2019 Adult Short Stories

1st PLACE

A Grandson’s Promise

by Treva Hammond

My dad had this habit, often to the embarrassment of my brother and me growing up, of asking anyone he met or happened to be standing beside, let’s say in an elevator, at church, or when we had friends over, “Hey, where are you from?” This would lead to a series of other questions such as, “Who are your people?” and “Do you happen to know...?” This was slippery ground because if the person continued to share information, an all-out intense conversation involving genealogy could ensue. As frustrating or embarrassing as this could be to a teenager and even later to us as adults, I realize now that what Dad was doing, whether consciously or subconsciously, was making an instant connection with someone and often, this meant a lot to the person to whom he was speaking. Little did I know that I would be reminded of this, as we gathered to bury Dad’s ashes a week after he died.

It was on one of those scorching hot Southern days in June that we gathered at Memorial Gardens in Greenwood for a private family graveside service and burial. There was no breeze blowing, no relief from the heat. All was quiet and heavy except for the distant sound of cars going by as people carried on with their daily lives while we dealt with our grief. A beautiful wooden box lay on a small table and we sat under the green funeral home tent in folding velvet covered chairs. I remember sitting in those chairs, trying to reconcile that my father’s ashes were in that box, a collection of all that was physically left of him in this world. The Hospice chaplain spoke and read some scripture, and I wish I could remember what she said. I should remember words from such a momentous occasion but instead all I remember is sitting under that tent feeling heartbroken. After the benediction, the funeral home director ushered us up the hill to a cool waiting area where we stepped inside an air-conditioned room and a kind lady offered us water and cookies. It was a nice gesture, but it felt strange, all of us sitting around like at a social gathering, sipping water, making small talk in hushed tones, when all I could think about was “they are burying my father’s ashes while we sit here”. Shouldn’t we be there to see this last chapter in his life? My heart was not in that room. Instead it was down the hill in the heat of summer where my son Alex had remained to stay with his grandfather’s ashes until the final moment. I suddenly felt like I couldn’t breathe and before I knew it, my feet were leading me down the hill to the green tent, praying that is wasn’t too late to be there as they buried my father’s ashes.

In stark contrast to the solemn family waiting area, I came upon a flurry of work preparing the burial. Amidst the busyness of the digging, of shovels hitting hard earth, the crew leader giving directions, sat my teenage son, Alex, vigilantly overseeing the wooden box on the table. As I gently put my arm around his shoulder and sat down beside him, he looked into my eyes and said, “I promised Papa I would be with him to the end.” I knew this was breaking his heart, but he was calm, seemingly at peace, sitting there with his Papa’s ashes. We sat there

without talking, listening to the steady digging of shovels into the ground in front of us, watching as clumps of red clay crumbled and spilled over the edges of the freshly dug grave as workers piled the dirt beside the deep opening. The guys, eventually sensing the somberness of our presence, had respectfully ceased their laughing and talking and only spoke about their tasks. It became oddly comforting to listen and watch the methodical moving of dirt and clay, something tangible and real in that moment of loss which seemed surreal.

Finally, Alex broke the spell and stood, saying “Hey, I’m Alex, by the way. This is my grandfather you are burying today. What are your names?”

At first, they were a bit taken aback, as if perhaps they weren’t accustomed to having a family member not only watch them dig a grave but to also reach out and make it personal. Most likely, families stayed sheltered in the office waiting area to avoid seeing this part of the process, only to return when the grass was once again placed on top of the freshly dug ground as if nothing had ever happened. I wondered - did these workers ever pause to think about all the love, the memories, the grief that that surrounded simple wooden boxes being lowered into the ground?

The digging stopped momentarily and as it began again, each guy on the work crew paused to tell us his name and stepped toward Alex to shake his hand. “I’m Joe.” “Dylan.” “They call me Tomb,” one guy said with a smile. “Mike.” And on and on around the group. “I’m Treva,” I said at the end. “I’m Alex’s mom.” Then it hit me, and I added, “You know it’s kind of ironic that we are burying my dad, and Alex just asked you your names because my dad would have done exactly the same thing! Except, I added with a chuckle, he would have also asked, ‘Now, where are y’all from?’” Alex laughed and said, “Oh yeah, my papa would have definitely asked you that.” The digging stopped again and, out of the silence, one by one, each guy without invitation, without any conversation about it, smiled and spoke. “Greenwood.” “Abbeville.” “Hodges.” And on around the circle until all of them shared. Then silence again. And in that moment, we were connected. Not as workers and grieving family members but as human beings joined in the sacred moment of honoring a life and each other. It was a moment when Dad finally felt near, much more so than when I was up the hill shielded away from it all, away from the grit and sweat of burying him. This time of communion between strangers felt like a blessing from Dad as if he were saying, “So now that we know each other,

let’s get on with it.”

The crew leader looked at Alex and held up a shovel. “Would you like to help?” Man to man. Worker to grandson. My son rolled up his dress shirt sleeves and they began to dig. Soon the pine box was placed into the grave, and I watched my son scoop up red clay from the pile and begin to cover the box one shovelful at a time. No one spoke. There was no need for more words. Just the sound of dirt crumbling down on the box, filling the space.

A new rhythm began in the final steps. Pieces of sod laid, water poured, sod laid, water poured...until the plot was sealed and edges of grass began to blend with the rest. Another life committed to this hallowed ground where we had buried all of my grandparents and greatgrandparents years before.

There was a farewell shaking of hands, working hands covered with dirt and callouses with our hands unaccustomed to such physical work. Without ceremony or fanfare, tools and equipment were loaded onto a trailer and the trucks pulled away. Alex and I were alone under the green tent, sitting once again in the velvet covered chairs, each lost in our thoughts of what had just happened.

With sweat glistening on his face and a strength in his voice, he said, “I kept my promise.” I smiled and lay my hand on top of his. Our family joined us a few minutes later. My other two sons stood with us, as my mother placed flowers on Dad’s grave. My brother stuck a small American flag into the fresh dirt to honor Dad as a veteran. I knelt and placed my hands onto the ground above where the box of my dad’s ashes lay several feet below. Do you know we are here with you, Dad? Did you feel our presence just now as we felt yours? Do you know how much we love you?

I pressed my hands into the soft grass of that holy spot where on a hot summer day in June, a grandson kept his promise and we were all blessed because of it.

2nd PLACE

Malas Tierras

by Hamilton Davis

1.

The fall down the canyon would kill a man. Red rock and soil like granular blood comprised the mountain that sat above the deep canyon. Rocks jutted out from the Utah cliff face like ill-tempered knives. At the top of the range rested a scabby and twisted tree of unknown vintage. Hikers were advised not to carve their lover’s names into the ancient wood. Animals abounded here but not all were friendly. Missing persons to date stood at seven. You could see their young, eager faces printed up on copy paper and posted on a corkboard down at the ranger’s station. Underneath their lost eyes was the single caption. Have you seen me?

This was the badlands, Malas Tierras. Bad for the woman standing by a stream near the top of that mountain and bad for the man who looked back at her with his hollow and pleading eyes as he threatened to jump off the cliff’s face. His eyes were the color of the wood on that ancient spruce and his bark had been carved with the name of the woman now staring blankly back at him.

Sarah Jackson regarded the man leaning out from the railing installed on the mountain’s trail. She knew him well and right now she was sorry to say that she did. She pressed one worn boot onto a wet and jagged rock and laid a firm hand on her hip. “Terry? What the hell are you doing?” “Isn’t it obvious?” Terry Sanders said. “Nope. Not to me. Where’s your new girlfriend?” “Gone,” he said flatly. “You cheat on her, too?” Terry looked as if he’d just been slapped and then shook his head slowly. “She found someone better.”

Terry looked back at the falling rocks his boots had scraped up from the dusty cliff as he leaned precariously over the railing. A fall from here would mean certain death. To not die from a fall at this elevation could be worse. He knew all this. He hoped she did, too.

“I’ve got nothing left to live for,” he said, and he inched a little closer towards the abyss. Sarah shook her head. Same old Terry, she thought. “Why’d you come here?” “I don’t know,” he said, and he found looking into her eyes difficult now. “Maybe I came for the same reasons as you.”

“I doubt that. I came to get away from you.” “So did I,” he muttered, and he looked back again into the deep nothing below. The sun was sneaking past the horizon now as dark shadows stretched across the rocky country.

Terry lifted a hand to wipe sweat from his brow and quickly brought it back down to the

rails as a gust of wind blew dust into his face. His fingers were pale white as they gripped the iron rails.

“You planning on suicide?” she said without much emphasis. “I don’t know. Maybe.” Sarah stood motionless. She was unsure if she should care and if so, by how much. Her relationship with Terry had been passionate, but the ending had been bad. He’d cheated on her. When she’d confronted him about it, he’d given her the same lame excuse back then, too. I don’t know. Was this act meant to make her feel guilty? To make her forget about what he’d done. “I’m finishing my hike,” she said. “You’re on your own.” She turned back and began moving beyond the stream.

“You’re just going to leave me here? Alone?” She stopped and looked up to the wide Utah sky above. Gentle dots of starlight were beginning to poke through the dark, silky sky. She sighed. “Terry,” she began. “Yes?” “You’re a big boy. Jump or don’t. I’m hiking.” She took a deep breath and felt her next footstep would be the last she’d ever take for Terry Sanders. She left him now for the second time in their lives. Her boots splashed in the bubbling stream and she no longer cared if her feet got wet or not. Her blonde ponytail swung back and forth across her back like a pendulum no longer ticking for this man or any other. And that brush of guilt that scraped at her heart? The one that grated against her feelings of responsibility for this man. She would ignore those feelings now. Sometimes ice water tasted best.

The first time she’d left Terry he’d been crying, slightly drunk, and pleading that he would never hurt her again. He would change, by God. Honest. Now he was threatening to add his face amongst the roster of missing persons down at the ranger’s station and he wanted to know if she gave a damn. Well, she didn’t. She would hike. And anyway, she knew he wouldn’t jump. Some trees just weren’t meant to have hard bark.

“Sarah!” he called to her. “Sarah?” But she was gone. Terry regarded the shying sun as gathering clouds in the west turned a candy-colored hue as the day’s last rays of sun bled through them like pink and red dyes. If you had to pick a place to die, he thought, Malas Tierras had the scenery.

He jumped back over the railing. He looked behind him and shivered. What he felt then was rather simple. It was naked shame. “Hey!” he shouted. “Wait up!” He crossed a sandstone slab that split the side of the mountain like a grinning stone face. Long, deep veins coursed through the soft rock from years of runoff. He made his way back to where he’d last seen her walking and managed to only fall twice. A few minutes later, he heard

the crunch of her boots moving up ahead.

Sarah ducked under the branch of an Elm tree and leaped over a fallen log. Her long legs seemed made for this country. She heard him approaching from behind.

“Did it ever cross your mind that I might actually want to be alone?” “On a trail like this?” he said conversationally. “I’ve hiked worse and you know it.” Terry ducked the same Elm branch but tripped when encountering the log. He fell forward on the hardpan and caught the spine of a rock as it ripped into his jeans. He looked up to see if she’d stopped to check on him. She hadn’t.

“Go away,” she said as she snapped a photo of the pale moon. “I just thought,” he began. Now Sarah did turn back to him. She whirled on him. “I know what you thought! You think I’m stupid?” Hot tears welled in her eyes.

“No,” he said defensively, and he brushed the dirt off his jeans. “I really just wanted to talk to you. I slipped looking over the guard rails and …”

“Oh, come on!” Her hands moved from her hips to the back of her head in one quick maneuver. “You planned that! You wanted to make it look like you were going to kill yourself. But you couldn’t. You don’t have the guts. You just thought I’d come along and see you and … and what?”

Terry looked down at his boots. “I’ll tell you what,” she continued. “You thought I’d feel sorry for you and beg you not to kill yourself. Then we would …” She waited for Terry to finish her thought or at least come clean. But the man she’d once thought of as marrying material only dug divots into the trail with the heel of his boot.

