A ion For Gothic: Stories 5m4z3h

A ion for Gothic

STORIES

ANDREW JANTZ

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Published by AuthorHouse 01/11/2019

ISBN: 978-1-5462-7552-7 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-5462-7551-0 (e)

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Scripture quotations marked NRSV are taken from the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible, Copyright © 1989, by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved. Website

Contents

The Birthday Party

Falling

A ion for Gothic

Abraham and Isaac

Red’s

The Gravestone

Acorns

Race

The Underground Man

A Question of God

Lizzie Borden and the Witches

Tom Moore’s Poems

With love to John and Tom, The miracles in my life

The Birthday Party

N athan’s eighth birthday party was memorable – indeed, he never forgot it. But it was not a happy memory. Certainly, the beginning of the day had been happy, with his mother hugging him and treating the birthday boy like a little prince. But that part of the day Nathan doesn’t very well. It’s what happened later that he ed so clearly. Nathan and his mother, who had recently lost father and husband by suicide, had moved into an apartment on the second floor of a two-story house a few months later. There were a number of kids in the neighborhood, and though Nathan had been shy about making new friends, and in fact had come home crying on more than one occasion, having been picked on by some of the kids, Nathan thought that in recent weeks he was beginning to fit in. A few of the kids had become friendly, and he felt that he was becoming just another kid in the neighborhood, instead of the new kid, the stranger, on the block. So, a few weeks before his birthday, his mother decided to have a birthday party for him and invite the kids from the neighborhood. She bought a pack of festive birthday cards, and helped him write them out, with Nathan supplying the names. The next morning they walked through the neighborhood and put the invitations in the mailboxes where the boys lived. As the day drew close, Nathan became more and more excited, partly because of the thrill of opening presents, and partly because of the party itself. His mother was excited too, and she was having fun planning activities, such as pin-the-tail on the donkey, bobbing for apples, and ideas for a piñata they would make together. The piñata became a pet project for both of them, and they worked on it for a couple of days. His mother made a special paste, and with cardboard and newspaper they fashioned a big donkey. She’d bought bags of candy and a bunch of little toys – Silly Putty, green army men, packs of baseball cards; all kinds of things – and they stuffed them into the donkey, along with quarters and even a few dollar bills. Then they painted it with thick colors. It looked great, and Matthew could hardly wait to take a whack at it. There were things in there he

really wanted. Finally the big day arrived. It was a Saturday. Nathan was now eight, and feeling more like the “Little Man” his mother often called him. He couldn’t wait till the party, which was at one o’clock. He was dying to open presents, and to see who would finally crack open the piñata, followed by the mad rush to gather up the goodies that would shower down. The apartment was filled with the smell of the cake his mother had baked, and though she wouldn’t let him see it when she was finishing it, he knew it would be chocolate, with chocolate frosting, because that was his favorite. He especially liked the creamy frosting. His mother had put up all sorts of decorations — crepe ribbons, balloons, and a special birthday tablecloth with matching paper napkins. At one point that morning she came over to him, cupped his face in her hands, kissed him, and said “This is the exact time of day, Sweetheart, that you were born. 11:35. Now you are officially eight years old.” Then she kissed him and drew him close, and hugged him. He hugged her back and said, “I love you too, Mom.” At noon, an hour before the party, everything was ready. The next hour was one of the longest in Nathan’s short life. He just couldn’t wait. The clock on the kitchen wall seemed to have slowed down, almost to a stop. He watched the second hand move, then stop, move, then stop. It was unbearable. His mother grinned at him every time he came in to look at the clock. At about ten before one, crazy with anticipation and not knowing what else to do, Nathan went into the parlor and stood at the window, staring down at the front walkway in case anyone was early. Every couple of minutes he’d go back to the kitchen and look at the clock, which seemed to be moving even slower, just to torture him. Then, back to the window. Eventually, one o’clock came and went. Five past, ten past, twenty past, and still no one had shown up. Nathan was a bit confused as he stood at the window looking up and down the street. He went into the kitchen and noticed something different about his mother’s expression. She was still smiling at him, but her eyes didn’t look right, they didn’t match her smile. “When are they coming?” he asked. “They’re probably just running a little bit late, Honey. They’ll be here soon.” He went back to the window. At last, at 1:30, he saw one of the kids, Robbie,

coming up the street on his bike. He rode right by without looking and disappeared down the street and around the corner. Nathan felt something really unpleasant, and his eyes blurred with tears. He went into the kitchen, where his mother was now sitting at the table, smoking a cigarette. “Mom, I just saw Robbie ride by on his bike. But we invited him to the party. I know it. Did we put the right time on the invitations?” His mother pulled him over, hugged him, and burst into tears. “I love you, Baby,” she said. “You’re the best boy any mother could have. Better than any of those other kids.” Nathan would always that moment, for he realized at that moment that no one was coming to his birthday party, that his mother was heart-broken, that he was broken-hearted, and that he would have to hide it from her and be strong for her, because he was now indeed the little man of the house. In fact, he was the only man. He went back into the parlor, but didn’t look out the window. He looked around at all the decorations. His mom had made it all look so nice and festive, and now it just looked sad. He looked at the piñata, standing in the corner. He felt the tears coming again. He walked down the hall to his bedroom and quietly closed the door.

Falling

A s the ship building contracts dried up, the yard began laying off workers by the thousands. Then, as the last ship was completed, the axe fell on me as well. We were all thrown out of our jobs. A lot of us didn’t handle it too well. Like me, for example. That last day of work, the whistle blew for the final time, and many of us streamed out of the gates and flooded the numerous bars all around. I went to Rudders. The place was mobbed and everyone was getting blasted. A TV news crew stopped in to get some human-interest footage, and we all cheered later when we saw ourselves for about two seconds on the six o’clock news. They talked about the effects the layoffs would have. That’s about the last thing I can about that night, seeing ourselves on the news. The next thing I after that is waking up on the bathroom floor at home when Barb opened the door into me. There was puke all over. When I finally got out of bed the next day it was already mid-afternoon. Barb was at work. I went out for a walk and ran into a couple of guys from the yard. We joked about how weird it felt to be bumming around on a weekday. Davie Roy kidded that it was just a holiday and that we’d all have to get up for work on Monday. We all agreed. It didn’t seem real, being out of a job. I’d never been out of a job before. That’s probably what got me into trouble. Not really believing I was out of a job. Surely they’d re-open at least part of the yard at some point. I’d been a burner there for fourteen years – ever since I’d got out of high school. I mean, things went alright for a little while, considering that Barb was working. I had my severance benefits as well. We were doing okay. Not great, but okay. Every morning the first thing I’d do is read the employment sections in the local papers. Lots of days I’d go down to the placement center they’d set up. But there was never anything out there. Nothing but hack jobs and hi-tech jobs – and hitech doesn’t hire burners. So I kept floating along waiting for something to open up. I guess I knew that the yard was closed for good, but it was like I didn’t really believe it. Even when they were talking in the news about commercial

zoning and condominiums and all that, it didn’t really sink in. It was only when they started dismantling the cranes that it really hit me. That’s when everything changed. What happened is, I started hanging out at the bars every day. Mostly Rudders, or the Quarterdeck Lounge over on Monument Street. At first I was going out at night, or maybe after dinner. But then it got so that I hated being around when Barb got home from work, because we’d always end up fighting. One time she came home and I was lying on the couch watching TV. I could tell she was in a bad mood, so I didn’t say anything to her. She went into the kitchen and a minute later she comes out and just blows up. I mean screaming and throwing things and everything. It was like she’d lost her mind. So like I said, pretty soon I started going out earlier so I wouldn’t have to put up with any grief from her. I’d go out maybe three, four o’clock and stay out the rest of the night drinking and shooting pool. I always came home blasted off my ass. Sometimes Barb would still be up when I got in. Then we’d either fight or ignore each other. Usually, though, she’d be asleep when I got in and I’d just slip into bed. That’s when it would get to me sometimes, what was happening to us. I’d lay there beside her and wonder why I was trying to ruin everything. I’d feel sick about it, because we’d had it so good. One night I held her hand while she was sleeping. I thinking that if I could stay awake all night – if I could begin the next day holding her hand – then everything might come clean. But I fell asleep, and when I woke up she was gone. That turned out to be a real bad day, that day. Everything came apart. By noon I was over at the Quarterdeck getting drunk. It was a Saturday, so there was a pretty good crowd. I started giving this girl the eye, and before long she’s sitting next to me and I’ve got my hand on her thigh. I’m talking to her and this voice in the back of my head is going “no, no, no,” but I don’t listen. All I can think about is getting her panties off. So we go to her apartment and do it all afternoon. Then I go back to the Quarterdeck and keep on drinking. It was like a dream. The whole thing happened so fast. Around seven o’clock I went home, I don’t know why. I walked in and Barb was sitting at the kitchen table. She looked up and I could tell she’d been crying, like she knew what I’d done. It made me mad for some reason. I opened a cabinet for a glass and slammed it shut. I poured myself a drink. Neither of us was looking at each other. Then she said in this dry voice, “What are you doing? Just tell me,

what do you think you’re doing?” I said, “I’m having a drink. Is that all right with you?” I was being a real bastard. “You know what I mean. I want to know what the hell you plan on doing. I’m sick of living with a derelict.” I looked at her. “Oh, so now I’m a derelict.” “You act like one,” she said. “All you do is lie around or go drinking. You tell me. That’s not a derelict?” “I got laid off. What the hell else is there to do?” “You could work, for one,” she said. “There’s plenty of jobs out there.” “There isn’t shit out there,” I said. “I’m not flipping burgers out there for minimum wage. The hell with that.” “There’s plenty of good jobs out there and you know it,” she said. “I’ve already told you there’s an opening in the supply section at work. At least you could take it until something better comes up.” “I’m not working in any god damned supply section!” I yelled. Barb didn’t say anything. She sat there looking at her hands on the table. I downed part of my drink. I said, “I want to go back to the yard.” “Will you forget the stupid yard!” she burst out. “The yard’s gone! Haven’t you noticed!” “Shut up!” I yelled. “Just shut the fuck up!” I walked out of the kitchen. She followed me into the living room, yelling at my back. I went into the bedroom and slammed the door. My insides were all knotted up and I stood there in the middle of the room, breathing hard. I wanted to punch the wall. I sat down on the bed to calm myself. I gulped the rest of my drink. Out in the living room I could hear her stomping around. She was doing something. I heard the front door open, then a crash out on the front porch. It was mixed with the

sound of breaking glass. It hit me what she was doing. I yanked open the door and saw her taking my ship pictures off the wall. I yelled something and threw my glass. It shattered against the far wall. She took down another picture then turned and said, “Get out!” Something in her voice startled me. I blinked. “I want you to get out,” she said. I tried to recover. “Fine,” I said. I started for the door. I grabbed the picture from her as I ed by. At the door I turned and said, “By the way. I got laid today.” Then I stepped out and slammed the door. There was a pile of broken pictures at my feet. I walked across the porch, stumbled, and went over head first. I felt glass slicing my fingers just after my chin hit the step. There was a white flash and then I was lying on the sidewalk. I rolled onto my back. I heard the door open and saw Barb standing there on the porch. She didn’t say anything. She dropped some more pictures on the pile and went back inside. I closed my eyes. The pain was rising fast. So fast I didn’t bother to think about what had happened, or why, or what I was going to do.

I crashed on the couch of a friend of mine for two weeks. I was filled with terrible guilt and remorse at what I had done to Barbara. During that time I got a job in the stocking department at the local Home Depot. It didn’t pay very well, but it was a decent job. Like Barb has said, I could at least work there while continuing to find something better. It also kept me away from the bars. During that time I also tried calling Barb several times but she always hung up on me. Finally, I decided to try talking with her face to face, if she’d let me in. I went home one evening, saw the lights on in the house and saw Barb briefly in the kitchen window. I swallowed my pride and my fear and knocked on the door. She opened the door, then immediately began to close it. I said, “Barb, please don’t.” She hesitated, then stood there looking at me through the partially closed door. “Barb. Please. Let me talk to you for just five minutes. Please. I beg of you.” She opened the door. I stepped in and tried to kiss her, but she turned away. “What are you doing here?” she said “Hon, I want to apologize to you and beg for your forgiveness. I am so sorry for what I did to you, for all I put you through. My eyes were tearing up. I got down on my knees. “Please, Barb, forgive me for all that I did.” I looked up, and I thought a little bit of the hardness had softened. “Hon, I beg of you, I beg for you to find the goodness in the bottom of your heart to forgive me.” She looked down at me for what seemed a long time. “Why should I?” she asked. “Because I love you, and I’m terribly sorry for hurting you and for all I put you through since the yard closed. I even got a job, working at Home Depot. It’s not a lot, but I’ll at least be working while I try to find something else, like you said.” “And what about that woman?” she asked. I swallowed. “She didn’t mean anything, Barb. Honest to God. It was just one

afternoon. I was at the Quarterdeck, and I was angry and sad and very, very drunk. It just happened, and I am so, so sorry for what I did. Please give me a chance, Barb. I love you. I always have, I always will. I screwed up badly, but I’m going to be a new man, the man you married. Starting with my job and not getting drunk. No more lying around and feeling sorry for myself about the yard. It’s gone, and I realize it. I’m going to focus on my new job, and focus on spending quality time with you, like we used to.” I was sobbing now. “Please, Barb. Take me back. Let me prove it all to you.” She didn’t answer. I stood up and brushed the tears from my eyes. “Please,” I said. Finally, she said, “Okay.” I said, “Oh, thank you, Hon.” I wrapped my arms around her and drew her close. I kissed her. Then I picked her up like she was my bride again, and carried her into the bedroom. We made love. It was wonderful. Afterward, she fell asleep. I took her hand in mine and held it. Like I had tried to do once before, I decided that if could hold onto her hand till morning everything would be okay. This time I stayed awake all night. When the sun came up I finally woke her. “Good morning, Hon,” I said. “I love you.” She smiled. “Good morning.” I was so happy.

