called him Daddy though, even though he had been the main man in her and Mom’s life for as long as she could remember.

After that Carl wasn’t there anymore. Did he love her and Mom? Had he ever? She didn’t really miss Carl, but she felt something was missing.

Then she and Mom were alone for awhile. They had some happy times. Sad times too. And Mom drank a lot more beer. Those times weren’t so happy. Sometimes after Mom went to sleep on the couch, or the floor, she would taste some of the beer. If Mom liked it so much it must be good. Amanda didn’t like it, though, but drank some anyway, until she started feeling sleepy.

Then Henry came along and Mom got happy. And Amanda got happy because Mom was happy.

And because Amanda liked Henry. And Mom stopped drinking beer. And then they all talked about getting married and living happily ever after, like in a fairy tale. And Amanda almost called Henry Daddy once, and she was planning to later because he acted like a daddy, at least he acted like she supposed a daddy should act. He played with her, and drew pictures with her—and took her places—and listened to her talk

—and let her hug him a lot—and he hugged her back, and he never teased her.

She liked him a lot. She thought she maybe even loved him. Mom said she loved him, so Amanda thought she should too. She guessed love meant really liking somebody, and she really liked Henry. So she guessed she loved him. Did Henry love her?

And then Mom had to go and die! Then Henry had to go to jail for awhile. She didn’t know why and wondered if that was her fault too. Something about foul play Aunt Clarette said. She didn’t know what that meant but it didn’t sound good. And if it was bad, well, Henry wouldn’t do something that was bad. Then Aunt Clarette said it wasn’t foul play, but that Mom had just died.

And Aunt Clarette wouldn’t let her stay with Henry because he wasn’t related. She shouldn’t be alone with him Aunt Clarette said. Why, Amanda wondered? She had been alone with Carl and Uncle Bill and way, way, back, she thought she had been alone with her real daddy. She wasn’t sure. She just barely remembered him. But just last week she had been alone with him. But she didn’t like it. And she had been alone with Mr. Lawson, and some other people she didn’t even know at all.

So why couldn’t she be alone with Henry? Henry had stayed with her when Mom worked. And then Mom stayed with her when Henry worked. So why couldn’t she be alone with him now? Because he wasn’t her real daddy Aunt Clarette said. He wasn’t really anybody to her she said. Just some man her mom barely knew, so Amanda should forget him.

But she would never forget Henry.

And then her real daddy came and wanted her. Well, she didn’t even know her real daddy. She even thought she had some bad memories about him. She thought she remembered him hurting Mom. But she wasn’t sure. She had been so young. And then everybody had to go and get attorneys, so the judge could decide who she was going to live with.

But Amanda knew who she wanted to live with.

Why didn’t they just ask her?

She looked at her real daddy’s group. There was her real daddy, his girlfriend, Sue, his parents, two of his brothers, and his attorney. She barely knew any of them. She didn’t want to go live with them. She looked at her daddy’s face. He was looking toward her, at least in her direction, like he always looked at her. Just at her. Never into her eyes. So she could never really tell how he felt.

After Mom died she had to stay with him sometimes too, and she didn’t like it because he never played with her. He just told her to ‘Eat’ or ‘Go to bed’ or ‘Be quiet’. And sometimes he’d yell at Sue, too. She didn’t want to go live with her real daddy. She didn’t think she loved him. She didn’t really think she even liked him. Did her real daddy love her?

She looked again for Henry. She wished he would hurry.

Then at last he appeared in the courthouse doorway. Just Henry and his attorney. That nice lady.

Again without thinking she tugged her hand. Carl dropped her hand and grabbed both her shoulders. Then she could hardly move. She didn’t like having Carl’s hands on her. She started feeling sweaty. She started having those thoughts she didn’t like. She wished Henry would come and get her.

She watched as Henry stopped by his lopsided car. He kept toys in the backseat for her. And a briefcase full of paper and markers and a pencil sharpener and scissors and a stapler. Even a calculator.

Henry’s lady attorney stood by Henry. She had long dark hair like Mom’s, and she was pretty, like Mom. Amanda liked her, and she had spoken to Amanda once, and smiled at her, and looked into her eyes like Henry always did. And even so far away she could tell Henry was looking into her eyes right then. That always made her feel so good, and safe, and loved.

Does Henry love me? She wished he wasn’t clear across the parking lot. It should be Henry and his lady attorney she was standing with.

Not Carl.

Why had Carl even come back? Did Mom tell Aunt Clarette that Amanda told on him? Was Aunt Clarette mad at her for that too? Was it Amanda’s fault that Carl left and Amanda’s fault that he came back? And Amanda’s fault that Mom got mad and died? Was everything Amanda’s fault? She wished Mom wouldn’t have died. She was sorry she made Mom mad. She wished Henry would come and get her!

She twisted to look up at Carl. Again Carl didn’t look back at her. But his grip on her shoulders had relaxed, a little. If she just jerked quick…

She did. And she got right away from him. For a second she was surprised. Then she stepped away. But Carl reached for her. She ran. She could beat him. She could beat anybody. She had beat Henry many times. She looked for Henry, and saw that he saw her. But he wasn’t smiling. His eyes looked surprised—why? Was he surprised she would run to him?

She almost stopped running. But then Henry opened his hands to her, and held them out, and maybe even took a step. She ran faster.

Aunt Clarette shouted, “Amanda! Grab her, Carl! Bill…!”

Then she heard other people calling her name. Mrs. Lawson was one, but not her dumb daughter who Amanda was supposed to think of as a big sister. That big sister must not be worried about her. And she didn’t care that she wasn’t.

Then she saw many people running after her.

Uncle Bill got close and grabbed. She dodged him. She felt her arm grabbed from behind. She jerked away. She felt sweaty. Then she stumbled. Her knees and hands scraped across some loose gravel.

For a second it hurt and she wanted to cry. Instead she got right up but stepped on her dress and stumbled again. She even slid a little. She even raised dust, but she scrambled up and saw Henry, his arms open, coming for her.

Suddenly another man who Amanda hadn’t noticed before—a policeman—stepped in front of Henry, and he stopped. She heard his feet slide on the gravel.

Amanda stopped too. Three hands grabbed her. One on each arm, another on her dress. And somebody even grabbed her hair for a second. She jerked both arms and tried to run again. But her feet slipped on the gravel, and she even thought she heard her dress rip.

But Uncle Bill gripped her left arm so tightly she could barely move. She kicked his leg. He said what he usually said, “Fuckin’ kid…!” Only he whispered it. And her real daddy held her right arm. She thought about kicking him too, but didn’t, so she just kicked at him. Her real daddy didn’t say anything.

His eyes were wide, but still he didn’t even look at her. She didn’t know who held her dress. Probably Carl. She’d like to kick Carl too, but couldn’t see him.

So she stopped fighting and looked for Henry. He was still blocked by the policeman but he was looking at her, into her eyes. For a second Amanda felt, so…different, inside, she felt so warm and so good, she felt…loved.

But the policeman kept blocking Henry. She wished he would fight the policeman. But she knew Henry couldn’t do that or maybe he’d go to jail again. And she didn’t want that.

Suddenly Aunt Clarette pulled her away. Neither Uncle Bill nor her real daddy tried to hold onto her. Neither one must have wanted her very bad. She wasn’t sorry about that, but was sorry when Aunt Clarette took her to Mrs. Lawson.

Mrs. Lawson didn’t look into her eyes either, just pulled her into a brief hug. Or was it even a hug?

She didn’t think it felt like a real hug. Then Mrs. Lawson said to her husband, “Here, George, pick her up and hold onto her.”

Mr. Lawson did as he was told. Amanda would as soon he didn’t. His hands were clammy, even

wet almost, and felt cold, and his arms did too. She pulled away from him as much as she could, and looked again for Henry.

Henry was looking into her eyes as always, just how she liked it. She had never wondered why she liked it so much when Henry looked into her eyes. It just seemed so right for her to like that. She just knew she felt different again, and warm again, and so good.

Then he smiled a little bit, and shook his head meaning Yes. Yes? Yes, what? That she should stay with the Lawsons? That she shouldn’t try to run again? What? Then Henry was talking to the policeman, moving his hands a lot. She thought he was funny when he talked with his hands. But she didn’t feel like laughing right then.

The policeman turned and began walking toward Amanda. Her whole body felt like it jumped and she didn’t care right then that Mr. Lawson tightened his clammy grip. Henry and his lady attorney followed the policeman. Amanda’s heart gave a beat and she felt really warm and good again. Henry’s coming for me! She felt like she wanted to cry.

The policeman held up a hand, like he had to break a hole through the people. Henry and his lady attorney kept following.

Amanda’s heart kept giving small beats. She had never really noticed her heart beating before. Not like it was now. It felt like it was right in her throat. Without meaning to she fidgeted, then pushed on Mr. Lawson’s chest.

His cold arms tightened more, “Stay still, Amanda.”

She hated staying still, but somehow she did it.

Then Henry and his lady attorney were close. It was becoming very, very, difficult for Amanda to stay still. She wanted nothing but to jump down and grab Henry’s hand and his lady attorney’s hand and go skipping off with them.

“Henry would like to speak with Amanda,” the policeman said, then he stepped to the side.

Henry took a couple more steps, then stopped, “Mr. Lawson, would you put Amanda down so she can come here?”

Henry was as close as hopscotch on a sidewalk. Amanda turned toward Mr. Lawson. She looked at his eyes. He didn’t look back. She put both her hands on his chest and pushed.

“Let her down, George,” Mrs. Lawson said.

When Amanda’s feet hit the pavement she began running toward Henry. Many hands pawed and grabbed at her. And the policeman stepped in front of Henry again. “No touching,” he said.

With what felt like a dozen hands clutching her Amanda leaned toward Henry as far as she could.

The policeman stepped back again and Henry came to her. He knelt close, almost as close as he always did when they hugged. She wanted to hug him right then, and she wanted him to hug her. She always felt so safe and loved when Henry hugged her.

But he just asked, “How are you, Amanda?”

“I’m good.” She didn’t know what else to say. It was unusual for her to not know what to say.

Usually she talked all the time. Aunt Clarette, and Mrs. Lawson, and Carl, and Uncle Bill, and her real daddy, all said she ‘talked too much’.

But Henry never said that. He always listened to her. And sometimes she even thought she was going on and on about something that probably wasn’t even that important. But Henry never said she talked too much. He just looked into her eyes and listened and listened.

“Amanda, honey….”

He wasn’t smiling. She hadn’t hardly seen him smile all day. Henry almost always smiled. She had never seen such an unhappy look on his face. That good feeling inside her began to hurt. She didn’t know how something that had felt so good, could start hurting. But it was. Her throat suddenly filled. She swallowed. A quick breath grabbed her. Then another. She felt tears and knew she wanted to cry. That seemed strange. Always before she had never even thought about it, she had just…cried.

That’s what little kids did. When they wanted to cry they just did, they didn’t have to think about it. That good feeling in Amanda’s heart began to harden.

“We might not be able to see each other for awhile, Amanda. My attorney…,” Henry looked up at her. His lady attorney wasn’t smiling either. “She says I don’t have a chance to win your custody, and we might not even get to visit each other…”

“Why?” “Because we aren’t blood-related, sweetheart. The judge says you should live with a new family.

And she says you have to bond with them, and if I’m around maybe you won’t.”

“Yes I will!” But she didn’t know what bond meant.

Henry looked unhappier still. His eyes looked wet, like he wanted to cry too. Her throat filled again, and she swallowed and swallowed again, and she felt those quick breaths again, and those tears again, and her throat felt so full it hurt. But she wouldn’t cry. Maybe she would never cry again!

“And another reason is that I’m not married.”

“But you were going to marry Mom, weren’t you?”

“Yes. But Mom died. So now I can’t.”

“Marry someone else then.”

“I can’t just marry someone else, Amanda.”

“Why?” “Because I’d want her to be as nice as your mom.”

“Marry your attorney! She’s nice!”

Henry glanced up at his attorney, who smiled. A little. “I can’t do that, either, Amanda.”

“Why?” “I just can’t.”

“But, Henry, I want you to be my daddy!”

“All right,” Aunt Clarette said, “That’s enough.”

Amanda felt at least a dozen hands pawing and pulling at her. She wanted to kick all of them!

But she looked back at Henry, and heard him say, “Be good, Amanda. And remember…,” then his voice sounded like it got broke, “I love you.”

Henry loves me. He’s the one who loves me, “I love you too, Henry.”

Amanda stopped fighting the tears, and buckets full came.

The end

A GIRLFRIEND FOR MOTHER With fondness, Hyman McCord gazed at the white-haired woman stooped over in her wheelchair, "You're getting tired, aren't you, Mother?" How she had seen to his every need for almost thirty years.

"Yes." She tipped her head up and smiled, "Maybe you'll wheel me back to my room now."

At her door, Hyman stopped and pushed it open, then wheeled her in.

"On your way out, Hyman, you can send that young nurse down here to help me into bed."

"Which one?"

"She has black hair...and she's so sweet, Hyman. I wish you'd ask her out."

"One doesn't just ask someone out, Mother."

"That's not true, just bring her in here." Strange how she always brightened when the subject of a woman for him came up. "I'll introduce you two."

"No, Mother." He kissed her, then started to leave, "I'll just send her back, as you first asked."

"I can't last much longer, Hyman...," her hurt look mortified him, "I want you to have a wife before I die."

There, she had said it. He stopped, "There is someone, Mom." He swept his mind for the women he knew...there was one, "I'll bring her next week, so you can meet her."

She brightened immediately, "All right, I'll look forward to it." She waved, "Good night."

"Good night, Mom." He was committed. Now he had to think of a way to convince Pam to help him.

On his way to work the next morning, Hyman did some serious thinking. His father had done the same thing with money. The moment Hyman appeared to be financially secure his dad had relaxed and soon died. He didn't know things had transpired exactly that way, but if it were true he felt

guilty bringing a woman for his mother to meet.

From across the wide mall aisle, Pam waved. Hyman returned it. A ritual, he knew, so he always looked in the direction of the gift shop she managed. They had met a year earlier during employee training, when both had been hired at the newly-opened mall. Then a few coffeeshop meetings, which always included other new employees, and finally he received the video arcade managership, which put them across from each other.

Might as well find out right away.

She smiled as he entered, "Hi, stranger."

A pretty girl, Pam. Her rich auburn hair was always fixed nice, always shining. "Morning, Pam." They were alone. Too early for either customers or other employees. He had never asked her out, had never even seriously considered it—not that he hadn't wanted to—in fact, he had never asked her for anything, so she had never said no to anything and they had remained good friends. No, acquaintances, they were only acquaintances, a very easy, safe-type relationship.

Now he would ask her for something really important, to him at least, but he wouldn't blame her if she said ‘No, absolutely not.’

"You're opening your arcade early, for once."

"Yeah, Pam...I...wanted to ask a favor."

"Shoot, my friend." She sent a dazzling smile, "You got it."

So generous Pam was. Wait till she heard what he wanted. If stated wrong it could be worse than a lovers' quarrel, and suddenly he realized just how silly he would sound. Selfish might be a better word.

"I'm waiting Hyman..." Her bright smile kept up, "Certainly it can't be that bad."

Oh yes it could, "I—I do need a favor, Pam...." His mind went blank. He had thought it would be so easy to make a simple request from good ol' Pam. "You already said that, Hyman." She laughed, showing all her well-taken-care-of teeth, causing her bosom to move slightly beneath a dark violet dress. This woman was not just an acquaintance-buddy. He wondered how he could ever have thought that. She was all woman, and lovely, who likely would not have time for his little prank on his mother, but he had nobody else he could even think of asking, "It's my mother, Pam." "Oh, is she all right?" Pam sobered, "I didn't mean to laugh, Hyman, but you sounded so funny...."

"Yeah, I know. Anyway, yes, she's all right, and, no, she's not all right. She's very old, Pam, in a nursing home, and, she wants me to have a wife before she dies." There, he had said it.

"That shouldn't be so difficult, Hyman...good-looking guy like you...."

Oh? Pam thought he was good-looking? He felt surprised, "Well, fact is, Pam...I don't have anyone, right now." A questionable lie, for he had never, really, had, anyone, "But Mother, well, I think she's actually waiting for me to present a woman to her...so she can feel she's leaving me in good hands."

Pam gently clasped her hands in front of her, "What can I do to help, Hyman...?"

She would help? He knew his eyes popped. Might as well say it all, "I was wondering, Pam, if you would just...accompany me to the nursing home—I mean, you don't have to worry that I'll think you're my girlfriend, or anything...," but hadn't she just called him good-looking? "But, if, while we're there, if we

could...just...act like it, like...you know...touching...as if you really were...."

This time Pam's eyes popped, "You mean my status would be a sort of...girlfriend for Mother...."

He thought she had said it somewhat sarcastically, "Yes." Pam folded her arms, turned slightly away, "I guess I could do it, Hyman." Yes, she had cooled, drastically. He wondered if she would ever speak to him again, "Just let me know a day in advance, OK?" He shook his head. Pam began straightening miscellaneous articles in her displays, definitely busywork, suddenly appearing oblivious to his presence. He didn't blame her, didn't blame her at all.

On his way back to the arcade, Hyman did some serious thinking. Pam had somewhat indicated— somewhat—that she would go out with him even without this farce he was trying to carry out. Would she? He found it hard to believe. A good-looking and intelligent woman like Pam...go out with him? The possibility seemed so unlikely that he swept it from his mind. **** During the remainder of the week no friendly waving took place across the mall aisles. Hyman went to the giftshop just once, to say what night the visit would be. Pam had responded by shaking her head positively, cordially, without looking at him, then again had turned to busywork. He despised himself, but, if the cost of making his mother happy was to lose Pam, then it would just have to be. And that seemed somewhat humorous, for he had never had Pam, in any manner, to lose.

The night of the visit to the nursing home arrived. Pam accompanied him, buckled her safety belt, then pushed herself against the passenger-side door, further, he thought, then was necessary, and the trip passed almost entirely in silence. **** At the door to his mother's room, Hyman stopped, and gazed at Pam. She gazed back. No smile. No frown. Not much of anything, really, except maybe, what? The feeling had grown on him all week, he hated even to think the word. PITY. "Well, this is it, Pam." He extended his arm to her. No smile appeared. He had hoped. But she did take his arm, placing both hands on him, and a measure of warmth did pass between them, and for the first time ever he saw something in Pam that he considered rare in human beings.

She was dressed in black stockings. A soft-knit, slim black dress graced her, with a number of interwoven patterns of shades of gray, becoming pure white across her shoulders, with a tiny matching ribbon in her hair. Pale specks of freckles danced over her nose and spread onto each cheek before fading.

But her physical beauty wasn't it—of course it helped—but that wasn't it. What he saw from her was a radiation of absolute honesty...he realized they had never been so close.

As they entered the room, somewhat brighter light hit her face, highlighting the blue in her eyes, flashing a different message, not of pity, but...of what...?

Too late. They were in the room. The charade was on.

Pam's face sparkled a smile when she saw his mother, her hands gripped his arm a little tighter, pressing more warmth into him, then she released him and walked straight to his mother's bedside.

Bed? His mother had never been in bed when he arrived.

Never.

"I'm Pam, Mrs. McCord." Pam leaned over and picked up his mother's hand, which suddenly appeared extra feeble. "Hyman has told me a lot about you."

"Hello...," his mother's voice faltered, she cleared her throat, but with difficulty, "What did you say your name was, honey...?"

"Pam, but you can call me 'honey' if that's easier."

The small, white-haired lady smiled and laid her other hand on Pam's, then closed her eyes. Pam didn't pull away, didn't try to move from her likely very uncomfortable position, just stood there attending his mother, emitting a radiance he had no idea could ever come from an earthly human being. Pam was not only beautiful, but wonderful, too.