“Get back together, right?” she finished for him. “Was that the grand, master plan?” He kicked a stone into a nearby bush. “Well, it didn’t work. Not this time and certainly not the last. You lied to me. You cheated on me, Terry. Cheated.”

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment’s pause, and something about the way he said it made Sarah feel very certain that he was being honest with this apology. It still pissed her off. “I really am sorry.” “Not good enough.” She turned around and continued hiking. “What am I supposed to do?” She stopped but this time she didn’t turn around. “Go home.” She hiked alone on the rocky trail for the next five minutes. At first, she thought he’d actually taken her advice and went packing, but then she could hear the familiar sounds of a novice scrambling through the bush. There was a loud curse and then something like a large rock splintered and rolled down the hill behind her. She shook her head. The man was no good

at relationships and terrible at hiking, too. Hiking. She remembered. It’s what she’d come to do. Wasn’t it? She tried to push Terry out of her mind. She focused on nature instead. Malas Tierras was a mean trail, but when you were carrying around a lot of weight in your heart, the Tierras was a place where you dropped it all off. The name meant the badlands and that’s just what it was, a place for bad things.

She stopped and cocked one ear to her left. She was just about to cross a bend at the tip of the mountain and see some of the scenery she’d been reading about all week. She wanted to breathe it all in, but then she’d heard something strange. She listened.

She could hear the sound of the wind bending its way through the trail’s many caves. She heard a hawk screech into the dying light of the evening, and she listened to the soft gurgle of a nearby brook as it carried water like a humble servant to the river below. Then she heard it again, a scream. She pulled out her buck knife and held it out in front of her. There were mountain lions here and they were known to cry like that. She tightened her grip on the knife as the high, pleading note floated past her from far down below.

The scream rose a final time, high and reedy, and she cringed as it echoed off a nearby cliff. That’s no mountain cat, she thought. “Terry?”

2.

He lay on the trail with his back to a rock, his leg resting on the stump of a hollowed-out tree, and his face a roadmap of perspiration and pain. She stopped cold when she saw him.

“Are you happy now?” she said feeling angry. “Did you get what you came for?” The words escaped Sarah’s mouth although she didn’t fully understand why she’d said them. She was so angry. A part of her, a secret part, was glad to see him hurt and in pain. She’d sure felt some pain herself recently. But there was something else feeding her anger other than old wounds and misplaced trust.

“Well!” she said feeling impatient. Terry’s face slackened as her words bit into him. She felt her anger multiply as it feasted on his expression. But why did she feel so damn angry?

She’d come back down the trail walking at first and then sprinting as the screams grew in intensity. Her first emotion upon seeing him had been one of amazing confusion. She hated him but she also felt sorry for him. And like an explosion of clarity, she understood the wellspring of her anger. He’d succeeded. He’d made her worry about him. Yes. He’d finally made her care about him again.

“I need your help,” he whimpered.

Terry was reaching for his leg and grabbing at it like a kid trying to do stretches. He was trying to get up but not succeeding. His face was contorted in a strange configuration of pain and fear.

“Is this another game?” she said, and her harsh tone felt even less justified to her ears. Was she just being mean now? Was she tossing salt on old wounds? He really did look hurt. “Never mind,” she said quickly and drew closer. “Tell me what happened?” Terry lifted a shaky hand and pointed to something nearby. Sarah followed his fingers and saw two terrible things simultaneously. She saw Terry’s hand, bloody and drooling a clear, viscous fluid from two round puncture wounds, and then she saw the rattlesnake. Sarah took a step back and moaned softly.

“Damn thing bit me,” Terry said defensively. “I was just …” He craned his neck back and grimaced. “Oh God, it hurts! It hurts so bad! I … I don’t wanna die!”

Sarah tried to sheath her knife. Her hands were trembling, and she nearly lost the blade in the process. She picked up a nearby rock.

“Stay still,” she said. “Don’t move ... okay?” “God!” he cried. “It hurts!” “Shhh! Don’t you know they’re attracted to sound?” Terry hushed biting his lower lip as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. She didn’t know what snakes were attracted to, in truth, but she did know if he didn’t stop that screaming, she would be the one to boogie off this island instead.

She threw the rock at the snake. The wound coil of muscle and cold-blooded flesh unhinged and sprang up into the air. It landed neatly near Terry’s foot.

“You missed!” Terry whined, and he tried scooting back from the hissing reptile. He cradled his swelling hand like a father protecting a newborn baby. “Quiet,” Sarah snapped at him. Sweat broke out on her face. Every muscle in her body seemed to be trembling and revolting. She tried to slow down her breathing and think, really think.

The rattlesnake wasn’t moving. It wasn’t leaving. Was that normal? Did snakes bite and then just nestle down for the night like a lion resting its paw on the bloody rump of a fresh kill? But then she remembered where she was. The badlands. Malas Tierras. If there ever was a snake born evil, this is where you’d find it.

“Hold still. I’m going to try a bigger one.” She picked up a round stone, a hefty three-pounder. She fought the urge to shut her eyes and instead took a step closer. The snake’s head slowly swiveled, and Sarah found herself staring into the black and lifeless doll eyes of the serpent. Its bruised-colored tongue flicked out of its mouth and tasted her scent. It began to slither slowly towards her.

“Uh … Sarah,” Terry said as he felt the rattle brush past his jeans. “Sarah!” “I got it,” she said. She held the stone high above her head. In a lower voice, she

whispered, “I hope.”

Sarah felt the sudden and insane urge to run. To turn around and run away from Terry and the snake. And why not? Hadn’t he hurt her? Hadn’t the snake just been protecting its territory when that waffling buffoon probably stepped on its tail thinking the snake was just another obstacle in his quest for her love?

A long, low hiss escaped the thin, scaly lips of the snake. It stopped four feet in front of her and raised its head slightly off the ground. The tongue flickered again. The diamond-shaped head with its lifeless, black eyes never left her gaze. The effect of those dead eyes might have been mesmerizing if it hadn’t been so terrifying. The corn-husk rattle vibrated nervously back and forth making a terrible harmony.

She heaved the big stone. It lumbered through the air in slow motion. “Oh, God!” Terry moaned as the stone struck dirt and rolled down the hill gathering moss as stones are want to do. She’d missed again. This time, the snake did not wait for another throw.

The snake whipsawed itself forward with amazing speed. Sarah screamed as the widehinged jaw opened and two bone-white fangs sprang out. She pulled her foot back just in time as the snake’s head rushed forward and underneath her boot. Terry was screaming like a man falling down a great, black hole. Sarah didn’t think. She slammed her foot down hard pinning the snake’s head against the rocky trail and her boot.

“Kill it!” Terry screamed. “Stomp it! Stomp its brains out!” But she couldn’t stomp. She couldn’t lift her foot. The snake would bite her. She pressed down harder. She focused all her weight on the snake’s neck. The cylindrical reptile twisted and snapped back and forth under her boot like a horsewhip. Its six-inch rattler jigged angrily as it profaned the silence of the night with that terrible rattle.

“The knife!” Terry screamed, and he pointed at the snake. Sarah was frozen in a kind of catatonic fear. She shook her head not understanding. “The knife! The knife! You’ve got the knife!” Sarah looked at her waist and remembered the knife she’d sheathed there. But what was she supposed to do with it? Stab the snake? Peel fruit?

She felt the snake’s body begin to wrap itself around her bare leg like a cold coil squirming to life. The feeling of that smooth, alien body as it slipped up her thigh made her want to scream. It made her want to pull her boot up and off the snake’s head and run down the trail like a madwoman performing a dangerous stunt in some dark carnival.

“Oh God!” she moaned, and she was about to do just that. Maybe the snake would fall off if she ran fast enough? But something inside her cautioned that wouldn’t happen. The snake would bite her. It would sink its fangs deep into her flesh and then she would be flat on her back and crying as blood and puss ran out of her like stormwater through dirty drains. “The knife!” Terry bellowed impatiently. “The damn knife!”

“Huh?” “Cut the head off!” Sarah stared dumbly at Terry, and then her mind came back to her in choppy waves. Sarah blinked and looked down at her knife. She didn’t think twice. She yanked the blade free and bent down with the snake’s body still twisting and coiling. She pressed the edge of the knife’s blade against the base of the reptile’s skull and squeezed her eyes shut. The snake momentarily stilled almost as if sensing what was about to happen and then it resumed its death dance with new and furious vigor.

Sarah screamed and she forced the knife down hard and deep. She kept on screaming as the blade sliced through scale and taut muscle. She felt the weapon pause as it struck dense bone and then she plunged deeper still. She felt something warm and wet gush up her right hand and then the coiled, foreign body slipped off her leg like a tentacled sea monster abandoning its prey.

She watched the body of the snake roll down the hill end over end as the stump where she’d made her cut pumped blood onto the bad soil of Malas Tierras. She lifted her boot, moaned in revulsion at the sight of those lifeless doll eyes, and kicked the rattler’s business end far into the bushes. She fell backward and sat on the trail breathing heavily and on the verge of fainting. She felt revulsion ride up and down her body like a lunatic locomotive and she felt sure she was about to vomit. She ran her hands up and down her legs feeling and testing for signs of bites. A moment later, she sighed with a quiver and tossed away the bloody knife. She never wanted to touch it again.

“Are you okay?” a familiar voice said from behind her. She turned, still shaking, and felt a warm hand press onto her shoulder. Terry’s face looked down at her and she was helpless to return his smile. Here was the face she’d fallen in love with. No expectations. No demands. Just concern for her well being. This was the face that had once made all her plans and pontifications about the future seem meaningless and so much dull air.

“Sarah,” he said again. “You okay?” “I think so,” she said, but her voice trembled as the words spilled out. She ran her hand against her pants frantically trying to remove the snake’s blood. The blood was sticky like melted candy and even the color resembled candy-apple red, like the sweet outer shell of a fairground treat. The kind you carried around on wooden sticks. The wild thought made her stomach lurch forward and she had to bend over. When the feeling passed, she began to cry. It helped.

She sat back up when the tremors passed and wiped a tear from one eye. Without thinking she kissed Terry’s hand still resting on her shoulder. She was caught in the moment. Then she remembered his other hand. The injured one. “Let me see,” she said. Terry’s smile transformed into a grimace. “I’m fine.”

She moved her eyes from his swollen hand that resembled something like a beef roast and settled on his eyes. Her voice was low and soft. “Oh my God … Terry?” She reached for the hand. “Does it—”

“I’m okay,” he said quickly, and he pulled the hand away from her. “I don’t think it’s too deep.”

But it was. The snake bite was very deep indeed and did depth even matter? She didn’t think so.

Terry’s hand had swollen to two sizes its normal. The bleeding had stopped but only because the two punctuations in his wrist had shut tight on account of the swelling. “We got to get you down,” Sarah said, and she peered down the trail. “Really,” he said. “I’m fine.” He hesitated. “Look. There’s something I want to—” “No,” she interrupted. “No, you’re not fine! That’s a Western Rattlesnake.” She shook her head. He was just out of his element, lost as always. “You need anti-venom and a doctor.”

“I’ll be okay,” Terry repeated in a dry and remote voice that was very unlike the old Terry, and then he did something that made Sarah surer than ever that he wouldn’t be okay. He smiled at her, and in that smile, she saw something she’d never seen before in Terry’s eyes, resignation.

She thought at that moment that if he’d made that same smile back when she’d first seen him on the trail, back when he’d been hanging off the guard rail and waiting for her to come along and save him, he’d surely have jumped. It was the smiles of grandparents weathering bad news from their doctor so their children and grandkids wouldn’t worry. It was the worn, tired grin of old dogs as their masters watched on in horror as the final needle plunged into their vein. It was the appeasing smile of the jolly-well damned.

“Terry,” Sarah said, and she slowly sat up. “I want you to listen to me very carefully, okay?”