A ion for Gothic

H e stumbled down the dark hall towards his landlady’s bedroom door, searching out the wall and knocking over a lamp along the way. He rapped loudly on the door. “Mrs. Allen? You awake? Mrs. Allen?” He pressed his forehead against the door. A light went on in the room and he saw the reeling outline of his shoes at the bottom of the door. He was very excited. The door opened and Mrs. Allen stood framed in the light, her large gray face showing all of its seventy –four years. “What’s the matter?” she asked. still blinking the sleep from her eyes. He leaned past her into the room and sat down on the bed. “Mark, What is it? what’s wrong?” she asked again. He closed his eyes and shook his head, letting out a long, lazy sigh. “There is nothing wrong, Mrs. Allen. Au contraire, there is something very right.” “You’re drunk – aren’t you. You’re drunk again.” Her remark caught him off guard. He wanted to tell her that the point was irrelevant. He wanted her to shut up. “What do you want?” she asked. He unrolled the tube in his hand. “I wanted to show you this picture.” “You woke me up for that?” Her callousness wounded him. “You didn’t look at it,” he said. “Look at it. Isn’t she beautiful?” “It’s two o’clock in the morning. Why are you doing this to me?” He didn’t answer. He was lost in prayerful contemplation of the divine image he held in his hand.

“You should see yourself,” she said. “Go to bed. I don’t talk to drunks.” He got up and left the room without lifting his eyes from the picture. He wondered why he had bothered to come down. He stepped into the hall. His footsteps seemed unnaturally loud to him. For the briefest moment he was conscious that he had just made a complete ass of himself. Upstairs in his room he threw himself across the bed and stared at the plaster swirls on the ceiling until his head seemed to sur them in revolutions per minute. He closed his eyes, but this only compounded the problem. He opened them again and focused on the wall opposite the bed. A calendar emerged, a neat grid of numbers and a color photo of Boston Light. He wanted to be at the top of that lighthouse right then, leaning against the rail and peering into the night. He would be happy there. He ed the picture in his hand and sat up. He unrolled it. It was Young Woman Seated (the Thought) by Pierre-Auguste Renoir. He was in love. She was somehow familiar, too. In some strange way he felt he knew this girl, inside and out, as if her soul had been brushed onto the canvas with the paint. He couldn’t believe that a bastard like Renoir could’ve pulled something off like this without a little outside help. If there is a god, he thought, he must have guided Renoir’s brush. And he knew ol’ Pierre must have gotten pretty worked up with a girl like that modeling for him. He could just see him sitting there with this pompous Serious Artist look on his face, all the while he was dying to squeeze her tits. He probably even made a move on her. He hoped she threw up in his face. He hated painters. He got out of bed and plucked the tack from the calendar, which flapped to the floor like a wounded bird. He hung the print in its place and stood back to marvel at it. Other prints, pictures of cathedrals surrounded it. On the left was Chartres; to the right, Notre Dame. St. Michel hung above, and below it, pointing up, the portal archways at Amiens. He had found the perfect place for the Young Woman. She agrees with me, he thought. There is a faint smile on her lips. The sight of her there in the midst of those great gothic prayers was almost too much to handle. He leaned forward until his lips touched the cool flatness of her cheek. The wail of a ing siren startled him and he pulled away. He told himself that he had just made a at a picture. He decided he was due for another drink.

He rescued the bottle of Old Crow from its perch atop the dresser and retreated with it to bed, bringing the Good Book with him as well. It was official now. The long night was almost over. He was in bed with the Crow and the Book. Unconsciousness was nigh. He pressed the bottle to his lips and shuddered as the Crow tore its way into the bottom of his stomach, provoking a sudden urge to vomit. He waited for it to , then gulped down some more and settled back with the Book. He loved the Book. He turned it over in his hands a few moments, appreciating its austere gray cover, its solid weight. He read the title several times. Art Through the Ages. The gold lettering was faded. He opened it and flipped to the section on Gothic architecture. He always began with Salisbury cathedral. The full page photograph was black and white, but somehow it never failed to hit him in full, living color. He stared at it a long while. On some nights the sight of something so utterly complete became unbearable, and he was driven to seek comfort among the ruins in Friedrich’s Cloister Graveyard in the Snow. Tonight, though, the Young Woman had him pumped up and he was soaring with the Crow from spire to lovely spire. But eventually the Crow flew too fast, and he fell behind. The more he drank, the faster the Crow flew until it became a futile game of chase and the kind inevitable hand of unconsciousness closed round him and hurled him into oblivion. It was the only way he ever got any sleep. By the time he arrived at Chartres cathedral most of his mind and all of his good feeling had been borne away. He had been left for dead, yet he lingered on in carrion discomfort. He felt cheated, as always. There was only one thing to do. More of the same. He forced down one last gulp of Crow and rolled onto his side. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the sensation that his bed was somersaulting through space. The pillow was making groaning sounds beneath his cheek. He wished it would stop.

He is out riding his bike after school. A voice announces over a huge loudspeaker that a world-wide invasion is at hand. Fire begins falling from the sky. He peddles home as fast as he can. The treetops are burning. His father comes out of the house, and he drops his bike and runs into his arms. His father is very calm, and leads him onto the porch, which suddenly resembles the nave of a miniature cathedral. He asks for mom, and she appears at his side. The voice on the loudspeaker is now shouting in an unintelligible language. Fire closes in from every direction. The three of them form a small circle and crouch to the floor, arm in arm. He knows they are about to die, but he feels safe anyway.

Christ, not again. That was the first thought that kicked its way into his head upon waking. Then he ed it was Saturday. He had not overslept for work. No lame excuses to make that day. He hated that place. He posted mail for a big ad agency downtown. All day long he sat in a basement room decorated with exposed pipes and peeling walls, feeding envelopes into a machine. The pay was rotten, too. When he first took the job he consoled himself with the notion that it was only temporary. He could not endure such a place more than a few months. But it had now been more than two years. The thought of quitting crossed his mind at least twice or ten times a day, yet he stayed on. He was a shining testament to the law of inertia. The job was just so undemanding that he was spared the horror of paying attention. Then too he was alone most of the day, which made it easy to call upon the liter stash of Crow he had hid in the ading supply room. He was fairly certain that Mr. Shannon, his supervisor, knew about it, but he didn’t seem to care as long as the work got done. In fact, Mr. Shannon might be the one who’d been skimming the Crow recently. It was either him, or Moira, who seemed to be making an awful lot of supply runs lately. He might never have realized anyone was snitching at all until one day he found a five dollar bill taped to the bottle. A tip for the bartender. It was that kind of place. He guessed that it was afternoon by the dull light slanting through the window. He had no intention of getting out of bed. He would have liked to go back to sleep for a month or two. Then he spotted the portrait of the girl on the wall and the memory of the night before came hurtling through the fog. What an asinine stunt to pull. He didn’t know why Mrs. Allen continued to put up with him. Now he’d have to face her with another apology. He sat up and ran a hand through his tousled, oily hair. He was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Almost every morning, it seemed, he woke up with his clothes on. His head was throbbing. He went into the bathroom and saw the same dead face. It was pale and wasted-looking, with dark sags beneath the eyes. Every morning he saw the same thing. He splashed it with cold water and returned to the bedroom for a shot of Crow, a shot of courage. He rinsed out his mouth and went downstairs. Mrs. Allen’s back was turned when he entered the kitchen. He ventured his

cheeriest hello. “Good morning,” she said, turning from the sink. She was not smiling. She resumed washing the dishes. He slunk to the table and glanced up at the clock. He was shocked to see that it was ten past four. He wanted to hide beneath the refrigerator with all the other crumbs. “There’s some stew left over, if you want any.” “No, thanks,” he replied. “I’ll have some later.” There was a brittle silence. He looked down at his hands. He thought that the sooner he got this over with, the better. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry about last night, Mrs. Allen.” “Oh, you’re not sorry for anything,” she blurted, turning from the sink, “until you can tell me you’re going to cut out all this drinking. Then I’ll believe you’re sorry.” She threw the towel on the counter. “You should have seen yourself last night. You looked like one of those bums out on the street!” Her vehemence startled him. This was going to be worse than he thought. “Look,” she said, softening her voice. “I’m not your mother. I can’t make you stop. You’re twenty-two years old. I can only ask you, implore you, to stop. You’ve been here two years now, so I know you. I know you’re a good person. You’re not meant for crawling into a bottle like this. But I’ve watched you go to the devil, and it’s getting worse and worse. I know how much you’ve been drinking. I’m not stupid, you know. You’ve got to stop. You’re killing yourself.” He had told himself the same thing countless times. So many times, in fact, that the words had long ago been reft of their meaning and only rattled in his ears like so many dried bones. You are killing yourself. Yes. But he was also being lectured to by his landlady, and he found this difficult to stomach. However, he did wake her up in the middle of the night, so he felt he owed her his attention. He was only getting what he deserved. Still, he didn’t know what to say to her, so he continued the absent study of his hands, which he’d locked around a crumpled napkin.

She pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. He felt her gaze on him. At last she said, “Do you know what you need, Honey? You need God.” His jaw muscles tightened. He knew she’d find a way to bring God into this. “He loves you, you know, and he wants to help you. But he can’t help you unless you allow him to. You’ve got to want his help. My prayers aren’t enough. Do you want him to help you?” He did not really want to answer for fear of what he might be getting himself into, but he nodded just to speed things along. “Then turn to him and pray for it. Believe in him, and he will help you. He’s waiting to help you right now. I know it.” She paused and looked toward the window. “Let me tell you something,” she said, looking back at him. “When Frank was dying, I didn’t think I could possibly go on in life without him. I couldn’t bear the thought of it. I had been married to that man for forty-one marvelous, happy years, and all of a sudden, he was gone. I can’t tell you how terrible that was for me. I wanted to die. I really wanted to die. And I probably would have if it hadn’t been for the Lord’s grace to see me through it all. He was what kept me going. He gave me the strength to go on living. And little by little I got back on my feet again and did go on living. I had this house, I had my children, and I had the Lord. And I still have all of them. Frank’s been gone for years now, and here I am, still alive and kicking – knock on wood – and I owe it all to the Lord.” She placed her hands over his. “You’re young. You’ve got a whole life ahead of you. Don’t throw it all away on booze. Turn to the Lord. Ask for his help. He won’t let you down, not if you really believe in him.” “Yes, but I don’t think I can believe in him,” he said, trying to balance courtesy with conviction. He knew that even if he did believe in God, he could never love him. No way. “You can if you want him badly enough. And I think you do. Your drinking is a pretty good indication of that. Just let him in, let him grow in you. Your faith will grow with him. You’ll find that you can believe in him.” He didn’t have the heart to say it again. In fact, he didn’t have the heart to say anything at all. Mrs. Allen withdrew her hands. “You have a Bible, don’t you? I’m sure you

must have one somewhere in all those books of yours.” “Yes, I do.” “Well, promise me you’ll start reading it, okay? Will you do that for me?” He nodded compliantly, though he had no intention whatsoever of resurrecting his Bible. “And will you do something else for me? Will you come to Mass with me tomorrow?” He felt things were getting out of hand, but he nodded anyway. “Thank you,” she said, suddenly smiling. “That’s all I wanted to hear.” She slid back in her chair. “Now, how about something to eat?” “Not right now, thanks.” “Not even a sandwhich?” “No, really. I’m not hungry.” “Suit yourself,” she said, rising from the table. “But I’m having one. I can’t work my jaws this much without putting something between them.” He watched her as she took down a plate from the cupboard. Her white, fatty legs, blotted with varicose veins, protruded from her out-of-date house dress like two ancient marble columns. A surge of affection warmed him to a smile. “Mr. Allen was very lucky to have had you for a wife,” he said. “Why, thank you! That’s very sweet. I think you’re right, too,” she said with a laugh. She took a package of cold cuts from the refrigerator and unwrapped it. “You know, we’ve got to work on getting you a girl. Someone good and simple and down-to-earth who’ll put a leash on you and keep you out of trouble. I think you spend too much time alone.” He agreed with everything but the part about the leash. He was already wearing