He found a chair, placed it behind her. Pam, without disturbing the grip his mother had on her, glanced a smile at him, then sat.

A half hour passed. Pam made no complaint. Hyman stood stupidly watching them, his two favorite women, wishing Pam was more than a make-believe girlfriend.

"Hyman, are you there?"

"Yes, Mother." He stepped to the opposite side of her bed. His mother opened her eyes, scrutinized Pam for another moment, "You wait right here, honey...all right?"

"I'll wait, Mrs. McCord." Pam squeezed the tiny hand that held hers, then released it, "Don't worry."

"Hyman, come here, Son." His mother held up her arms. He leaned down and moved into them. "She's a darling girl, Hyman, I don't know why you've kept her a secret. But that doesn't matter now." She pushed him away, slightly, "Just promise me one thing, that you'll be as kind to her, as your father, and you, have been to me."

He swallowed, "I promise, Mother."

"All right. Now, kiss me good night."

He did, then stepped back, his face beginning to burn.

His mother held her arms next to Pam, who stood and leaned into them. Hyman heard the words, "He's a good boy, Pam...that's it, isn't it? Pam?" "Yes, it's Pam." "All right. I'm very happy he found you."

Pam then kissed his mother, whose arms then slipped to the bed, and her eyes closed, "You two go now...and get to know each other a lot better...," What did she mean by that? "I'm ready to sleep now." **** Pam didn't speak as they left, nor during the ride to her apartment. She remained against the door on her side, and, by a couple glances, Hyman had determined that the different message had returned to her face.

Though she didn't look at him at all, he had finally recognized the look's meaning, a smoldering, that would have to erupt before it could rest. And he did not blame her.

As they stopped in front of her apartment she at last faced him, and he felt the heat from the flames, "You are a pure, total, jerk, Hyman McCord. How could you treat your dear mother like that?"

He didn't know.

The lecture went on for a few moments. He agreed with most of it, and decided not to argue. It finally ended with a question, "And, come to think of it, I've never seen you with a woman. Why? Are you gay, or something?"

He looked right at her. The blue eyes still smoldered, sparks still emanated, and the teeth he adored in her smile still were not showing, "I refuse to dignify that crude question with an answer, Pam, and it has nothing to do with this."

"What does have something to do with this, then? I would say you really included me in your life tonight, and I have a right to know what's going on inside your head."

He didn't know what to say, "I guess I've just been really busy...."

"So busy you've never had time for me, except to wave once-in-awhile, and to ask me for this heck-of-abig favor, I'd say. I should charge you." A glimmer of a smile appeared.

He responded in kind, "So, how much?"

"More than you'd pay."

He saw just a speck of whiteness from her teeth, knew her smile was close, and suddenly felt so at ease with this woman, like he could trust her with anything, "I've been blind, Pam...and, afraid to try to go beyond...friends..."

"Right, being just buddies is kind'a easier...."

"Right...,� he kept looking at her, suddenly could not get enough, "Outside of my parents, Pam, I have never before seen such goodness, and tenderness, until you, tonight."

"You're kind of tender yourself, Hyman. I really liked your relationship with your mother."

"Can we try again, then?" He held out his hand.

She gazed at him for a few seconds, then unbuckled her safety belt and took his hand. Their grips held.

Emotions poured across the narrow chasm between them, until Hyman also unbuckled his safety belt, and they both moved toward the center of the car. Another moment passed as they got used to their bodies touching. It didn't take long until the embrace began, for it had been held in trust for a full year.

The sides of their faces touched. The fondness they had felt for each other for so long began changing to something much deeper, something that would grow and become better.

"She wasn't fooled, you know," Pam said.

"Not for a minute," Hyman agreed.

--the end--

WAITING TO DIE FOR A HUNDRED YEARS MANKIND HAS FEARED THE PANDEMIC, AN EXTRAORDINARILY-MUTATED VIRUS, THAT VICIOUS CREATURE THAT CANNOT BE SEEN BY THE NAKED EYE.

“She’s resting quietly,” the kind-looking, white-haired lady said, “First door on your left.”

Derek Whitfield nodded but didn’t smile. He had not had a female patient yet, and did not look forward to this one with too much happiness. He stopped outside the hospice room and stared at the patient’s name. Susannah Brite, just black letters scribbled on white cardboard and taped to the wall. The patients were no longer getting top notch care. Basic care, yes. Food. Water. Bathing…sometimes.

The care-giving lady who had answered his knock at this house seemed very nice, and probably was giving excellent care. Not the case with most of his patients, least not excellent care. There were just too many sick people, and the victims were the age-group who should have been providing the care. Twenties and thirties, nineteen being the youngest yet to die, thirty-nine the oldest, with the most by far being between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. People over forty—it was reasoned—had maybe experienced enough viruses in their lives that they simply had built up a natural immunity. At least it was hoped that reasoning was true, and that simple. Why very young people weren’t dying the scientific community had no clue.

But even with the shortage of professionals there was one stage of the sickness that got the best of care: The end of life, which usually lasted just one day, sometimes only hours. The signal of the end was the beginning of a lowering blood-pressure and a slight rise in body temperature: Shallow respirations, officially. End-of-life care could be given by just about anyone, so the word went out for volunteers: Age fourteen and above, no particular qualifications. Medical establishments soon had a list—though not a large one—of local volunteers. So when shallow respirations began, volunteers were called in the order their names appeared on the lists.

Derek Whitfield, age sixty-four, twenty-five-year Army veteran, qualified. It took him a long time to volunteer, seven months into the world-wide outbreak, long after the experts had deemed the face masks useless. Most volunteers kept wearing them anyway, but Derek refused. He considered the masks an insult to the victims. “Just be there for their end…,” he was told. Somehow that seemed…useless. What difference could it make? They were dying. Most, after their week or so of suffering, probably just wanted to get it over with. Derek’s attitude wasn’t great, but he did think that what he was doing was important.

And he did think most of his patients appreciated his presence. **** Susannah Brite would be his forty-second patient. He had requested only young men, and—until then— had gotten only young men. He had thought they would be easier. They weren’t. Some went out like men of honor: Stoic and at attention. Most went out not quite like that. Some even went out crying. Dying was dying, and nobody actually knew what waited on The Other Side, if anything. Derek was pretty sure nothing but blackness waited, but of course he never suggested that to anyone. “Just hold their hand,” he was also told, “Kiss their forehead, or their cheek, if you want, if you think they want,” and, most importantly, “Have a soothing voice.”

That all had seemed easy enough. He hoped this woman would be that easy, and just one more number to him.

He raised his hand to knock. Usually nobody answered. The patient was usually alone when he arrived.

Quite often not even family was available. In the new millennium families often were separated by thousands of miles, and often even lived on different continents. Very likely, when some young person got sick they didn’t even have time to get home. And as more and more people died the travel industry soon became…less then efficient.

But at least everybody usually got a private room. When the hospitals filled, and the patient was determined to have that specific killer virus, he or she was immediately shipped to a private home. Large homes, once housing mostly university students, were used first, but they soon filled too. So any private home and even business places came to be used, if the owner could guarantee even the minimum basic care.

Derek’s eyes closed. He released a breath, his fists tightened. He had about reached his limit for this unhappy business, he wasn’t sure he could even face this young woman. He didn’t know why he had finally agreed to even see a woman. A twenty-nine-year-old woman who should be in the absolute prime of her life, but instead was dying of a disease that science had yet been unable to control. Except for pain.

Painkillers still worked, and the victims nearly always died before their body built up a tolerance to the painkilling drug. Even though bedridden and very weak the victims spent their last days in somewhat a state of euphoria.

A good thing—if anything about the disease could be called good—there was no disfiguring at the end, no oozing of sores or bleeding like in the movies, just organ failure, of all the major organs. So once that started the end came quickly.

His hand still raised to knock, Derek pulled it back to his forehead and squeezed his temples, and let out another breath. It was the sort of uncontrollable shallow breathing that he had experienced so many times in his life, always just before some dangerous activity, like waiting his turn to parachute, or waiting for a deadly storm to run its course, or drawing that first bead on an approaching Vietcong, a man he was soon to kill, if the man didn’t kill him first.

But approaching these sick people was not dangerous. Breathing should have been normal.

Physically, of course, they couldn’t hurt him, but they always tried to break his heart. None did, but they all tried.

Very gently, he knocked, and released yet another very shallow breath.

No answer. The door was already open about a foot. He pushed it open further and, with one step,

crossed that gaping chasm. And saw her, and released one last breath.

Her eyes were closed. Her face was pale. He imagined her cheeks being usually rosy, blending with the tiny freckles gracing both sides of her face and disappearing into that rich-looking, dark auburn hair…that appeared to be freshly washed and curled. She must be getting really good hospice care here. At least three pillows propped her up. Hospital beds for everyone were out-of-the-question, but pillows were cheap.

He took three steps to her bedside. Her eyes opened. Her mouth opened, slightly. She licked her lips, once on the upper lip, once on the lower, but no words came. Her eyes closed again. “Susannah, I’m Derek.” He waited, “I’m here to spend some time with you…, if you would like that….”

Her eyes opened again. Her left hand raised, slightly, “Yes, I would,” she said. Derek barely heard but he knew what she had said. They all said the same thing, and he always said the same thing. He put his left hand under her left hand, and felt her grip him with a strength that surprised him. The strength though, was short-lived, but the grip itself remained. Without even thinking about it he lifted her hand and leaned down, and pressed her hand against his cheek.

For a few seconds she gripped his hand tighter again, “Thank you, Derek,” and again closed her eyes.

Barely above a whisper but he heard and understood. He then lowered her hand and placed his other hand, too, over hers. And there he stood, feeling what strength she still had gripping his hand. And he felt embarrassed, and a little angry, Why, God? Why are you taking this beautiful young woman, and all the others? Does Heaven have a shortage of young people, or something? Why, God?—for Christ’s sake!

Why? Then he felt surprised for talking to God. If he truly believed everything only turned black after death, why on earth would he talk to God, who he, evidently, didn’t even believe in? **** Time passed, at least an hour. The grip in Susannah’s hand remained. Derek had not moved. He didn’t want to disturb even the air around them; he didn’t want to cause her even an imagined discomfort, and he liked looking at her face. A peaceful, gentle, face, at peace with the world. She was so lovely. She probably had been a model, or an exercise diva, maybe an actress, or maybe even a sultry, enchanting, spy.

No, she had been none of those things. He imagined her being a minister in her short life, or maybe a school teacher of very young children, or a nurse. Yes, a nurse, a hospice-care nurse. She probably had spent her last healthy days doing exactly what he was doing: Caring for dying people.

He thought of the women he had known, made love with, and for one reason or another, rejected: No values, or morals. No financial sense. No good sex. Too clingy, too whiny, too this, too that. He had never found a woman good enough to climb the very high pedestal he had set out for her, so, consequently, he had spent his life mostly alone. He loved women though, just didn’t necessarily want one full time.

Susannah, he felt, would have climbed that pedestal easily. Her grip said she would have. No problem…

Her grip increased, “Derek….”

“Yes, Susannah…?” He loved the sound of her name, Susannah, it seemed to roll off his tongue smoothly, like a small, sparkling, waterfall.

“I’m…thirsty….”

“I’ll get you some water.” He let go of her hand with his right hand and started to pull away. She held on. He stopped. “Susannah, I can’t reach the water. I have to let go of your hand for a few seconds….”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

But still she didn’t let go. Maybe she couldn’t. He brought his right hand back to her hand, first gently squeezed her hand and patted it, then, one finger at a time, he loosened the hold she had on him.

Instantly his hand felt cold and alone. That thought shocked him, that he was missing her touch, even wanting her touch.

He got the water from a nearby table. A glassful. Probably that was stupid. She maybe couldn’t lift her head enough. Very likely she couldn’t. There was something else where the water was. He returned.

A white sock. It looked clean. He smelled it. It smelled clean. He returned to Susannah, dipped the sock in the water, then touched her lips with it, and gently squeezed it.

Her eyes stayed closed but her lips opened, “Ummmnn….” Her tongue moved against the sock.

The sounds she made reminded him of times making love. The good times making love. The good women he had made good love with, and then aimed them toward that very high pedestal that none could climb, so he had rejected even the good ones…for one reason, or another. But he would never have rejected Susannah— Footsteps. Loud footsteps in the hall, then at the door, “Sir?” An approach, and a slightly-muffled, not-nice-sounding voice, “I’m going to have to ask you to wrap this up.”

Derek faced the speaker, faced the wide-open, wildly-staring eyes above the face mask, then returned the sock and water to the table, then returned to Susannah, put his hands on her shoulders, and squeezed them, “Sweetheart, I’ll be right back.” Sweetheart. How long since he had called anyone ‘Sweetheart’? Maybe a niece long ago, or maybe a young daughter of one of his girlfriends that he rejected…for one reason or another. Then he took the arm of the owner of the voice and escorted him quickly, and somewhat harshly, through the door and then away from the door, hopefully far enough to be out Susannah’s hearing, “What the hell are you talking about? This woman can’t be moved. She’s dying!”

The eyes above the face mask got even wilder, “She’s a fucking whore!”

Derek felt his mouth fall open, and for just one tenth of one second he felt dismay at the news, then felt anger at feeling that dismay.

“Yeah, right, they didn’t tell you that, did they?”

“You son-of-a-bitch,” Derek poked his right index finger into the man’s chest, which made the man step back, “I don’t care what she was in another life. Now she’s waiting to die! She deserves the dignity of any other human being.”

“Christ, she’s been here over a week—she should’ve died by now!”

“You bastard.” Derek spun the man, then escorted him to the door and through it, then grabbed him by the scruff of neck and seat of pants and pushed him off the porch onto the lawn.

The man landed and rolled, “Mutherfucker! You think you can just throw me out of my own house?”

“I just did.”

“Well, I want that woman out of there. I need to get it cleaned up. I’ve got a new renter coming for Christ’s sake!”

“Well, you’ll have to go through me to do it, and I don’t recommend you try.”

“Mutherfucker, I’ll be back with the police!”

“You do that.” **** Derek stepped back inside. The woman of the house, the very nice woman he had spoken with earlier, was there, “I apologize for my brother, sir, but he owns this house. I just care-take for him. He’s been on me all week for even allowing this.”

“You mean the girl….”

“Yes, but there are so many. I felt I just wanted to help.”

“You did right ma’am.” Derek turned to start toward Susannah’s room, but then waited and faced the woman again.

“He will return with the police, sir.” Her face was stonily sober.

“But surely the police will support Susannah’s staying here.”

“Maybe six months ago they would have.” The woman’s face remained sober, “But now there are so many sick…people are getting overwhelmed…and impatient.”

“How about you?”

“Me? What?”

“Will you support her staying here?”

The woman’s face changed. Still sober, but after a few seconds, “Yes. I will.”

“Good.” Derek nodded and started away again. **** In Susannah’s room Derek quickly got the sock and water and returned to Susannah’s side, “I’m here again, Sweetheart.” He dipped the sock and again placed it on her lips, and gently squeezed it.

She again made the appreciative sounds, and, this time, opened her eyes.

Those eyes. Derek felt sincere love for this woman enter him.

“I heard what that man said.”

Her voice was little more than a whisper, but Derek had no trouble understanding her, “That man is a fool, Sweetheart.”

“He said the truth.”

Derek set the water and sock aside, then grasped both Susannah’s hands, “Don’t worry about what he said.

I don’t know what will happen, but I won’t let them take you, and I won’t leave you.”

More time passed. A lot. Derek remained in the same position, but he was getting tired. He longed to sit down for just a few minutes.

The care-taking woman appeared at his side, “I know you haven’t moved for at least two hours, sir.

I’ll hold her hand for awhile.” She nodded toward a cushioned chair, “Go sit.”

“I….” He didn’t know what to say.

“Go ahead. I’ll stay with her. Anyway, I’ve been giving her basic care all week.”

“All right. Thank you.” Derek sat, and felt every muscle and bone relax. He hadn’t realized how tired he had become, but then for years, since leaving the army, he had done nothing to stress himself so.

The hours spent with his other forty-one patients, all men, he had often sat down, but of course had never left the room except to relieve himself. The restroom usually was not far away. Here…, “Ma’am, may I use your bathroom?”

“It’s upstairs.”

He didn’t know if he wanted to get that far from Susannah, but, he had to go. So he did, “I won’t be long.” **** Only about three minutes had passed when Derek heard the scream, and his name called out. He zipped up

and cleared the stairs in four leaps, and heard the care-taking woman trying to comfort Susannah as he reached the room’s door, “…went to the bathroom.”

He hurried to her bed and put his right arm above and around her head, and his left hand on her right cheek, and pressed his right cheek against her left cheek, “Sweetheart, I’m here. I won’t leave you. I promise.” He leaned back. There were tears in her eyes, “I won’t leave you, Susannah. This kind lady was just giving me a break. You know her.”

“I’m sorry.” Susannah’s eyes were open, “When I didn’t see you I became so afraid…that you had left me.”

Derek moved his left hand back to her hand, “You sound stronger, Susannah.” He stood up straight, “Are you getting better?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“That’s good.” Derek moved back to his regular position and began holding both her hands again, and, from the corner of his eye he saw the care-taking lady shake her head, negatively. He glanced at her and nodded that he understood. Susannah was not getting better. Sometimes they appeared too. He knew that, but it was always only temporary, and usually happened just before the end. He wasn’t ready for Susannah’s end. He didn’t want her to end, and he knew that when she did end it would hit him harder than his other forty-one patients all put together.

Time passed again. The care-taking lady had left and Susannah had long ago quieted, again, and, weakened, again...except for that grip in her left hand. It wasn’t much, but definitely a grip, a sign that she still held onto life…and onto him. He gazed at her face. Angelic she was, so peaceful. When her time came, surely God would take her completely into His arms. Having experienced a woman like Susannah was changing Derek’s mind about The Other Side. Surely there was more than darkness.

She stirred, “Derek…,” her eyes opened, “Please don’t hate me for what that man called me.”

“I don’t hate you, Sweetheart.”

“But, don’t you wonder, why, I did it?”

“Actually, Susannah,” he smiled, the first since arriving, “No. I haven’t been wondering why.

You…probably didn’t have a choice.”

“But I did. I know some girls don’t, and are abducted into prostitution, but I did have a choice. I was what they call…a high-end prostitute.”

Derek didn’t know what to say, so kept quiet.

Susannah was quiet too, for a moment, then went on, “I did it because it was good money. But for you, Derek, I would do it for free. But now I can’t.”

Again, Derek did not know what to say.

“Say you don’t hate me, Derek.”

“I don’t hate you, Sweetheart.” He smiled again, “I could never hate you.”

“I love it when you call me ‘Sweetheart.’” She choked, slightly, “Nobody ever has.”

“Everybody else is a fool.” Derek kept a hold on her hand and moved up to her head, leaned down, kissed her cheek right above her upper lip and next to her nose.

“Thank you, Derek. I love you.” Then the grip in her hand at last relaxed. She was gone, but she had stayed as positive as could be expected to the end.

Derek whispered, “I love you, too, Susannah, my one true sweetheart.” ****

When the house’s owner, the police, and the medical authorities arrived, Derek Whitfield, the staunch twenty-five-year army veteran, his heart at last broken, still stood holding the lifeless hands of Susannah Brite. And he stayed with her right up until her cremation, then took home the ashes of his forty-second— and last—patient.

The end

VOICE FROM THE CONGREGATION Barely into the song Ashley Plains became aware of a strong feminine voice. Not dominating, yet during some passages it came through with power. He stopped singing to listen, for warm tingles were beginning to fill him.

When the pastor seated them, Ashley glanced quickly to his right but saw nobody he thought would have produced the angelic sound, except Davina, and it couldn't have been her.