“I never told you,” he said. “That can wait. We’ve got to get you to a doctor.” “Please,” he pleaded, and if Sarah had been focused on anything other than her intense need to make him listen, she would have seen his knees were beginning to buckle. “There’s so much I need to tell you. Mostly …” “It can wait!” she shouted. She turned and pointed to where the trail angled down. Down past the river, past the big, granite boulders, and on to where a ranger station sat miles away. “I need you to listen to me now because …” But Terry wasn’t listening. He lay at her feet. He was unconscious.

3.

She had been a girl then, thirteen and nervous. The large crowd of parents and onlookers cheered but she didn’t think they were cheering for her. Or were they?

The line of girls positioned above the Olympic-sized swimming pool focused on the water below. They focused on the tiny ripples and waves and the school’s blue insignia painted on the bottom of the pool. They focused on anything but the hundreds of eyes and murmuring mouths surrounding them. This was their swim team’s final competition.

A gun fired into the sky and Sarah Jackson felt the cold embrace of water as it rushed over her body a second later. Her lungs burned. Her heart hammered in her chest. She thought she could hear her father off in the distance screaming and shouting for her to go, Go, GO!

She’d placed second to last that Saturday morning. Some of the parents had said losing was a good thing. It taught strength and resilience. Her father had remained rather silent on the subject. Her mother had said something about accepting life and what you’re given, but Sarah knew better.

For Sarah Turner, that loss marked a point on the roadmap of her life where she would add, in time, other landmarks for failures and second-to-last finishes. Failures like her relationship with Terry Sanders and second-to-last finishes like the one she was worried about right now.

Terry wasn’t dead, but he couldn’t afford second place tonight. You might say, he was in the lead for dying. She patted his cheeks and splashed some water from her canteen onto his face. At first, there was nothing, not even the subtle flight of an eyelid, and then slowly, casually, his eyes awakened.

“Hey, you,” he said in a husky voice, and he managed a smile that made her laugh. “I thought I’d lost you,” she said, and the strangeness of the moment was not lost on her. A month ago, she would have said if Terry had been burning alive, she wouldn’t bother spitting on him to put out the flames. Today, she was laughing with him and holding his hand. Life was funny.

He seemed to stare at the night sky and the kernels of starlight shining down for a very long time. Finally, he spoke.

“I always loved stars,” he said. “White ones. Blue. The ones that seem to sparkle out there. I used to dream I was one. Just shooting through the sky. No pain. No depression. No guilt. Just me and the wide-open spaces.”

“It’s okay,” Sarah said, but she wasn’t sure if she was saying this to him or to herself. “I never got to tell you.” “What?” She gripped his hand firmly and leaned in. “That I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I did.” Sarah pulled back and felt her chest heave in a falsetto that wanted to become an

orchestra of tears and sobs. It was the moment. It was his hand and the apology she’d wanted so badly and for so long. It was the stars and the sky and the horrible beauty of Malas Tierras. But mostly, it was the fact that she was losing him for a second time like a bad joke that never stopped replaying.

“It’s ok,” Sarah said, and then she stopped trying to fight back the tears. They all came at once.

“No,” Terry said, and then Sarah noticed his throat was beginning to swell. He’s having an allergic reaction, she thought, and she gripped his hand harder.

“It’s not okay. I made a terrible …” He stopped and breathed in deeply. “A terrible mistake. I’m not a good man. I know that now.”

“That’s not true,” Sarah said, and she became suddenly aware of the passage of time. How long did rattlesnake victims have to receive anti-venom? Thirty-minutes? An hour? “I fell in love with you because you were a good man, a great man. You just …” “Lost the trail,” he finished for her and his good hand left hers and reached up to where his throat was tightening. “Can you forgive me?”

She nodded quickly. She couldn’t talk, not now and maybe not ever. She felt months of anger and then the repression of that anger drain from her body and she was back to that swimming match. She was thirteen again. She was back to her first big loss and wondering if tonight was going to be another big one, another failure to endure.

“Get up,” she said abruptly. Terry’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not dying and I’m not hauling your butt down the mountain on my own. So, get up!”

Amazingly, Terry tried. She saw him press his elbows against the dusty trail and push up a little. She stood up.

“Snakebite victims only have minutes, Terry. Minutes. Not hours. Get up! You can do it!” The resigned smile he’d been wearing slowly transformed into something she could work with. Something harder and with more grit in it. Harder bark. “That’s it. Come on!” He raised his good hand to her, and she took it. He was amazingly heavy for such a slender guy, but that could also be because Sarah was exhausted. She pulled him the rest of the way up and steadied him. Terry looked off and down the mountain. A small fire could be seen as a lamplight in the distance. It was the ranger’s station. “I’ll never make it,” he said. “Actually,” Sarah said. “You will.” Two things were made available at the top of Malas Tierras for the hikers brave enough to claw their way to the top. One was a fantastic view of the Utah landscape with its clear skies and carved out hills like God was playing sculptor on the day he built this section of the Earth. The second was an emergency raft.

Sarah helped Terry into the emergency-red raft with its yellow plus sign painted in the

middle. It was a raft intended for hikers under duress. The idea was simple and yet perverse. If you were hurt, you could ride down the mountain using this raft and the swift river. That is if you didn’t mind risking your life riding that swift river and on a rubber boat.

Terry grabbed Sarah’s hand as he leaned back in the big, rubber craft. She didn’t think he could talk anymore, but she got a good look at his eyes in the light of the pale moon.

“You’re going to make it,” she said, and she pushed the raft off its mooring with the blade of her oar. The raft began to drift and spin in the current. Terry’s eyebrow tilted up. “It’s two miles down,” Sarah shouted to be heard over the gurgle of water. “Two miles up and two miles down!” It was meant to be funny, but neither of them laughed. The current moved faster.

She rowed. She guided their little boat in the fast-moving water in much the same way she’d guided herself in that swimming competition. She moved with the water. Except for this time, there wasn’t a crowd of spectators watching and waiting for the final judgment. There were only her and the man she’d tried to run away from.

Minutes passed and while she felt as if they’d gone miles already, the terrain told her they were only halfway there.

“Hold on!” she said as their boat approached a swirling eddy with a fat block of sandstone looming over it like a parent standing over an ill-tempered child. “It’s gonna get rough!”

But it wasn’t rough. The river that she’d sworn she’d never raft, not in a million years, had decided to go easy on them tonight. Confused crickets croaked in the night grasses as the occasional fish jumped blindly into the dark. I’m doing it. “Almost there …” She strained her eyes and saw it was true. “YES!” She patted Terry’s leg as the ranger station approached. It looked like a gray ghost rising up and out of the black lagoon of that wilderness. She began to oar faster and faster feeling her muscles tire and burn from the exertion.

“HEY!” she shouted. She coughed trying to catch her breath. “WE NEED HELP!” She kept rowing and waiting for signs of life to emerge from the old station. She was sure she’d have to park the boat and go running around knocking on doors when a ranger emerged from the station’s rear door. He was an old man, beanpole slim, and dressed in loosefitting thermals.

“Someone there?” he called blindly into the night. “HERE!” Sarah shouted. “Over here!” She waived her oar above her head. The ranger moved in closer to the river’s edge. He walked with a limp. “I see ya! Keep on coming! Anyone hurt?” Finally, she thought, a man who understands my needs. “YES!” She exploded with

enthusiasm. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“State your emergency and speak on up! Can’t rightly hear!” “Snakebite!” Through the dim glow of the moon, she saw the old man nodding. He readied one hand to catch their raft. Somewhere in the distance, a loon called out startling a nest of sleeping crows. She angled her oar to move the raft right and felt the boat drift towards the old man. He produced a shaky flashlight and illuminated her eyes.

“Ma’am?” he said in a shocked tone. “What in God’s name you doing out here?” “Saving someone,” Sarah said without hesitation, and she wasn’t entirely sure it was just Terry she’d been trying to save tonight. She leaned over and squeezed Terry’s leg forgetting her earlier thoughts about ice water and her desire for revenge.

“Terr,” she said using the nickname she’d once had for him. “Come on. We’re here. We made it.”

“What kind of snake?” the ranger said as he pulled their raft ashore. She shook his leg harder. “Terr? Come on, move it.” “You all been using drugs up that mountain?” the ranger asked, but Sarah wasn’t listening to him. Her eyes were fixed on Terry’s pallid skin and his motionless, blank expression. Fear gripped her when she saw his eyes. They were the doll eyes of that snake, emotionless and still. “Terry?” She felt old and shameful tears well in her eyes as the naked truth of Terry’s condition lulled up and down inside that boat working in time with the movement of the water. Terry wasn’t getting up because Terry was dead. She bent her head down low and pinched her eyes shut.

The ranger, his name was Teddy, placed an old, weathered hand on her shoulder and held it there. The similarity to Terry placing his own hand on her shoulder only minutes before made her sobs come out in great, hot rivers.

“There, there,” the old man said. “Ain’t your fault, Miss.” “Yes, it is,” Sarah said. “I couldn’t save him.” She felt the ranger place a second hand on her other shoulder. Only this hand didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel quite human. She peered over her shoulder and recoiled. The ranger nodded as if in agreement to a question she hadn’t asked.

“Yah, lost that un’ in Vietnam,” he said displaying his clawed hand. “Lost this here leg, too.” He clanged the steel claw against his leg producing a hollow bonking sound.

“Looks like you’ve had yourself a bad night, girl. Sorry about your man.” Sarah nodded. “Hard truths,” he muttered. “Hard.” The ranger stood up stiffly. He extended his good hand to her and she took it reluctantly. “I’ll call the medics,” he said, and he guided her from the raft. The boat shifted back and

forth in the river as water gurgled underneath the rubber bottom.

“I couldn’t save him,” she said again. “I tried, but I failed.” At this, a new round of sobs escaped her.

“Sometimes,” Teddy said. “We got to stop blaming ourselves.” He looked down at his wooden leg and winced. “All got to live and die with our lots. Live and die.”

Sarah Jackson sat on the wooden steps of the ranger station and listened to the far-off whine of emergency vehicles as they wound their way through the twisting roads leading into Malas Tierras. She sipped hot cocoa, courtesy of the oldest ranger she’d ever met, and thought about Terry’s dreams of becoming a star in the night sky.

And above her in the celestial canvas that cares not for human gain or loss, a shooting star scratched its way across the heavens leaving behind a ghost of silver stardust. It ran its course and then vanished at the edge of nothing.

And she smiled despite the fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. She sipped her cocoa. It was warm and sweet, a stranger in the night, and her eyes found the pale moon one last time. “Goodbye,” she said. “Goodnight, Terry.”

3rd PLACE

Azalea Lane

by Peter Buttress

The residents on Azalea Lane were among the wealthiest in the small town of Woodbridge. Their houses, expensive and beautiful, had long driveways leading from the narrow road, and were built on roughly four acres of well-manicured lawns. No two houses were alike. John Richardson and his wife, Barbara, had moved to 6 Azalea Lane, before he retired as Chief Executive Officer of a pharmaceutical company. Now that he had more free time, he and Barbara often took long walks in the morning. As members of the Woodbridge Country Club, they played golf and bridge as often as possible, and entertained friends at least once a week. They considered their retirement years idyllic.

Their close friends, Jim and Laura Bechtel, lived across the street at 5 Azalea Lane. When Jim unexpectedly passed away, Laura put the house up for sale and moved to Memphis to be near her daughter. Although the house was in immaculate condition, it stood empty for several months because of its high price.

Then John heard a rumor the house had been sold. It wasn’t until he saw a moving van parked outside and men moving furniture that he was certain.

“Looks like we’ve got new neighbors,” he said to Barbara as they began their morning walk.

“So it does,” she replied. “I’ll bake some cookies and take them over tomorrow. Will you come with me?”

“Sure,” John said. The next day the two of them walked to the house across the street. Barbara held a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies covered with tin foil. When they reached the front door, John rang the bell.