one of those. But there didn’t seem to be anyone holding the other end. It just hung down, tripping him all the time. “Don’t you agree?” she asked over her shoulder. “Yes.” She continued making her sandwich. “As a matter of fact, I know several nice girls in the congregation that you might like. They’re all very sweet. And they’re cute, too. Maybe tomorrow I could introduce you to one of them.” She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Then I bet you’ll look forward to attending Mass every week.” Yeah, right, he thought to himself. He could picture it now. “Hi. Want to see my new rosary beads?” “So try and look your best tomorrow, alright? You’re not going to win any hearts looking like that.” He nodded vaguely and rose from the table, dropping the torn-up napkin in the wastebasket. “Well…I’ve got a few things to do…” “You sure you don’t want to eat something first? You really ought to. You’re starting to look like a bag of bones.” “No. Really. I’ll get something later,” he said, heading for the hall. “You be good now!” Stepping out the front door, he breathed a sigh of relief and set sail for the liquor store three blocks away. He was nearly out of Old Crow, and Crow’s First Commandment was Though shalt not suffer an empty bottle. He was not about to argue. By the time he’d returned and slipped up to his room, he was aching for a drink. He was surprised, however, upon raising the glass to his lips, to feel the reproachful nudges of a guilty conscience – something he thought he’d long ago booted out the door. The unwelcome intruder was quickly sent packing, and he finished off the old bottle with spiteful enthusiasm. He was hoping the Crow could do something to dispel the raw-edged restlessness which had taken him

hostage and which demanded nothing less than eighty-proof bourbon for his release. He had the discomfiting feeling that his emotional underpinnings were beginning to rust through. He wanted very much to be unconscious. As he was retrieving the new bottle from the bed the portrait of the Young Woman caught his eye. He went over for a closer look. Whatever it was that had so neatly blown off the top of his skull last night he could not now see. He hadn’t yet had enough to drink. Still, he had to concede she was beautiful, with her auburn hair, warm eyes, and the hint of a smile, The effect was sublime. Renoir knew his colors, he had to it. And he had to it too that the guy was an artist of tremendous ion. No doubt about that. His paintings oozed with warmth and life – unlike the icy junk he himself had been turning out. One needed to wear an overcoat just to get within ten feet of the work he had done. He had thought of himself as a painter once. For most of his life, in fact. But doubt had eventually gutted him like a cancer, and one day during his first year of college, as he sat in the studio before a half-finished portrait, he succumbed to that cancer. He could paint well enough, but he was no artist, and he knew it. The ion wasn’t there. He couldn’t give anything to his work, and saw no point in pretending that he could. So he had set down his brush, walked out of the studio, and withdrew from the university. The whole thing was rather anticlimactic, as he’d half expected it all along. The real problem came later when he realized he had nothing to replace his painting. He had just assumed his True Calling would come swooping down to fill the void. It never did – unless getting drunk and looking at pictures of cathedrals was his calling. He was beginning to think it was. He looked around at the dozens of pictures papering the walls, pictures of soaring towers, pointed archways, light-filled chancels, and suddenly he wanted to lay down on the floor and never get up again. This was eclipsed by the urge to toss a chair through the window. He did neither, settling instead for three fingers of Crow. He retreated to the bed and propped himself up with the pillow. Looking down at his abdomen, he found himself wondering how it was possible that twenty-three feet of intestines could fit into such a small space. He ed reading somewhere that Sir Walter Raleigh’s bowels had been torn out and set afire before his own eyes. This intrigued him. It was the ultimate navel gazing. Squeezing shut his eyes, he counted down from ten and imagined himself exploding into a thousand greasy hunks of flesh, spattering the walls with blood and brain and rubbery bits of tubing. Mrs. Allen could frame the whole mess and

sell it as an abstract painting. Call it The Anatomy of Confusion. By now the room was taking on gray like a sinking ship takes on water. Rain and darkness to the rescue. He couldn’t the last time he had seen a bright, clear sun. There seemed to be some sort of celestial ordinance banning its appearance during the month of November. He took off his clothes and crawled beneath the covers. The bed was not cold, but he curled into a fetal position, clutching the blankets under his chin. He listened to the breeze rattling the last dead leaves on the tree outside the window. Before long a drowsy stillness rolled over him like the hand-knit comforter he had as a child. Crow was taking care of him now.

It is cold and gray. There is slush everywhere. He is standing at the end of his street, waiting for the school bus to come. An ambulance approaches, its lights flashing. He watches as it turns the corner and fish-tails its way up the street, narrowly avoiding an on-coming car. Another vehicle soon follows, this one a black half-track filled with Nazi SS soldiers, laughing. The school bus arrives. The door opens and the driver tells him not to go to school. He says there is bad news there. The boy begins to cry. The driver shakes his head and motions for him to come aboard. The bus is empty. The driver takes him into Boston and stops in front of a stone gothic church. There is a girl in white standing by the entry. He leaves the bus and runs toward the girl. She disappears.

The room was dark. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep. He turned on the lamp by the bed and looked at the clock. It was only nine-thirty. The whole night was waiting for him, he felt, like a mugger with a crowbar. He tried to go back to sleep, but failed. He was too sober and restless. It felt like someone had plugged his nervous system into a wall socket. He had to do something. Anything. He was dressed and halfway downstairs before he even knew where he was going. And then it became obvious. He was going to Kenmore Square. He’d never been to any of the clubs there, but suddenly this struck him as the perfect reason for going. In the front hall he ran into Mrs. Allen, who was on her way to bed. “You’re not going out now, are you?” she asked “Yes, I am,” he said, brushing past her to the door. “Well, be careful, alright? And don’t stay out all night. – church tomorrow. You promised.” “Alright, for Christ’s sake! What are you, my mother or something?” His outburst startled both of them. He didn’t know what he was doing. “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head, I didn’t mean to yell at you like that.” “It’s okay,” she said. “We all have our moments.” “Yeah, well, I’m having too many of them.” She gave him a knowing look. “Just what I told you this afternoon.” He nodded. “I will,” he said, and he went over and kissed her on the forehead. “See you tomorrow.”

Outside, the night was cold and wet. The rain had stopped, but the streets were still black and glistening in the glow of the streetlights. He walked to the trolley stop a few blocks away. Waiting there were several people sporting tire chains,

leather vests and bristled shocks of green and purple hair. He thought one of them might be a girl, but he couldn’t tell for certain. After what seemed like days a trolley clattered around the bend, and he filed aboard with the chain gang. By the time the trolley rumbled into the station beneath Kenmore Square a thick lump of nerves had congealed in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know what he was doing here. He should, he thought, be home getting drunk. The Square was jammed with traffic and people, most of whom appeared to be his age. They were walking or standing about in knotted clusters before a luminous backdrop of bars and all-night delicatessens. Towering above all was the gargantuan, lighted Citgo sign, which flexed through its cycle of black-out and regeneration with the monotonous insistency of a heartbeat, pumping life into everything below. Even his own cadaverous spirit flushed a degree or two warmer. He scanned the Square for clubs. The name “Narcissus” jumped out at him in pink neon. Perfect, he thought. Inside, he was immediately stricken by a seizure of paranoid self-consciousness. He was the Hunchback of Notre Dame just fallen through the roof into the midst of a society cotillion. He started sweating. He was alone, and everyone, he felt, knew it. Flight seemed imminent. Then he spotted the bar, and hope was suddenly by his side. He squeezed through the crowd and anchored himself on a barstool. He was in serious need of a drink. By the time he had put away three, he was feeling considerably less conspicuous. A warm, bourbon-colored haze had softened his edges. He would be perfectly content to remain at the bar all night, drinking himself to transparency. But that was not what he was there for. Just what he was there for was not altogether clear to him. More than likely, he thought, it had something to do with the noise and people behind him. Yes, that was it. He was there to consort with others of his own kind and to have a good time. Maybe even meet a girl whose room is plastered with cathedrals. Or better yet, a girl whose room was not plastered with cathedrals. Perhaps all she’d have is a few family pictures and a Gone With the Wind poster. He wondered if such a girl might be there, and how he might identify her. He felt confident she would not be sporting chains and green hair, but beyond that he couldn’t guess. He would have to play the dice. Looking up at the mirror behind the bar, he noticed that he was sitting next to what he thought was possibly the most beautiful girl in the western hemisphere.

And she appeared to be alone. Under the pretext of surveying the crowd, he turned and glanced her up and down. His libido fairly screamed. The girl meant business. The cool languor with which she brushed aside her hair and wore her mini-skirt told him that he didn’t have a prayer in hell with this girl, but he was just drunk enough not to care. He asked her if she would like to dance. She shot him a look so frigid he could see his breath in it. He decided it would be better for his circulation if he looked for someone a little less sang-froid. Relinquishing his berth at the bar, he waded into the crowd, keeping a sharp look-out for any lonely girl who might be marooned in the corners. Unfortunately, every woman he saw was either lost with some guy in prenuptial ecstasy, or was one of an impenetrable-looking cluster of Seven Sisters. He took up position along the edge of the dance floor and attempted to exude the same musk-scented confidence as the Herculian figures beside him. At the end of the next song a trio of eager-looking girls moved up near the dance floor. He zeroed-in and asked one of them for a dance. She traded amused glances with the other girls and declined. After collecting similar rejections from her friends he retreated to pick the egg from the embarrassed grin frozen on his face. The whole thing began to look like a great big mistake. A moment later someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and experienced the emotional equivalent of a shotgun blast to the face. Standing before him was Martha Cormier, the first, last and only girl he had ever loved. The same Martha Cormier he had deserted two and a half years ago. She asked for a dance. For a micro-moment he entertained the hope that she didn’t recognize him in the semidarkness, but the look in her eyes swiftly laid the speculation to rest. Unable to speak because of the proximity of his jaw to his shoe, he nodded in reply and followed her onto the dance floor. The music was loud and beat heavy. He twisted and twitched his way through what seemed to be the longest song in recorded history, avoiding her eyes and trying frantically to think of a single thing to say. When the song ended she asked, with a smile, if he would buy her a drink. He nodded and escorted her to the bar. His heart was pounding. After what seemed an eternity he succeeded in flagging down a bartender and ordered the drinks. “Aren’t you even going to say hello?” she asked. He smiled nervously. “Hello, Martha.”

“A little surprised, huh?” “You shocked the hell out of me.” “I know what you mean. I was shocked too when I saw you standing there.” He stirred his drink a few times. He was not at all prepared for this. “So, how have you been?” she asked. “Okay,” he lied. “How about you?” “Good,” she replied. “Very good.” “That’s good,” he said, nodding and stirring his drink again. “Are you here with anyone?” she asked. “No. are you?” “Those two girls over there,” she said, glancing over shoulder. “The ones that are gawking at us. Friends from work.” “Oh. Where do you work?” “Newton-Wellesley Hospital. I’m nursing there. I just started in September.” He ed how incredibly cute she looked in her student-nurse outfit. He swirled his drink again. “You’re putting an awful lot of mileage on that swizzle stick,” she said, and smiled. “Want mine?” He declined with an embarrassed smile. He knew she knew exactly what was on his mind. The court was now in session. Bring on the guilty party. “We’ve been chatting for a full minute,” he said. “How come you haven’t thrown your drink in my face? I thought you might want to since you didn’t get the chance two and a half years ago.” She scrutinized him for a moment. “I never wanted to then, and I certainly don’t

want to now.” A long silence. He stared at the floor. “I’m sorry, Martha. I’m sorry for what I did to you. I don’t know if this will mean anything to you now, or even whether it will make any sense, but I want you to know that I never stopped loving you. At all. Even after I left you.” Her expression was calm and attentive. She was letting him spill his guts. He wished she would say something. Anything. “I know this is going to sound even more ridiculous,” he said, “and incredibly self-indulgent, but when I left you, it hurt and confused me a lot, too. Because I loved you, you see, and I was leaving you, and I didn’t even know why. I swear, Martha, I didn’t even know why. It was like I was leaving you against my own will. It tore me up. I’m not trying to pan this off as an excuse or anything, because I know what I did was very wrong and unfair. But as stupid as it sounds, it’s the truth.” “I believe you.” “You do?” He looked her in the eyes. “Sure.” “Oh.” He hadn’t expected it to be this easy. “In fact, it didn’t surprise me at all when you left. I knew it would happen sooner or later.” “What do you mean,” he said, trying not to sound offended. She pondered her drink for a moment. “Do you that first weekend I took you down to the Cape to meet my family?” “Yeah. I do. Why?” “Well, you probably don’t all of it, because you got drunk as hell the night we got back to campus. I had to drag you back to your dorm.”