His thoughts dashed back to the near-argument with his wife, "Davina will sing her song, Linda." He remembered thinking of the young girl crippled with multiple sclerosis, a sad case, but she could not sing, "And the Sunday school kids, can't hear'em, can't understand'em, and what you do hear doesn't make any sense."

"You're not being fair." Linda added her own sauce recipe to her slaw, stirred, looked up, "You used to enjoy homecoming."

Ashley sliced an apple into the blender mix, switched to 'chop', ran it, then 'liquefy', then glanced at his wife. Her brown eyes showed, what? Sympathy? He needed more, and lately felt sadly lacking in anything but work, "That was before I grew up. Sometimes I'd pray for that program to end, but on and on, no matter how hot it got in that church, or how much people wanted coffee, on and on until every last boring number was complete."

"It wouldn't be fair for the people who participated not to get to do their number."

"Then they could do fewer numbers!" He stopped the blender, hadn't meant to snap, then poured them each a tall glass of mixed fruit milk shake, "I'm not going, Linda, and that's final. Even if I wanted to drive the 200 miles we couldn't. Too many accounts needing completion. Yesterday."

Linda's eyes dropped as she carried the slaw to the table. He ached to hold her, say he was sorry. At times he blamed their jobs. Both professionals, early-thirties, he accountant, she sales manager. But nonsense. They got home at the same time, took vacations together, had no children, and whenever he

wanted her she was there.

And he did want her, yet lately he would talk himself out of it, even sometimes convinced she wouldn't want him. And that idea was getting easier to accept because she wasn't coming to him either.

"I'm not accepting we're not going, Ashley." She set the slaw down, went to the oven where a timer had beeped, signifying the soybean-base casserole was finished. In another moment their dinner was ready.

"Well, let's eat." **** Four hours later Ashley sat on his side of the bed, Linda on hers. Dinner had gone pretty much without conversation, and the mood had preceded them to the bedroom.

"Ashley...?" Linda's voice came quietly, warming him, and for a few seconds all the old anticipations washed over him. "Why do the people at Martin Church intimidate you so?"

"They don't intimidate me."

"What is wrong then?"

"Nothing." Plenty was wrong. But he couldn't put his finger on it, "Why don't we just go away for the weekend?"

"Right this minute I don't want to go anywhere with you. There's something wrong between us, Ashley, and I think a trip to homecoming could help. You'd see your family, your old friends. We've been going through this for the last four summers. Two weeks before homecoming you become, I don't know, distant.

The same thing the last two times we did go. But this year your mood has gone on for over a month."

Linda shifted, then slipped under the sheets, "Whatever it is has to be worked out, Ashley, so I'm making the decision. We're going, and you have four days to get used to the idea. Good night." **** Ashley signaled right onto a gravel road bordered on the south by a cornfield, north by a recently mowed alfalfa hay meadow.

Scent from it wafted through the window, bringing memories, but he refused them. Just another mile, where predominant forest began. He felt light-headed, as if headed for some sort of showdown. The feeling had begun a few miles back, where scenery had changed from agriculture to incorporated scattered forest and pastureland, probably eastern North Dakota's prettiest land. But showdown? Rubbish. The people at Martin Church were the friendliest in the world.

Yet he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling, and glanced at Linda. No answer there. She had sat out the five-hour trip from Minneapolis mostly just gazing out the window. She turned to him, "Almost there."

Her eyes glowed with happiness. Dressed in shades of yellow with dark brown trim matching her hair she had never looked prettier.

And he had never felt uglier.

Ahead loomed one last curve. In another moment they would come into sight of Martin Church, where people from near and far and from many other faiths would be gathering.

Around the curve. Two minor zigzags and the small church appeared, white with a bell tower, graced by a huge basswood tree that often—according to a memory that zipped in before Ashley could stop it—gave shelter to a hanging Baltimore oriole's nest. Then a small lawn that also provided parking, and surrounded by thick forest.

The peaceful green and white scene sprinkled with people greeting each other should have had a calming effect, but didn't. He wished it were time to leave.

"There's Bob and Shirley." Linda's voice gushed with excitement. If only he felt the same.

**** They swung into the driveway, then pulled up to the church's boundary and parked under an ancient oak that brought more memories, of gathering acorns beneath it with friends and finding small shiny white stones among its roots. Martin Church and its membership had influenced Ashley's growth and he did remember it fondly, but big city life had changed him. He felt he had simply outgrown the church, its people, maybe even God. Bob and Shirley were waiting as they stepped from their car. "Ashley, a long time, my friend." Before Ashley could extend a handshake Bob clasped him in a hug, which embarrassed Ashley. From the side of his eye he saw his wife and Shirley embrace with tears. Nothing held back there. He envied the emotion.

After the hug Bob took him by the arm, "Come on, Ashley. Before I lose you to all the other people you're dying to see, we have to talk." They walked to an area with lawn chairs. **** "So, four years ago," Bob said, "I finally gave in to Shirley and we came back to homecoming."

Ashley had listened with interest, for Bob's story reminded him too much of his own, "That's when we stopped coming."

"I won't ask why you stopped, Ashley, but for myself, well, the success pursuit had taken over my life. I wasn't even loving my wife anymore. Oh, I've always loved Shirley, I was in love with her, but it got so I couldn't express it very well."

Again Bob's story sounded way too much like his own. Ashley drifted for a few seconds, thinking deeply, then tuned Bob back in, "...so we finally came. And I've never been sorry."

“But why, Bob? What’s so great? I know homecoming is great, in its own way—“ but right then he couldn’t think of anything, “But in your mind, what, specifically?”

"I've wondered myself. A combination, really. The place. Summer. The people. Among all these people you can still relax. It's a special kind of humanity here. Old friends. No pressure, nothing like school reunions or conventions. There's not many social functions where you can really relax. But here you can."

All good reasons, but Ashley remained unconvinced.

"Ah, the program." Bob threw both arms to the sky, as if glorifying, "I forgot the most important thing of all, my friend. With the few resources these people have, they put on a program to end all programs."

Ashley winced.

A bell began tolling.

Ashley felt a stabbing tingle and looked up, "They finally fixed it." More memories jogged through him.

"Just this year, and last year running water. Next year maybe indoor restrooms." Bob slapped his shoulder, "The bell means it's time for services." Bob stood, "But hey, old friend, I didn't mean to take all your time."

"It's all right." Ashley grasped his friend's arm, looked straight into his eyes, "I'm glad we talked." **** Rejoining Linda, Ashley looked straight into her eyes too.

She smiled.

Thankful that for all outward signs she still loved him he smiled back, and began feeling different, somehow more open, and alive. They mounted the church steps.

About halfway to the altar they slipped into the center of a pew. A young girl with crutches soon sat by the aisle to Ashley's right. In a moment organ and piano music began, then two girls in their early teens started down the aisle with brass candle lighters, followed by the pastor in a white and purple robe.

After the candles were lit the pastor stepped to the pulpit, "Good morning."

A chorus of 'Good mornings' answered.

"So good to see you. Friends. Neighbors. Returned ex-members." The pastor's gaze briefly fell on Ashley, "So many new faces this year. Why don't we shake hands with the person next to us, both directions."

Ashley first grasped his wife's hand and experienced more good tingles. Then Linda nodded toward his right.

He turned and scooted about four feet, his eyes sweeping two skinny, misshapen legs under a pink dress, and recognized her. The disease had progressed. The girl, now about twenty-two he thought, silky blonde hair, glowed and held out a tiny hand, "Hello, Mr. Plains."

"Davina, you certainly have changed in four years." But he cringed at thinking of her singing.

"Oh, yes. I've gotten a little bigger."

He almost asked if she were singing that day, but then the pastor called back their attention.

"For our first song please turn to page 245."

Ashley went through the motions and found the page, then offered half the book to Linda. The title meant nothing to him and he mainly began mouthing the words.

Then came that voice from the congregation.

After the song and invocation the pastor directed and joined in a special song by the small choir, which the girl Davina, after proceeding slowly to the front, participated in. Again came that powerful voice.

Enthralled and warmed by the delicate sweetness of husky low tones to piercing high ones, Ashley searched unsuccessfully among the choir for the woman producing the sound.

Maybe during the afternoon program she would sing alone. **** Potluck dinner was served, during which Ashley and Linda moved among the tables greeting everyone they knew and many they didn't. Again he went through the social motions, but, aside from occasional tingles his heart still wasn't in it, and except for the mysterious voice he hoped to identify, he did not look forward to the afternoon program. **** Except for growing youngsters the people in the program remained the same, with many of the same numbers. But they seemed to have gotten more professional, or maybe Ashley just wasn't demanding so much, or maybe he was listening more closely. He didn't know. But as the program continued he found he didn't want it to end, for each reading, skit, and song, just seemed better and better.

Then came the final number. Had to be a solo by the woman with the beautiful voice. Even at Martin Church they would know to save the very best for last. But when the master of ceremonies announced Davina he could not believe it.

She seemed to take forever moving to the front for the third time that day, and when she finally made it, and had braced herself on her crutches, she appeared pale. His heart went out to her but again he cringed at the thought of her singing alone. He despised himself but could not help it.

She grasped the microphone, spoke softly the title of her song and what it meant, something about loving and caring about each other no matter what hardships, then moved it away.

What was she doing? Everybody used the microphone.

Soft piano music began. Davina looked at her accompanist, smiled, then out over the people and smiled again, her faint blue eyes and thin face near colorless but beaming.

Then came the voice, low and soft at first, as if only part of the music, then growing, climbing, becoming an almost flesh-extension of the young girl as it crept through the audience, touching each with the core of her presence, until the music was but a subtle background theme.

Ashley swallowed. His past thought-heavy burdens and problems flashed as insignificant items on a grocery list. Slowly his hand stole toward his wife's, found it, and squeezed, sending every bit of emotion he could.

Then he relaxed.

And listened.

Davina seemed to sing just to him, and often did look at him, but probably stopped her shining gaze on every individual in the church. As the benevolent voice continued, the tingles he had felt became a constant and spread, changing to liquid.

He began swallowing but couldn't stop the tears, then a near-flood of them. He dropped his wife's hand and groped for his handkerchief, held it over his eyes, felt Linda slip her arm around his shoulders, a touch saying she understood.

He heard every word Davina sang. Thunderous applause followed as she made her way back to her seat, sat nearer him and gave him a radiant but humble smile.

The pastor was at the pulpit but did not attempt to speak until the clapping had stopped, "I agree," he said.

And more clapping followed. Finally, "Thank you, Davina. Your spirit grows and spreads to other needful people." He looked At Ashley, "Sometimes we need a break from the fast-paced world out there, and when we do it's best we get it, for if we don't, events can take on a life of their own and control us. For some people Martin Church Homecoming provides that break."

Last a prayer, then the pastor directed them to the basement where a fabulous lunch awaited. Ashley turned to his wife as people began leaving. Her eyes said everything he could hope to hear, and he knew they were together again.

Homecoming couldn't provide answers for everything, Ashley knew that, but it had provided a base to again build from, and even if he never came again he would not forget how an old friend and a crippled girl had opened him, and gave him a new lease on the real meaning of life and love.

The end

ONE MORNING AT BOXELDER COVE NOT BIG, BOXELDER COVE COVERS ABOUT NINETY FEET SQUARE. TALL TREES GROW THERE. BIRDS AND OTHER WILDLIFE USE ITS SUNNY CANOPY AND LEAFY SHADE. VOCIFEROUS TAMIUS, THE RED SQUIRREL, KNOWS THIS SHELTERED ENCLAVE AS HOME. From about twenty feet, about one third up nest tree, Tamius faced the brightening eastern sky. In his paws was a black walnut. He gnawed its crinkly shell, producing a sound like rubbing together the sides of a balloon. Chips from the hard-shelled nut flew from both sides of his mouth.

WhooooOuhoooo-Oooo-ooo-oo, came a mourning dove's call.

Another dove answered from a neighboring yard. The two called back-and-forth. Seconds passed. A robin joined in, ringing its Chieeery-ups. Then joined a song sparrow with its many medleys, then other species, and for several seconds there was a bird chorus. Then came a whooming of wings as the first dove flew toward the calls of the second.

Tamius stopped gnawing. His young mind recorded the zig-zag flight of the dove. Bright white-yellow light appeared in thick buckthorn foliage in the neighboring yard as the first sun rays slipped up from the horizon.

He continued with his breakfast. A tingle jostled the squirrel's taste buds as he broke into the walnut's meat. He ate fast. His five-inch tail, which was fluffed over his back for extra warmth in the slightly chilly late-July dawn, snapped briefly as he partook of the nut until he could not reach more. Then he began gnawing the opposite side.

Not yet fully grown, Tamius was born without fur during late March along with three siblings. He had craved sweetness since first tasting his mother's milk. And last year's walnut was not satisfying his refined sweet tooth. He was weaned in the second week of May, and had started right out with sweets. Rising boxelder sap. Fresh grass shoots. Fat tree buds. And morsels of mushrooms.

Late June had brought his first taste of tangy sweet crab apple. He had been playing tag with his sister and a brother in the short green grass beyond Boxelder Cove in the next yard to the west. A dog had discovered them, causing them to freeze.

For a second they had stared into those grating dog eyes that none had seen before. With a snap the dog caught his brother. That movement released Tamius and his sister. But they ran farther west, the wrong way. They took refuge in the crab apple tree, where they found the most wonderful, though tart, sweetness.

For the next three weeks he and his sister made the somewhat dangerous trip several times across the hundred feet of open grass to raid the tree. And the apples grew, changing from green to green with pink tinges. Sweetness increased too.

They never disturbed more than three or four apples per trip. But that was enough to attract the attention of the owner, who had begun watching. Their last trip, just a week earlier, the man had caught them. They heard a very loud noise, once while they were in the tree, then twice more as they scurried for home. He never saw his sister again.

A twig snapped. Tamius froze, flattening himself against the branch, his black eyes searching.

Movement below. Remaining still he watched. It was the little girl who frequented his territory. Chaacaa, came his small voice, Chaacaa, Chaaaacaaaa. Then he made a soft clucking sound, nothing really serious.

The girl stopped walking and glanced around, and then spied Tamius.

On a neighboring branch progressed a white-breasted nuthatch. Uuhhnnn, Uuhhnnnn, came the small bird's voice. It hugged the bark like a woodpecker and creeped down, sideways, upside-down in its pursuit of insect eggs, ants and beetles.

Chick-a-dee-dee-dee, came the gentle voice of the black-capped chickadee, permanent resident of southern North Dakota, but mostly quiet in the summer. The tiny bird, its feathers a bit dull and rumpled compared to winter, flitted near Tamius, then disappeared into thicker foliage.

These two movements took Tamius' attention for only a few seconds, then he looked back at the little girl. She didn't move, and after a few more seconds he accepted her being there. Then he turned the walnut over and over and finally continued gnawing, chips flying. Again he broke through the hard, crinkly black shell. Again he tasted the delicate but lacking sweetness. Again he yearned for something sweeter. He bit off a piece of nutmeat, chewed, swallowed, again, again, quickly, quickly was his way. Everything quickly, as if the winter he had not yet experienced was tomorrow.

Instinct stirred in him that the easy days of spring and early summer were past. On the squirrel calendar winter was next. And now seemed to be the time for eating, growing fat, and storing. For days he had been anxious to start, something, but he wasn't sure what. And that anxiety had only intensified his unquenchable desire for sweets.

Sweet sweets.

Dashing through the high foliage of the south end of the neighboring yard to the east appeared his remaining brother carrying a cone. Already serious about life, his brother was already, always storing food. His mother too. He saw very little of either anymore, not like the first days outside the nest, when the whole family occasionally played together.

He was rolling the walnut over and over again in his paws, and over and over again. Empty. Suddenly he realized all that remained was the hard shell, with two three-quarter-inch gnawed holes directly across from each other.

Empty. And his sweet tooth definitely was not satisfied.

With no ceremony he dropped the empty shell. It landed among other ground litter of nut shells,

corncobs, and stripped evergreen cones. The little girl knelt and retrieved it. Tamius recorded the movement but did not care. Long ago he had accepted the little girl as being a regular citizen of his territory. So he began preening. He licked his front paws, then his back ones, then scratched behind both ears. He rubbed, jerked, and stretched, for first order after eating was cleaning up.

Finished. Without a glance at the little girl, he moved quickly along his eating perch, a five-inch horizontal limb, to the ten-inch main trunk, then climbed upward quickly, quickly toward the top, toward the very edge of stability.

From the top of nest tree, Tamius could see all of Boxelder Cove and beyond. He saw other lawns in the distance, and houses of all colors. A vegetable garden was north. And beyond that a wheat field stretched farther than he could see. Just beyond the garden hovered a hunting kestral, fluttering at twentyfive feet. Suddenly a red-winged blackbird flew up and attacked.

Closer, the sweeping hopscotch flight of a red-headed woodpecker led Tamius' gaze to the huge old cottonwood on the very edge of his outlying territory to the northeast. The woodpecker landed on a graywhite, barkless limb and began pecking, its red and black plumage gleaming in the new sunrise.

The buzzing chortle of a Baltimore oriole came from a higher branch where its pouchlike nest hung, at least forty feet from the ground. Black and orange splashed as the oriole flew off.

Srkriee! Srkriee! The blue jay! Tamius barked softly, prepared to fly into a tantrum if necessary. For jays were the midden-robbers. The blue jays, three of them, thrashed and screeched high in the cottonwood, and ranted and raved there for a moment. Then they flew northwest toward where black, slow-moving specks and distant cawing meant crows to chase.

The cottonwood, the biggest tree in all the area of Boxelder Cove, always presented plenty of action to watch. But, as moments earlier, something felt much more important than anything else. Food. Sweet food. And the urge to begin storing for that bleak period in the future that Tamius could not even comprehend.

Headfirst he skittered down, leaped to a near branch, then another. Staying about twenty feet above the ground he bounded through his grove. Finally he jumped to a bordering brush pile. There he disturbed a group of cavorting, chiding crumbs of brown. A family of seven wrens were on their first outing from their nest.

On the ground he paused. Ahead lay a hundred feet of open lawn.

A chancy journey. But, remembering the sweetness of crab apple, Tamius launched himself. He ran and took long hops as he tried to see farther distances, where danger might lurk. After a few seconds he reached a small tree, and jumped three feet to its trunk and peeked around.

Nothing moving ahead, or anywhere.

To the ground again, scurrying, quickly, quickly to the next tree. Leap. Grasp bark. Tail stiff at ninety degrees. Peek. Nothing moving. Back to the ground. Run. Hurry. To the next tree. Up it. Quickly.

At ten feet above the ground he stopped and ogled all around. Dogs and cats were about outside the invisible boundary of Boxelder Cove. And other little girls, and boys. And unknown squirrels. And who knew what else?

Ahead stood the delectable crab apple tree. Fifteen grand feet tall and wider yet. And the apples were getting red.

Down to the ground he went. He streaked across the grass, up the apple tree, out onto an open, smoothbarked limb, then to a smaller branch and a cluster of fruit. Chomp. A luscious bite. The apple slipped and fell. But, no matter. There were plenty more.

With sharp, chisel-shaped teeth he snipped the stem of another. Moments passed as he dispensed it.

Stomach satisfied. Now to harvest. Snip. Snip. Snip.... In two minutes he chose and snipped ten more

perfect apples and let them fall.

Enough for then.

He scrambled to the ground, grasped one in his jaws and set off across the perilous open ground fast as the bulky extra weight would allow him. Still early morning. With luck he could have all the apples tucked safely in tree crotches for drying, and then be snug in his summer nest before the sun was even above the trees. But during his sixth return trip he spotted movement south, and froze. The apple in his jaws he held his head high, looking, searching. At the same instant came a shuffling in the grass behind him.