A man opened the door a crack. “Yes?” he said. “Hi. I’m John Richardson and this is my wife Barbara. We live across the street. We just came to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

The man opened the door a little further and John could see he was towering, 6-feet 3-inches tall and at least 270 pounds. His head was shaved that reflected light from above. John’s immediate reaction was the man was either a former football player or ex-military. “Sam Graves,” the man said. “What about your wife? I’d love to meet her.” Barbara said sweetly. “She’s busy at the moment,” Sam said, curtly. “Oh, what a shame,” Barbara replied. “Please give her these cookies and tell her I’ll invite her over for coffee soon, then we can get to know each other.”

“Where are you from? John asked pleasantly, still standing on the front porch.

“Up North.” Sam said, leaving John to guess whereabouts up North. There was a long pause before John said, “Have you decided on a church yet? We go to First Baptist and we’d love to have you join us. The preacher is terrific, a real spell-binder.” “We’re Unitarian,” Sam said. There was another pause. Deciding they weren’t getting very far, John and Barbara said goodbye and headed back to their house.

“That went well,” Barbara said, a touch of sarcasm in her voice. “I guess he’s just not the friendly type,” John replied. A few weeks later, John and Barbara noticed workmen across the street. One crew was installing a six-foot high chain-link fence around the property. The other was constructing a wooden lean-to, 10 feet high, 8 feet deep, with an overhanging roof.

“Why is he building a fence?” Barbara asked as she looked toward Sam’s house. “No idea. Maybe he’s going to keep a horse there. On second thought, he couldn’t keep a horse in that lean-to.”

“But a chain-link fence is so ugly. Why couldn’t he put up a wooden fence? Serves the same purpose and is much more attractive.”

“I’ll go ask him, shall I?” John asked facetiously. Barbara giggled. “Don’t bother. I doubt if he’ll give you a straight answer.” “By the way, did you ever invite Sam’s wife over for coffee?” John asked. “Several times. She always had an excuse: ‘I can’t right now, too busy,’ or ‘Just leaving for shopping,’ et cetera. I’ve given up calling her.”

It took several days for the fence to be completed. The workers finished by installing a metal gate at the entrance to the driveway. Puzzled, John, Barbara, and the other residents on Azalea Lane waited to see whether a horse would appear on Sam’s property. They didn’t have long to wait.

“Oh my God!” Barbara shouted as she looked out the window one morning. “It’s not a horse at all. It’s two ostriches.”

“Ostriches! You’ve got to be kidding.” John said, as he hurried to the window. “This is a residential neighborhood, not a frigging zoo.”

The large, flightless birds were about 8-feet tall. They had long, muscular legs and huge bodies. Their towering necks supported small heads with large dark eyes. One of them had bold black-and-white coloring, the other was light brown.

“I bet one of them is male and the other one female,” John said. “My guess is Sam is going to breed them and either sell the eggs or sell the chicks. There’s a lot of money in the ostrich business.”

“Really? How do you know that?” Barbara asked. “Well, I just read in National Geographic a female ostrich will lay 7 to 10 eggs at a time. Their meat is a delicacy in some restaurants because it’s very low in fat. Then you have the

feathers which can be used for costumes in theater productions or as decorations. I predict this is going to be a problem for all of us on Azalea Lane.”

He was right. Word got around town about the birds and soon they became an attraction. Cars pulled over and people got out to gawk at them. A mini-bus parked outside Sam’s house one day and a dozen preschoolers spilled out, pointing and chattering. When a reporter for the local paper wrote a story about the ostriches, it was picked up by the Associated Press and the publicity became widespread.

Annoyed at what was going on in his neighborhood, John said to Barbara, “I’ve got to do something about this. I know Bob Cummings, the Chairman of the Zoning Commission. I’ll speak to him after church on Sunday.”

When the two men met after the service, John said, “I’m sure you’ve heard about the ostriches on our lane. They’re a big nuisance and I’d like to file a complaint with the commission. I think it violates our zoning laws.”

“That’s fine,” Bob said. “Just write me a letter outlining the reason for your complaint and I’ll put it on the agenda for our next meeting. You’ll have to testify, you know.” “Not a problem. Thanks very much.” The Zoning Commission normally met in a small room at Town Hall, but the interest in the ostriches had grown so much that Bob Cummings decided to hold the meeting in the cafeteria at the school, a venue large enough to accommodate a crowd.

Bob called the meeting to order at exactly 7 p.m. the following Thursday, even as some late stragglers were trying to find seats. The commission was made up of three men and two women, all volunteers. Bob discussed some administrative details, then turned his attention to the first item on the agenda.

“We’ve received a complaint from John Richardson, owner of 6 Azalea Lane, in which he claims his neighbor, Sam Graves, of 5 Azalea Lane, is violating the town’s zoning laws. Mr. Richardson, would you please tell us what’s going on.”

John stood. As a former head of a large company, he was comfortable speaking before large groups. “Thank you Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen. A few weeks ago Mr. Graves acquired two ostriches and installed them on his property, which has caused a serious nuisance for me and my neighbors. Cars park on the side of the road, which makes it difficult for us to enter or leave the narrow lane. Then there’s the trash. People drop empty soda bottles and candy wrappers and leave it for us to pick up.

“Did you know, ladies and gentlemen, the feet of ostriches are deadly weapons?” he continued. “I read in National Geographic that if attacked, an ostrich is strong enough to kill a lion. I am concerned that if someone climbs over the chain-link fence and harasses the birds, that person is likely to be severely injured or killed.

“Finally, the zoning laws allow for residents to have one horse for every four acres of ground. Admittedly, they do not say you can’t have two ostriches on your property. Surely that is

a given, otherwise it would be legal for me to have two giraffes outside my house. Or how about two elephants?”

The audience burst into laughter and applause. “Azalea Lane is zoned residential, but because of the ostriches, it’s become zoo-like.” John thanked the commission and sat down. “Mr. Graves,” the chairman said. “Your turn.” “I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” Sam said. “These are just two birds. They don’t make any noise except for an occasional hiss, and their droppings don’t smell. All they do all day is eat grass and insects and mind their own business. I can’t help it if someone comes by every once in a while to look at them. The curiosity will soon wear off and people will stop coming.” There was a smattering of applause. He went to sit down but Bob stopped him. “Mr. Graves, do you consider these birds your pets?” “Of course not. Ostriches are not pets.” “Then why do you have them” “I hope to make some money off ‘em. I’m going to breed ‘em and either sell their eggs or their chicks.”

“So is it a commercial enterprise you are running? Sam paused. “Well ….yeah, I guess.” “Thank you Mr. Graves. You may be seated.” Bob announced a recess. The panel retired to one of the classrooms to consider their decision. While they were gone, people in the audience chatted among themselves. The panel returned in 15 minutes and the audience grew quiet.

Bob looked directly at Sam and said. “After due deliberations, the Zoning Commission hereby declares that you, Mr. Graves, are in violation of the town’s zoning laws because you are running a commercial enterprise in a residential zone. You are hereby ordered to remove the ostriches from your property on 5 Azalea Lane within 30 days.”

There was applause mingled with a few boos. Sam glared at the panel, and turned to leave without speaking to anyone.

A few weeks later, John and Barbara were pleased to see the ostriches were gone and a For Sale sign on display outside Sam’s house.

One day, they heard the loud noise of a motorcycle come along the lane and stop across the street. When they looked out the window, they saw a bearded man with long hair, wearing a leather jacket with Hells Angels painted on the back. He got off his Harley-Davidson, pulled the For Sale sign out of the ground, and threw it toward the chain link fence. Slowly he mounted the machine, revved the enormous engine, and sped off.

When the Richardsons left the house to begin their morning walk, they found a note from Sam taped to their front door. It said: “You’re gonna love your new neighbors.”

HONORABLE MENTION

A Gentlemanly Thing to Do

by Virginia S. Moe

Genevieve Jones (no one would ever call her Gen) was the ultimate director, at least in her estimation. She was of average height but looked shorter, since she was round. Round shoulders, round face, round arms, round tummy, round curls in her hair. She had sung in a choir since she was five years old, and considered herself to be an experienced and faithful choir member. Not to mention expert. I am an expert choir member, she thought. She had received accolades from each of her supervisors and retired with pension from her secretarial duties in city administration, but her real life had always been choir, and was even more so since her children had grown up and her husband had died. Her vanity car tag said CHOIR with stars on either side. Her scarf sported treble clefs, and her hat boasted eighth notes. Her brightly flowered clothing floated in voluminous folds and curls and and windings and swirls when she breezed into the choir room. It caught the attention of everyone, but especially the men.

The Methodist choir director had resigned at the end of the last singing year. The church had given him a party celebrating his fourteen years directing, and he had moved out of state. Since the choir didn’t sing during summer break no one cared, least of all the Administrative Board. When fall came and Sunday School started, people expected a choir, and a suitable choir director. The Ad Board began foraging the area for a choir director, or so they claimed.

To the relief of the clergy, Genevieve volunteered to substitute as an interim. She had previously been a children’s choir director, and no other church member wanted the job. The Ad Board accepted her offer with alacrity. Choir members were delighted to be rehearsing again, and they all smiled and cooperated whenever Genevieve gave an order. There were many. “Less alto here, please!” “Basses, let’s hear that D. Um-hmm! How about you all sing the SAME D.” “Please do NOT play piano at section A. Our sopranos can do it a capella.” But Genevieve was pleasant and reliable, so committees and clergy were delighted to keep her on as interim and delay interviewing for a permanent director. She had served for six months, from September through February. Choir members seemed to learn their anthems and kept returning for Wednesday rehearsals, so everyone was happy. As a thank you, a soprano had her husband make Genevieve a wooden music stand. He burned the words “Frau Direktor” into the desk.

Genevieve took her conducting seriously, arriving at church each morning and studying her scores in the choir room. She removed each anthem from the folder to study it for musical decisions or changes. She wrote the pertinent musical phrases out by hand on manuscript paper bought at an old shack near the edge of town. The shack’s sign read “JERRY’S MUSIC INSTRUME_TS AND LESSO_S.” Somehow a couple of Ns had disappeared. The few people who went in and out of Jerry’s never carried instruments or music for their lessons, so everyone

assumed Jerry sold marijuana to pay the bills.

“Can you imagine?” An alto had said to her husband after rehearsal one night. “Not using a computer in this day and age. And going into that terrible place to avoid it!”

After writing out the musical phrases, Genevieve scrawled copious notes on lined notebook paper, clipped the notes to music scribblings, gathered the sets together in one pile, and pressed them into the pocket of her music folder. She and her countless layers of clothing always entered rehearsal at exactly 7:25. She gave the choir a silent cursory smile and waved her hat and scarf into submission on a desk. She stopped to arrange her baton on the stand, then rushed to the piano bench, music and pencil in hand, and interrupted the accompanist, Eddie, in any conversation. She carried her folder, and its bits of music and notes slipped out and littered the floor. Some soprano always followed, matched up the notes with the correct music, and laid them on the piano with a short greeting.

But today there was mutiny in the sopranos. No one had picked up the bits of music and notes.

In the soprano section, the women scanned the dropped papers and eyed each other with frowns as they continued their high, quiet, humming vocal warmups. The same question burned in every mind: Will anyone pick up those notes? Helena sat in the second row. She kept a daycare, and all day little people who dropped things surrounded her. She leaned toward Julia. “Should we go pick them up?” she asked.

“Won’t it be kind of obvious if we troop over everyone’s feet?” answered Julia.”And will it insult them?” She lifted her eyebrow at two heads on the front row.

Genevieve searched her folder in consternation. Eddie answered Genevieve, flipping through his own music.

“Maybe so. And I don’t like making everyone move,” Helena agreed in relief. Brows knit, Genevieve had begun talking to Eddie. Marie, on the end of the front row, but hampered by the corner of a table blocking her view, leaned over to the young girl sitting next to her. “What’s the holdup?” she asked in her raspy smoker’s voice. She sang second soprano, and was proud of it, but should have been singing alto.

“No one picked up Genevieve’s mess,” answered prim little miss. She flipped her pearl necklace around her index finger.