“So?” He didn’t know what she was driving at. “So, when I was putting you to bed you started crying, and you told me that your parents didn’t really live in New York, like you’d been saying. You told me they were both dead.” Another blast from the emotional twelve-gauge. He wanted to call an end to this conversation straight away, only he couldn’t open his mouth. “So I put two and two together. I mean, it had always seemed kind of strange to me that you had never once been out on a date until you met me in college, and now I knew why. You were insecure. Afraid of relationships.” He didn’t know what to say, so he just stood there staring at his glass. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said. He looked up at her. “I don’t know why, Martha, but I still have problems dealing with it. I mean, they died when I was a kid, and yet every time I close my eyes I have some sort of dream about them. I told my landlady that they live in Arizona.” “You know what you are? I don’t mean this to hurt you, but – you’re a child. You really are. I think when your parents died you just crawled into a shell and shut out the world. I’ll bet you haven’t dated a single girl since you and I were together. Am I right?” He nodded. “I knew it. But don’t you see? A relationship is the only thing that will pull you out of yourself. It’s the only way you’re ever going to grow up.” He nodded vaguely and sipped from his drink. She watched him for a moment. “Not to change the subject,” she said, “but whatever happened to you, anyway? It was like you vanished from the face of the Earth. You didn’t even bother to leave me a note. Insecurities or no, it was a pretty rotten thing you did.” He shook his head. “I know. And I’m sorry. I truly am.”

“So what happened?” “I just got in my car and took off. Spent four months roaming the country.” “What about school? Did you go to another college or something?” “No.” “You’re kidding.” “No, I’m not.” “But what about your painting?” He couldn’t bear to tell her that he hadn’t touched a brush since the day he left her. “I took a couple of courses at the Museum of Fine Arts.” “So you’re still painting then?” “Yes.” His face flushed hot with the lie. “Have you tried to get any showings yet?” “No. Not yet.” “How come?” “I’m not ready yet.” He couldn’t take any more. “How about another dance,” he asked. “Already? We just sat down.” “Oh, come on.” He took her hand and she allowed him to lead the way onto the dance floor. Almost as soon as they ed the jostling tumult a slow number came up, and he drew her in close. The grazing pressure of her lithe body against his electrified him from fingertip to foot. He closed his eyes and saw himself dancing with a girl at a campus ball three years before. He opened his eyes and saw the very same girl. It dawned on him that he had been in some sort of coma for the past several years, that he had led an existence that would place him, in of emotional vitality, somewhere on a par with an Ipswich clam. Something else occurred to him, too. He was still in love with this girl.

When the dance ended she excused herself for the ladies room. He returned to the bar. In the span of sixty seconds one notion swelled from inception to obsession. Getting her back. He wondered if this was a possibility, or only a further symptom of his dementia. His hands were trembling. “I can’t stay much longer,” she said upon returning. “My roommate’s ready to leave.” “Oh,” he said. Damn. “Do you live around here?” “Brighton,” she replied. “We’re sharing an apartment on Comm Ave.” “Brighton? I live in Brookline. We’re practically neighbors. I’m surprised I haven’t run into you on the T.” “Well, I’ve only been there two months. After graduation last May I spent the summer with my folks down at the beach.” The beach. What memories of her there. “Listen, I know I’m being nosey as hell, but – are you seeing anyone now?” “Yes. Why?” Because I love you and want you back. “Just curious,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in having dinner sometime, would you?” “Sure. That would be nice.” He could hardly believe his ears. He suppressed the urge to holler and pirhouette across the table tops. “Great,” he said. He asked for her number, and she penned it on a napkin. “How about one last drink before you go?” “No, really, I’ve got to be going,” she said, getting up. “But thanks.” He stood up. He wanted to grab hold of her and never let go, but he shook her hand instead. She leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. He decided that God may not be such a bad fellow after all.

“This time I get to say goodbye,” she said, smiling. “Go ahead. Get it out of your system.” “Okay. Here goes.” She took a deep breath. “Goodbye.” “That was great,” he said. “How about an encore.” “Goodbye. Farewell. Au revoir.” She turned with a melodramatic flourish and disappeared into the crowd, his heart dragging along like a tin can on a string. Instantaneously his euphoria started to fade. He experienced an uncomfortable sinking feeling, as if he were standing in an elevator whose cables have just snapped. Confusion set in. This should not be happening, he thought. He had just been blessed by a visit from Martha, the love of his life. She forgave him his sins. She had even accepted an invitation to dinner. But he still felt like he was falling. He didn’t know why. He was sure Martha would know. She would probably catch him, in fact. But she was gone, so he would have to deal with it himself. He ordered a drink to cushion the landing.

Someone was speaking to him. A waitress. She was asking if he was okay. He did not want to risk opening his mouth, so he nodded and waved her away. His stomach was a kaleidoscopic swirl of sweet-and-sour flavors. A bathroom stall would have been a welcome sight, but he knew that any movement was presently out of the question. He would have to ride out the storm. He remained as still as his yawing equilibrium would allow. By the time the house lights came on, he was sufficiently past the crisis to undertake the challenge of leaving. He collided with a chair on the way out. Outside, a cold steady rain was falling. The pavement was runny with the reflections of tail lights and neon signs. Most of the people still to be seen in the Square were hurrying off to the side streets and their cars. The thought of returning to his room provoked a greasy twinge in his stomach. He huddled into his coat and started walking. He had no idea where he would go, but that was okay. At least he was going. The glare of Kenmore Square gradually faded behind as he entered the quiet, lamp-lit streets of Back Bay. Fashionably old rowhouses lined the way on either side, staring across at each other through the darkness and the naked trees with rain-blackened, immutable faces. He ed a time when their dignity seemed appealing. He had even walked around doing charcoal studies of them. That was a long time ago. They had changed since then. His hand was wrapped around the flask of Old Crow in his coat pocket. He wanted to take a few sips, but knew that his stomach wouldn’t handle it. Not yet, anyway. The Crow was with him, though, right there in the palm of his hand, and he was grateful. Still, he wished Martha was with him instead. He closed his eyes and imagined the sound of her voice. Something jarred his feet and he opened his eyes to see the sidewalk rising fast. It busted him in the mouth. He was glad he was drunk because he didn’t really feel anything except the awkwardness of lying face down with his hands in his pockets. He was not even sure he wanted to get up. After a few moments, though, the blood and rain collecting in his mouth made breathing a bit tedious, so he pulled himself to his feet. He needed to talk to Martha right away. He would call her and tell her that he lied. He would tell her that he was not really a painter, but a drunk, and that he spent all of his time drinking and looking at pictures of Gothic churches. He took

out his cell-phone and her number. As he began dialing her number his hand froze and refused to cooperate any further. He hung up and walked away. The rain was coming down harder now. His face was starting to hurt. He pulled out the Crow. His stomach, he thought, would have to rough it. A few minutes later he found himself on Marlborough Street. One of his favorite churches was on that street. He saw its granite spire looming in the darkness a few blocks down. He picked up the pace. He knew where he was going. Along the way he ed by the house where Robert Lowell had bashed his father in the jaw. Just once he wanted to walk by the place without ing that fact. By the time he reached the First Church he was gulping air to hold down the vomit. He knew he was about to lose the battle. He dropped down on the steps below the tower archway and he put his head between his legs. His mouth was on fire, and he saw drops of blood mingling with the rain on the step. In a moment his stomach cut loose and a thin, yellowish liquid burst from his mouth. He pitched forward again and again until his stomach had squeezed out what seemed to be the last drop of booze in his body. When the heaving finally stopped he laid back in exhaustion on the steps and closed his eyes. He remained this way until he felt strong enough to sit up again and pull himself up under the shelter of the stone archway. He was soaked to the skin. He opened his wallet and took out a piece of worn, folded paper. It was a pen and ink drawing of his parents, a drawing he did from a photograph when he was thirteen. It was his most precious possession. He looked at it a long while, being careful not to drip any water or blood on it. He thought that they would have liked that picture. There was a lot of love in it. He ed how hard it was to draw, because he was crying the whole time. He carefully re-folded it and put it back into his wallet. He wondered what his parents would think of him now. The rain slackened a bit and he stretched out on the steps again with the upper half of his body still under cover of the archway. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his mouth. Looking straight up he saw the two sides of the gothic archway soaring upward overhead, converging to a point barely discernible in the darkness. One side for Mom, he thought, and one side for Dad. Baby in the middle. A drowsy calm enveloped him. He felt he could lie their forever. He wished Martha was with him now. He pictured her lying there beside him, her face close to his. It dawned on him that she bore a more than ing resemblance to the Young Woman. He shifted his position a bit, cushioning his

head with his arm. He tried to recall whether or not his paint box was still packed away in the closet or attic. He wondered if he would any of this in the morning. He hoped he would.

Abraham and Isaac

B eth entered the rectory with a mix of trepidation and anger. She had a bone to pick with Father John, and feared the platitudes she might be served by him would push her off the cliff into disbelief. Disbelief in God, disbelief in Christ, disbelief in all of it. She was right on the edge. She rang the doorbell, and was let in by one of the nuns, Sister Catherine, who led her into a small, tastefully appointed room with a fireplace, which was not lit, it being spring. She sat down in one of the easy chairs. “Father John will be down in just a few minutes,” the sister said, and she withdrew from the room, closing the door behind her. Beth looked around her as she waited. There was a Bible and a Catechism on the coffee table, and suitably, a reproduction of the Sacred Heart of Jesus on one wall, and another of Leonardo’s “Last Supper.” She wondered what she would say. The door opened as Father John came in, with his priestly black short sleeve shirt and black pants, and white collar. “Beth, it’s so nice to see you,” he said. “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.” “No, Father, I just arrived a couple of minutes ago.” “Good,” he replied. He sat down in the chair opposite hers, on the other side of the dormant fireplace. “Sister Margaret told me that you’d called and that you wanted to see me.” “Yes, Father.” She shifted slightly in her chair. “I called because something is really bothering me. Bothering me enough that it’s jeopardizing my faith, Father. It’s got me angry and confused, and I thought I’d come and talk to you about it, that maybe you can help me, because I’m really upset.” Father John’s expression became serious, and he leaned forward in his chair with

his hands on his knees. “Okay, Beth, talk to me. What’s going on?” “It’s not so much what’s going on, Father, it’s what’s already happened.” “Okay.” “Did you read in the paper about that father who jumped off the Tobin Bridge a few days ago? Jumped with his six year old son in his arms?” Father John knitted his brows. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.” “Well, let me fill you in,” she said. “This father, this monster of a father, took his child up on the bridge. Then he called his wife on his cell phone. He told her that he had Teddy, their son, with him and that they were on the Tobin bridge, and that he was going to jump. He told her not to worry, that God had asked him to do it in order to test his faith, like he did with Abraham, and that his faith was so strong he knew that God would surely spare them, that he and Teddy would survive, and be home for dinner, though probably a bit late. Then he said goodbye and hung up. That was it. Then he jumped off the bridge, holding his son. Needless to say, they both died.” Father John hung his head for a moment, then sat up in his chair. “That’s horrible,” he said.” “Yes it is, Father. It’s unspeakable. I can’t imagine what that poor boy felt, how frightened he must have been, wondering what his father, the man who loved him and protected him, was about to do with him. It makes me sick, literally sick, to my stomach just talking about this. And the poor wife, to receive that call, knowing there was nothing she could do to save her son…let alone her husband, it just gets even more sickening. And I want to know, Father, what you have to say about all this.” She paused. “No, wait, Father. Before you speak, let me tell you what I did since I read that story.” “Okay,” Father John said. “Go ahead. Take your time.” “What I did is I re-read the story of Abraham and Isaac. This whole bridge incident reminds me of that story, a story that has always bothered me. And this guy who jumped off the bridge even mentioned it to his wife. He said his faith in God was so strong that he and his son would survive and be home for dinner.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Father, but when I went back and read the