He was about to dart again when that something south seemed abruptly closer. Then he heard breathing. Then he perceived that steady glint of dog eyes. He forgot the shuffling behind him, dropped the apple and plunged, feet flying, just as the dog was upon him with a salivary snap of jaws, and just as that very loud noise that he had heard before came. A bullet tore the ground beside him. The gun blast almost sprouted wings to Tamius' feet.

Tenths of seconds passed. Tamius dashed across the invisible line between lawns. But a new danger loomed ahead.

The little girl from his home territory. Tamius skidded. He turned so sharply that he nearly fell.

Then he skedaddled even faster as the little girl stepped between him and his pursuers. He hurtled the brush pile and leaped to the first hanging branch. And safety.

At twenty-five feet he stopped, and flattened himself against the limb. He heard no sound. After a few seconds he peeked. The little girl stood there. His pursuers were nowhere in sight. But something had to receive the emotion welling up inside him.

Chaacaa, came his voice. Chaacaa, Chaacaa, Chaaacaachaacaa! Then he made a series of low-pitched clucks, groans, and growls as he huffed and puffed. His small feet began to thump with each syllable. He tail began to snap and quiver. His reverberating noise pitched higher and sharper, and extended longer and longer. Then he lost all control and the many voices inside him exploded in a bout of chattering squeals and chirps and barks.

A sound came from the little girl. Her eyes and facial expression changed. Tamius could not understand nor tolerate any but his own clamor, and of course he could not comprehend human laughter, so he continued his raucous prattle until the frightening memory of his ordeal faded, and the many voices and emotions within him quieted.

Another voice came from the little girl's house. Then the little girl waved and said, "Goodbye, little squirrel," and hurried to her house. Tamius, of course, didn't know what she said so he barked once more and snapped his tail. Then he launched up the tree, onto a limb, and leaped to another.

His bristled tail guided and balanced him as he leaped again and again until he reached nest tree.

Then he scampered up it to his home, a round affair of dry leaves and grass about the size of a basketball.

At the nest's entrance which faced east, near the cool and shady-yet-sunny canopy, he hesitated briefly.

From far out in the wheat field came a meadowlark's song. Below him a cottontail rabbit hopped from early morning feeding on white clover and dandelions. It stopped and scratched leisurely behind its ear with its back foot, then it disappeared into honeysuckle foliage. The cool of sunrise was past. Morning creatures were returning to their day beds. The buzz of pollinating insects began permeating the quickly heating, still air. A short-lived gust of wind loosened remaining cottonwood fluff. Down it floated like snowfall, each fluff carrying its one seed.

In a crotch about two feet away, three of the crab apples were already beginning to heat. The first step to drying. A sweetness craving engulfed Tamius for about one second, but then passed. He had tasted the sweetness of crab apples enough to last him for several days.

A movement on the edge of his territory caused another hesitation. High in the lime-green, sunlit foliage appeared another squirrel he did not know. The exact same color as he, maybe slightly smaller, the unknown squirrel snapped its tail and moved, not really quickly but smoothly off the limb and down the trunk.

Tamius knew this was a girl squirrel and not his missing sister. Had he not been so tired he might have chased her. He might even have chased her clear away from his territory of Boxelder Cove. And then again maybe not. And he didn't feel too enthused about doing anything at all right then.

Maybe in September or October he would chase her. Maybe not until the cold of winter. But sooner or later he would discover his interest in this wandering girl squirrel. He might even find her enticing. Sooner or later, but not now.

He gave one barely-audible bark after her, and then disappeared into his nest for some well-earned sleep.

--the end--

HE HAD IT COMING Randy Crowell was about to open the garage delivery room door Monday morning, when a blondehaired woman threw the door open and almost ran into him, “Hey, young lady, what’s the hurry?”

“It’s Gilmore!” Tears streaked her face, “He’s dead!”

“Well, we’ve prob’ly all wished that a time or two.” Randy patted her shoulder, “But dead? C’mon now, Molly.”

“He’s dead!” Molly’s pupils were pinpoints in a cloud of faint blue-green, “I saw him! His eyes are open but he’s dead! I know it!”

“Where, Molly?” Randy had seen tiny pupils like that once before. It bothered him to see them in Molly’s eyes, “Let’s go see.”

“No! I don’t want to see him again. He’s in the boiler room. In the pit. The greenhouse felt cold, so I wanted to check before starting seeding.” Molly took a tissue from her front jean pocket, wiped her eyes, blew her nose, “I can’t work today, Randy. I’m going home.”

“OK, Molly,” he smiled, “I’ll go back and take a look. You go home and try to calm down, OK? I’ll call when I find out what ol’ Gilmore is up to.”

“All right, Randy. Thanks.” Head down, shoulders forward, she ran toward her car.

He watched. Molly roared the engine, spun the wheels backing out and raising a cloud of dust, spun again, finally squealed as she turned onto the street.

“Hmmm, maybe something is wrong back there.” Lucky only—he pulled up his sleeve to see his watch —seven-fifteen, a good half hour till the rest of the crew started showing up.

The sun broke through early spring clouds. That meant watering soon. The weather was still cold, but sun through the polyethylene roof would soon be cooking the tiny transplants. But first check Gilmore. He pushed through the door—yes, cold—passed the white delivery van with red and orange lettering.

BEST FLOWERS & FOLIAGE BY GILMORE! Even in advertising the man had no end to ego.

Randy increased to a trot while passing the chrysanthemum benches. The boiler room was quite a distance. If Gilmore did need help...not a sound anywhere. Gilmore hadn’t even turned on the fans. He shifted to a faster trot.

He reached the boiler room. More silence. He stepped inside. Something, but not quite dread, filled him as he dodged pipes and braces and huge valves, finally stopped at the edge of the pit—custom-built by Gilmore—a homespun booby trap everybody hated to even walk past.

Poking through ash imbued water, Gilmore’s eyes were open all right, but not seeing a thing. Randy thought about Molly’s eyes. The other person with tiny pupils had been a habitual liar. But he did not see Molly that way, could maybe get the exact truth mixed up, at times, but she was not an outright liar, he felt sure.

“Looks like you’ve done it now, Gilmore.” He spoke softly, wondered if he should stand in silence for a few seconds, “Left that dang hatch open one too many times.” But he did not respect the man, never had, nor even really liked him. The four by six foot flat metal cover lay to one side, where Randy had stubbed his toe and cursed it often.

And instead of standing silently in respect, he remembered the last time he had seen Gilmore alive, last Friday, about three. He had just entered the north lean-to. An hour earlier, Gilmore had informed him, “...the begonias are DYING! They need WATER!” Shouting was Gilmore’s normal way of speaking. As usual, Randy had let the loud words wash off him like so much water.

The other employees, and Gilmore’s family, were not so lucky. Anyone else Gilmore shouted at would simply stand, hang their head, and fully absorb the loud words. But he doubted anyone both heard and also comprehended the words in Gilmore’s turbulent bellowing. Friday the victim had been Gilmore’s wife.

Randy had reached the doorway just before the worst, and would never forget that shrieking sound, “...AND ALL I GET BACK IS BULLSHIT!” The two had been standing in the middle aisle, among flats of already-blooming double petunias slated for Memorial Day planters. Gilmore’s back was turned—thank goodness—and facing him his wife, with a blank expression. But she wasn’t looking down. For that Randy remembered feeling a stab of respect for her. Then erupted a seemingly endless serenade of the Fword. With each annunciation a pot, flat, or ripped out plant, had gone flying.

The moment of memory ended. It seemed Gilmore had cursed his last curse and thrown his last pot.

Randy took a breath, then began looking the area over.

The ash barrel hung on the chain fall, empty. Boiler out of coal. That seemed strange. And why so much water in the pit? Looked like the best thing was calling the police. **** “City Police. Officer Severin speaking.”

“Randy Crowell here. Let me speak to Joel Hannah, please.”

“Coming up.”

A moment passed, “Yeah, Randy. Hannah here.”

“Hey, ol’ buddy. We’ve got a body over here at the greenhouse.”

“A body? Do you mean a dead one?”

“Yep, and things do look a little out’a kilter.”

“You aren’t suggesting murder—in Morgan Falls, North Dakota?” Hannah sounded about ready to laugh.

“Can’t say, Joel. But nobody loved this guy. I’m not sayin’ an employee murdered’im, God forbid, but I think it’d be wise if a police detective looked things over. And since we were classmates, Joel, I thought you might be interested.”

“I’ll be over, Randy. Who is it, by the way?”

“Gilmore McBane himself. If there is foul play, and things ain’t handled right, well, hell, even I could be suspect.”

“On my way. Don’t touch a thing.” **** “Why the water, Randy? I mean, what’s the purpose?”

“There ain’t no purpose, Joel. Just drainage from the greenhouse. We pump that pit reg’larly, but it ain’t never been that full.”

“You sure? When was the last time you looked?”

“All right, I haven’t noticed, don’t know when was the last time.” Randy hunched his shoulders, “But when it was my job I pumped it daily, never more’n a foot deep.”

“But it’s not your job anymore, right?”

“Right.”

“So it could have been that full.” Hannah folded his arms, “Gilmore could have fallen in, hit his head, and drowned.”

“Yep. Could’a happened just that way.”

“But you don’t buy it.”

“Nope.”

They both gazed at the face sticking out of the water. A deep, straight gash ran horizontally across the forehead. The eyes were wide open and wild looking, as if he were about to chew butt or start cursing, but everything verbally. Gilmore had his ways all right, but, to Randy’s knowledge, the man had never struck anybody, not even his family.

“Looks kind of gruesome, doesn’t he?” Hannah commented.

“He looked that way in life, too, Joel. More than looked that way. He was gruesome.”

“And you don’t think it was an accident.”

“No, sir, Joel, I don’t.”

“Why, exactly?”

“The water’s my main suspicion, but that barrel ain’t right, either.” Randy pointed to the fifty gallon drum suspended by cable to the chainfall, “It’s empty, just as it should be, but it’s not left hangin’ over the pit.”

“Never?”

“And another thing, the boiler. It’s out’a coal.”

“So?” “So Gilmore always filled it before going home at six, after everybody else is gone. Then a man checks things at midnight. How come he didn’t discover the body? Course, he wouldn’t absolutely have had to check the pit.” Randy remembered his own occasional slackness, “But it is strange he hasn’t added coal, sometime this past weekend. I’ll have to ask’im about that.”

“I’d like to ask him, too.” Hannah took out a notebook, “What about the rest of the employees? Do you know all of’em? For years and years? All people you’d take home to meet your family?”

Randy chuckled, suspected Hannah was making a joke.

“What’s funny?”

Evidently Hannah was not joking, “Outside’a myself, there’s two others who’ve been here longer’n a year, and twenty to thirty more who’ve been here a week to a month.”

“Why so many new people?”

Randy chuckled again, but, of course, Detective Hannah wouldn’t know, “Cause Gilmore drove people away with his yellin’ and cursin’. And right now there’s lots of temp’rary help, and seas’nal people who come back every year.”

“Do you know everybody?”

“Yeah, right,” again Randy chuckled, “What planet do you live on, Joel? Temps and seas’nals are just numbers. My job is waterin’. Period.”

“OK, all right. Who will know, then?”

“Mrs. McBane should have a list.

“OK. Who are the two you do know?”

“Molly the seeder, and Martha, in charge of transplantin’.”

“And what’s the name of the boiler guy?”

“Don’t know. Never met’im.”

“You accusing him, though, Randy?”

“Nope, but I got questions for’im. I go through here between greenhouses prob’ly two dozen times a day, and I notice how things are, and things just aren’t ringin’ true. It’s like somebody was helpin’ Gilmore and then decided to kill’im instead.”

“OK, I’ll look things over.” Hannah glanced at his watch, “Ten to eight. What time does your crew arrive?”

“They ain’t my crew, Joel. I do waterin’ only.”

“All right. But what time?”

“Eight. Likely about a dozen waitin’ out front right now.”

“OK, you instruct your people to stay out of the boiler room—“ “They ain’t my people, Joel.”

“All right. Just tell’em to stay away. And call the station and have’em call for a couple lab boys. And find out that midnight boiler guy’s name.”

“You bet’cha,” Randy said, “then I gotta get to waterin’.” **** Randy directed his watering wand at newly transplanted marigolds, and felt glad to be away from the other workers. He didn’t know them and didn’t want to. Most would work at BEST FLOWERS & FOLIAGE! for just weeks, sometimes days, so why bother getting to know them? He had heard talk in the distance all day, though, and nobody had shed many tears for Gilmore. Hell, none, not even the wife. Not much surprise there, and grapevine had her reaction as, ‘He had it coming.’

“Randy...!”

He pulled the wand from the hose which shut off the water, then turned, “Yeah...?” Mrs. McBane. She definitely was shedding no tears, “What is it, ma’am?”

“The boiler needs coal.”

“Not my job, ma’am.”

“Randy...there’s been frost damage from no heat,” her face appeared hard, but also showed need, “You’ve been here the longest. I need help to keep things running.”

That was the truth, he guessed, “OK. Anything else?”

“You’ve got a phone call.” **** “Yep. This is Randy.”

“I didn’t do it, Randy.”

“What...Molly? What didn’t you do?”

“I didn’t murder Gilmore.”

“Well, I never thought you did, sweetheart.”

“Randy, I’m in jail. They’re accusing me of murder!”

“Oh....”

“Randy, I hate to ask, but we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Well, of course. But what can I do?”

“You know more about that place than anybody else, Randy. You could find the real murderer.”

He had no idea what to say. He mainly just wanted to do the watering, and be left alone.

“Are you there, Randy?”

“Yep, I’m here. I’ll do what I can but I sure don’t know what that might be, honey. I’m just a waterboy, you know.”

“No, you’re much more than that, Randy.”

“Oh, well...,” He thought for a few seconds. Hmmm, it seemed his peaceful existence was coming to a close, and no great idea was emerging, “OK, Molly, I’ll do some lookin’.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Randy. I promise.”

He had no idea what she meant by that, but it did seem like she needed some help. And the boiler needed tending. Just then one of the temporary workers walked through pushing a long wheelbarrow-like affair custom built by Gilmore, hauling twenty-five flats worth about $500 wholesale. An expensive load, and the guy showed real care, “Hey!” He didn’t know the guy’s name, didn’t know any of the new peoples’ names.

The young man, early-twenties, about five-feet-nine or ten, and husky, stopped, set down his load, “Yes, sir...?”

Randy hung up the phone, “You want a diff’rent job?”

The young man hunched his shoulders, “Whatever.”

Whatever, right. Seemed like temps and seasonals all had that ‘whatever’ attitude. No wonder they didn’t have good, permanent, jobs, “OK, meet me in the boiler room between three-thirty and four o’clock.”

The young man hunched his shoulders again, “Whatever,” grabbed his load and hauled it onward.

Temps and seasonals. Randy shook his head. But, attitude or not, he suspected the young man could do the job. Forgot to get his name. Didn’t matter. He could find out later. Or not find out. Whatever.

In the meantime he would have a chat with Detective Hannah. Molly was needed at the greenhouse, and would not have committed murder. Police shared information with private investigators, didn’t they? And hadn’t Molly just hired him, sort of? And wasn’t Joel Hannah an old school chum? **** “Can’t do it, Randy. This isn’t a private eye TV show, you know.”

“Look, Joel, I’d guess this is the first murder case ever for Morgan Falls, and I know that young girl didn’t do any murder, and solvin’ this case could be the cat’pultation’a yore career.”

“And you set me on it.” Hannah scowled, “You got something goin’ on with this ‘young’ girl? What is she, anyway, about twenty-two, twenty-three?”

“Something like that, but, no, sir, I sure don’t have anything goin’ on with her. But I guarantee she didn’t do it.”

“And that’s something you just plain know.”

“That’s right. And what about legal counsel? Has she talked to anyone yet?”

“A public defender’ll be swinging through here on Thursday. And that reminds me, Randy. You didn’t mention this morning that she was the one who found the body. How come?”

“Forgot. I was s’posed to call and tell’er what the problem with Gilmore was, too, and forgot that, too.”

“How much more have you forgotten?”

“Not a thing I can think of. It ain’t everyday a guy sees a dead body, Joel. Causes lapses’a memory.”

“I suppose.” Hannah increased his scowl, “All right. I’ll share that Gilmore died Saturday evening about five-thirty. He received two blows to the head. One in back from a blunt instrument, and the deep one in front, which you saw. Both blows cracked his skull. Likely he got hit from behind, then hit his forehead on the metal casing around the pit when he fell. It’s a matter of opinion which blow killed him, if either, or if he drowned. Medical examiner isn’t finished.”

“But you’re def’nitely callin’ it murder?”

“Pretty definite. And the girl has no alibi.”

“What is her al’bi?”

“Alone in her room, for cripe’s-sake.”

“Hmmm....”

“What about Gilmore’s family, Randy? Saturday night to Monday morning is a mighty long time to be gone without his family even checkin’ on him.”

“Hmmm....”

“Troubles at home?”

“One could say that.” Randy chuckled, “Murder weapon yet?”

“No, but we’ll find it. **** Randy returned to the scene. Two men still sifted through the dust and grime. To his knowledge, the boiler room had never been cleaned. A fine place for murder.

The ash barrel still hung empty. It would soon have to go into the pit, so that the fire pot could discharge its ashes and receive fresh coal. He hoped the investigation had progressed to where that unpleasant procedure could be allowed. After all it was still March. The greenhouse needed heat. Lucky the weekend weather had been warm. Not too many plants got frosted.

He brought the matter up to the lab boys.

“Yeah, I suppose.” A stocky man with thinning black hair stood up and stretched his back, “Try not to spill lots of fresh coal dust though.”

“Thanks, and we’ll be careful.” Randy switched on the sump pump, then glanced at his watch. Threethirty.

“Mr. Crowell...?”

Randy turned. The husky young man, right on time. Maybe didn’t have such an attitude after all. He extended his hand, “No ‘mister’ stuff. I’m Randy.”

The young man smiled and grasped his hand, “I’m Winward.”

“Glad to meet you, Winward. Got a real fun job for you.”

“No problem, Randy. I helped Gil a coup’la times.”

“OK. Good. But just be careful in here.”

Winward went right to work, preparing the boiler to receive coal. Randy watched. Evidently the young man had that special intuition about machinery. If Randy were in charge he would ask Winward to stay on permanently.

About ten minutes passed. The sump began sucking air.

Winward switched the pump off, then grabbed a switchbox on a cord and punched a switch labeled ‘boiler’. The ash barrel rode the chainfall pulley a couple more inches toward the boiler. “Hey, Randy, too bad about the boss, huh?”

“Yeah, too bad.”

Winward began lowering the barrel into the pit, “And you know that guy who comes in at midnight?”

“Yeah, what about’im?”

“I guess he called this morning. Said he didn’t check the boiler this weekend. Says he’s sorry, but he quit, too.”

Damn temps and seasonals, “I wonder how ol’ Hannah took that?” he said mainly to himself.

“What’d you say, Randy?”

“I said it looks like yore our new 24-hour boiler tender. Think you can handle it?”

“Sure. I’ll go home and sleep this afternoon.”

“Great. Just hollar if you need any help.” Definitely, he would recommend Winward be hired full time.

Winward kept lowering the barrel until enough slack existed to push the barrel under the ash discharge.

Then the muscular young man jumped the six feet into the pit rather than using the ladder, shoved the barrel the remaining distance to under the ash-discharge, and jerked a lever.

The lever—round, blunt—came off in his hand, then a ‘whoosh!’ as the smelly, powdery load began discharging.

“They know who did it yet?” Winward glanced up.

“Ah, no. Not that I know of.”

“Anybody could’ve, you know. Hell, I didn’t like the guy myself, but I sure wouldn’t’ve murdered’im.”

The discharge stopped.