“Now stop that!” the girl’s mother said, pulling the necklace down. “I told you not to wear that new necklace.” The three second sopranos began a conversation about the lovely new pearls “and matching earrings,” as the youngster pointed out.

Genevieve stammered explanations of musical changes. Eddie nodded as if he understood.

The mutiny continued where it had started, on the front row of sopranos. After all, they

usually picked up Genevieve’s papers. Trudy was on the front row, but as she often reminded everyone, while still a young woman she had sung with the Saxon State Opera Choir in the Dresden Semperoper when, after being bombed in World War II, it famously reopened in 1985, presenting Carl Maria von Weber’s Der Freischütz. With such an illustrious singing lineage, Trudy never thought she needed to take responsibility for picking up Genevieve’s papers.

Tia was Trudy’s sidekick, and often picked up the papers. Today, Trudy had told Tia that Genevieve needed to pick up after herself. Tia was from Minnesota, tall and big-boned, with fair skin and blonde hair. She was almost mute when not singing. She was married to Erik, another tall Minnesotan, who sang baritone in the choir. That their children had learned to speak was a wonder to everyone, since he, too, was silent when not singing. Erik peered now at Tia with a frown, wondering why she didn’t go help Genevieve. Tia avoided his eyes and began shuffling her music.

Genevieve waved her hands, and Eddie flipped through his score, stopping and pointing to various pages.

Erik cleared his throat, and Tia’s eyes darted toward his seat. Trudy knew Tia would soon capitulate. “Would you go sharpen my pencil, please, Tia?” Trudy wheedled, batting her eyelashes. “My hip, you know, it’s been giving me trouble today.”

Unsure, but cooperative, Tia took the pencil. Without a word she stood to walk to the pencil sharpener. Erik shook his head and slapped his folder open. He glared at his wife, then remembered how their thirteen year old daughter, Ava, had come home screaming at her brother yesterday. Tia had seemed oblivious, but after a few minutes she had asked the girl’s opinion of the best way to cook brussels sprouts. Ava had plenty of advice about the dish, her favorite. She had begun with a tirade against the current stylish fad of roasting brussels sprouts without steaming them first, which she assured Tia made them as tough as leather. She had moved to a sermon about the health benefits of the vegetable. She then delivered a lecture on the structure of the sprouts themselves which was, apparently, the determining factor in choosing a method to soften them while keeping the flavor. She had closed with a coda on the kitchen implements and pans needed to create a delicious dish of sprouts.

Ava had then leaned on her mother’s shoulder. “Are you cooking brussels sprouts tonight, mom?” Upon receiving an affirmative reply, she had offered to prepare them for the pan. Closing his folder with a sigh, Erik rolled his eyes at Tia’s strange but effective handling of people.

Genevieve continued to pontificate, so Erik turned to his neighbors. They were describing the Mission Committee’s latest muddled scheme to sell raffle tickets.

In the back row of tenors, a young father passed around a book on child-rearing. His high voice carried well. “I’m a good dad, but my brother doesn’t have kids yet. He sent this. My wife is afraid it will influence me!” The guys flipped the pages, chuckling at the drawings. How to calm baby: Dad and baby having a shot of whiskey. How to bathe baby: Baby crawling in the grass

while dad sprays him with a hose. How to play with baby: Dad watching sports on television while dangling fishing rod holding toy over baby.

Tonight was Bert’s first night in the tenor section. He had been recruited by his next door neighbor, Harold. Several singers welcomed him, and he now perched on the edge of his chair, poring through the music in his folder and hoping he already knew some of the pieces.

When Genevieve fluttered past, strewing papers in her wake, none of the other tenors seemed to pay attention. Bert averted his eyes also. He took out his pencil and pretended to mark the scores.

Harold claimed his music from his cubby and plopped down next to Bert. “Hey Bert, thanks for joining us. Are you coming to score study meeting next week?” Harold asked.

“Score study? I thought we’d learn the music here!” Bert was amazed. He’d never heard of choirs having score study.

From the back row, Charlie joined the conversation.”Yeah, we do,” he drawled. He smiled at Harold and leaned forward. “But we like score study. We learn the music even better there!” “And we sing better, too!” Harold added. Charlie snickered. “Don’t bring your music. Just come to my house, six o’clock, next Tuesday.”

Bert raised his eyebrows in wonder. Score study with no music? He’d take his music, just in case. “Surely you don’t memorize all your music?” he questioned.

“No, but don’t dress up. We have to clean Harold’s basement.” Still clueless, Bert raised his hands, palms up. “What gives? You guys clean basements for score study?”

“We clean it before we make the beer.” Bert’s jaw fell open in surprise. “Make beer! Is that what you guys were doing last month at your house? When you said it was a church meeting?”

“Sure was,” replied Harold. “That’s why I invited you! Last month we bottled my new recipe, Hobo’s Choice.”

“You should have come, Bert. We drank my beer. Charlie’s Chili Pepper Beer. A fantastic beer.”

“Matter of opinion,” growled a tenor from the back row. Charlie continued his explanation. “When it’s your turn to host, you come up with a secret recipe and provide the ingredients.”

“And name it. It has to start with the first letter of your name,” someone called. “Any of your names. Xavier had a tough time with X, so he used the G.” “Yep, García’s Growlers he called it. A superlative beer.” The men were silent. They all clasped their hands prayerfully over their bellies and looked toward the ceiling in thanksgiving. Bert grinned. He’d heard of this group. They were embarrassed to put Trinity Home Brew Club in the church calendar so they called it Men’s Score Study. They explained that

they met each month in someone’s basement. They cleaned the room to Health Department standards so the beer wouldn’t explode while fermenting, bottled the latest brew, then drank a batch from the preceding meeting.

“I’d have joined the choir sooner if I’d known about score study,” Bert laughed. While the seated tenors joked and planned their next score study meeting, Xavier and his son Carlos arrived pushing a cart. The entire tenor section jumped to their feet to begin unloading boxes of pecans. The choir was selling pecans to raise funds for new robes and Xavier needed storage. Seeing Genevieve’s wild gesticulations, the men decided not to ask her opinion. They huddled to discuss a convenient place in the choir room. Hands chopped the air and pointed to various corners, heads nodded then shook side to side. Elbows bent, the men stroked their chins, then leaned in and whispered. Soon Xavier and Carlos pushed the cart back out the door, rolling over and crushing Genevieve’s fallen notes. Two or three other tenors followed, departing for places unknown.

Eddie squinted after them as they departed. Genevieve ignored them and scribbled in her music.

Dolores, a laconic alto, turned to her neighbor and tapped her watch. Eleanor fretted, eyebrows lowered in a frown. She whispered, to keep her low voice from blaring. “Genevieve and Eddie should have a meeting if they need to talk, but it looks to me like they’re thrashing it out, as usual.”

“Not as usual. No notes.” Dolores replied. She indicated the debris on the floor. “Oh dear, I don’t know what has got into those sopranos. What can they be thinking?” Eleanor gabbled. “Why, only last Sunday, they were so busy rearranging their robes that they were late lining up for the procession! The men will never pick up those notes, and I don’t see how we can do it. We have to walk all the way around the piano and music stand.” Hurdles and difficulties seemed to fill Eleanor’s life.

Dolores dug through her purse for her calendar and counted weeks. Eleanor looked over her shoulder. “How many rehearsals until Easter?” she asked. “Six, but we sing it two weeks before. It’s for Lent.” “Only four weeks!” she moaned. “Good grief, Dolores, I don’t even know my notes for this Service of Darkness. It won’t be dark, anyhow, at five. That’s when the evening service starts. Why they call it evening when it is still light, I do not know. How can we learn this thing in six weeks, or actually, in four weeks?”

“We can’t unless we rehearse.” Both of them scowled at Genevieve, who became more voluble. They heard a few words. “A little faster . . . Rubato . . . Tenors need . . . Altos have the theme . . . “

On the front row of altos, Marbelle pursed her lips and glared at the tenors. She suspected their flippant conversation involved the Home Brew Club. “Do you think those men are ready to sing?” she asked her neighbor, Mrs. Nan.

“Now, Marbelle, boys need a little fun,” Mrs. Nan answered. Eighty-eight year old Mrs. Nan thought any male under sixty was a boy. Her speaking voice was a little creaky, but the altos were all jealous of her ability to sing a low E at full voice.

“Hmph. Fun is one thing. Carousing is another. Why, when I saw them at, well, when I saw them once, they were singing in the streets. Singing! Can you believe it!”

On Marbelle’s other side, Sheri looked over at Mrs. Nan. “Well, we’re singing, too!” Sheri grinned.

“Rehearsing for church is hardly the same thing as these men and their wild songs, hardly the same thing at all!” Marbelle answered with a glare.

Mrs. Nan grinned at Sheri. “When did you see them?” she asked. “Let’s see, it was, um, two months ago.” Marbelle knew exactly when she saw them, because it was the month her own husband had their shenanigans take place at her own house in her own basement! Her husband the pastor! Why in the world did he have to participate? It was disgraceful! In a big city, maybe, where people were more sophisticated, more liberal, but in this little place the Methodists needed to set an example, and not just leave it to the other churches. She couldn’t seem to convince him of that. He always said something about going where the people were, and warm hearts being more important than what you ate, and the importance of the itinerancy, and other Methodisty things.

“And they were singing, hmmm?” Mrs. Nan lived right next door to Marbelle. She knew perfectly well it had been right after Christmas, and the men had strolled through the neighborhood singing Christmas Carols.

“Oh, I heard them!” jumped in Sheri. “They ran around and caroled to everyone. Our men sing so well.” She sat back with a satisfied smile. The Baptists seemed unable to recruit men. She didn’t know why.

“Yes, they were singing Christmas Carols,” admitted Marbelle. She jumped to her feet to change the subject. “If we’re not going to practice, I’m going to file some music.” She marched over to the “Turn in music here” box, and the other altos joined her. The altos gathered every week to file music. And thank goodness they did. When the insurance company asked for an inventory last year, the altos were proud to say that the music department completed the task before any other church group.

Even Genevieve began to notice the breakdown as people socialized. Distraught, she called out, “Choir, choir, give me a moment please. I am sorry but we’ll have to start a little late today.” Eddie frantically marked his score.

Jerry, the lowest voice in the bass section, sat down and stretched his legs. He knew there might be new music but he didn’t go check. If it was absolutely necessary, he’d go to the trouble of walking over to add the new pieces to his folder. Beside him Bud Thompson was frowning at Genevieve and Eddie.

On his other side, the choir president had picked up his folder as well as the new music

for the evening. In his elected position, he had to set an example.

“Well, Jer, how’s it going in marketing?” he asked. The two basses worked together at Uniflex, a manufacturer of exercise equipment.

“Great! I got us a contract with Slick’s Gym. All three locations, and he’s about to open some new ones.”

“Let’s hope he can keep them open!” “Yeah, it’s a constant problem with these gyms.” The two discussed production a little, then sat on the back row in companionable silence. They watched as Genevieve ran her fingers through her hair. Eddie would have done the same if he’d had any hair. Next to them, Bud Thompson still eyeballed Eddie and the clock.

On the front row, Abe turned to his neighbor. “What’s the holdup?” His full bass voice reverberated throughout the room.

Genevieve scanned the room with her eyes, then took out her colored pencils and returned to the music. Eddie’s head drooped in defeat.

The bass student singer, Isaac, was African-American. Abe, one of the few black men in the choir, had taken Isaac under his wing. As soon as Isaac was of legal age, Abe even invited him to Score Study Club, explaining that it was a euphemism for Home Brew Club. Isaac surveyed the notes on the floor and answered Abe. “The director dropped the notes she usually gives to Eddie. She has to explain things, I guess.”

“Why don’t those women pick ‘em up, like they usually do?” blurted Bud Thompson, from behind Isaac. He glared at the sopranos.

The two African-Americans cut their eyes toward one another. Abe leaned back to answer. “Bud, it ain’t like that no more,” he said, dropping into slang. “These women have their own agenda, and we all pick up after ourselves nowadays.”