Biblical story, that too made me sick to my stomach. Who is this god, this freaking god, who would jerk around the boy’s father, Abraham, and tell him – just to test his faith – to go out and murder his one and only son. That’s just sick. It’s as sick as Abraham actually raising his knife, before the angel stopped him. It’s as sick as this guy in Boston doing what he thought God was telling him to do. I mean, maybe Abraham was just mentally ill and was just doing what he thought God was telling him to do, just like the father on the bridge who thought he was doing what God asked him to do. It’s all just so sick. And it’s making me sick. The Bible is not supposed to make someone sick, am I right? Because that’s exactly what it’s doing to me.” She paused. Neither of them said anything. “Father,” she said at last. “Why is the story of Abraham and Isaac considered to be some wonderful, shining example of a man’s faith in God? To me, all it did was show me some ruthless, insecure God who asked a man to do something so reprehensible that it just doesn’t make any sense. It just makes me want to hate this god. I mean, who’s to say that God didn’t really tell this guy on the bridge to jump, in order to prove his faith?” Father John nodded his head. “There is one big difference with the story of Abraham,” he said. “That difference is that God stopped Abraham before he killed Isaac. The man on the bridge, despite his supposed instruction from God, was simply and sadly a deranged man. He was acting on his own volition. It was his own will at work, and God – for better or worse – gave us the freedom to do what we want, even evil things.” “Yes, but Father,” she interjected, “why would a loving God order Abraham to kill his son? That’s what I’m getting at. And why would he not stand by Isaac and spare him the horror of being tied up and having his father raise a knife over him? I mean Father, you’re not a parent. A parent would never do that to a child. If God told me to kill one of my kids, I would tell him to go fuck himself, if you’ll excuse my language. I’d sooner burn in hell than murder one of my children.” “I hear what you’re saying Beth. I really do. You’re right, I’m not a parent. But I, too, would rather burn in hell than to kill a child. And I am a son, and I understand your empathy with Isaac. But you’ve got to understand two things.” He paused. “First and foremost, Abraham never thought he would actually have

to kill his son. People focus on the idea that Abraham was willing to murder his son just to placate God. The truth is, Abraham had faith that God would never allow him to kill his son. Here let me go to a age.” Father John reached for the Bible on the coffee table and flipped to the book of Genesis. “Okay,” he said. “chapter twenty-two, verse four. ‘On the third day Abraham looked up and saw the place far away. Then Abraham said to his young men, ‘Stay here with the donkey; the boy and I will go over there; we will worship, and then we will come back to you.” Father John rested the open Bible on his lap. “You see, Beth,” the priest said, “Abraham would not have said that to the other young men if he was planning on killing the boy Isaac.” “Yes, but Father, what if he was just lying? I mean, what else was he going to say to them?” “Well, let’s go on a bit further,” he said. He lifted the bible off his lap. “When Isaac questions his father on where the sacrificial lamb is, Abraham tells him ‘God himself will provide the lamb.’ He honestly believes that, and after his hand is stayed by the angel of the Lord, Abraham looks up and sees a ram caught in a thicket by its horns. And he offered it as a burnt offering instead of his son. God had provided the true sacrifice, instead of his son.” Beth sat quietly for a short time, her head bowed. Then she looked up at the priest. “I’m sorry, Father, that’s not good enough. That’s not good enough for me.” She paused. “You said there was a second thing I needed to understand. What is that?” The priest looked a bit chagrined. “Well, you’ve got to understand, Beth, that the book of Genesis was written more than two thousand years ago. We can’t necessarily judgement on what people did or believed was acceptable back then.” Beth shook her head. “So that’s it, Father? That’s your response to my anguish?” The priest looked surprised. “Yes, it is, Beth.” He paused. “What did you expect me to say? That God is evil, that he does things that reflect that evil, even if it means killing children?” “No, Father,” she replied. “I guess I wanted you to convince me that there is a god.”

Father John fell silent. “Is that what it is?” he said at last. “Is that what’s at the root here? Your faith in God?” “Yes, Father, I guess it really is. I can’t reconcile a belief in God and the kind of stuff he did – this petty, insecure god. I mean it’s one thing to allow us to make our own decisions, good or bad, but when he’s the one who’s acting evil, I just don’t get it.” She shook her head. “Father, I could spend the rest of the day spouting examples of God prompting us to do evil things. I mean, what’s the book of Joshua if not an exhortation to commit genocide? You know, kill everyone — men, women and children, and even their livestock. Am I wrong here?” The priest did not respond right away. They both sat there looking at each other. Beth felt her eyes welling up again. “Father,” she said. “I like you. I respect you. I always will. But today God has lost a believer. I’m done with God. I’m done.” She burst into tears. She stood up. “I have to go, Father.” Father John stood up. “Beth, please don’t go. Please don’t.” “I’m sorry Father, I need to leave.” She turned and walked out of the room, and out of the rectory. In the warm spring air, she took a deep breath, and tried to calm herself down. She stood for a moment looking at the beautiful church building, with its twin towers. It dawned on her that she was not going to mass there anymore. She thought of the little boy on the bridge. The tears rolled down her cheeks.

Red’s

W hen Tad left the shop he walked down the avenue, headed toward his favorite bar, Red’s Tavern. He pulled open the door, and as his vision adjusted to the dim light he could tell at a glance that the usual gang was there. Several people, including the bartender, Red, greeted him. Red set him up with his usual scotch, with a side of ice-water. “What’s up, Red?” he asked, as the bartender set the drink on the bar. “Not much,” Red replied. “You?” He shook his head. “Nah.” One of the guys a bit further down the bar raised his beer and said “How’s it going, Tad?” Tad raised his glass in return. “Not much, thanks.” He turned his attention to the TV in the corner above the bar. The Bruins game had just started. No score. The door opened and his ex-girlfriend, Anne, walked in, hand-in-hand with a guy he didn’t recognize. She nodded at him as they ed by, taking up seats down at the other end of the bar. A couple of Tad’s buddies looked over at him, giving him knowing looks. He suddenly felt like downing his drink and leaving. But he resisted the urge, taking a sip instead and looking at the TV again.

He kept to himself, and an hour later, after his third drink, he walked through the bar to the men’s room in the back. When he came out, as he was ing Anne, she reached out and touched his arm. “Tad,” she said. “I want you to meet someone.” She looked at her date, then back at him. “This is Gary,” she said. “Gary, this is an old friend, Tad.”

The two men looked at each other for a moment, then shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” Gary said. Tad looked at Anne with just a hint of irritation in his eyes, then moved on to his seat at the other end. Just as he sat down the Bruins scored a goal, and everyone cheered, except for him. He looked down the bar and Anne caught his eye. She smiled at him, then resumed her cheering. Tad quickly downed the rest of his drink, got up, and walked out.

Two days later Tad returned to the tavern after work and found that Anne was there, without her friend. In the two months since they’d broke up, he had not seen her. Now she was here again twice in three days. He decided he would not leave, and ordered his scotch. To his chagrin she got up from her place at the other end of the bar and approached him. “Hello,” she said. He hesitated. “Hello,” he replied. “Where’s your new beau?” “He’s on his way.” “Why are you coming here? You know that I’ll almost always be here.” “I wanted to talk to you alone.” “About what?” he asked. “I have some news to tell you.” “I’m listening.” “I’m pregnant. And it’s your child.” He was stunned. He just sat there looking at her. Finally, he said “How is that possible? You were on birth control.” She laughed. “I’m just kidding,” she said. He was stunned again. And hugely relieved. “You’re a real bitch,” he said. “That

was a rotten thing to do” “I just wanted to see your reaction.” “You really are fucked up, you know? Why are you here? You didn’t answer my question.” Her face turned serious. “Because I happen to like it here.” “Yeah, well you didn’t seem to like it these past two months, until you got your new friend. What, are you taunting me or something? By the way, I’m glad we did break up. I was getting pretty tired of all your theatrical bullshit.” “I’m glad, too,” she said. “You wouldn’t give me the space to even breathe.” “You mean because I didn’t like you running around all the time? Stealing my money to buy weed?” He was getting angry. “Why don’t you just go away, leave me alone. You’ve got a new boy toy to play with.” “See ya around,” she said, and she headed down to the other end of the bar. He shook his head. His friend Mike, two seats away, said, “Jesus, Tad, I don’t mean to meddle, but I heard all that. That’s fucked up.” Tad shook his head again. “She’s a real sweetheart. I should probably warn her new boyfriend, the poor bastard.” “Well, here’s your chance,” he said, looking toward the door. Tad looked at Gary and nodded. Gary nodded in return as he ed by. “Red,” Tad said, pointing toward his drink. “Mike, too.” “Thanks,” said Mike, when the drinks arrived. Mike raised his drink to Tad. “Here’s to your emancipation.” “I’ll drink to that,” Tad replied.

He watched as Anne went over to the jukebox and started searching for songs. “Great,” Tad said. “Now she’s going to start dancing around with her boyfriend.” “Just like you used to do with her,” Mike said with a chuckle. “That’s a fair point,” Tad said. “I didn’t have a clue about her back then.”

Tad continued his almost daily routine of going to the tavern after work. Three weeks went by, and he had no sightings of Anne. He had been thinking about asking a girl from work out for a drink, and finally he asked. Terry accepted the invitation, and he took her to the tavern. Anne, to his relief, was not there. His relief was not to last long. Anne and her boyfriend came in, and Tad hoped that they wouldn’t stop to say anything. They didn’t, and he was relieved once again. After a few drinks, Tad was about to ask Terry if she’d like to go for a bite to eat, when Anne left her seat and came over. He girded himself for trouble. “Hi, Tad,” she said. “Who’s your friend?” Tad, reluctantly, introduced her to Terry. “She’s awfully cute, isn’t she?” Anne said, turning to Tad. “Come on, Anne.” Anne looked at Terry. “Don’t let this guy make the moves on you too quickly, honey. He’ll be in your pants before you know it. He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Tad stood up and said, “Let’s get out of here, Terry.” Terry nodded, and they headed for the door. “ what I said, Sweetie,” Anne called after them. Tad turned as he was heading out. “Thanks, Anne. Thanks for always trying to ruin things.”

Anne smiled at him and waved. “Who was that?” Terry asked, after they’d left. “That’s my ex-girlfriend. She just loves to stir up trouble. She’s very good at it. I’m just glad we’re no longer together.” They were both quiet for a moment. Tad invited her to go to a nearby Chinese restaurant, and she accepted the offer.

After a nice dinner, they parted ways. Tad decided to return to Red’s. He was hoping she was still there, because he wanted to return the favor. When he went back in, he saw her swaying around by herself in front of the juke box, singing as she was making selections. He could tell she was trashed. She didn’t see Tad by behind her. Tad walked up to Gary at the bar. “Gary,” he said. “I don’t want to stick my nose into your business, but I just want to warn you,” and he nodded toward Anne. “She’s really bad news once she gets her claws in you. Be careful. And you better watch your wallet. She’ll rob you.” With that he walked away. As he ed behind her, he said, “Hi, Anne.” She turned and looked startled for a moment. “I just came back to say hi to Gary,” he said. She looked at Gary, who was looking back at her. She turned to Tad. “What did you say to him, you asshole?” “I just told him how nice you are, and that he’s a really lucky guy.” He smiled and walked away. As he left, it saddened him to realize that he was no longer coming back. At least not as long as she was still showing up. He looked over at the bar and gave a small wave. He said, “Take care, Red.”

The Gravestone

Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me.

— Dickinson

O ne gray drizzly day Edward stood up from his desk, drawn by a strange sound, and looked out a clear spot in the stained glass window of his library. It was the clop clop of a horse’s hooves on the pavement. Suddenly a black, hooded carriage of the sort seen in nineteenth century photographs came around the corner and ed right by the house. A man in black period clothing was holding the reins, and there seemed to be something in the back under the fringed canopy, but he couldn’t tell what it might be. The carriage ed by, then turned at the next corner and disappeared down the empty street. Edward was greatly puzzled by the scene. It was a cold Tuesday in November, and he could not think of any events on the municipal calendar that would warrant the use of a horse and carriage. Nor would it make sense, for a variety of reasons, for it to be used for a wedding or funeral. He was perplexed, but after a few more moments at the window he returned to his desk and resumed his study. The small town of Middlesex, Massachusetts, was founded in 1674 and was situated in a small valley in the north central part of the state, near the New Hampshire line. Edward’s house was a large Victorian built in an old, affluent neighborhood at the foot of one of the granite hills. Despite the size of the house, he lived alone. He was sixty-six years old. He put another log on the fire. He retrieved his book from the desk and settled down in his leather easy chair near the fireplace. It was his favorite place in the house, especially on a cold, dreary day. He opened the book to where he’d left off. The book was Ancient Gravestones of New England, by Frazier. It was a

scholarly examination of the artwork of such headstones from the seventeenth through the nineteenth centuries, and the varied permutations of engravings and shapes. It was a fairly large tome he’d acquired recently, with hundreds of black and white illustrations. He found the book fascinating, and he perused it till well into the evening until his eyes grew tired and the fire was reduced to glowing embers. He went to bed shortly thereafter. Edward had an advanced form of cancer, and was easily fatigued, even by staying up a few hours reading. The next morning, after breakfast, he pondered the day ahead, which yawned before him with little to do. He often did volunteer work at the local hospital, but this day he was not feeling well, and did not go in. ing the gravestone volume, he went back into the library and sat down to continue reading. Whereas the night before he had merely dipped into various parts of the book, mostly studying the pictures and captions, he decided to start reading the text, with its integral pictures, from the beginning. After a lengthy introduction, the first section dealt with gravestones from the 1600s. Before starting the chapter, he flipped through the pages quickly and was startled to find a photo he’d missed the night before which identified the stone as being in the town of Middlesex, dating from 1692. It was to him a pleasant surprise. He did not recognize the stone, as it had been years since he last visited the town’s Old Burying Ground. There were three cemeteries in town, but two of them dated from the mid 1800s and still accepted burials. Indeed he had visited the latter too many times over the years as family and friends had been interred there. The Old Burial Ground had been dormant for nearly two centuries, as he recalled reading in a town history some time ago. In any case, the picture of the headstone piqued his interest, and he decided right then that he would visit the Burial Ground that day in search of the stone. Looking at the photo, he was fascinated by its appearance. It depicted at the top a skull with wings protruding from either side. Below it was the image of a skeleton holding a scythe in one hand, and an hourglass in the other. Below it was the name and dates of the deceased, and below that was some sort of illegible inscription that extended to the level of the ground. He wondered what it said. He layered some sweaters and went out to the car. He brought the book with him, though he knew he would immediately recognize the stone as soon as he saw it. He drove the two miles to the cemetery and parked on the side of the road across from the gate. It was fronted by a four foot high black iron fence with spikes on it, and appeared to be from the 1800s. There was no one else around.