Winward, carrying the lever, crawled back out, punched where the switch was marked ‘hoist’. Slack crawled from the cable, then it tightened, creaked, and the barrel began rising. In a moment it hung— precariously, Randy had always thought—over the pit. Winward then left the barrel suspended, and walked around the pit and went to his knees.

“Aren’t you goin’ to move the barrel?” Randy asked.

“Why? It’s safe.” Winward leaned over the pit, reached with the lever to where Randy could not see.

“What’re you doin’?” Randy asked.

“Discharge lever doesn’t stay on anymore.” Winward stood, “Gil finally realized it was a lot easier puttin’ it back together and closin’ from up here. Hell, I only helped’im a coup’la times, and I saw that right away.”

And that was how the murder had taken place. Whoever was helping Gilmore that night had the lever, Gilmore was facing the pit, and, well, maybe the midnight guy had come in early…whatever, they now had a possible murder weapon, but still only one suspect. Randy glanced at the lab boys still sifting around in the coal dust, tools, broken lumber, and junk. They showed no sign of even hearing what he and Winward had been saying. Well, for the time being at least, he would leave the police out of this new, possible murder weapon development.

And now he had some material to ask questions with. But the day was about shot. **** He started the next morning with Mrs. McBane. Still no apparent tears over her loss of spouse.

“I’ve talked to the police, Randy, and I don’t care to talk to you.”

“Did you tell’em ‘he had it comin’?” Taking a chance there, just gossip.

“What...?”

“That’s the grapevine.”

Mrs. McBane went dark, “He did have it coming.” Her voice was low, angry, but not the sound of a murderess, “He slept with any woman who even looked at him, and half his female employees!”

Randy had figured that, and for a second wondered if Molly had been one of them.

Mrs. McBane’s dark blue eyes narrowed, “Don’t you have watering to do, Mister Crowell.”

“I’m on my break. But, thanks, ma’am.”

Time left for a quick coffee. Outside the lunchroom, standing alone with a Styrofoam cup, rich black hair, fair skin and dark eyes, was one of the temporary college girls. He got his coffee, found out her name from one of the others crowding the lunchroom, then joined her, “Mornin’, Bobbie.” He felt strange calling her by name, as if he actually knew her. Hmmm...maybe should examine his own attitude, about temps and seasonals, anyway, “How you doin’?”

“Oh, OK, I guess,” she gave a quick smile, but did not appear to be doing so well, “You’re Randy, right...?”

“Yep.” Evidently people knew his name, so maybe he should make an effort to learn theirs. They talked about nothing special for a couple minutes, Bobbie adding little, finally, “Bobbie, what was your worst time with ol’ Gil?” Bobbie’s creamy face colored, her eyes popped, then she turned away, “He was always hugging me!”

Her face contorted, “I hated it!”

“Oh, well, I saw’im do it once. It looked innocent.”

“Innocent?” Bobbie’s eyes snapped.

“Course, I could be wrong.”

She grabbed his arm, roughly, spilling part of his coffee, pulled him farther from the lunchroom, “Sure, it was innocent when people were around, but he’d want to do it when people weren’t, too!” She threw her cup on the concrete, stomped it, “Then it wasn’t so innocent! I hated it, Randy—I hated him! I’m glad he’s dead. I agree with Mrs. McBane—he had it coming!”

Bobbie stomped away, and Randy had a good idea she didn’t do the murder, either. Who next? **** Noon break. Randy took dinner an hour later than the rest and ate on the run, so he could approach the transplanters as a group as they worked, with the benign sounding comment question, “Well, we’ll all sure miss Gilmore, huh?”

“He was a real lecher, all right.” Martha, biggest and tallest, did not smile, apparently would be spokesperson.

“I wouldn’t call him anything so tame,” said little Giselle, the prettiest, “Worm is more like it.”

Chatter from the six ladies took over. Randy chewed his bite of sandwich quickly, “Ladies, please.”

Attention returned. He swallowed. Part went down kind of lumpy, “I’ll re-word. Did he ever offend any of you pers’nally?”

“Why’re you askin’?” Martha again, and she stepped right up to him, towered over him by four or five inches, and Randy was five-ten, “The police have taken our statements.”

“I’m writin’ a book, OK?” He stepped back.

“Yeah, he offended us, but all of us at the same time.” Martha turned ugly, which seemed to add a couple inches to her height, width, too.

“He yelled at me once.” Giselle again, “And every time he yelled after that, even if I was just within hearing, I cringed. I felt like he was yelling directly at me. I didn’t like him.”

“None of us liked him.” Martha softened for Giselle, “But he did have his good moments.”

Catty, mumbled comments came from the others, but nothing Randy could understand really good, and he wondered what ‘good moments’ Martha was referring to.

Martha again faced him, “I know what you’re doin’, Randy.”

“And that is?”

“You’ve got the hots for that little wench Molly, and now you’re tryin’ to find a murderer among the rest of us. Well, it’s not goin’ to work, cause she’s the one.”

“You sound sure, Martha.”

“Most of us women have been in the sack with Gilmore, Randy—“ The grapevine, yes, but Martha?

Again he wondered about Molly. “Molly most of all. But when he jilted her for that new little vixen...what’s-her-name...?”

“Bobbie,” all six of the others filled in.

“Right, ‘Bobbie’. Gil dropped Molly like so many dead petunias, and that made’er mad.”

“But, Martha, mad enough to murder?”

“It’d make me mad enough. You just want her out of jail so she can help you run this place, and dump on the rest of us.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?”

“The rumor is Mrs. McBane wants to sell out to you.”

“News to me, Martha.” Really news.

“Anyway, I think you’ve wasted enough of our time, Randy.” She took that step toward him again, glowered down, “So get!”

Randy stepped back, “I’ll do that, Martha.” The others, backs turned, had returned to working.

“Thanks, ladies.”

Mumbled responses. Nobody looked up, nor acted guilty.

No new information surfaced from the other employees. By Wednesday he had exhausted his list.

Course, the rest of Gilmore’s family could be suspect. One daughter in Washington, DC, the other three he had no idea. University student Cory sometimes worked on weekends. Something special about Cory. If anybody had ever gotten belittled and ridiculed by Gilmore, it was Cory McBane.

The quitting buzzer sounded.

And Molly still languished in jail. He had talked to her only the one time, and coming up with the money for bail had been out of the question. **** “Let’er out? Do you know what you’re askin’, Randy?”

“Yep, I do, Joel, and I hate to pull something like this on an old school chum, but you don’t have a murder weapon, no prints, no proof, and no motive stronger’en any’a the other thirty-three employees, and what about that midnight guy?”

“Drunk at his buddy’s house from three o’clock Saturday, and all day Sunday.”

“Oh.” “So, what do you hate to pull, old ‘chum’?”

“You really ain’t got a case, Joel. I know this ain’t that big of’a town, but we do have to go by rules.

However, if I could get to talk to’er, then I won’t rattle any cages.”

Hannah gestured to follow.

“And not through the glass, Joel.”

The detective didn’t answer, but they did walk past the glass cages and phones, and finally reached a door. Hannah opened it and motioned Randy in.

“And I sure hope this room ain’t bugged, Joel, cause that could sure possibly damage our friendship.”

Hannah laughed and waved him in. The room was bare except for a table with two chairs across from each other. “No bugs, Randy.” Hannah started to leave, “You sure you and this young girl haven’t got something going, old chum? She can’t be more’n eight or nine years younger’n you, and she looks pretty good.”

“No, sir, we don’t.” Not that lately he hadn’t been thinking about it.

“Fine. Just curious.” Hannah waved again, “She’ll be along shortly. You got fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks, Joel.” **** Randy heard the door open, had time to stand and turn before Molly ran into his arms, “Well, Molly girl, I sure didn’t know you felt this way.” He hugged her lightly, then patted her shoulder and stepped back so he could see her.

“Randy, it’s so awful here.” She kept talking but he stopped hearing. Her pupils. Still pin sized. He finally suspected she just had not told everything she knew. “I didn’t do it, Randy—I did not do it!”

“All right, Molly.” He guided her to a chair, “Let’s talk this over.” He patted her shoulder again, then sat in the other chair. Due to his limited time he would start with the brass tack. He wanted to know personally, too, “They’re sayin’ at work that you were angry at Gilmore for takin’ Bobbie for a new lover, and, therefore, are likely to be the real murderer.”

Her eyes widened slightly, “It’s true, Randy.” She glanced toward the table, her shoulders slumped forward even more, then she brought her eyes back to him.

“What, is true, Molly?”

Her pupils seemed to enlarge slightly as she appeared to relax, “Gil and I did have an affair. Oh, I didn’t want it...,” She looked away but her voice didn’t change pitch. He guessed she was telling the truth, “It started with just a lot of talk, then shoulder pats, like you.” She glanced at him. Was she saying his pats were leading to an affair?

“Finally, he was hugging me at every chance, and in private, too, and he kept saying how if I went along with him I could get another raise, and even advance to manager. And then the hugs got longer and, well, you know....”

“Ah, excuse me, Molly, but I don’t know. What yore describin’ I’ve never done.” He laughed, “Well, the pats, maybe, but I don’t usually go too much beyond that.”

“You’ve never gone to bed with a woman?”

“No—yes! Well, ah, Molly, my private life is not the issue here. But are you sayin’ you believe that if a man pats your shoulder, that, event’ally, it’s goin’ to lead to bed?”

“Yeah, I guess I believe something like that. I keep waiting for you to, well, ah, you know....” She glanced toward the table again.

Randy pressed, “How many times has this happened?”

“How many times?” She appeared dumbfounded, “Do you mean how many times with Gil, or with other men?”

Not sure he wanted to even hear, “Yes, other men.”

“I don’t know. The first one I remember was some friend of my dad’s. I was eight...”

She would have gone on but Randy stopped her. Where the conversation would lead would maybe help her in a trial, but not much in the present, “All right, Molly, I’m sorry that happened to you. The thing is, you don’t have to do everything men want you to.”

“I don’t?”

“No, you don’t. Now, honey, listen. We’re goin’ to have to do some thinkin’ and rememberin’ if we’re goin’ to get you out’a here. First, you don’t have a al’bi, so, where were you that late Saturday afternoon?”

“Home alone.”

“OK, where do you live? House? Apartment building?”

“House.”

“You live alone in a whole house?”

“No.” “No...? Who else...?”

“I live with six other girls. At least three were there.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell the police?”

“I did, sort of, but, I was in my room, Randy, alone. After seven, well, nobody actually saw me.”

“And before seven, say from five on?”

“Well, then we usually all sit in the living room, read the paper, watch TV, eat supper, gossip, you know....”

Communication somewhere had been really bad. Randy stood, pulled Molly up beside him and hugged her, and Molly hugged back, “Uhmmm, Randy, this hug feels good. Does it mean you’re starting to like me more?”

He released her, “It means I like you like a niece, a little sister.” He squeezed her upper arms, “Woman, you’ve got to come to grips with how you feel about things. Every man is not allowed a free hand. You don’t have to do what everybody says, unless you want to. Understand?”

“I’m learning, Randy.” She smiled. Her pupils had enlarged still more. He knew now she had always been telling the truth, just did not know quite where to start and end.

“OK. Let’s get you out’a here.” **** After depositing Molly at her house with two of her girlfriends, and orders to keep her there, Randy headed to the greenhouse and the pit.

Crime scene tape still roped it off. He stepped over, then stood still and tried imagining what had happened. Ash barrel empty and sitting on the floor. Pit closed. Winward was running the place correctly.

A good man worth hiring. The rumor of him buying the place slipped through his mind. With a few other good employees like Winward...but did he want such a responsibility? Course, if Mrs. McBane did sell, he would probably find himself out of a job. New owners in the new millennium often didn’t keep original employees.

But he had other things to think about right then, and glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock and dark.

Four days since the murder. What had he accomplished? He was pretty sure how things had transpired, but —somebody coming!

He held his breath and slipped around a corner. Cory. What was he doing there in the middle of the week? Then a memory. His first year at the greenhouse. The boy Cory was ten years old and getting a mind-chewing. But what had he done? That had never been clear.

No words were remembered. Just the sound of Gilmore’s screeching voice and the sight of young Cory staring at the floor, not crying, just staring, a young mind being indelibly etched with mindless verbal abuse and violence. Gilmore had pushed and ridiculed his employees, and his family, but especially Cory.

Wearing gloves, Cory slid the steel hatch cover off the pit, then went to his knees, reached down and around. Randy couldn’t see but knew. The lever. The boy, about twenty, Randy thought, examined the lever, tilting it back-and-forth. Available twenty-four hour light from the seed germinating room hit it just right, and showed a spot of red. Randy felt amazed he had not noticed earlier, when Winward handled it.

Cory then produced a small tube of something, squished a tiny amount on the lever, then began rubbing, removing the blood, and the evidence—“Is that how you did it, Cory?”

The boy leaped up, spun around.

“You were helpin’ Gilmore on the weekend, correct? He was leanin’ over the pit to close the discharge, but you had the lever. Then you hit’im and filled the pit with water. People would think he fell in and drowned. Am I right?”

Cory McBane hung his head.

“How come you didn’t check the lever for blood then?”

“Didn’t think of it.” Cory spoke at the floor.

“Well, havin’ just committed my first murder, I don’t reckon I would’ve thought’a everything, either.”

Randy found a rag, advanced, took the lever, “Let’s go, Cory. I think we better give Detective Hannah a call.” He took the boy’s arm, “And don’t worry. I’ll be a character witness for you.” **** An hour later, Randy and Molly were seated at a local, posh, restaurant. “What’ll happen to Cory, Randy?”

“Man-slaughter, at least. But, anger had built up over a long period in Cory, and Gil never let up on’im, so, the jury’ll probably go easy on’im.”

“I hope so.” Molly put her hand on Randy’s forearm, “So, are you going to buy the greenhouse business?”

“Don’t know. Would you manage the seeding department?”

“Maaaaaaybe.” She squeezed his arm, “You and me together, Randy, we could do a lot with that place.

But I’d want to do more than the seeding.”

Molly was not the same. Since getting out of jail, her manner appeared to have advanced about ten years, and he liked the change, “I did say ‘manage’, Molly. There’s lots more departments than just the seedin’ that need good management.”

She smiled, showed her bright teeth widely, and held her head up, and her shoulders. She looked like a different woman. “Thanks for bringing me here tonight, Randy. I really appreciate it.”

“That’s OK. We deserve some rest after what’s happened.”

“I’ll make it up to you, too.” Her hand moved to his.

“Now, remember what I said, Molly. You don’t have to do everything men want you to.”

“I know, and I won’t ever again unless I want to. And, tonight, I want to.”

He looked into her shining eyes. Her pupils were huge, black as the night. He surmised she definitely was telling the truth.

--The end--

INTO TILOVIA NOBODY WAS HELPING THE TILOVIANS. SEVEN FRIENDS DECIDE IT'S TIME SOMEBODY DID. Foster pushed through the door. Near the far left corner of the nearly empty tavern sat his six friends.

"He's here!" Foster spotted the curly, fiery red hair and beard of Giant. Over six and a half feet, the man, maxing out at 290 pounds, waved, "Barkeep!"

Five more faces turned. Applause. A cheer. Corissa's ebony hair was shining like the night. She pulled out a chair, "Sit here, Foster."

Wishing they wouldn't always do that 'hurrah', Foster returned the wave and started for the chair. In that spot at the round table he would face Giant.

Van, to Giant's right and not quite as tall and heavy, sported a closely-trimmed black beard, "Pull up, Foster. What adventure you got planned for us this time?"

"The biggest adventure of all." Foster sat and threw a grin at Corissa. She smiled widely back.

Next to Van sat Mick, the blonde lady killer, the shortest except for Foster, who stood 5'9" at 160. To Giant's left sat Tyke, taller than Mick and slimmer. Between Tyke and Corissa, sat Kuai, a slim, twentytwo-year-old Cambodian with a disarming smile, and the love of Tyke’s life.

Corissa, at 23 was next youngest, then Tyke, 24, Mick, 26, Van, 29, Giant, 37, and Foster, curly white hair, moustache, blue eyes, rounded them out at 39. The unlikely group had bonded during the weekend night-shift, a dark and cold hole on top of the ground that drove people together.

A waitress arrived. With a twenty-dollar bill Giant made a circular gesture, "Add a Miller Genuine Draft to our round."

More greetings followed, more subdued, comradely, "Say, big guy," from Tyke. Mick lightly patted and squeezed his shoulder, "Foster‌." From Kuai, "Hi, Foster." They had not all been together away from

work since their Boundary Waters canoe trip in northern Minnesota that June. September had followed quickly. They were ready for another adventure.

During the canoe trip they had discovered each other's bad sides, and the strengths of their good sides.

Many two and three-day adventures had preceded, but two weeks in wilderness had matured their bonding.

"So what's up, Foster?" From Van. "Got us a job, guys."

"Whoa," Giant said, "When we turned you loose last week, didn't you understand we wanted an adventure?"

"Maybe both." Mick clapped his hands together lightly.

"There's nothing left for purely adventure," Foster said, "We've done everything we want."

"We haven't gone to Costa Rica."

"Maybe sooner than you think, Mick."

"What's the job, Foster?" The stoic Tyke sipped his beer, faced straight ahead, "And I know we're not going to Costa Rica."

"Tell us, Foster." Corissa slipped her arms around his right forearm and drew close, "We gonna do something dangerous?"

He looked into her eyes, "Very dangerous."

"And it's a job, not an adventure…."

"Like you said, Mick. It's both." Foster gazed around at them all, stopped on Giant, "Seven parachutes."

Giant grinned, doubled his huge fist, "Yes!" "Six canoes."

Van's mouth fell open, "Not another canoe trip."

"Four days rations."

Mick tightened his lips, nodded knowingly. Foster knew that Mick knew that rations meant something really different.

"And guns, Tyke."

"Oooh," Dark eyes shining, Corissa gripped him, "Danger."

Foster noticed Kuai had linked arms with her man too. "Lots of them, Tyke. They'll be provided, plus hundreds more. But you make our list. You know what each of us uses best."

Tyke gave a thumbs-up.

“I want an Uzi." Corissa pulled Foster's arm tight against her, "That was so much fun."

Foster looked into her eyes again. So full of life she was, and so soft.

"Guns, Foster?"

"Van, we've fired thousands of rounds."

"At firing ranges," Giant said, "Usually inside a big, sterile and immaculate, and safe, building."

"The sound of your voice says people." Van leaned his arms on the table, then crossed them.

"I could do it," said Kuai, daughter of refugees.

"Targets…people…," Mick, their only combat veteran, had spent six years in the navy, two with the

SEAL team, and had seen action in places he had not even told his friends about, "Doesn't matter much to the bullets."

"Not the same, Mick," Van said.

"Chances are we won't see combat," Foster began.

"Oh? You're taking us somewhere hot and you expect not to see combat?" Mick's eyes were lit. Even someone who did not know Mick would be able to see the passion of someone who would kill, who likely had killed, "Give us a break, Foster."

"Can I have an Uzi?" Corissa squeezed Foster's arm again, drew him completely against her. He did not try to pull away, and briefly thought of his hunch that she had been with all of them, maybe even the alluring Kuai, but as yet not with him.

"Tyke, what do you say?"

"She was pretty good with it. Better than me."

"Hell, I was better than any of you," Corissa clarified.

"But have you ever shot a person?" Mick leaned forward with the question, and rapped the table with his knuckles.

"Of course not. But I think I could."

Foster glanced at her. Her eyes were lit somewhat like Mick's. Maybe she could. He glanced at Tyke, spoke softly, "And a rifle and scope for you, Tyke."

Tyke nodded.

"But where?" asked Van, "You still haven't told us."

"And when?" asked Giant.

Van and Giant were the sensible ones. The women of their group had said the reason was their great size. They didn't have to worry about anything or anybody hurting them, so they could afford to be sensible.