“Sue used to pick up after me!” Bud complained, still gazing at Genevieve. “And I liked it!” Bud’s wife, Sue, had died some years ago. He was a prominent and long-time member of the city council, having been re-elected every two years by older folk who remembered “the good ol’ days.” Since Sue died, every widow in town had tried to clean his house. None had ever been allowed to cross his threshold. “I liked it,” he repeated, and nodded at the men. He continued to contemplate Genevieve and rubbed his chin.

“You know good and well that your daughter can’t be picking up after her husband,” Abe said. “Her hours are too long. And I bet he does the cooking, too!” Bud’s daughter had gone to high school with Abe and was now a state trooper while her husband ran a popular restaurant. “Yum, yeah, those chicken and dumplings are to die for,” Isaac licked his lips, regretting skipping his cafeteria lunch.

Bud rubbed his chin again, finally answering “He is a good cook. And she never liked housework or the kitchen.” He flipped through his folder idly, then ogled Genevieve once more. “What’s with those altos, though? D’you know they come over here during the week and file

music?” he asserted.

“How do you know?” quizzed Abe. “Oh, you know, I’ve seen ‘em here.” He turned his head and looked toward the ceiling. “When I’ve been up at church for this and that,” he added.

Abe raised his eyebrows and winked at Isaac. “I suppose they’re getting a start on it now, since we don’t seem to be rehearsing. I guess you won’t see them tomorrow.” His law office was across the street. He had seen how often during the day Bud’s car arrived in the church parking lot and ended up next to Genevieve’s.

The men peeked out the door, overhearing the tenors planning the calendar for Score Study Club. Their mouths watered as they thought about the coming Tuesday, when they’d be drinking Hobo’s Choice, Harold’s new beer recipe.

Bud looked again at the director, then turned to Isaac and Abe again. “And those tenors,” he said. “Are they coming back, y’think?”

“I dunno,” replied Isaac. “Want me to go ask?” “No, no, son.” He paused a minute. “But, now that I think about it . . .” They turned to him expectantly.

“Well, if it’s a new day, I guess it would be the gentlemanly thing to do. Let’s get this show on the road,” Bud said, with a baleful look at Eddie. Isaac stared at him, bewildered. “Papers gotta be picked up.” Bud added, still staring at Eddie. Isaac slid his folder under his chair and started to stand. “No, son, not you.” Bud signaled Isaac to be seated, rubbed his chin again, and straightened his tie. “I guess it oughta be me. I’m the oldest, except for Mrs. Nan, of course. Helping Genevieve out by picking up those papers would be the gentlemanly thing to do.”

Isaac and Abe stared at each other. Bud could be charming, but he usually saved it for the campaign trail. What brought on this ‘gentlemanly thing to do’ stuff?

Genevieve had become more and more agitated, raising her voice and drawing big air circles. Eddie had stepped back to dodge her waving arms.

Isaac and Abe stared after Bud as he stood, his shoulders straight, his bearing manly. He aligned his folder on his chair. The other basses sat back in their chairs and inspected him as he snapped his mechanical pencil into his sports coat pocket and straightened his tie. He surveyed the scattered bits of paper. He beckoned at the door and the AWOL tenors returned. He welcomed them with a half bow and ushered them to their seats. Bud retraced Genevieve’s path across the room and the ladies remarked on his dignified carriage. He detected each note and piece of manuscript paper on the floor, then gracefully stooped to capture it. After rescuing all the notes, he strode to the table, laboriously coupled manuscript and matching lined paper, bound each pair with paper clips, sorted them in stacks, and conveyed them to the piano.

Eddie smiled in relief and gestured toward Bud. Genevieve was talking a mile a minute

and didn’t even notice. Bud cleared his throat, but Genevieve continued her harangue.”Are you getting this, Eddie?” she demanded.

“Yes ma’am, yes ma’am,” he babbled, pointing at Bud. “Look at this measure–”Genevieve began again, only to be interrupted by Bud interposing himself between the two leaders with a flourish. Genevieve’s curly hair frizzed into corkscrews, her sleeves stretched in wrinkles, her skirt pulled sideways, her pudgy hands fluttered, and her upper lip and forehead glistened with sweat.

“Maestra, I believe these are yours,” Bud murmured, with an alluring smile. He bent at the hips in a gallant bow and presented the papers, caressing the back of Genevieve’s hand as she took them. His touch was gentle and slow. Her mouth popped open in wonder. Her face turned red, and she really could not breathe. Her flood of words and gestures ceased. Before her paralyzed body revived, he turned and strolled elegantly to his chair.

Genevieve’s head swiveled, her eyes following his retreat. “Why, thank you!” she finally managed to squeak as she shoved the papers at Eddie. When she regained control of her feet, she followed Bud, her eyes laser-like on his figure. She promenaded to her stand and nobly lifted her baton. She surveyed the choir. “We’ll start with the Mozart, please,” she commanded in a grand voice.

Eddie breathed a sigh of relief and laid the notes on the music shelf to review as he played each piece.

Despite a late start (precluding warmups, Eleanor moaned), the choir achieved glorious musical heights during rehearsal. Genevieve had recovered her composure. She smiled and encouraged in her best style, and the singers reveled in her praise, taking risks and singing right out. At eight fifty they closed their folders, listened for announcements, contributed prayers, then dismissed at nine. Bud delayed storing his folder. After most choir members disappeared, he advanced on Genevieve, graciously offering his arm. They left the choir room together.

Four months later no one in the choir was surprised to see the an announcement in the church newsletter.

You are cordially invited to the nuptials of James Ignatius (Bud) Thompson and Genevieve Wilson Jones

Eddie contacted the choir to practice songs for the wedding. The sopranos organized food for the reception, the altos decorated, the basses set up chairs and tables, and the tenors brought beer. Everyone cooked, and Abe and Isaac laughed together upon hearing that Bud had begun cleaning Genevieve’s house.

HONORABLE MENTION

Reva

by Darryl Lewis

Tom Anders set up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He reached and pulled the window curtain back. From this window he could see the lower back yard as the men continued to prepare to butcher a hog. The young man poked at the fire building the heat to get a good scalding pot of hot water. The other three men stood off to one side guarding the hog so it couldn’t escape – again – and arranging the butcher knives and the scrapers. Anders watched and also thought of the same question that he had pondered asking when he had arrived a little more than an hour ago. But, this time he did ask the question. “Reva, do you have any real feelings for me?”

***

“Brown!” No response. The younger man called again. “Brown!” The older black man stood with his back to the younger man, talking with the other two black men helping prepare all needed to butcher the hog held in the pen a few feet away. The story the older man was telling apparently was a good one from the wide smiles and knee slaps.

The younger man, Lewis Fredrick, looked down and spied a pine cone on the ground. He picked it up and a slow pitch caught Brown, the older black man on his left ear and called more loudly, “BROWN!” Brown jumped, turning quickly to see the direction the pine cone had come from. His initial scowl changed to a smile. First of all he knew he was supposed to be working and secondly Lewis Fredrick was nearly a son to him.

Lewis’s father was gone far more than he was at home and drunker far, far more than sober. Lewis, Senior, provided nothing for Lewis, his mother or his 4 sisters or his brother. The six children and their mother, Reva Fredrick had to make their way best they could. Reva and the oldest sister, Alma worked in the Dunn Cotton Mills. Lewis did all he could find to do since he had gotten out of school but steady work was hard to find now. His young brother had gone into the service and had been gone over a year. The two youngest girls were still in school and Lewis was determined they stayed there and graduate.

The third next sister had married and lived about 45 miles away. She didn’t come home often. It wasn’t talked much but the marriage, to most, seemed just a way to get away from the last whipping she had from her father the last time he was there. Reva was convincing when her temper got up. An old pistol on the top shelf behind the lard can in the kitchen helped. He was told not to come back. In spite of his drunken stupor the barrel of the heavy old pistol held with both hands and pressed against his left temple by Reva gained his attention. He dropped his belt he had used to whip Amelia with and had trouble holding his pants up as he ran across the yard and jumped the fence.

“What y’all need Mr. Lewis?” Brown called out. “Some more wood on the fire to get the water boiling, Brown. You and the boys get some more from down to the barn and if you don’t mind be fairly quick about it.” The large cast iron kettle was steaming in the cool morning air but needed to be boiling

“Ahh-ight,” Brown said and then called to the boys helping. The three headed to the ramshackle barn only about a hundred feet from Reva’s house and only slightly 30 feet across the property line. As the men crossed the yard a black and shiny four door 1938 Plymouth came up the left side of the horseshoe driveway. The older man threw up his hand to the fellows headed to the barn. All of them called back to him, “Morning Mr. Tom.”

Tom Anders had lived in the town his entire life and bit by bit had acquired nearly two thousand acres that he cultivated with his own two hands and six hired hands. Acres of corn, cotton and a variety of crops that had made him reasonably rich and important in the town. After the first three successful seasons he had married reasonably – Izelle Anders nee Moore - meaning that he had listened to his parents about who he should marry not so much who he should love. They had produced three children, one a small smiling girl had died only a few months after being born. His remaining children brought him mostly joy, and the marriage mostly brought him stability for the children as they grew. The time passed and so did the relationship with Izelle. She found her niche in the various charities and clubs where she joined and wanted recognition. Their days were passed quietly. So were their dinners. She would come to him when she needed a check for a foundation that wanted to award her with a plaque.

Over the years Tom was expected to attend the required number of functions, drink a limited amount of bourbon, dance with his wife and no more than two other wives and they’d drive home quietly and retire to their individual bedrooms.

Tom Anders stopped and turned off the engine of the new Plymouth. He reached over to retrieve the brown paper bag and hat from the front seat and slid out of the car with surprising ease for a man over six feet and some inches tall. He placed the faded fedora on his head and the small paper bag in the inside pocket of his khaki jacket. He closed the door and started down to where Lewis Frederick poked the fire under the huge kettle. “Mornin’ Lewis. How you this morning?” “Just about right Mr. Anders. Hope you’re okay.” “Bout the same, son,” Anders replied. “Which hog you butchering?” “Ulysses if we can keep him penned up. He got out once and he ain’t much fun to wrestle with,” Lewis stared at the several hundred pounds of hog in the separating pen. “Mr. Anders, I had the boys go down to get some wood if that’s okay.”

“Sure it is, son. Get whatever you need. Do you need that tackle and block I told you to use?”

“Thank ya’ Mr. Anders but ours will work fine. Oil it up and its good.” “Okay Lewis. But if you need anything, just get it. Okay?” “Sure thing.”

“Brown helping you out?” “Yes sir. He is.” “Well don’t let him start telling stories or you won’t get much work out of him or the boys.”

“Okay.” “I know you’ll see to it. Is your mama here?” “Yeah. She and sister are in the house cleaning,” Lewis responded, his lips visibly tightening. As much as he appreciated all that Tom Anders had done for his family his attention to his mama was a sticky point in the relationship between the older and younger man.

***

When Reva had first moved her family closer in she had asked about who might have a house they could rent or maybe even buy. Anyone she spoke to told her the same thing – see Tom Anders. He was fair and honest. He wouldn’t take advantage of anybody. Within an hour she had found him and within another hour he had given her the key to the house she owned today. The house a rundown old two story with little plumbing and less heating was something she could afford and within two months she was back to make her rental payment asking him if he’s sell it to her. Before he knew it they had struck a deal and three days later had his lawyer across the street prepare all the paperwork. Tom and Reva shook hands after signing. Then and there they had become friends - of a sort.

After three years she came to him. He figured that she must be in some financial difficulty because the mills had slowed down. To his surprise she wanted to buy the next half acre behind the acre she had. She wanted to have a place to raise a cow and room to have a hog. This time she had the papers prepared and ready by the attorney. Combined with her original property and the parcel and she started making the increased payment twenty-one dollars and sixty-eight cents a month. She never missed a payment.