He opened the gate, then stopped to take in the view. Before him was about two acres of undulating ground, populated by thick old trees, and haphazard row upon row of dark slate headstones. The stones were tilted this way and that, some sideways, some leaning forward or back. Some stood relatively tall, while others were sunk so low as to be only a foot or so above ground. Many of the stones near trees were in particular crooked, pushed in odd directions by the thick roots. With the low, heavy mist, the whole scene struck him as grimly picturesque. He marveled at seeing such an ancient site so close to home. It reminded him of some of the photos in the book, and he was grateful that he lived in a town, indeed a region of the country, where such sights were not uncommon. In fact, he ed that when he was young and worked in Boston, he would often by old graveyards in the heart of the city, silent reminders of the proximity of death. He went into the cemetery, not knowing where to go, and decided he would simply start with the oldest-looking graves. That was easier said than done, as the blackened slates, often discolored by lichen, looked – at first glance – similar in age. He ed from the book, however, that the stone he was looking for had a winged skull at the top, and so as he walked along, he scanned the rows quickly for the deaths heads. He was surprised to discover that a great many of the stones had them, so he methodically made his way down the rows. He noticed that many of the stones from the 1800s had urns and willow trees on them, so that helped him move along. Yet he found himself stopping in front of certain stones that had long inscriptions. One, in particular, caught his eye. It was for a man named Ezekial Crowley, who was born in 1722 and died in 1764. There was a verse beneath the dates:

Death like an overflowing stream, Sweeps us away, our life is a dream, An empty tale, a moving Flower, Cut down and withered in an hour.

He continued down the rows, glancing back and forth for the stone he was

looking for. He noticed a small stone between two larger ones, with a flower engraved at the top. Another flower, he thought. It was for a girl who died in 1824, at only seven years old. The inscription read:

This sweet child By death was tripped. A rosebud fair, A rosebud clipped.

As he read these inscriptions and looked around at the whole burying ground, he felt an increasing melancholy, a pressure on his mood. He continued on, exploring row after row. Suddenly, near the back of the cemetery, he found it. The headstone. He looked at the skeleton with the scythe and hourglass. The deceased had died in 1692. The inscription at the bottom was worn, but in person was clear enough to read:

Stranger stop and cast an eye, As you are now so once was I, As I am now so you shall be, Prepare for death and follow me.

A chill ran down his spine. The grinning skull seemed to be looking right at him across the centuries, mocking him. It made him feel mortal, and he realized that the author of those lines had exactly that effect in mind. And the poet, too, was long gone. He took a picture of the stone so that he could have a photo that included the verse, which wasn’t in the book. The picture came out of the

camera, and he looked at it. It was a good picture and showed the entire inscription clear enough. He became aware of a sound growing louder from behind him. It was a sound he recognized…the clop clop of a horse. He turned quickly and saw once again the black, horse-drawn carriage, the same one he’d seen the day before. The carriage came to a stop in front of the graveyard. The driver was dressed in black, with a black hat and had a very pale face which was turned toward him. Edward saw something in the rear of the carriage that he couldn’t see yesterday. It was a long black box, simply made. It looked like a coffin. He felt a chill through him. He raised the camera, and as he did the carriage started to pull away. He snapped the picture, and watched as the carriage ed quickly beyond the trees lining the road. He removed the picture and looked at it. The carriage was not in the photo. A surge akin to fear ed through him. As the sound of the hooves faded, he turned and looked at the headstone again. Prepare for death and follow me. Edward knew with certainty that he would soon, very soon, follow the skeleton beneath his feet.

Acorns

M y wife and I, we live up the road from this old guy, Mr. Robey. I guess he could be called the neighborhood eccentric, though he isn’t all that eccentric, really. It’s just that around here anyone even slightly out of the ordinary stands out like a flamingo in a crow’s nest. Which is not to say he’s disliked. He’s too friendly to really dislike. But people smile when his name comes up, like it’s the punchline to an inside joke. At least that’s the way it used to be, before his wife died. Now people just shake their heads and say things like, “The poor guy, I feel bad for him.” Then somebody makes a crack about his green roof looking better than his lawn, or something like that, everyone laughs, and the conversation moves on. It’s kind of strange in a way because Mr. Robey is the last of the neighborhood’s “Founding Fathers” – the first people who built houses out here forty years ago in what used to be the sticks. The rest have all died or moved away, and their houses have been bought up by people young enough to be Mr. Robey’s grandchildren. By just staying around, he’s become sort of an outsider in his own neighborhood. Mr. Robey’s house is a neat, red-brick rambler with white trim, a screened-in porch, and a bright green roof. It sits up on a hill behind the tallest, most magnificent White Oak I have ever seen. He lives there with his two dogs and the twenty-eight bird feeders he’s got out back. I counted them once. They’re all over the place. They range from thistle tubes and wooden trays all the way up to these miniature hotels with about forty holes in them and little porches filled with seed. The birds flock to his yard by the hundreds every day just before sunset. That’s when he fills all the feeders, going around to each with a coffee can of seed. Even this isn’t enough to feed them all, so he spreads a lot on the ground, too. It’s really something, this ritual with the birds. “Mostly it’s habit,” he told me once. “They’ve got to eat, and I’ve got to feed them. I guess that’s about it. Old habits die hard.” His dogs, an airedale name Wing and a foxhound named Billy, get the same royal treatment. He fixes balanced meals for them, lets them amble in and out of the house at will through their own swinging door, and takes them on long walks every day through the woods and fields behind the neighborhood. Mr. Robey and

his dogs, they’re a real institution around here because of these hikes. They set out at precisely at four-o’clock, weather be damned. It could be raining like hell, or it could be twenty below zero, and it wouldn’t matter. Come four o’clock, they’re out the door. But that isn’t what’s odd. What makes it a spectacle is what happens after they leave. One by one every dog in the neighborhood s up, so that by the time he’s reached the fields, Mr. Robey’s got about fifteen dogs tagging along, all of them yapping and horsing around. They really do a number on people’s lawns, too, which draws a few complaints now and then, usually from some of the newer residents. For the most part, though, people find the whole thing pretty amusing. It’s sort of a neighborhood tradition. From what I hear, it’s been going on for twenty, thirty years. The dogs come and go, but the show’s always the same.

I first met Mr. Robey about a week after my wife and I had moved in last year. Connie’s cousin was getting married, and we were just about to leave for the wedding. We were all dressed up. We came out of the house just as Mr. Robey and his dogs were ing by, and he walked up to introduce himself. Actually, the dogs arrived first. This big Airedale jumped up on Connie, practically knocking her over. Her dress got it pretty good. I thought she was going to scream, but she just stood there with this look on her face, like she couldn’t believe what had just happened. “Hi,” Mr. Robey said. “Are you the new people?” Connie and I looked at each other. A golden retriever stuck his nose in my crotch. “Yes,” I said, pushing the dog away. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said. My name is Frank Robey. I live up the road, at ten twenty-four. The place with the giant oak.” “Oh. Right,” I said. The retriever pushed his head into my crotch again. I looked at Connie. She was brushing mud from her dress. “Jack Patterson,” I said, taking his extended hand. “And this is Connie.” Connie looked up at Mr. Robey and nodded. I could tell she was steaming, holding it in. “All these yours?” I asked. We were surrounded by at least a dozen dogs.

“Oh, no. Just this airedale, and that foxhound over there,” he said, pointing to a dog urinating on the wheel of our car. “The others are all neighborhood kids.” He started to name them for us. Connie, meanwhile, kept giving the airedale this real murderous eye, like she hoped the thing would explode or something. Then it jumped up on her again. She hollered and belted it across the side of the head. “Will you keep him away from me!” she yelled. “Wing! Come here,” Mr. Robey said. The dog went over and put a paw on Mr. Robey’s leg. Connie brushed more mud from her dress. Without looking up she said, “I’ve got to put on another dress.” Then she walked away. Mr. Robey and I watched her go back into the house. I didn’t know what to say. I knew Connie would have plenty to say later on, though. No doubt about that. And I couldn’t blame her, either. She’d bought that dress especially for the wedding. I reached down and stroked one of the dogs gathered . “Is she upset?” Mr. Robey asked. He had this startled look on his face, as if it had just dawned on him that someone might not enjoy being fondled by a large muddy dog. “A little,” I said. “She’ll be okay. Don’t worry about it.” “I’m so sorry,” he said, staring back at the house. I wasn’t thinking. I’d like to apologize to her…” “No, really, don’t worry about it.” I was afraid he might want to go in and see her. Connie would not be up for that just now. “I feel awful about this,” he said. “Please tell her I’m very sorry and that I’d be more than happy to pay for the dress. Alright?” “Sure. No problem,” I said. “But don’t worry about it. I’m sure it will wash right out.” “I hope so,” he said. Then he looked at the ground and started to shake his head.

I wanted to change the subject, cheer the guy up. I thought of his tree. I said, “That’s really some tree you’ve got up there.” He looked up. “Yes, it is,” he said. “It is quite a tree. You can see it from here.” I turned and looked where he was looking. I could see the top of the oak billowing beyond the trees behind my house, as if it was in my own back yard and not halfway up the street, like it was. You can see it for miles around,” he said, “It’s one of the largest trees in the state. It’s why I built my house on that lot in the first place. I wanted to live next to that tree.” I shot him a glance. The idea of somebody building a house because of a tree was a new one for me, but I liked it. And it really was a hell of a tree. “How tall is it?” I asked. “A hundred and forty-four feet,” he said, still gazing at the tree. “It’s almost as wide as that, too. It’s got branches bigger than a lot of full grown trees.” “Unreal,” I said. “Oh, it’s real,” he said, turning to me. “That tree will be dropping acorns long after I’m dead and gone. I hope it will live forever.” The way he said this, I could tell he was being serious. It made me a little uncomfortable. He ran a hand over his hair and stared up the road for a moment. Then he looked at me. “So tell me,” he said. “You two have any children?” “Children?” I said. “No.” He looked up the road again. “How long have you been married?” “Five years,” I replied. He turned and said, “You two have been married five years and you don’t have

any kids?” “That’s right,” I said. “No kids.” “Do you mind if I ask why?” “We just don’t want any right now,” I said. I was getting ticked-off by the tone of his questions. I wanted Connie to hurry up, so we could leave. “You’re making a terrible mistake,” he said. “That’s your opinion,” I said. “It’s the truth,” he said. “Look,” I said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s really none of your business one way or the other.” He stood there looking at me, shaking his head. I felt like telling him to go to hell. I said, “I’ve got a wedding to go to. I’ll see you around.” Then I walked away. “Hey, Jack, he said. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” I turned around. He was coming toward me with his hand extended again. I shook his hand. “Okay,” I said. But I really do have to get going. We’re already running late for this thing.”

That night, coming back from the wedding, Connie and I got to talking about Mr. Robey. She had cooled off about the dress by then, especially when I’d told her earlier how sorry he was. “He really loves that giant oak,” I said. “You know he built his house there just because of the tree?” “Really?” she said. “Why?”