"Soon." Foster faced Giant, "And where?" He shifted toward Van, "We've already talked about it."

"Tilovia." The quiet admonition came from Tyke, "We're going into Tilovia."

The waitress arrived with their round. **** Silence was unknown to this group, but silence did descend on the table. Foster drew his MGD close, "Thanks, Giant." He took a sip, waited for the waitress to leave, then broke that silence, "Kuai, have you jumped recently?"

"Yes, once." Always difficult to know what emotion showed on Kuai's face, or what was coming through in her voice, "Tyke's taking me again tomorrow, before work."

"No more work, kids. Ol' Random Assembly will just have to get along without us. Forever. We've given them enough of our lives."

"Well, you've been there since the Dark Ages, Foster," Mick said, "Some of us haven't been there so long."

"That's true." Foster made the admission, then waited, a few thoughts going through his mind of what the 'new job' actually consisted of, mainly that it would be dangerous.

"What about giving two weeks notice?"

"No time, Corissa." He looked into her shining eyes, and doubted she was too distressed about not

giving notice, "Anyway, I called in for all of us yesterday."

"You assumed?" The question came from three directions.

Foster looked around at them all, "Yes…I assumed none of you would want to miss this adventure." But the true seriousness of the danger-concept he had not yet allowed into the forefront of his mind. He and his young friends seemed invincible when it came to dangerous, recreational, adventure, but the concept of this new kind of danger he was trying not to think about too seriously.

Sooner or later he would have to. They all would.

Corissa pulled his arm tighter against her, began massaging from his elbow to his shoulder, then patted, "That doesn't mean we're not interested, Foster," she said softly, "But tell us more."

He put his hand on her hand on his shoulder, gazed at her. Corissa was so young, so impressionable, and, so…trusting. He suspected she would go almost anywhere, do almost anything he suggested. He suspected they all would, but, for adventure? Or for him? He had not before combined the two thoughts.

For adventure? Or for him?

The thoughts were sobering. He didn't want to think in that direction right then.

"Yeah, Foster," Mick patted his other shoulder, "We're not saying we wouldn't. We just need more information."

Right. He gazed around at them all. He had their full attention. It was a power over them he had never considered. He was oldest, most experienced in life. They trusted him. "We can call Random Assembly again tonight," he said, "With a list of who's definitely not showing up for work tomorrow night."

"Jesus, Foster," Van said, not unkindly, but…what…?

He had their attention, their trust, he would tell them the whole story and each would make his or her own decision. No pressure from him. But, still, he was their leader. So, he would lead them, "See to Kuai's training, Tyke. She should be freefalling with confidence by Sunday afternoon. We don't have a lot of time."

"So we have to take the women…."

"Kuai's just like us, Mick," Tyke said, "She likes adventure."

"So what's Corissa's excuse?"

“Foster patted Corrissa’s hand, answered Mick, “She just likes us.”

Giant brought up an important question, "What do we get paid?"

"All expenses plus thirty thousand each. And everybody will show proof of a last will and testament before we leave."

"Last will…?"

Foster didn't miss Corissa's change, "Last wills, and other Forms releasing our new employer from certain responsibilities. Just like what we signed before jumping out of that plane the first time, Sweetpea." He patted her hand again, "Remember?"

"I don't remember what I signed."

"He means we might die, Corissa," Mick said, "And we won't be able to blame anybody."

"Oh." Corissa remained sober, "I didn't like signing that paper. It sorta took some of the fun out of it."

"Nothing different, Sweetpea." Foster often used his personal pet name for Corissa. She was special to him. Not more special then the others, but special in a different way. He had trained her at work. Her first three hours had been close with him while they went through all the assembly machines and processes.

They had connected immediately in a father/big brother-daughter/little sister sort of way. Or was it

something else entirely? Some constantly-conflicting thing he didn't really want to admit to, yet subconsciously thought about whenever he was near her. Whatever their connection was, it was subtle but very, very, real.

He had trained some of the others too, but had spent less time, gave less personal attention. And he knew some things were very different this time, with this adventure.

"Reminds me of Hemingway," Van said.

Thanks to Van they were all familiar with the great American writer and the Spanish Civil War, and a lot of other interesting subjects like weapons and how to deal with women. And Van's comment might even have added a certain amount of romanticism and new interest to their discussion. For arms came unfolded, palms opened, and Foster's friends leaned closer. “Training begins at six o'clock tomorrow morning," he said, "At the hanger, where it all began." **** Three years earlier the hanger classroom had set the scene for their first adventure together, a static-line parachute jump. They had come a long way since then.

Foster sat among his six friends. Giant behind. Van to Giant's right. Mick to Foster's left. Kuai in front, Tyke to her left. And Corissa to Foster's right, again with her arms linked, a pleasing thing to him.

But if she were sending signals other than daughter-sister to adopted father-brother he was missing them.

"So, who's this guy again?" asked Giant.

"Israeli, we think," Van said, "But what the hell is their interest?"

"A civilian group with military background," Foster said.

"And they're helping Muslims?" Tyke asked.

"They're showing the world how fair they are," Mick offered.

Corissa stretched across Foster, "Some Tilovians have blue eyes, Mick."

Foster held up his hand, "This group has helped Muslims with brown eyes too. It's what they do. They help the downtrodden."

"And they're paying for it?" Kuai asked.

"They provide logistics and expertise," Foster answered, "The money comes from a Saudi."

"And our money?"

"From the Saudi too."

A door in back opened. A man between forty and fifty, with sharp, dark eyes walked toward the front.

Briefcase, black suit with black tie, just like any normal American businessman, "My name is not important." He stopped by a small table, opened the briefcase, removed a remote control, "You have heard basically what the job is. If anyone wishes you may leave now. Once you hear details you may not."

Hard to miss the true meaning of the last sentence.

Foster felt Corissa tighten on his arm. He wished she would suggest these, affections, or whatever they were, at other times. He glanced at her, then around at them all. The seven friends had talked far into the night. Nobody had expressed serious dissension. Or had he only imagined that? Even ignored it? No. Everybody had agreed. Nobody would miss this adventure, "We're all staying," he said.

The business-looking man by the table, their instructor, nodded, then faced Mick, "Lights, please."

Mick went. The instructor aimed the remote toward a projector in the back of the room. A black and white map of eastern Europe and western Russia appeared on a screen. Gray-shaded, obscure, Tilovia, made a tiny, jagged outline.

"Communism, as we knew it, is dead, but in eastern Europe and the southern and western parts of the old Soviet Union—and even parts of Russia herself—something just as dark and deadly has taken its place." The instructor pulled a pointer from his briefcase and tapped outside Tilovia's boundary, "This is where you will parachute to, then cross the border." He pointed, "Into this area controlled by the Aurochs.

If they catch you they will not like what you are doing. Likely you will be killed."

Corissa's fingers tightened on Foster's arms, almost painfully. The instructor’s sharp gaze landed on her, "Last chance to leave." He sounded impatient.

"No." She placed her hands on her lap. A chill passed Foster's arm where her hands had been. "I'm fine."

"Good." The instructor moved the pointer to the center of the map, "Tilovia. Murder. Rape.

Genocide. Crimes against the very barest meaning of humanity. The Tilovians are fighting for their lives with pre-World War II firearms, bolt-action hunting rifles, shotguns. You name it, they don't have it. The Aurochs have tanks, artillery, well, they are equipped for war, but one-sided war."

He tapped his hand with the pointer, "Not far away this thing happened in Bosnia. The world watched but pretended not to see, as in the thirties with Hitler. Nobody did anything until too many people were killed with one artillery shell. Too much gore on your American TV sets in your warm American homes.

Then NATO acted."

Anyone could see the man was angry.

"No matter the race, or color of skin, or religion—" a controlled, professional, anger, "— Genocide is genocide." He pointed to the top right, "Here is your escape route. Into the yet-peaceful enclave of Concretia."

A pause, maybe to let a few words like 'killed, genocide…escape', sink in.

"We feel you can make one quick trip without being discovered." He changed the subject, "Who is in charge of weapons?"

Tyke raised his hand, "No problem."

"Good. As well as headset radios, first aid kits, night vision goggles, etc., you will each be issued a 9mm semiautomatic pistol and the assault weapon of your choice."

"I want an Uzi," Corissa said.

"Good choice, young lady." Their instructor smiled for the first time, "You will have one." The man took a breath, then again clicked the remote and pointed, “A close-up of Tilovia, just one of the many tiny countries in this part of the world wanting independence. For you in the United States it may be hard to understand why a country not much larger than your smaller states, would want independence. To answer you would need to delve deeply into world history."

"I read National Geographic," Giant said.

"I studied world history in college," Van said.

"Good." Their instructor did not smile, "To cut through massive history volumes I will assert that, if not for Columbus, your own Native American Indian tribes, within maybe even a hundred years, would have began dividing the New World into a morass of small countries just like the Old World. And likely just as hostile to one another. Was Columbus' arrival timely? No one will ever know…."

The instructor paused again and looked over each person, then stopped at Corissa, "No offense to your people, young lady, but what I described would have happened. It's man's nature."

"No offense taken." Corissa smiled, then again linked arms with Foster.

"May I ask your tribe?"

"Mandan," Corissa answered, "Not a really well-known tribe. And my grandmother was only part."

"But the best part, and I have heard of the Mandan, in the 1830s virtually wiped out by white man's smallpox." Their instructor only half smiled, then continued, "In your drop zone you will find six aluminum canoes. Why canoes? The neutral country would allow us to bring in canoes, plus thirty more for them to sell at great profit. Simple economics. But guns they would not allow to cross their border, not on the ground anyway.

"The Bolushi River," he followed a ragged line with the pointer, "flows past the border, through Aurochian lines—" "Any rapids?" Mick asked.

"There are rapids, but likely nothing worse than you have already experienced right here in your own Midwest."

"Of course then we had two people per canoe, and weren't loaded down with guns and ammunition."

"Very true." Their instructor folded his arms.

"Hey, no problem, man. It was just a question."

"And a good question." Apparently satisfied the instructor returned the pointer to the map, "Here you will turn upstream. Your destination is the mountain village of Novi Mare, which can be reached only two ways. Through the back door, where you are going, or a narrow mountain pass road where Aurochs will be.

"Our intelligence says an attack will come, maybe in days. Why do the Aurochs want this quiet hamlet?

We don't know. It has exported agricultural products for centuries. But likely the Aurochian kill-lust has simply gotten so far out of hand that they simply do not want any Muslims left in their Greater Aurochistan." A pause, "Your escape route is continuing on the Bolushi River for two more nights to reach Concretia. Any questions?"

Yes. Many. But by ten o'clock everyone felt satisfied. Their instructor closed his briefcase, "You will travel as tourists. Your flight for Paris leaves New York Sunday at eleven p.m." **** Over the Atlantic. Corissa, linked to Foster, had questions. "‌no identification," Foster was saying, "If anybody is killed, well, one of us should survive to inform our families."

"So serious, Foster." She squeezed his arm, "Go on."

"Our instructor told us everything. Weren't you listening?"

"That meeting got kind of tiresome, Foster. Maybe my mind wandered once or twice. Didn't yours?"

"No, not once." Corissa was not taking their job very seriously. But maybe she was doing it the right way, everything in stride. He was trying for the same, basically, yet something in the back of his mind kept gnawing at him. The danger.

"Yeah, perfect Foster." She pulled his arm against her, "So, tell me again. I promise to give you my full mind."

He wished she would give him her full body, and not just this upper body pressing, "OK, from Paris we board a smaller jet which will fly us east, to where exactly, is classified, for now at least. But wherever we land there are still two sensitive borders to cross. We board a small prop job for those two borders and land at a rural air strip, where we give up our IDs, get outfitted, and take off again in a larger plane for the last border."

"Larger plane because of the guns and ammo."

"Very good, Corissa. And because we have to go high."

"How high?"

"I don't know, but we'll have to be on oxygen."

"Oh." "How could you miss all that, Sweetpea?"

"I don't know." She gave an extra hard pat to his arm, "I'm a woman."

That explained that, "So how come you're hanging with me so much, lately?"

"Oh, you know, those young guys, their hands can get so busy sometimes."

"And you think I'm too decrepit to get 'busy'."

"No." "What do you think, then?"

"I don't know. I guess I figure with you I can relax."

"I'm not making you nervous, am I?" He glanced at her. Those usually snapping brown eyes gazed quietly back at him.

"No‌maybe when we get home, Foster."

He wanted to ask 'Get home and then what‌?', but thought better of it, "We should get some sleep."

"Right." She turned more toward him and laid her head on his shoulder, "Do you like children, Foster?"

He stared at her. She didn't look back, was already breathing heavier, relaxed. "Yes," he answered.

"Good." She already sounded half asleep, "Goodnight." **** Only twenty-dollar greenbacks could they keep. Of course, if caught, greenbacks would label them as Americans. But little doubt anyway. Only Americans would do something so foolish.

Still, Foster felt sort of as a non-person handing over his personal effects, how the Jews must have felt during World War II. But he felt he could trust these people. And his friends trusted him. They had placed their lives in his hands before. But never had he led them to such danger, and as time wore on that danger concept pressed on him ever harder.

He had taken vacation with orders to find a different adventure. A difficult task. Then the mercenary magazine ad. He had followed lead after lead, talked to friends of friends of friends, until this job offer.

But something had nagged at him even then, that something he would not allow into conscious thought.

Some would not come back.

Conscious or not, the feeling should have stopped him.

It didn't.

And now that nagging feeling was finally sinking in.

Some will not come back.

With their personal belongings in one canvas bag their instructor from the hanger classroom approached. Foster felt glad to see him, and wished the man was going along.

"Sorry about no oxygen for your jump," the man said, "An unfortunate oversight. But no time remains."

"I understand. We're all young and healthy." ****

Suit-up time. Then they would board the plane and climb to an altitude not necessarily out-of-reach of radar, and very likely not out-of-reach by missiles. But unfriendly airspace would last only moments before their jump.

Just one more minor but touchy border. Then they would jump into a black night, one second after the entire floor of the plane opened and six parcels filled with smaller crates of hand grenades, AK-47s and ammunition dropped with parachutes set to open automatically at seven hundred feet.

They were aboard.

Again Corissa latched onto Foster. Body contact, soft even through her camouflage uniform. Quite sticky lately. Maybe when they got home, as she had said. But what had she said? Nothing. He wished he had pressed her to elaborate, "Ya ready, Sweetpea?"

Corissa patted the Uzi strapped beneath her breasts, then her ripcord, "Always ready, Foster." Those snapping brown eyes were shining like never before.

The plane's engines revved.

"Safety belts, people." Foster made the announcement, then gazed at his friends standing against the bulkheads. On one side Foster, Corissa, Tyke, Kuai. The four lighter people would jump first. Then Mick, Van, Giant last.

Seven clicks were heard, "Questions, anybody?" Foster waited, "Problems?" He waited again, "Seats comfy?"

A chuckle from some, a tension release, but no complaint. No questions, no problems. Right. Now just private thoughts.

The plane began to taxi. Then the intercom crackled, "Once at altitude the trip will take about nine minutes," the pilot said, "The next time you hear my voice I'll tell you to install inboard oxygen mouthpieces. I suggest you become familiar with them. The last time you hear my voice I will tell you to release your safety belts. Seconds later your cargo will go. Don't wait for more instructions. The first man will shout 'one thousand' and go, the next 'two thousand' and go. That quickly. You must not get separated from your cargo, nor from each other."

A pause, "Godspeed, and see you safely in Concretia."

Foster added his own last-minute instructions, “For the jump, kids, set your radios on voice-transmit only. But no unnecessary chatter. We won't know who might be scanning down there." **** Foster glanced at Tyke to his left, then reached past Corissa and patted the front of his right shoulder. Tyke grinned and patted the top of his hand, "See ya on the ground, big guy."

Foster returned the grin, then transferred his hand to Corissa.

"I'm a little scared, Foster."

"We've jumped many times, Sweetpea. This is no different."

"Oh, it's a little different."

"We've even jumped at night. Many, many, times."

"I know."

"We need you, Sweetpea."

She smiled.

Some will not come back.

He wished that thought would go away.

Silence, as time passed.

Then crackling from the cockpit, "Install oxygen. When you release your safety belts just drop the mouthpieces. Breathe normally. Do not hold your breath."

"Tyke, what does he mean?" Kuai sounded concerned.

"Just what he said, Kuai. Just something you haven't done yet. Don't worry. I'll take care of you."

Tyke sounded confident. Foster hoped he had sounded the same during his many instructions. He doubted it.

"Remember 14,000 feet in Florida, Foster?"

"Yes, Sweetpea. You got really goofy during that jump."

"Well, it wasn't my fault. I was starved for oxygen."

"As usual, Corissa," came Mick's voice.

"Fuck you, Mick."

Mick chuckled, sent a wide grin, discernible even in the dark.

"OK, kids, let's get our mouthpieces on." Keep giving orders. What had he done?

The minutes passed, for certain nine.

On cue the intercom crackled, "Release your safety belts."

Two or three seconds passed as seven snaps were heard. Foster counted. The clicks were louder than guns going off beside his ear. Again the crackle, "Hang on!"

An explosive 'whoosh' as the custom-fashioned bomb bay door fell open. Cargo away. They saw a few lights, far, far, away. Foster dropped the mouthpiece, shouted, "One-thousand!" and stepped into air. A split second later he heard Corissa, "Two-thousand!"

Almost nothing but black. Those shining things were lights on earth. No. Stars, and the moon, partial anyway. Foster knew he was tumbling—stabilize. Get control, flatten out, slow down. How much time had passed? He did not know. He must have been scared too. Hell, he was scared now. Too old for this shit. His lungs felt…he didn't know.

His mouth opened. Cold air blasted his insides. He must have been holding his breath. He coughed.

Get control. He determined which of the shining things were lights, which stars. Then, as countless times before while tumbling for fun, he straightened his arms and legs, flattened his body.

And stabilized.

"Radio-check, kids." He felt surprised his voice worked.

"Right behind you, Foster." Corissa's voice. He felt like crying with relief.

"Loud and clear, Foster." Tyke's voice.

Kuai…?

"Loud and clear, Foster." Mick's voice.

Seconds passed. Kuai should have answered, "Kuai…?"

"I've got her." Tyke's voice, "We jumped holding hands."

"Good man, Tyke. Van…Giant…?"

"Loud and clear, Foster." Giant's voice, "Van's not far below me. Still tumbling. If he doesn't stabilize soon I should be able to catch him."

"Don't wait, Giant. None of us will be able to stop him."

"Ten-four."

All at least accounted for. Foster flipped onto his back. Corissa, not five feet above. He wanted to reach and pull her into his arms and pull the covers to their necks and make love forever. But changing any position of his body would just drop him further from her. No, it was up to her to catch him.

She drew her arms to her sides, closed her legs slightly, dropped the five feet smoothly and spreadeagled again, slowed again, grabbed his right hand with her left. Even with full acceptance of reality, Foster wanted to seize this moment of complete privacy to pull her against him, to give this soft woman love, love, love. But their radio-mouthpieces, their parachute harnesses, their weaponry.

Corissa grabbed his other hand, began pulling herself into him. Yes. Do it. We may die tomorrow.

Make love tonight. Right now and here, forever and ever. Their lips found each other. The radios were not in the way hardly at all. The kiss happened. Foster's very soul stopped functioning. Reality paused and soared away. Then the kiss ended. Corissa must have kept her head, because Foster had not. He released her, flipped back to his stomach, then grabbed her left hand again, and glanced at her.

Even in the darkness, even with the brutal wind whipping her face, he saw her snapping eyes grinning behind her goggles.

It had been a bewitching few seconds.

But how many had passed? What was their altitude?

"Sweetpea!" he shouted, probably didn't need to shout, "Can you reach your flashlight?"