When it came time for the last payment Tom had his attorney draw up the papers to legally turn the house and property over to Reva. He wanted to give it some type of ceremony so when she came by his office in town to pay him he had a small bottle of bourbon on his desk with the papers ready to be signed. Reva was flustered for the first time he was aware of. When he showed her where to sign the papers he explained that it was now officially hers and said they should toast to her being a home owner. A couple of dusty glasses were wiped out and they toasted, the glasses clinked as the sun began to sink behind the pines. Tom admired her. Tom had heard the stories, too. The stories about exactly how Reva was able to keep her kids clothed and food on the table. Even if there were temporary layoffs at the mills she still fed, clothed and paid her bills. Tom tried not to listen to them. He was never sure exactly why he tried not to listen to the stories but he was sure that hearing them made him mad.

Tom kept his relationship with Reva on a strictly friendly basis. When they’d pass each other in a store or in the post office they’d exchange pleasantries. Every once in a while Tom would pass along something that might help her out. “Afternoon Reva. How you today?” “Just fine Mr. Anders. Yourself?” “Glad I ran into you, Reva.” “Why’s that, Mr. Anders?” “Joe Abel’s got a cow limping and he was thinking about putting it down or taking it to the sale. Why don’t you buy it and put it in your pasture and maybe nurse it back at least until she could maybe give a couple of calves over the next couple of years. Then you can sell them, maybe make a few dollars or put up some beef.

“That’s well and good but that takes money. If you put up beef that requires a freezer and that takes more money, buying it and electricity. Not to mention paying for the lame cow. Thanks but no thanks all the same Mr. Anders.”

Tom had the answer for the freezer concern. “My freezer has got too small and I got a new one coming in next week. I’ll be happy to give it to you. The cow you could probably get for ten dollars and you got the pasture. I know you’re boy put up the fencing back there and it’ll be plenty of grass back there for one cow and if need be there’s a barn full of hay not a hundred feet from your back door. Any more problems?” Anders found himself standing there grinning at her.

She leaned back, her head cocked to the side and, “How much for the freezer?” “I said I’d give ….” “And I asked how much,” she cut him off. “If I take the freezer I buy it for a fair price if it’s all the same to you Mr. Anders.”

He pushed his hat back on his head and laughed out loud. They agreed on a price for the freezer, eight dollars a month for five months and he said he would ask Joe Abel the price for the lame cow. “Now last thing, Reva.”

She squared her shoulders and looked at him with the same look a lot of men had gotten from Reva and it wasn’t always positive. “Mr. Anders.” “I’d sure appreciate it if you’d call me ‘Tom’, Reva.” She looked at him a moment longer and then told him, “No. I don’t think our business relationship would permit that.” She wasn’t sure but was pretty certain he was a little crestfallen, but with the smile of her own she added quickly, “But I do think it’d be okay for me to address you ‘Mr. Tom’, Mr. Tom.”

He smiled broadly and chuckled. They shook hands and parted ways. He quickly climbed into his pickup and immediately went into town to order a new freezer for himself. He told the bow-tied appliance salesman that it had to be delivered next week. Had to be.

“Say your Mama’s up to the house?” “Yes sir.” “Okay. I’m gonna speak before I leave. Brown!” He called loudly over of the roaring fire of the kettle of boiling water. Being one of Mr. Anders regulars, Brown heard him and came over right away. It didn’t take a pine cone to get Brown’s attention for Tom Anders. “Yessuh, Mr. Tom?” “Brown, after you finish helping Lewis today, I want you to start planning on tearing this barn Monday. I want it down and hauled off by the first of the following week. Understand?” “Yessuh, Mr. Tom”. “I’m gonna start a new house on that land to rent out so I want it cleaned up so the builder can start in two weeks. Got any questions?”

“Nahsuh. But if you don’t mind, you want me to use these two boys here to help.” “What do you think? Will they work?”, “Well suh, Dub over there, now he’s as hard a worker as you want. He’s good, real good. But now Moot, well let’s just say I’d just soon as not work him. If it’s all to you, suh.”

“Up to you, Brown. If you need somebody else, get them. Just get that barn down by the first of next week.”

“Yessuh. And any the wood or stuff still good out of the barn… “ Anders turned to Lewis, “Lewis. You need anything out of the barn?” He thought for a second, “There’s a little bit of hay left in there, Mr. Anders. All the same to you I’d appreciate having it. I can stack it up under the shed of ours. I’ll move it tomorrow, no later than Monday if that’s okay. And I’ll be happy to pay you for it. There’s sixty, maybe seventy bales.”

“Don’t worry about that son. Brown, first thing you and Dub do, move that hay over to Mrs. Fredrick’s shed and stack it where it stays good and dry.” “Yessuh.” “Okay, Brown. Last thing. That red white face bull. I promised I’d let Joe Abel have it for his heifers for two or three weeks. Y’all load him up in the big trailer and haul him over there next weekend.”

“Red Lightnin’?? Mr. Tom …,” “Don’t worry. Jimmy Wills is gonna come and help you. All you’ll have to do is turn him loose in Abel’s pasture.”

“Yessuh,” then as Brown walked away, under his breath he said, “That’s all you got to worry bout. That durn bull is a straight son of Satan if my opinion counts for something’, which it don’t.”

“Okay son. I’m gonna speak to your mama. Hope all goes well with that hog.

Lewis nodded and said, “Sure it will and much obliged for the hay.” “Always glad to help son,” Anders said and put his hand out for Lewis which seemed odd at the time but didn’t later. Anders gave him a firm handshake, looked into his eyes, patted him on his shoulder and slowly turned away and headed to the house to speak to Reva.

***

Tom made his way up the six unleveled concrete steps and knocked on the screened door. He was about to knock a second time when Lewis’s sister Alma came out of the kitchen door and walked over to unlatch the screen door.

Alma was old enough for him to take his hat off when he spoke to her. “Hey Alma. How you today?”

“Hey there Mr. Anders. I’m fine. You?” “Okay. Mama around?” She turned to the kitchen door. For a slim girl she was plenty loud. “Mamaaaa !! Mr. Andersssss!!” She turned back to Anders. “Come on in. I’m sure she’ll be right down.” And to herself, “And I’m sure I’ll be right out,” she giggled to herself.

Anders stood there on the porch, hat in hand expecting Reva to come down and shortly she did. She was wiping her hands on what appeared to be a homemade feed sack cloth apron having been cleaning something, her hair up in red and white bandana in a simple faded denim shift. Pushing a lock of her auburn hair made her look as appealing as always to Anders. “Mr. Anders. What brings you around?” “Hey Reva. Came by to see Brown while he was helping Lewis. Got him some things I want him to do next week and wanted to be sure I told him.” “Okay. Care for a cup of coffee? Glass of tea?” “Sure. Tea would be fine.” “Alma, would you get Mr. Anders some tea, please?” Anders cleared his throat and said, “I had a couple of things I wondered if I might go over with you while I was here if you got time.”

Reva looked at Anders. Part of her was interested like usual. Part of her bordered on aggravation since two of her children were around and it was not even Saturday dinner noon. That was odd. Anders caught her look and returned it trying to let her know he really needed to talk and spend a little time with her.

She turned from the kitchen table where they were now seated. “Uh…, Alma. I’ll fix Mr. Anders tea. I just remembered I got a list pinned to the calendar over there. We got to make a couple of cakes for church tomorrow. I need you to go into town and pick up those things we need and anything else you might think of. Alright?”

Alma looked at her mother and knew the right answer. “Sure. What about dinner this

afternoon for Lewis and the boys?”

“I’ll take care of that, you never mind. Go get my purse off the hall tree and get ten dollars and take off.”

“Okay, mama. Always good to see you Mr. Anders,” as she headed for the hall, the money from the purse and a sweater. She also had some new hair berets she could pin her hair up and maybe stroll the main street for a bit.

Alma got up and started pouring the tea for both of them. She put the pitcher back into the Frigedaire thinking that the refrigerator was also bought used from Tom Anders.

She came back to the table with the two glasses of tea and his hands were shaking, something she had never seen. For a pretty stable man that was unusual. She pushed his glass across to him.

“Thanks.” Both of them were quiet for a minute. Finally Reva broke the silence. “Mr. Tom is everything okay with you? What did you come by here on a Saturday?”

He was silent for a moment and then he straightened up in his ladder back kitchen table chair his broad self filled. “Wanted to come by and spend a few minutes, Reva. Haven’t seen you in a few weeks more than to say hello. How are you these days?”

“I’m good, Mr. Tom. Usual. Work, family. Actually been a little overtime. This was the first Saturday I haven’t put in an extra eight hours in weeks.” “Good. Good”. He fell silent again. She studied him. She had studied a lot of men, different ones for different reasons. She had to admit that Tom Anders was more interesting than most.

***

She and Anders had maintained their occasional business relationship, mostly when he would run into her and make a suggestion that she should consider, for nearly three years. Finally, he came by late one night, nearly ten o’clock and knocked on her door. The bourbon was on his breath but not that strong. After she had come out onto the back steps in her robe, her hair mussed, he just stood on the next step down which actually made him a little shorter that her and he didn’t speak. He just looked up at her. She didn’t know where he might have been or why but his tie was loose and the top button of his shirt undone. He wavered ever so slightly, whether from the bourbon or he just didn’t know what to do. Finally he said, “Reva.. ‘ and that was all he said.

She studied him for a moment more and then she took his broad, rough hand in hers and softly said, “Hey, it’s alright. Come on in. It’ll be okay,” and she led him quietly through the kitchen and down the hall to her room.

An hour or so passed. She was in an unusually peaceful sleep, her face turned to the side

of the bed where he had lay on his back. Where she had watched him until she drifted off. Until she felt him ease from the bed. Until he kissed the back of her neck and quietly left. She went back to sleep for another two hours, her lamp still on. She turned over and sat up to get up to go down the hall to the bathroom. She didn’t notice the money on the night stand until she came back. The crisp folded bills. That was the first time she ever cried like that and she wasn’t sure why.

***

This is how their relationship began to deepen. After their first time they didn’t see each other for a month or so, save for two different times they passed each other on opposite sides of the street in town. Not too long after that though he sent her a short note asking to see her and talk. He came by not quite so late and he tried to talk. She tried to listen. After some time at the kitchen table they both gave up or maybe gave in to one another. It was almost a replay of the first time. And the next time and every time for the next four years and seven months so far. And today didn’t seem that it would be any different,

***

Tom Anders swung his legs over the side of the bed and set up. He pulled the curtain back. From this window he could see the lower back yard as the men continued to prepare to butcher a hog. The young man poked at the fire building the heat to get a good scalding pot of hot water. The other three men stood off to one side guarding the hog so it couldn’t escape – again – and arranging the butcher knives and the scrapers. Anders watched and also thought of the same question that he had pondered asking when he had arrived a little more than an hour ago. But, this time he did ask the question.

“Reva, do you have any real feelings for me?” Reva strained not to show how the question shocked her. She could have heard him utter the same question four years ago and it wouldn’t have shocked her as much as just now. Slowly she raised up pushing on her elbow on one arm and pulling the sheet along with her until she could lean against the headboard. She looked at him, his sun weathered, lined face. “Well, I guess all I can say is ‘What?’ right off,” she said with a soft chuckle. Anders slowly stood and went to the dresser where the bourbon bottle was. He took the cap off the bottle and poured a small amount into the tea glass from earlier and turned to Reva and held the bottle out to ask if she wanted to join him.

“Little early for me although I got a feeling I’ll be having one before this conversation is over. What are you asking me, Mr. Tom?”

“Simple enough. Do you have any feelings for me? I know we’re friends and kinda

business partners of a sort and we ………you know. All that’s well and good. Knowing you is probably the most interesting person I know.” He took the bourbon down in one swallow. “What I’m asking is do you feel anything for me other than all that.”