“Why? I don’t know. I guess he likes the way it looks. He said it was one of the largest trees in the state. Maybe he just likes big trees.” Connie nodded, but didn’t say anything. “It’s funny though. We were talking about that tree and all of a sudden he got real serious and tells me it’s going to live forever. I mean, he said it like he really believed it, you know?” “He probably does,” she said. “I was talking to the lady next door, Mrs. Weems. She seems real nice. Anyway, she told me this Mr. Robey is a pretty strange character. She said the whole neighborhood thinks so. Not in a bad way, really, but just that he’s kind of weird. Like every year, for instance, he pays the neighborhood kids to come over and pick up the acorns in his yard. And while they’re doing this he stands on the porch and sings all these old songs. And then you know what he does with all the acorns? He keeps them in his garage until the first snow comes, and then he goes out and scatters them all over the yard. I laughed. “Are you kidding?” “That’s what Mrs. Weems told me,” she said. “She says he does all kinds of weird things like that. She says he’s always throwing birthday parties for the kids, and doing all sorts of nice things for them, but whenever any of the kids tries to go out to the fields with him when he’s walking the dogs, or if they run into him when he’s out there, he yells at them and tells them to go home. He won’t even let his wife go with him.” I thought of the little run-in I’d I had with him not having any kids, and decided not to say anything. I didn’t feel like getting into an argument. Connie and I always argued when the subject of having kids came up. You see, she wanted them, and I didn’t. I told her before we got married that I didn’t want any kids for a while, and she said fine, but now, after five years, she was getting anxious to have kids, and I still didn’t want any. In fact, I was getting to the point where I was thinking I didn’t want any ever. I hadn’t told her that of course, so I kept telling her I wasn’t ready yet. But the thought that sooner or later this thing would have to come to a head scared me. I was afraid of what it might do to our marriage. I hated to even think about it. I reached over and switched on the radio, and the song “Mother and Child Reunion” came on. If my heart hadn’t jumped to my mouth, I might have

laughed. Instead I changed the station. “I want to hear that song,” Connie said. I turned back to the song and fixed my attention to the road. Neither of us spoke the rest of the way home.

The following morning, while Connie and I were eating breakfast, there was a knock at the kitchen door. We looked up and saw the face of an older woman smiling in the window. “Who’s that?” Connie said. I got up and answered the door. “Hi, Mr. Patterson?” the woman said. “I’m Elizabeth Robey, Charlie’s wife?” “Oh, hi! I said, opening the door wide. “Come on in.” She stepped forward, but stopped in the doorway. She was holding a cake pan covered with foil and a red bow. “I’m sorry to be interrupting your breakfast,” she said, looking over at Connie.” “Oh, that’s alright, we were just finishing,” Connie said, getting up and tying her robe. “It’s nice of you to drop by. Why don’t you sit down and have some coffee with us.” “No, thank you. I can’t.” Mrs. Robey said. “Charlie and I are leaving for the Cape in a few minutes. I just wanted to stop by and give you this,” she said, holding out the pan for Connie. “Charlie told me what happened to your dress yesterday, so we baked this for you. He’s hoping this will get him out of the doghouse.” Connie blushed as she took the cake. I could tell she was embarrassed. “Thank you, but you really shouldn’t have done this. It was just a little dirt. It wasn’t Mr. Robey’s fault at all. Mrs. Robey was shaking her head. “I know how he is this with those dogs. They get away with murder. “Really, though, it was nothing,” Connie said. “Please tell him not to worry

about it. He’s not in my doghouse at all.” Then she set the cake on the table and lifted off the foil. “Oh, this looks delicious,” she said, “And Mr. Robey helped you make it?” “Actually, he did most of the work. Charlie loves to bake. He does it all the time. We don’t eat much of it ourselves, though. Charlie usually gives it to the neighborhood kids, or else to the dogs.” “Well, we’ll certainly eat it,” I said. “I love blueberry cake.” “Oh, no. This is my cake,” Connie said. “You can’t have any.” I looked to Mrs. Robey for help. “Did you hear that?” Mrs. Robey smiled. “Well, to tell you the truth,” she said to Connie, “I think half of it is his. It seems Charlie managed to get himself in trouble with your husband, too.” Connie looked surprised. “Oh, really? I didn’t hear about that,” she said, smiling at me. “Did Wing get you, too?” “No, no. It was nothing,” I said, chuckling it off. “That cake’s yours.” “I hope you weren’t offended,” Mrs. Robey said. “Charlie’s got this thing for kids, and sometimes he just gets carried away.” “Oh, no – not at all,” I said. I could see Connie looking at me. The cat was coming out of the bag. “So listen,” I said. “You sure you don’t want any coffee?” “No, really, I’ve got to run,” Mrs. Robey said. “If I stay any longer Charlie’ll think of an excuse not to go on this trip. He hates going away on trips. He’s afraid all his dog and birdy friends will never speak to him again if he leaves home for a few days. I swear, sometimes it’s like being married to Dr. Doolittle. We can’t go anywhere without taking our dogs with us, too. Thank God the car’s only big enough for our dog’s or he’d bring along every dog in the neighborhood.” She rolled her eyes. “And of course there’s the Great White Oak. I’m sure he told you all about that, right?” I smiled and nodded my head.

“Well, naturally,” she said. “He’s obsessed with it. If he could, he’d bring that to the beach, too. He’s convinced if he goes away someone will cut it down for firewood. I’m not kidding. I’m married to a fruitcake. But anyways, I’m talking too much. I’ll let you get back to your breakfast. I’m glad I got to meet you, though. And Charlie will be glad to know he’s off the hook. Do you know he was afraid to come over here? He’s a man of iron, I tell you. But anyways, welcome to the neighborhood.” After she’d gone I turned from the door and said, “She’s a pistol. I can’t wait to see the two of them together.” Connie started clearing dishes from the table. “So are you going to tell me what he said to you?” I sat down at the table. “Really, Honey, it was nothing. It wasn’t even worth telling you about.” “Okay, but what was it? Why won’t you tell me?” I shook my head, in response. Then she said, “He wanted to know why we don’t have any children, right?” I closed my eyes. I was shocked. “Yes,” I said. “And what did you tell him?” I opened my eyes. “I told him it was none of his business.” Connie was quiet for a moment. She set some dishes down on the counter. “And what if I ask you that same question? What would you say to me?” I felt something tighten in my stomach. All of a sudden I wasn’t sure what I should say. And then it just came right out. I said, “I don’t want any children, Connie.” She stepped around to my side so she could look me in the face. “You mean you don’t want any right now. That’s what you meant, right?” I looked at my coffee cup. “I mean I don’t want any at all.”

Connie didn’t say anything. She just stood there, looking at me. My heart was knocking against my ribs. I said, “Honey, listen –” She backed away. You don’t love me,” she said. “Hon, don’t say that. Of course I love you. You know I do.” I stood up to put my arms around her. “Get away from me,” she said. Her eyes were suddenly welling up. “Connie, please.” “No! Get away!” she yelled. Then she ran from the kitchen. She slammed the bedroom door. I didn’t go after her. I knew there was no use trying to talk to her when she was upset. It would only make things worse. So I sat down at the table to let things cool a while. I sat there nursing my coffee and thinking. One of the things I thought about had to do with what she had said. “You don’t love me,” she’d said. I didn’t think about it too long, though. I knew it wasn’t true. Finally, I got up and went back to the bedroom. I had to smooth this thing over. I opened the door a little and peeked into the room. She was lying face down on the bed. “Honey?” I said. “Can we talk?” She didn’t answer, so I went in and sat down on the edge of the bed. I put my hand on her back. “Honey, I love you,” I said. “I love you more than anything.” She still wouldn’t say anything, but I knew it was just to make me squirm a little longer, so I waited. Then she said, “I want a family, Jack.” I fumbled for something to say. I said, “I know.” “You used to want one too,” she said. “Connie, I love you,” I said. “You’re all I want. Just the two of us. I don’t need

anything else. She rolled over and looked at me. “Well I do,” she said. “I need to have a child. And if you really love me, you’ll give me one.” “You’re not being fair,” I said. She sat up like a bolt. “I’m not being fair! Jesus Christ, what the hell are you talking about? You keep me waiting five years and then you turn around and tell me you don’t want any kids – and I’m unfair? Give me a fucking break!” There wasn’t much I could say. I just sat there, feeling stupid. Connie folded her arms and glared at me a while. Then she said, “What is it with you? Why don’t you want any children?” “I wouldn’t be a good father,” I replied. “Of course you would,” she said. “I wouldn’t have married you if I thought you’d make a bad one.” I shook my head. “I just don’t have any feeling for children,” I said. “They get on my nerves. I might end up treating them the way my father treated me.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “If they were your kids you’d have all the feeling in the world for them. And you’re not a child beater, so don’t hand me that bull. I think I know you a little better than that.” I didn’t know what else to say. Maybe she was right. She usually was, where I was concerned. Still, the idea of having kids bothered the hell out of me. “I don’t know, Honey. The whole thing troubles me,” I said. “I’m just not ready to take on a family right now.” “Then what did you want to move out here for? We might as well have kept the apartment in Boston. This is a family home. You raise children here. Two point three kids and a dog, you know?” “It’s nice out here,” I said. “I thought this is what we both wanted. A place of our own out in the country.”

“Yeah. A place to raise a family,” she said. “I thought that was the whole point of it. To come out and raise a family.” I was silent for a moment. I took her hand. “You want me to be happy, too, don’t you?” She gave me this exasperated look. “Yes, of course I do. But you don’t know. A family might make you the happiest man in the world. See, with me, I do know. I know I’ll be unhappy if we don’t have children. So we’re putting my ‘absolutely’ against your ‘maybe.’ Don’t you think I should win out?” She was always doing that, reducing everything to a logical, clear-cut case. I always lost, too. Lying was my only way out. “Okay, listen,” I said. “What about this. What if we just waited a little longer.” “Like how much longer?” she asked. “Until we get the house fixed up and a little money put away.” I figured that might buy me a little more time. “That could take years,” she said. “No, it won’t,” I replied. Connie looked at me. I could tell she was thinking it over. Then she said, “Okay. A little while longer. Do you promise?” I leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. “I promise” I said, wondering if it was a promise I could keep.

The house was in pretty bad shape, so most of what we did that summer was just to make the place livable. Replacing pipes and stuff like that. It was a start, but not much more. Only once the whole summer did Connie bring up the subject of having kids. I was ripping out some dry-wall in one of the back bedrooms. She came in and looked around a while. Then she said, “Just think. Someday our child will be

sleeping in this room.” I didn’t say anything. I just kept tearing out the wall. We didn’t see much of the Robeys at all except in ing. Sometimes I’d be outside when Mr. Robey came by with his caravan of dogs, and he’d stop and say hello. Or I’d see Mrs. Robey getting the paper as I drove by on my way to work. Once we borrowed their lawn mower when ours wouldn’t start. One day in October I was sitting in the living room watching a football game. Connie was over by the picture window watering some plants. “Hey, Jack. Come here for a second,” she said. She was looking out the window. “Take a look at this.” I got up and went over to the window. I saw Mr. Robey coming down the road with the dogs. Mrs. Robey was with him. They were holding hands. It was the first time I’d ever seen him with anyone while he was walking the dogs. “That’s a surprise,” I said. “She must have black-mailed him into it.” “Get a load of that hat,” Connie said. Mrs. Robey was wearing this funny hat. From where I was it looked like a bathing cap. I chuckled. “Maybe they’re in style,” I said, and went back to watching the game. A week later Mrs. Weems called to tell us that Mrs. Robey had died that morning. Some kind of brain tumor, she said. Connie and I couldn’t believe it. It had happened so quickly. When I came home from work the next day there was a note from Connie on the kitchen table. It said she’d be late getting home because she was going shopping after work, and that there was a dinner for Mr. Robey in the refrigerator. She wanted me to take it up to him. I looked in the fridge and found a foil covered plate. I took it out and headed out the door. It was still fairly early, but there was a storm moving in and it was getting darker by the minute. I saw a light on at Mr. Robey’s, but as I walked up the hill toward the house I started hoping he was out walking the dogs or something, because I didn’t really want to face him. I mean, what do you say to a guy who’s just lost his wife? I rang the doorbell and waited. If he was home, he wasn’t answering, which was

okay by me. I left the plate on the table inside the porch and started back down the hill. Then I glanced over at the oak tree and noticed a wooden ladder leaning out from the far side of the trunk. For a moment I had the sick feeling that he had hanged himself. I walked over to the tree and looked up. I saw Mr. Robey straddling one of the lower limbs, his back to the trunk. He was looking right at me. The expression on his face, I’d never seen it before on anyone in my entire life. It tore me up. I just stood there looking up at him, wondering what the hell I was going to say. But he spoke first. He said, “Leave me alone, Jack.” I said, “Mr. Robey, I’m so sorry.” He didn’t reply. He just leaned his head back and stared up into the tree. A gust of wind came through, shaking loose a shower of leaves and acorns. “There’s a storm coming,” I said. “You better come down, Mr. Robey.” He still didn’t say anything. I looked around, wondering what I should do. I saw birds, scores of birds, coming in from all directions. They were filling up the trees out back. A chill came over me. I put my hands in my pockets and looked up at Mr. Robey. He was still staring into the tree. “I brought some dinner for you,” I said. He moved his head forward, away from the trunk, and looked around for a moment. Then he said, “It’s coming back.” I waited. I cleared my throat. “What’s coming back,” I said. “This tree,” he said. “In the spring. The acorns are a promise.” I nodded like I understood what he was talking about. He didn’t really seem to be talking to me, though. “My little girl, my angel, used to say that. ‘The acorns are a promise.’ That’s what she’d say. She loved this tree.” “Your daughter,” I said. “Where is she?” “She died when she was twelve,” he said. I looked at the ground. I saw an acorn by my foot. I looked up again. “Do you

have any other children?” I asked. “No.” This shocked me. I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there, looking at him, this sad old man in a tree. He said, “Elizabeth.” Then he brought a hand to his face and started weeping. It kind of scared me, seeing this. I turned away. I saw Billy and Wing by the side of the house, watching through the fence. Out back, the birds were everywhere. They were chirping like mad. When I looked up again, Mr. Robey had stopped crying. The wind cut loose another shower of leaves and acorns. Then it started to rain. I said, “Why don’t you come down now, Mr. Robey.” He didn’t say anything. He just sat there for a moment. Then he lifted his leg around and eased himself onto the ladder. I held it for him while he worked his way down. By the time he stepped off it was pouring. We stood under the tree a while watching it come down. Then he said, “I have to walk the dogs now.” I said, “Mr. Robey, you should get some rest.” He shook his head. He said, “I live by my habits, Jack. They’ve never let me down.” Then he turned and walked out into the rain. I watched him cross the yard and disappear around the back of the house. Then I bent over and picked up an acorn. I studied it a moment then put it in my pocket and started down the hill. Connie was still gone when I got home. The house was dark, and I didn’t feel like turning on the lights. I went into the living room and sat down in front of the window. The wind was driving the rain hard against the glass. In a few minutes I saw some dark shapes coming down the road. As they approached the light at the bottom of the Weems’ driveway I saw that it was Mr. Robey and a handful of dogs. They ed by and disappeared into the darkness up the road. I sat there for a long time looking out the window. I thought about Mr. Robey out there in the fields, walking around in the rain and the dark with a bunch of dogs. I thought of this and it made me want to cry.