She did. "Shine it on my altimeter!" He moved his left hand into her light.

"Still above five thousand…!" she said, "Barely…!"

They had about thirty seconds to find each other and latch on, to guarantee their landings would be close.

"Right behind you, Foster." Tyke's voice.

He looked up. Kuai to his left, still limp, just a few feet above but the two dropping faster. As she drew even Foster grabbed her right armpit. Tyke immediately changed position to her left armpit. The tactic flattened her body slightly, but still they were dropping too fast, "Kuai!" he yelled.

She did not respond.

"Stay in position, guys." Mick's voice, "I'll drop in facing you. Maybe I can wake her up with a few gentle slaps."

"Or hard ones! Do it, Mick." Time was running out, "Van! Giant! Where the hell are you?"

"We're coming." Giant's voice, "If Van doesn't wake up we might have to drop past you. No way I can slow us down alone."

"Can you see us, Giant?"

"Yeah. I'd say we're thirty feet above and closing fast."

Coughing and gasping in the headset. Foster knew it was Van, "Van! Wake the hell up, big guy!"

Mick settled in facing them. He reached and lifted Kuai's face, gently slapped her, then again, again.

Kuai began struggling. Foster and Tyke held her. Coughing. Finally, "I'm awake, guys."

Thank God. One at a time they released her armpit and grasped her hand. "Good job, Mick. Now hook on to either Corissa or Tyke—VAN! Goddamn it! WAKE UP! Mick! Can you see your altimeter?"

The most professional skydiver among them, Mick gave the impression of swimming and floating underwater as he glided through the whipping air to Tyke's left side, then announced, "Passing two

thousand!"

"VAN!!!!"" Foster felt his voice had gone out as a scream.

"Right…above…." Van's voice. Thank you, God. "Sweetpea," Foster said, "Reach up."

Corissa reached up. Van hooked on and dropped past. For several seconds the extra weight elongated the group and increased their descent speed, and increased all adrenalin counts if that was possible. But then Mick, swimming through air like a madman, finally reached Giant, hooked on, and the seven friends drew into a circle. For a few more seconds it seemed like just one more exhibition jump, like they would next release colorful pyrotechnics for spectators below.

But they were not exhibiting.

"One thousand feet!" yelled Mick. Seconds passed, "Seven hundred!"

Foster felt his voice going out, "Release and pull!"

They dropped hands, flattened their palms, lifted their heads, exploded away from each other and pulled their ripcords. Foster heard three canopies blossom before his own.

Almost nothing but black below. But that's what they wanted. But a few streetlights would have been nice. Shapes of trees appeared in moon glow. Something shining. Water. A ribbon of it. They were on target.

Sound. Crashing. Foster's hands felt for the AK-47 strapped to his front. Then he realized the crates of weapons were landing. Yes, canopies collapsing. Indeed. On target.

The ground close. Heading into a tree. He pulled the left steering toggle and swung into the wind. It slowed him enough. Almost there. Ground approaching. Flare. He pulled both toggles and dropped lightly to the earth. Dear earth.

He jerked the right toggle to beyond his groin. The canopy collapsed in that direction and soon lay still.

He looked up.

Others landing. The rest almost down. In the veiled available light it made for an enchanting moment.

Elves and fairies alighting in the dark forest of Brothers Grimm. **** In ten minutes all parachutes were subdued, bundled, hidden as well as darkness would permit, "Put your radios back on key-only, kids," Foster announced.

"Can we find the canoes tonight?" Giant asked.

"We should be able to. You go south, I'll go north." Giant acknowledged. "Van, the rest of you start opening the crates. For the canoe trip we want just the small crates. There should be a high-powered rifle and scope in one."

Tugging on his arm. He turned. Corissa. They looked at each other for only a second before the embrace, and drew each other as close and tight as possible. Then he pulled away and looked into those deep eyes, "We got work to do, Sweetpea."

"I know." She joined Van with the crates.

Twenty minutes passed as Foster searched north, listening to the radio chatter. Not much. Nothing unnecessary. His friends had adapted well to their military roles.

"Foster…copy?"

"Go ahead, Giant."

"I've found the canoes. All six."

"How far?"

"Not far."

"Tyke, Kuai, Corissa, help Giant get the canoes to the river. Mick and Van, I'll join you two with the crates."

An hour passed. All canoes sat half in the water, loaded except for people. One for each man, the women one together.

"OK, kids," Foster said, "Party time."

"Which way?" Corissa asked.

"Downstream, of course."

"Fuck you, Mick."

Mick chuckled.

"Let's move, kids," Foster said, "I'll take point." Yes. He had brought them there. Whatever danger lay ahead, he would get there first. Some will die. The thought would not go away.

He installed the night-vision goggles, pushed his canoe and jumped aboard. The moon had dropped. As his canoe nosed in with the current, the greenish glow in the goggles caused the world to seem unworldly.

It reminded him of what he could see in the small convex mirror on the large side view mirror of his pickup.

He wished he were back in Minnesota with it now.

He looked back. All canoes in.

"Right behind you, Foster." Mick's voice.

"Tyke behind Mick."

"We're next." Kuai's voice.

A few seconds passed, "Corissa…?"

"Yeah, I'm here, Foster. Just trying to get situated."

"OK. Van…?"

"Yep. We're smokin', buddy."

"Good. Giant…?"

"Giant in the rear. How come I'm always last?"

"Cause you're the biggest, Giant," Corissa said.

So they were on their way. Maybe nobody would die. On such a magic star lit night how could anybody die? That wouldn't, couldn't, happen. Not among good friends such as they.

Some will die.

NOBODY, WILL DIE! Time passed. Finally Mick broke the silence, "How did we get this job, Foster? Instead of real mercenaries, I mean."

"We are real mercenaries," Corissa clarified.

Foster chuckled, felt a deep stab of feeling for that young woman, "Don't know, Mick. But there doesn't seem to have been a big rush by anybody to help the Tilovians."

"Right, so we are." Again from Corissa.

"Maybe real mercenaries are in short supply," Van offered, "I mean, how many do you know personally?"

"Foster was in the right place at the right time," Tyke said, "And the mission had to go."

"Sounds reasonable to me," Giant said, "And you're right, Corissa. We are now real mercenaries."

Giant was correct. They were now real mercenaries. Foster wondered why he didn't feel like a real one. Did Giant feel like a real one? Of the group only Giant and Mick should feel even remotely close.

Giant because of his hunting and fishing skills, and backpacking. Of all their trips it seemed Giant was always hauling somebody else's gear, always doing something for somebody. But hunting and shooting wild animals didn't mean the man would kill a human.

But they weren't there to kill anybody. They were there to deliver weapons, so that others could kill.

How did Giant really feel about that? How did the others really feel? **** Time passed. Foster looked at his watch. Two hours till daybreak. Then find a campsite. Then hide— Light ahead, "Something ahead, kids. Steer toward the right. Just drift. For now."

They drifted.

Small campfires, mostly embers. But how could they not be seen? But everyone, whoever they were, should be sleeping. Except for one guard. One? He would hope. But the guard wouldn't be watching the river, would he? "Nice and quiet, kids," he whispered into the mouthpiece, "Giant, let me know when we're all past."

"Ten-four."

Boulder ahead. They should be able to rudder around, "Boulder on the right, kids. Rudder only. No paddling." Right. Keep giving orders. Nobody will die.

Some will die. His chest felt like a corkscrew.

Ruddering worked. He looked back. Everybody passing okay. He gaped ahead. He could see so clearly. The goggle technology seemed almost unbelievable. No movement ensued—then, movement, a glint of light likely on gun metal—"Quiet!" he whispered fiercely, "Hold in place! Mick! A guard. Do you see him?"

"Yes." "Can you take him?"

Yes. Give me ten minutes."

"OK. Corissa…?"

"Yes." "You transfer to Mick's canoe."

"Foster…," Van's voice came quietly, with a tone Foster had never before heard, "I'll do it."

Foster didn't know what to say. Mick was their professional soldier. Mick had likely killed before.

"Mick and I talked about it last night," Van added.

Of their group, Van was the one who had often held back from the real thrills, the real dangers, had even sometimes considered himself 'in the way', if—because of Van—they had decided to forego some certain adventure. One for all, all for one, had always been their motto. If Van didn't go, then nobody did. It was a mutual, unspoken, agreement, they all felt proud of. And Van likely felt badly about passing out during their skydive, which wasn't his fault.

"We discussed this exact situation, Foster," Van said, "I can do it."

Foster almost argued, but, "Corissa, transfer to Van's canoe. We'll pick him up downriver. Can you handle it alone?"

"Yes…."

Had her voice quivered? No. Corissa would handle it. She was soft but she had good guts, "Kuai, can you handle yours?"

"No problem."

"OK, Van. Initiate." Foster turned his head just enough to watch Van maneuver his canoe alongside the women’s. Then Van entered the water, helped hold the two canoes together as Corissa transferred, and finally made his way toward shore. Almost no sound transpired.

Ten minutes passed.

Still the guard remained. First casualty. But on the other side. And now the Aurochs would know someone was about.

Another moment passed, then movement behind the guard.

"Ear-to-ear, Van." The last-second instruction from Mick sent a chill through Foster—Some will die—necessary—What the hell were they doing there?

The movement behind the guard became a body appearing to put one hand over the guard's mouth, then a slashing motion in the area of the guard's throat, then both hands held the guard during a few seconds of flopping as the man bled to unconsciousness.

Then death.

Some will die.

Van would never be the same again. None of them would.

The flopping stopped. Then both appeared to lower into the water. "Let's go, kids…quietly." He heard barely a sound. After a moment a glance back told him everyone was following. **** As Foster drifted slowly past the spot where the guard had been he studied the ground. No big blood spot glared in the goggles. They would hope. So a guard was missing. If no blood…but there would be blood.

Van had carried out the assassination professionally, but there would be blood, some sign of struggle, something.

The Aurochs would know.

Assassination? Was that what they had done? Yes. They were here making a statement against what the Aurochs were doing to the Tilovians. The guard had been in their way. The guard now was simply an element of their statement.

Maybe these people weren't even Aurochs. Had they slain an innocent man? He didn't know. No way to find out. It was war. Innocent people died in war. Too many. This guard, whoever he was, was the first in their own little war.

A few seconds passed.

"I'm right ahead of you, Foster."

"Good job, Van. The body with you?"

"Yes."

"Good. Put him in with Giant." As Foster passed he reached out and squeezed Van’s shoulder. He could not see Van’s face and maybe that was best right then.

"Sure,” Giant said, “I'm last, and now I get the dead body, too."

"You're the biggest, Giant," Corissa said.

"Corissa and Kuai, stop by Van…," Foster said, "Hold your canoes together. When Giant gets there, hold all three canoes together while the body is loaded. Can you two handle that?"

Both women answered, "Yes." "Good. The rest of us will keep going." Foster did not know if he could have done what Van did. Of course he had never been faced with the situation. But neither had Van, but Van had gone ahead and done it. It still bothered him that Van had volunteered, had wanted to. They would have to talk later. Maybe they all should have talked—more seriously—about what situations might come up in this so-called jobadventure. Think about something else, "Sweetpea, you doin’ OK?" "Fine, Foster."

"OK. Get ready to transfer."

"Ten-four," Corissa said, "There, I finally said it."

"Yes you did, Sweetpea." Foster felt a chuckle. Thanks to Corissa the moment had lightened. He let his canoe drift, glanced back, saw the loading and transfer going smoothly. Hardly a sound. He faced ahead.

A strange glow. He removed the goggles. Flames ahead. He looked back. Van was climbing into his canoe. "We've got more action, kids. Don't know what. Just paddle normally until you hear from me."

Around a bend and they could see all. Everywhere. Not huge, towering flames, but fires, buildings burning, smoldering, as if the great flames had been hours before. A village raped, pillaged, massacred.

And likely the camp they had just passed was the Aurochs who had done it, "I don't see any movement, kids. Just keep paddling. We want to get far past here."

Nobody answered. Likely nobody felt like talking. What they were passing they had all read about in newspapers and seen on television seemingly endlessly.

Ethnic cleansing. Genocide, in all its living ugliness.

"All clear, Foster." The calm voice came from Giant.

The village, the flames, the death, past. Now if someone would just offer some humor.

"These Tilovians going to throw us a party when we get there?" Van's humor had been in short supply lately, and the tone of his voice still didn't allude to true humor, but at least the man was talking.

"Well, they had better," Corissa said.

"They will," Giant said, "First they need these guns, but they know how to throw a party. I read about'em in National Geographic."

Guns. Foster aimed his goggles at his cargo. Three crates of AK-47s, 20 each, and two loaded clips for each rifle. Times six. 360 guns. Plus four more crates of ammunition and two of hand grenades spread among their six crafts. The Tilovians soon would be able to defend themselves, to a point, at least. **** The night passed. The sky behind them began to lighten. Not much, but day was coming. They needed a campsite. Shouldn't be hard. Forest everywhere.

"What'll you do with your thirty thousand, Foster?"

"Haven't thought about it, Sweetpea. How 'bout you?"

"I'll buy a ranch for my horse."

"I'll buy a Harley," Mick said.

"Naaa, a boat," Giant said, with a chuckle.

"I'll go to college," Tyke added, "And take a lot'a time off."

"I'll marry Tyke," Kuai said.

"You bet, babe, and we'll make babies."

"Yes. How 'bout you, Van?" "I'll buy a thousand books and a CD player."

"Yeah, then you can listen to The Doors all the time."

"Aerosmith," Tyke commented.

"Pink Floyd," added Giant.

"The Cranberries," said Corissa.

"The Aurochs could be scanning, kids," Foster said.

The chatter ended.

Time passed. Then rapids ahead, and suddenly the early morning seemed considerably brighter, "Rapids ahead, kids. Give yourselves a little more space for maneuvering. I'll find the passage and nobody do anything different."

In the rapidly brightening twilight the rapids ahead seemed hazy. Foster had ran rapids before, but never with a really loaded canoe. The best route appeared to be between the riverbank and a massive boulder.

His one major blunder had occurred on his first trip alone in a similar situation. He had made decisions late and ended up crossways and grounded. The canoe had been light with just overnight camping gear. Quick backpaddling had released the bow from the riverbank and fast water had straightened him.

That time he had gotten off with just an adrenalin surge. And he was blundering again. Dreaming. Not centered. Again. But now he had experience. He dropped to his knees and jabbed the paddle deep to right, causing a loud gurgle of water, but the bow swung right. He waited one second and jabbed deep left.

Another loud gurgle, but the bow swung left and straightened. And he had made the first really loud sounds, but passed the boulder.

"Little noisy, there, Foster," Giant said.

"Only a girl would make that much noise," Corissa added.

"Yeah, Foster." From Van. A chorus of "Yeah, Fosters" followed.

"Understood, guys. Do as I say, not as I do."

The remainder of the rapids passed without incident.

Ahead, possibly, a campsite, "Hold steady, kids. We'll try for the grassy area."

The grassy area sloped. Looked perfect. Fate had smiled. Foster hoped it would keep smiling. He paddled hard to right. The bow swung. He paddled hard twice more. His paddle struck river bottom. He jabbed hard, trying to vault. Three feet of his canoe landed. He leaped ashore. **** The moment Foster's feet touched the ground his legs buckled. Sitting too long. On his knees too often.

Too damned old for this shit! He went down. Clear to his side but he hung onto the canoe and kept it from drifting.

Mick landed beside him, pulled his canoe ashore, then came back and pulled Foster's, then grasped Foster under his arms, "Got'cha, big guy."

Foster struggled to rise, but his legs were simply not going to work, "A little out'a shape, Mick. Don't know what happened."

"That was a long paddle, my friend." Mick helped him farther onto shore, then went back to help Tyke.

Soon all three canoes were far onto the shore. Then Corissa and Kuai, then Van, last Giant.

The moment she had time Corissa knelt beside Foster, "How ya doin', you old man?"

"A little pooped out, I guess."

"We all are." She squeezed his shoulder, "Want to try standing again?"

"Yeah, I'll try." Corissa got behind him, lifted him by his armpits, "Oh, God." His legs would not support him to stand alone, but he was up, "Well, Sweetpea...."

She smiled, "Yes?" "If you don't mind helping me...," he nodded, "That log."

She wrapped one arm around his waist, "I don't mind. Put your arm around my neck." He did. She grasped his hand, "Now, one step at a time."

Her softness felt good even then, as if she had no bones. They reached the log. Corissa tightened on him, "Well, that was fun."

Van arrived, grinning. Grinning because Van knew how Foster felt about Corissa. Hell, they all knew.

It was no secret, except, possibly, to Corissa, "Well, much as I like you holding me up, Sweetpea, I guess it has to end."

"Should I just drop you?" She did, then giggled.

He started to fall, "...Damn it...."

She latched right onto him again, "Jeeze, what a weenie."

He looked into those deep brown eyes as she helped him to lower onto the log, "Thanks, Corissa. You're a doll."

"Yeah, you keep saying nice things to me, but do you ever follow through?" She knelt in front of him.

"We've found a lookout point on each end of the island, Foster," Van announced, "And, while we're eating, two others will watch from the midpoints."

"Which leaves three, and I'm broke down."

"Right. Us three. I'll get the rations and water out."

"Good. Anything else?"

"You've been getting some good attention lately." Van grinned and nodded at the back of Corissa's head, "Not that I imagine you mind."

Corissa had taken his right leg onto her forearm, had begun massaging the bottom of his thigh, way too close to his major erogenous zone, "Corissa, that's OK. I'll exercise it myself."

"You don't want me to?" Her expression looked hurt.

He touched her massaging hand, "Really, Sweetpea, and besides, you're needed to help setting up camp."

"You're right." She lay his leg down, then rose, smiled, "I'll see you later."

As Corissa walked away he thought about the many times he had thought, subconsciously, about

'following through', but always had felt he needed a little more encouragement. Maybe she had just given him some. He gazed after her for a few seconds, and received two return glances and grins. Then he began massaging where she had been, "Uhhh...it felt a lot better when Corissa was doing it," he mumbled.

He knew Van still waited, "It was something that had to be done, Van." "I know."

Foster looked up.

"Never in my life have I ever imagined...killing somebody, not even that first night at the bar, not till Mick and I talked about it."

"How'd you happen to do that, Van?" "Just talk. Mick brought it up, reliving old memories. We just started talking, and then, well, Mick started doing all the talking. He got real spacey, remembering, I guess. Happened somewhere in Latin America, one of them SEAL operations that nobody ever hears about. And even then Mick wouldn't tell me where it happened."

"Gotta respect him for that."

"Yeah, and I do. Anyway, he described in detail, just what I did out there on the river last night."

"You OK about that, Van?" "Yeah, I'm OK. I feel a little light-headed still, like I'm dreaming or something, like we really aren't here and this really isn't happening, you know?"

"Yes. I know." But Foster didn't really know. He not only had never killed anyone, but had not even been in the military, had never been exposed to that philosophy of necessary killing. Yet, the night before he had given the order to kill, because it had been necessary.

"Well, I'll get started on our rations."

"You bet, Van." He watched his friend walk toward their piled gear. His corkscrewed chest tightened.

Some will die.

The thought would not go away. It was like a cancer inside him, and the only cure would be getting all his friends out of Tilovia alive. Through sheer determination he pushed the thoughts away for the umpteenth time; he could not let something not happened affect their present situation.

He began looking over their island campsite.

It was large enough, two or three hundred feet by about fifty or sixty. Thick forest. Plenty underbrush.

It would work. Near silence descended. A gentle slosh of water. He could almost believe they were on just another recreational outing. He could be helping more. Tyke was on lookout not too far away, "Tyke...."

Tyke arrived, "How ya feelin', Foster?"

"Fine." He dismissed his condition, "Everything stored?"