She looked where he stood, hands on the dresser, his back to her but she was sure he was watching her expressions in the dresser mirror. “Maybe I will have that drink.” While Anders poured her drink she turned her back to him and retrieved her slip from the arm of the chair off to the side of the bed, slipping it quietly and quickly on. The she grabbed her robe and slipped it over her arms and stood as it fell around her. She moved over to the chair and sat, curling up and then taking the finger of bourbon he handed her. He sat on the edge of the bed in his undershirt and boxer shorts having another drink for himself. She took a sip of her own and coughed lightly.

“Mr. Tom ….,” she started. “Like I said, ‘Simple enough’. Do you are not?” he asked gently. She pulled her legs up a bit tighter under her in the chair. “Mr. Tom, it’s not that simple. I don’t know what or where this is coming from. Or what you expect or want. Yes, we’ve known each other. Yes, we’ve been friends. Yes, business partners on some things. And…we’ve…” “And we’ve …” She felt her face flush. On one hand she wanted to be angry for that being brought up. The other hand she wanted to smile.

Anders looked at her, still holding his glass with some bourbon, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, “And we’ve …”

Now the irritation colored the flush. “You know what I’m talking about. I don’t have to spell it out, for a educated man like you. All you’re trying to do is embarrass me and I don’t know why and furthermore I don’t appreciate it.”

Anders watched as she stood and walked over to the opposite corner like a boxer who’d thrown a good punch wanted to see the effect on his opponent. “Hold on, Reva. I don’t want this to get all crazy. If I embarrassed you I’m saying I’m sorry. Not my intent. Please believe that.”

She leaned against the wall and just stared for a few seconds. His face didn’t have an expression that he wanted to pick or embarrass. His expression was more tired. Tired and unsure or tired and afraid. She just couldn’t tell and reading men’s expressions was something she relied on. It was her turn to look past the curtain and across the yard and for a few seconds watch the steam building over the pot. “Okay.” “Okay what, Reva.” “ ‘Okay’ I believe you’re not embarrassing me,” she said as she turned back to look at him still seated on the edge of the bed, “But I still don’t why, today you brought all this…that…. up!”

He put his drained glass on the nightstand and reached for his pants and shirt hanging

across the footboard. He first put his shirt on and then slipped on one and then the other leg of his pants, standing to zip up his pants. Next he tucked in his khaki shirt and buttoned it up not saying anything at the time.

She asked him, “What are you doing? Just leaving now? That’s all to be said?” He chuckled for the first time that day. “No. Not leaving yet. Just putting on some armor. I almost forgot that dealing … maybe I oughta say negotiating, with you dressed there like that wasn’t smart.”

“What do you mean? It’s a slip and a robe,” she said feeling self-conscious. He just stood there while he buttoned his shirt, looking at her, a gentle smile on his face. “Well maybe it’s just the way you wear a slip and a robe.” He looked around. “Where are my socks and shoes?”

“Other side of the bed.” “Right.” He found them and slipped his socks and shoes on. At one point he quickly sat straight up, grabbing his right side sucking in his breath sharply. It passed in no more than a second.

Reva noticed. “What’s that? Your back again?” “Ahh. Probably. Nothing. Look I want to clear this up with us. I’m sorry if I seemed like I wanted to press you on something. Wasn’t what I meant to do. I just, I guess, I want you to know that you’re a little more to me maybe that you know. It’s important to me to know that you know that. You’re important to me. Okay?”

“Mr. Tom. I don’t know how to come back to that. I know that we have a sort of relationship. I know my feelings for you are maybe a different kind. But T… Mr. Tom, you got a family. You got a reputation. You’re looked up to in this town.” Then looking down at the worn throw carpet and in nearly a whisper, “You got a wife.” She paused shrugging her shoulders. “For me, it’s different,”

“How different, Reva?” She quickly and sharply responded, “You know what I mean by different.” “You are different. That’s why I feel like I do. Reva, you’re a real person. How hard you work. How straight forward you are.”

“And how I made ends meet? How I had to run off a sorry ass husband. Raise six children without a father who only wanted to come to my bed or raise his hand up to me or one of the kids. All I had to do to put food on the table and clothes on their backs. That makes me different alright. Real different.” The tears came up but she wouldn’t let them fall.

He rubbed his side while she talked but his face had a look that mixed affection, regret and satisfaction. Then he said, “Reva, yes. Different and a lot of that makes you different but it makes you strong. Real. You’ve said the things I wanted to say better than I could. You’re braver than I am. You’re stronger than me. And that’s what I want to be sure you know about yourself.” She stood there somehow still brave but looking smaller. Smaller and tired. He went

to her, put his arms around her and held her. It was a minute before she would allow her arms to unwind and slowly go around him and to hold him in a way neither had allowed in the past. A few minutes more allowed them to simply hold each other and right then they were both different than in the past. It was just the two of them and all that they had to think about. To feel.

At last he gently broke the embrace, but she could tell he didn’t want to, only that he had to. He held her at arm’s length almost seeming to paint a picture of her in that look that he could carry.

She blushed and softly cleared her throat saying, “I know you need to go. I understand. I hope you know about my feelings without me having to say no more. I wish …”

“Shh. You don’t. I think we both know now. I just wanted to be sure. I wanted to know and now I do and it means more than you can ever imagine or know.” There was a hook on the back of the bedroom door where his jacket and hat hung. Retrieved both and whispered, “Come on. Walk me to the kitchen.”

“Alright, MISTER Tom!” she emphasized and chuckled. She reached for his hand and taking it squeezed it gently the two, still hand in hand walked down the short hall leading to the kitchen.

They kissed, softly this time. He put on his jacket, then his hat. She reached up and straightened the collar on his jacket and the tilt of his hat. Soft laughs from both of them. She said, “Thank you. Special.” “Always will be.” He stepped onto the porch. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and for a moment she almost panicked but he withdrew not his wallet but a thick white envelope. On the outside was written ‘Reva Fredricks, Important documents’.

“Reva, there some papers here I want you to hold onto for me. I trust you with it. So if you don’t mind hang on to it.”

“Papers for what? Do I need to look at them?” She started rolling down the thick rubber band from around the middle. He put his hand on hers, stopping her.

“You can look through it anytime but not right now. I’ve got to go. It’s important paperwork but after I’ve left. Okay?”

She just looked at his expression and immediately that the paperwork was important but he didn’t plan to go through them now with her. “Okay.”

He took the envelope from her and slipped into the pocket of her robe and turned away to the screened door, glancing back and smiling. She said, “See you,” as he started down the steps, quickly saying no more and across the yard.

She walked back to her bedroom and closing the door behind her she leaned against it. In a moment she crossed the room to the very window that Anders had looked as the boys were still getting ready to butcher the hog. She saw Anders go to his car and open the front door but it was the passenger side front door. Through the windshield she could see him open

the glove box and take out some more papers that looked like envelopes. He closed the car door and went out to the rear and this time opened the trunk. He took out what looked like rolled up blankets and now closed the trunk and walked away until he was out of her sight.

Puzzled she couldn’t imagine what but she knew that he had something to do and had to go. She remembered she had said she would start food for her and the kids and the boys helping Lewis so she had to get started, already well behind. She slipped her robe off and when she did the thick envelope fell to the floor with a thunk. Thinking of the envelopes she saw she remove from the automobile glovebox she decided to at least look at what kind of papers were in the envelop he left her with. This time she did take the wide rubber band off and with her finger opened the flap of the envelope. Her breath left her for more than a moment. In the envelope folded papers but also there was money – crisp bills – held with a rubber band. Five hundred dollar bills it appeared all the way through. She flipped them once, the again and then slowly one at a time. It was all five hundred dollar bills, eighteen of them she counted with trembling fingers.

“What the hell….” she whispered to herself. Stunned she took out the other papers. One was a plat showing her land but no longer the two acres she had. It stated it was property in her name showing her having twenty-eight acres thatd gave her the corner made up the two roads joining. There was some type of legal document saying the land had transferred and even that the taxes are to be paid out of a trust forever.

There was some other documents some she couldn’t even make out but they were clipped together to an attorney she had never heard of. There last was a small note size envelope in with the papers. She took it out last. Her name was on the envelope. She slowly opened it and took the two sheets of a note starting, ‘To My Reva’. She began to read under her breath, “’Reva, I am returning the money you paid for your house. It’s just a gift so stop complaining about it being business. You’ve been more than that and more to me for all these years, I wanted ….”

She read on. As she flipped to the second page a sudden cold chill struck her and she then whispered, “No. Oh God! No.” She rubbed her forehead with her free hand. The words in her mind stood out boldly, ‘Examination’, ‘Doctor’, ‘Cancer’, ‘Terminal’. She stared at the page over and over again until suddenly she heard a loud boom from outside. She gave a start but quickly jumped up from the bed, grabbing her robe and throwing it on loosely and hurried down the hall, through the kitchen to back porch shoving the screened door back.

From the top step she could see across the yard and Lewis and the boys there. Lewis was standing beside the keeping pen with the rifle in his hands. The trussed up hog writhed on the ground in the pen. She caught her breath and to herself, “Please Lord.” She called to Lewis, “Lewis! Lewis! Do you…do you have to shoot the hog again?”

“What are you talking about Mama? I ain’t shot him yet.” “No. I heard a loud shot just now.”

“Nah, mama. I ain’t shot the rifle. You probably heard the wood poppin’ in the fire. And the damn pig making a ruckus.”

“No, Lewis. I mean…I don’t think…” “What in the sam hill is wrong mama?” She took a deep breath first and then to Lewis said, “Lewis, go over to the barn.” “What? The barn?” “Yes. Look…see if…check that nothing is wrong over there. See if Mr. Tom’s over there. That nothing’s wrong.”

“Mama, why …?” “Do what I say, Lewis. “. “I said NOW, Lewis.” “Alright. Alright. Brown. Y’all watch Ulysses. Don’t letter work loose.” “Ahh-ight.” “Lewis! Now!” “I’m going Mama.” Lewis put the safety back on the rifle and laid it on the rough board tables laying across the saw horses along with the butcher knives and the scrapers.

He walked slowly towards the barn but he heard Reva, “Lewis! Hurry, please.” He picked up his pace and reached the barn but heard nothing. He looked around the back where the wood was stacked where the boys had gotten extra wood for the kettle. He started back to the partially open side door. He glanced and saw Reva had followed him halfway to the barn, her robe pulled around herself and barefooted. When she saw him look at her she pulled her robe tighter, her arms folded and clutched to her sides.

Lewis gave her a puzzled look. With just a jut of her chin she indicated she wanted him to go in the side barn door. He slowly nodded. He walked to the weathered plank door and with his left food it gave it a shove and it slowly swung back. With his left hand to steady him he pulled up and into the dark interior with just a slanted shaft of light coming through the door. While his eyes adjusted to the dim light he heard a noise. A combination of a moan and a scratching or clawing noise. He blinked once, then again. He made out a shape on the about seven or eight feet away. A figure, stretched out on the wooden floor, loose hay strewn about. In no more than a few seconds Lewis could see. It was Tom Anders. He was trying to reach something off to his right side and did finally grab the object. “Mr. Anders. Anders, its Lewis. Are you hurt?” Anders gave no response or even an indication that Lewis was there. Anders had finally able to pick up a large pistol. He now grasped the pistol with both hands bringing up the barrel to his chin. The problem had been he had dropped it after the first shot and his hands, the pistol and chin were bloodied from his first shot having gone awry. This time he pushed the barrel deeply into his chin and pulled the hammer back with his two thumbs.

Lewis called out to him but his voice was a weak whisper, “Mr. Tom, no please …”

The dim interior was suddenly and almost as slow motion filled with sound and light and swirls of dust.

Outside Reva could see the silhouette of Lewis just inside the barn’s doorway. She screamed to Lewis but he couldn’t hear her. He wouldn’t hear for a time, his ear drums ringing. He wouldn’t hear and he wouldn’t want to talk for some time.

Reva knew. She tried to say to herself that she didn’t know but she knew. Her scream had died down. The boys from the keeping per were running towards the barn from the house. Reva could only whisper now and she did several times, “Tom. Oh I’m sorry Tom. Oh Tom.”

The End