"Everything's in those reeds." Tyke pointed toward tall grasses bordering the river on the opposite side.

"Great. Any sign of our landing?"

"Not much. A few grasses broken but we cut’em off at ground level, and washed out the canoe drag marks." A pause, "This place reminds me of Lake Itasca."

"It does, Tyke. Wish we were there."

"We will be again."

"Yes, we will." Foster relaxed, "And the dead guard?"

"He lies in a shallow grave." Another pause, "I haven't ever seen anything like that before, Foster."

"I haven't either." He shook his head. A man dead. Not their fault. The man should not have been in their way.

"I guess I figured we'd see, death...on this trip...," Tyke paused again, “Somewhere in the back of my mind I figured we would, but still...," another pause, "Well, at least it wasn't one of us." Tyke grinned, but the grin was a little different from his normally wide open grin. The young man's eyes were not in the grin, just his mouth.

Foster felt much the same, and had no words of counsel. He wished he did, "Listen, Tyke, I can watch in your direction from right here. You help Van and Corissa. We'll be needing sleeping arrangements soon." Right, keep giving orders.

Some will die. His corkscrewed chest tightened still more. Their 'biggest adventure of all' was beginning to seem like a very bad dream. What were they doing there?

"You sure you're OK, Foster?"

"Yes. I can do this much, and I'll soon be good as new. Hell, better."

"OK, big guy."

Tyke had walked about ten feet when Foster called his name again. Tyke turned, waited. "Find the rifle and scope last night, Tyke?"

"Yep." "Silencer?"

"Yep." "Good. But we might not need it...."

"Right," Tyke walked on.

Time passed. Tyke and the others worked among boulders on three small shelters made of branches.

Fortunate that poplar trees grew on the small island, as poplar foliage would not wilt quickly. With autumn temperatures upon them the waxy leaves would likely hold for two or three days. By then they’d be safe in Concretia.

One shelter was quite a ways from the other two. Likely for Corissa and Kuai. Foster thought nothing about it.

Gradually he picked out Kuai on lookout on the other side of the island. He knew she had been born long after her parents—as children—had escaped Cambodia. But she had spoken often of her parents’ experience, as if she too had lived it, and likely well understood the ugly principle of genocide.

Soon rations were handed out. Corissa approached Foster with a grin, “Chow time.” She handed him two containers, then settled beside him and took one back, “Everything’s fine, and you, my dear old man, will worry about nothing until tonight.”

But first the day. They had to sleep. **** Foster was directed to the detached shelter, built just high enough to lie down in. Again he thought nothing of it, and removed his boots. Van, or somebody would join him. But it was Corissa who slipped into its shade, "I was just...," she paused. Her eyes were saying, he didn't know, and didn't wait for anymore messages, just reached for her, and she came.

In their haste—and their cramped quarters—her knee grazed his groin. Pain. But he forgot it as her breasts pushed against his chest, and her lips locked onto his, and all in his mind became touching and loving this soft woman.

The kiss went on and on with occasional bare partings to suck air. But neither stopped. Foster tasted the sweetest of her, and wondered if she were experiencing anywhere near the same sensations. Between them his manhood began to stir.

Corissa slipped to his side. She began unbuckling, unzipping, unsnapping his clothing quickly, smoothly. As his manhood uncurled she gripped it and gave it several strong strokes. Rigid. He didn't think he had ever been so full and hard, and ready, so quickly.

Time nearly stopped as he watched her move the short distance to what rose from his groin. She opened her sweet lips and lowered, taking more than half of him into her. How many times had he fantasized Corissa in this way?

Didn't matter. Just this moment mattered....Quickly approaching its end.

But she knew. She stopped. Her eyes wide, shining, she left him towering and slipped back to his side, "Fuck me, Foster." Her hands began clawing at her own clothing. Her fatigues slipped partway down. He helped, and bumped their shelter, and not gently but he barely noticed. Together they worked on her clothes. Off they came. He got to his knees, vaguely felt his back brush the shelter again, and again not gently. Then his fatigues, at least started off—to hell with'em!

With a thrust he got between her legs. She opened wide. Her hands drew him to her. He lost his balance and his hips struck their shelter yet again, but he was entering her, that warm, moist, ultimately soft tunnel of love, his hands, elbows, knees propelling him onward, but his hips were too high, still putting pressure on their shelter. But he was barely aware of anything except entering her.

She whispered, "Fuck me, Foster," then grasped both his hip cheeks and pulled him deep into her. Just in time as his explosion began. Reality gone. She held him as his body quaked and jerked. He didn't even feel their leafy shelter collapsing on them. **** Time passed as they lay in each other's arms among the fallen poplar branches.

"Foster...?"

"Yes." She snuggled, "I'm still a little scared about things."

"After what just happened?"

She hit his shoulder, then snuggled again. He held her close, "We all are, Sweetpea." Some will die.

God, he wanted that thought to stop. It would not, "Sorry you came?"

"No." Her tone was definite. She was not sorry, "I want to help the Tilovians. I'm just scared, ya know?"

"Yes. I know." He knew nothing. He was scared too. What the hell had he gotten them into?

"So, how was I?" she asked.

"How were you what...?"

She gripped his hair with both hands, gently brought his face to hers, "Silly. Was I a good fuck?"

"The very, very, best." **** That day and that night passed. As the sky began to brighten on the second morning they found the small tributary of the Bolushi River. Paddling was tougher against the current but the current was not strong.

Two hours passed. Then the first strong streaking rays of morning fell on the village of Novi Mare. ****

The crates were unloaded. Men, women, children, began opening them immediately, passing out rifles, ammunition, and hand grenades to eager hands. The essence of new-gun oil and gunpowder hung in the air, noisy with the clatter and clicking of firing chambers receiving loaded clips. The Tilovians now would be able to defend themselves.

The seven friends stood among a group of villagers. Foster faced a man whose features were wind and sun-tanned and wrinkled harshly. But from the man's manner he felt sure the village leader was much younger than himself, "Use sparingly, my new friend."

"We will." The Tilovian leader smiled, "One bullet, one dead Auroch. Always on single fire."

Foster gave a thumbs-up.

"Now you wish to go home, yes?"

"Yes." "What about the party?" Van asked.

A chuckle from some, even some of the Tilovians.

"We would ask you to stay the night," the leader said, "And when our war is over we invite all of you back. But the Aurochs are coming. Many of them. This is not your war. You must go, but you cannot go by river."

"Why?" "They know of you."

"The dead guard...."

"Yes. They found blood. Your way of travel seemed obvious."

"How, then?"

The Tilovian turned, pointed toward a gap in the surrounding snow-covered mountains, "Over that pass.

My people will guide you—Varsta!"

A slim man with long black hair approached.

"Varsta...." A flurry of Tilovian words followed, "Varsta will lead you."

"He doesn't speak English?"

"Not everyone in the world wishes to speak English, my friend, and it does not matter. Varsta is the best man."

"When?"

"Now." Foster glanced at his friends. Everyone nodded. "All right. How long will it take?"

"All of today. We would have suggested the shorter land escape route to our friends who hired you, but we have been experiencing earthquakes. The mountain has been dangerous."

"All right."

"Aurochian patrols are everywhere," the Tilovian added, "But the main column is coming on the road."

"All right." Again Foster faced his friends, "Is everybody ready? All bellies filled, etcetera...?"

"I have to go to the bathroom," Corissa said.

At that moment Foster felt a love for Corissa like he had never imagined knowing with anyone.

"I do too," Kuai said.

"All right." Foster clapped his hands, "Hurry. Anyone else?"

"Women," Mick commented.

"Varsta will pick two others to join you," the leader said.

Ten minutes passed. Everyone stood ready.

"Thank you, you crazy Americans," the Tilovian leader said, "Now we will be able to fight the Aurochs.

We will kill them and take their weapons. There will be no massacre at Novi Mare."

The villagers formed two lines. Varsta at their head the seven American friends began walking between the lines, leaving with a concerto of European Muslim folk music in their ears. **** By noon they stood on a flat snowy shelf before the last climb, where it got much steeper. About a quarter mile waited before the pass, where Varsta and one other Tilovian now stood. The third Tilovian had followed their group at a distance. They were close to safety.

"Foster, can't we eat now?" Corissa asked.

She looked so vulnerable right then, and so young. He ached to do anything she wished. He wished they were home. Safe. Why had he brought his friends to this unheard of land of killing? To help the Tilovians. Nobody was helping them. And because they were all adventurers. And all were here of freewill.

Freewill? Maybe some came simply because he, Foster, had asked them. Maybe Corissa was here for that reason. Some will die. The premonition would not go away, "We'll get over the pass first, Sweetpea. I promise we'll rest and eat soon."

Corissa huffed and did not smile, "You're probably right."

Probably right. He wondered if he had ever been right. Varsta appeared to be waving. "Let's go, kids."

Van's voice came from behind, "Foster, I think he wants us to hide."

Foster jerked his head up. Varsta and the other Tilovian were already behind boulders. Foster shouted, "Take cover!" and dived for cover himself.

After a few seconds he looked. Two dark forms stood on the pass. Had to be Aurochs, and it appeared to be nothing but bare ground between them and Varsta. They would not be able to sneak up on the two, and they also would not dare to fire without knowing what was just over the pass.

It seemed fate had stopped smiling.

"What're we gonna do, big guy?" Giant's voice came from behind. Foster glanced back. All six of his friends were looking at him, not accusingly but...

Van pointed, "They're moving, maybe this way."

Foster returned his attention forward. Yes, the two Aurochs had moved off the high ground of the pass and soon sat down. Too wait? For what?

"I can take'em, Foster." Tyke had arrived at his side.

"What...?"

Tyke patted his bolt-action rifle, "I have to get a better position, though."

Foster looked into Tyke's eyes. Tyke was calm, just as always when they tried something new. But they had no choice but to be calm. Plenty of time for shaking after they reached Concretia. "All right, Tyke."

Remaining close to the ground Tyke headed for different cover. And there was plenty, but only one way over the mountain. Through the pass that the Aurochs were blocking.

A few minutes went by.

The two Aurochs stood, appeared to converse for a few seconds, then started toward them again. So sparse was Varsta's cover that they could not pass the two Tilovians without seeing them. Tyke, where are you?

Then came a sound something like an expanded paper bag bursting, but not a loud pop, more like a dull thud. One Auroch appeared to hesitate. The sound came again. The first Auroch had dropped. The second Auroch gave that same hesitation, then also dropped. Too far away to see if either did much moving.

Foster glanced back at his friends. They all were staring back at him. For a second or two the world seemed to darken, as if a huge cloud had covered the sun. Some will die. He jerked back forward. Varsta already was motioning them to come forward.

But for a few more seconds Foster stayed on the ground. Just didn't feel like moving yet. Too many things had gone wrong. He wished he could cancel everything, and just wake up, stop the nightmare. For those few seconds his thoughts were so wild that he barely noticed his friends walking past him, until a hand touched his shoulder.

"We better get going, my friend," Van said, then grasped him under his right armpit. Then Foster got right to his feet. But already four of their group were quite a distance ahead.

When their first group, about a hundred yards ahead, reached the summit Varsta motioned everyone to wait in place, then dropped to his stomach and crawled another few feet before peering over. A few seconds passed. Varsta stood and motioned them onward, and motioned the second Tilovian to wait, evidently to watch, then Varsta began stepping down, and soon disappeared. Giant followed—why was Giant in the lead?_ “How come you’re first instead of last, Giant?” Corissa called out with a giggle, then glanced back and grinned toward Foster.

“Because I’m biggest.” Giant answered without turning, then stepped down, and disappeared over the ridge.

Then Tyke and Kuai. Then Corissa turned back once more, her eyes in Foster’s, grinning, appearing more alive and different than he had ever seen her. They would have to talk after they reached safety, talk seriously, about what he wasn’t exactly sure right then, but they would talk.

Then she began stepping down, and glanced that grin back at him once more, those dark eyes looking right into him, then she slipped from sight. Gone.

His heart thumped. He wanted to run the few hundred feet that separated them. God, how he loved her.

That’s what they would talk about, how much he loved her, how much they could do together— Ground rumble. The mountain began collapsing.

“Back, guys!”

Foster, Van, Mick, the two Tilovians, scrambled back and away from the falling rocks and boulders. If the lead group had moved as fast nobody will have gotten hurt. But they didn’t know, and Corissa’s last expression came to him.

Totally open, trusting him with her welfare, vulnerable.

His only wish right then was to see her alive and whole and happy, and home, away from this demented land of death— Gunfire. Fifty feet of rubble between their groups.

Chatter from their escorts. Foster stared at Van and Mick. They just stared back. What could be said?

The firing stopped.

Then a single shot.

Then another.

And another.

Foster shuddered. What was happening?

More chatter from the Tilovians, quieter. Then one English word came clearly, “…executed….”

Foster’s world became blurry as he began scaling the rubble. First to the top he squinted between rocks. Nothing. He moved farther. Nothing. Finally he stood. The whole forested valley spread out before him, green and peaceful-looking, and a faraway village. Had to be Concretia. Their destination.

Safety.

But on the first shelf below three bodies sprawled on the snow. Because of the clothes he recognized Varsta. Then a very big body. And a very small one. Even with the corkscrew in Foster’s chest at full tension it tightened more, threatening to shut off his very breath.

Giant’s one time of being first had cost him, dearly.

Tyke and Kuai were not in sight.

Breath left Foster. He choked, felt a sob deep in his stomach which soon stabbed pitilessly and painfully at his heart. He began descending the rubble, his breath completely gone, the sob reaching for his throat.

At the bottom of the rubble he could not see the bodies. He ran, gasping, sobs bursting with each step.

Finally there she lay. At his feet. His throat trembled, reaching all the way to his feet but centering in his heart, where a great sadness was tearing at him. No movement from her. Another breath leaving him left him empty. He had no air left. Scalding tears welled from him, and a choking gasp.

Blood still flowed from the back of her head and several other wounds, staining the snow red. She lay on her Uzi, her finger still on the safety. In another second she maybe could at least have pulled the trigger.

He dropped to his knees beside her, slowly turned her over and gathered her to him.

Warm. But no life.

And no face remained to identify her. Her last grinning expression ingrained in Foster’s mind, those deep brown eyes telling him everything in the world. He held her close, felt her warm blood trickling onto his hands, his face. No last words. Not like in the movies. No chance for ‘I love you’.

A hand on his shoulder. A big hand.

Van’s hand, “We all loved her, Foster.”

He touched the hand, squeezed it, released, then lowered Corissa back to the ground, arranged her hair to cover what was left of her face, then rose, seeing only the crumpled lifeless form on the bright melting snow, and mud. Sweetpea. More tears flowed, mixing with her blood on his face.

Finally he took a breath. His chest trembled with the effort. Then he turned, saw tears in Van’s eyes.

“Giant?” he asked.

“Shot up bad too, Foster. But still they had to shoot him in the head. It took a lot to stop him.”

“And Varsta?”

“The same. Executed.”

Foster’s gaze swept Mick. The young man’s eyes showed tears too, “I never said much nice to her, Foster.” Rare emotion from Mick, but they had just lost two of their dearest friends. And a new one.

Foster walked to Giant. The big man lay on his side as if sleeping. He knelt, touched Giant’s shoulder, and squeezed. More tears came. He held on for several seconds, then squeezed again and rose, and walked to Varsta, who lay face down on his brand new AK-47 never fired. “We’ll come back for them.” His voice was steady, his psyche was not, “But first….”

The Tilovians waited nearby. They looked sad. They were sorry. Foster gripped his AK-47 and walked toward them. Blood on his hands, his uniform, much blood, Sweetpea’s blood. His chest shook with another breath. Tears came but he swept them away. He reached the Tilovians, “English?”

One shook his head, “Some. I am Emir.”

“You, Emir…,” Foster pointed at the Tilovian, “Take us.” He jabbed his own chest, then made walking motions with his fingers, “Follow Aurochs. Kill Aurochs.”

“Kill Aurochs?” The Tilovian smiled.

“Yes. Kill them. We will kill all of them.”

“Yes. We follow.” The Tilovian began looking around, inspecting the ground, “There!” He pointed at the far side of a bare patch of ground, where tracks in surrounding snow led into the forest, “We follow Aurochs. Kill Aurochs!”

Foster took a deep breath. His chest did not shake. He said barely audibly, “Yes. Kill Aurochs.” He checked the load of his weapon, just release the safety, then his pistol. He pulled the slide back, released it, uncocked it, left the safety off. Cock and fire. Both weapons were ready.

The English-speaking Tilovian started out. The other began to follow. Foster stopped him, pointed at himself, then Mick, then Van, then at the Tilovian. The man shook his head. He understood he would follow the trail, but would be last. And Foster would be first. **** Over an hour passed as they followed a zigzagging trail that led, Foster suspected, toward the road, and toward many more Aurochs. But he didn't care. And he suspected that Van and Mick didn't care either.

Tyke and Kuai were still alive, and no way would they leave them.

Finally Emir raised his hand, ducked, finally turned with three fingers raised. Foster shook his head and approached, peered into the same gap in the shrubbery.

Fifty feet away Tyke and Kuai sat with their backs to each other, evidently bound. And three others. He faced Emir and whispered, "Aurochs?"

Emir shook his head, "We kill. Yes?" Yes. But Foster would do the killing, "You, Emir, no." He touched his own chest, pointed to Van and Mick, "We kill."

Emir nodded, "I understand."

KILL. As Foster planned their move many unplanned thoughts came. These Aurochs were just people, like himself. A different language. No reason to have killed Corissa and Giant, and no reason for killing Tilovians. A different religion. But Aurochs were massacring Tilovians wherever they found them. And these Aurochs had killed—no, murdered—two of his best friends. Now it was Foster's war too.

The Aurochs had built a smoky fire, evidently planning a meal. Their weapons were apart, stacked in a tripod. One Auroch for each of them. So easy. Just three shots from right there in cover. Too easy. These Aurochs must know who kills them. Foster stopped thinking and lay his rifle down, pushed through the shrubbery, walked the fifty feet as if floating above the ground, drew and cocked his 9mm and pointed it at the head of the first man he reached.

The man turned.

Words came. Foreign words. He knew the man was begging for his life, maybe saying he did not shoot his friends, maybe even saying he had tried to stop the shooting of his friends. He had no idea what the man was saying. It was war. He pulled the trigger.

A dark hole appeared on the man's forehead for an instant, then a spurt of blood. Fascinated, Foster watched the blood gush as the man fell slowly onto his face. He did not see Mick, Van, the two Tilovians arrive and secure the scene from behind. He just heard the second man start to chatter, and saw him start crawling toward their weapons. Foster pointed his pistol. He did not aim. Just pulled the trigger.

The second man fell on his front. Foster did not watch in fascination as the second man flopped in death. He just walked to the third Auroch.

A woman. A dark-haired, dark-eyed, beautiful, Aurochian woman, and she had probably placed the execution gun against the back of Corissa's head.

She was on her knees but not begging, not trying to crawl away. In her eyes was hate. Blind, unreasoning, hate. The rage of centuries.

He placed the gun an inch from her mouth.

"Wait!"

Foster pulled the gun up, uncocked, turned. Kuai, just being untied by Van. The look on her face was frightening. Kuai's eyes appeared to be centered on the Aurochian woman as she approached and said, "Let me."

He handed her the gun and stepped aside. With no hesitation Kuai stepped in front of the Aurochian woman, and with both hands held the pistol an inch from the woman's mouth, and cocked it.

The Aurochian woman did not change. Her eyes were in Kuai's. She opened her mouth. "This is for Corissa and Giant," Kuai said, and pulled the trigger. The dark hole did not appear. The woman's face did not mar in death. She just became dead.

The world around Foster became blurred as a great emptiness filled him. The corkscrew in his chest snapped. And his heart finished breaking.

--The end--