I took the acorn out of my pocket and held it up in front of the window so I could get a dim look at it. A promise. That’s what he’d called it. I lowered my hand and closed my fingers around the acorn. I thought of Connie. I wanted her to come home. I had a promise to keep, and I couldn’t wait to get started.

Race

T ony Romano and his father Frank were at the Daytona 24 Hour Race in Florida, and were walking amongst the rows of campers and pickups and cars crowding the in-field of the huge oval track. It was a warm, brilliant day, and the race was underway with the whining and roaring of the cars speeding by in colorful blurs. Tony, a Bostonian, was down visiting his father, who was a transplanted Bostonian now retired in Vero Beach. His father was a sports car fanatic, with a special penchant for the Italian cars such as Ferrari and Alpha Romeo, and who believed that all the other cars were all so much junk on wheels, especially the American makes. Tony was wearing the Ferarri t-shirt his father had bought for him. He marveled at the whole in-field spectacle, with the endless tail-gate parties and hordes of people milling about drinking beer, regaling each other and just in general having a good time. One thing Tony had noticed right away that morning was all the flags waving above so many of the campers and trucks. More specifically, he noticed among all the American flags the stars and bars of the Confederate flags. There were a lot of them, and it made Tony uncomfortable. “I thought the Civil War was over,” he said, somewhat wide-eyed. His father shook his head. “Not down here it isn’t.” “I thought that shit was just a Southern stereotype, along with buck teeth and trailer parks. People who think Boston is a foreign country.” He chuckled, and shook his head. “You laugh,” his father said. “But there are still a lot of people who take the South very seriously, in of it being sort of a nation unto itself, and which was raped by the Yankees. I kid you not. It just goes with the territory down here, along with the beaches and beautiful weather.” “I’ve noticed there aren’t any Ferrari flags here like you see on TV with all the Grand Prix races around the world.”

“Just ignorance,” his father said. “These people wouldn’t know a fine car if it bit them in the ass.” “Jesus, Dad. You’re such a snob about Italian cars.” Frank grinned. “Of course I am, and so should you, you Wop.” Tony laughed. Just then, Tony heard someone call out, “Hey, Ferrari!” They both turned and saw a heavy-set man standing with a group of others under a canopy attached to a camper. There was a rebel flag. Tony wondered for an instant if the man was being belligerent. But the man grinned and raised a beer. “You guys thirsty?” Tony smiled and looked at his father, who smiled back. “Sure,” Tony replied, and they both headed over. Several guys and a couple of girls turned as they approached, and Tony felt self conscious with his Ferrari shirt. The man extended his hand. “I’m Roger,” he said with a big, welcoming smile. “And these are my friends.” They introduced themselves and shook hands. Roger gave each of them a Bud Light. “Thank you,” both Tony and Frank said. “You boys aren’t from these parts, I’m guessing. Don’t see many Ferrari-types around here.” Roger gave a hearty laugh. “We’re from Boston,” Frank said, “though I live here now. Retired.” Roger nodded. “This your first Daytona 24?” “My first,” Tony said. “I’ve been a few times,” Frank followed. “Well, welcome you Yankees. What do you think so far, Tony?”

“It’s pretty cool,” he replied, and he sipped his beer. “So you’re Ferrari fans, eh?” “To the core,” Frank replied. “Ever been to a NASCAR race?” Frank and Tony both shook their heads. “No,” Tony said. “No Ferraris,” Frank added. “They have a race in New Hampshire,” Roger said. “At Louden.” “Yes, that’s right,” said Frank. “Have you ever been to a race there?” “No, never been.” He smiled. “I try to avoid going above the Mason-Dixon line.” Frank and Tony laughed. “Ever watch Formula One Grand Prix racing?” Frank asked. Roger shook his head. “No. Not into that.” He grinned. “Un-American.” Tony smiled. “You know Formula 1 is the second most popular sport in the world, after soccer?” Roger chuckled. “Like I said. “Un-American.” “Formula One cars are the most sophisticated cars on the planet,” Frank said. “And they actually have to turn right and change gears eighty times a lap with all the turns and slopes. NASCAR racers, they just go round and round in a circle. A Formula One car would kick a stock car’s ass.” “Well, like I said, we’re into American cars.” Tony looked around and noticed again the Confederate flag waving above the camper. He took a long drink of his beer, and summoned his courage. “I see you’ve got a Confederate flag,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father turn his head.

Roger grinned. “The South shall rise again,” he said. “And not a minute too soon.” “Doesn’t that flag offend people, black people?” Tony asked. He was nervous, but he had to ask. Roger eyed him for a moment. “Do you see any black people here?” “No, but maybe they don’t feel comfortable here.” “Nah, they’re not into racing. Just like they’re not into hockey. I’m a Lightnings fan. Never seen a black man there. And I’ve seen the Lightnings on TV against Boston. No blacks there, either.” “Point taken,” Tony said. “Besides, this is about the only place I ever fly the colors.” Another man, a tall skinny guy with a ball cap on who’d been listening, interjected. “Not me,” he said. “I have a flag in my front yard,” he said. “Proudly. Fuck ’em if they don’t like it. They’re niggers.” Tony looked down for a moment. Then he looked at his father, who said nothing. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said. “What way?” the man replied. “I’m proud of my heritage. You’re just a stuck up Yankee.” Again, neither Tony nor Frank responded. “Besides,” the man said. “You’re a bunch of hypocrites. I’ve seen all those TV programs about you Bostonians rioting about integration, throwing rocks at school busses and all. You love niggers, as long as you don’t have to live with ’em.” “That was almost fifty years ago,” Tony said. “Things have changed since then.”. Roger looked at his friend. “Easy, Will, these are our guests.”

“I don’t care,” the man said. “I a picture of a bunch of white kids in Boston, and one of them’s gotta flag pole and he’s charging at a nigger, about to impale him with the pole. You tellin’ me those boys changed?” “I won’t deny that those things happened,” Tony replied. “Besides, you’re talking about bad apples. The vast majority of people in New England don’t feel that way.” “Yeah, bullshit,” the man replied. “C’mon, Will,” Roger said. “Leave it alone.” The man turned and walked away. Tony looked at the ground again. He raised his head. “I suppose my dad and I should move along.” “Don’t take it personal,” Roger said. “Will’s a bit of a hot-head.” He chuckled. “I’m surprised he didn’t throw a punch.” “Yeah, we’ll go,” Tony said. “Thanks for the beer, anyway.” “All right, I understand,” Roger replied. “Enjoy the race.” “You too,” Frank said. They walked on. “Man,” said Tony. “That was a little intense.” “Couple of rednecks,” Frank replied. Tony chuckled. “I should take off this shirt. It’s causing a stir.” After a pause, Frank said “He’s not entirely wrong, you know.” “I know it,” Tony replied. “There’s still a lot of segregation. It’s not even subtle. All the whites have moved to the suburbs, leaving the blacks in Boston with all the crime and drugs and lousy schools, with hardly any chance of escaping. There’s plenty of that in Boston.”

“I know,” Frank replied. “A black walks into a bar in some neighborhoods, white neighborhoods, lilly-white towns, and everybody looks. ‘There’s a black person,’ they’re saying to themselves. Not necessarily thinking animus thoughts, but just an awareness.” “Are you speaking from experience, Dad?” “Aren’t you? Let me ask you this. Have you ever gone into a black bar, and not felt self-conscious about being white?” Tony did not respond. “So put yourself in the position of a black person, with all the baggage that goes with it.” “Yeah,” Tony replied. “But being aware of someone’s color isn’t racist.” “No, that’s true. But why even think of it? And that applies to both sides.” “I don’t know,” Tony said. Neither of them said anything more, and for the first time in a while they realized they were at a race. They walked vaguely toward the fences and barriers near one of the turns, and marveled as the cars tilted up at nearly forty-five degrees going by. They stayed there for about an hour, cheering every time a Ferrari went by. Finally, Tony suggested they get a bite to eat. They walked towards the rows of vendors selling barbeque and soft pretzels and beer. After they got their food and drinks, they stood for a bit looking at all the tailgating parties going on almost as far as they could see. “This is amazing,” Tony said. “Isn’t it?” his father replied. “If it weren’t for the damn rebel flags…” and Tony’s voice trailed off.

“You know, Frank said, “when I was a teen…It must have been around ‘58 or ‘59, I went down to Charleston to visit a friend who’d been a schoolmate of mine in Mass. Actually, he lived about an hour from Charleston, in a small town. The day after I got there, he said that there was a town parade he wanted to go to, and that he wanted me to see. So we went. Frank paused. “Yeah, so…” Tony said. “What happened?” “Well, it started off normal as such, you know, marching bands, fire engines, etcetera. Then came these cars, big convertibles, and there were all these town dignitaries sitting up on the backs of the cars, you know, with their feet up on the back seats.” “Okay,” Tony said. “And all these town dignitaries were wearing Ku Klux Klan robes, except they had their hoods down, so that they could be seen. And everyone was cheering. I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t believe it. My friend said ‘I wanted you to see this,’ And I just looked at him, and couldn’t think of a thing to say. It blew my mind.” “Jesus,” Tony said. “Yeah,” his father said. “It makes you wonder. It was a long time ago, yet it wasn’t…you know what I mean? A lot of the people there, including the Klansmen, are still around.” “Yeah, but as our redneck friend said, there was all that bussing thing in Boston. That wasn’t all that long ago, really. And all those people are still around.” “It’s a cancer,” his father said. “Yeah, and it’s right in front of us. Right now. I’m not a racist, Dad. And neither are you. But all these fuckers with their rebel flags, they are. That prick who was giving us a hard time? I’m going back there, and I’m going to punch his lights out.” His father stopped. “Are you fucking out of your mind? Are you nuts? Do you

know how many people would be on your ass? They’d fucking kill you! Not to mention an arrest for assault and battery.” Tony looked at his father, but didn’t say anything. “Come on, Tony, get a grip. Get off your high horse and let’s enjoy the race.” “I can’t, Dad. It’s ruined. I want to leave.” “Are you serious?” “Yeah, I am. I want to go.” His father stared at him, then shook his head. “Alright. If that’s what you want.” “It’s what I want.” “Okay. We’ll go.”

The Underground Man

A Confession by James Hunt

I have a loving wife, two wonderful children, a big house in sub urban Boston, and a good job with a venerable old publishing house downtown. I also think a lot about killing myself. My fantasy tends to be this: get drunk, take a bottle of sleeping pills, then, when I begin to fade, jump off the Longfellow Bridge. Sometimes I substitute the Weeks Bridge in Cambridge, which, although lower, is more handsome and in more scenic surroundings. I’m not exactly sure why I have these fantasies – or maybe I am – but I know that I’m not what I appear to be. Riding the subway to work or walking the carpeted halls of the office, I look like the Well Dressed Man and think, “I look like them.” But I know that I am not like them. I have two lives. That is to say, one which is a Happy Husband, Father, Homeowner and Working Man, and the other, the other which I call, with all due respect to Dostoevsky, the Underground Man. Who is the Underground Man? The Underground Man is the Mr. Hyde to my Dr. Jekyll; the yin to my yang; the sickness to my health. I’m certain there other Underground People out there – some of whom may even live above ground, in the light of day, like me. You, dear reader, may be an Underground Man or Woman for all I know. But I’ve not encountered any in the tight little world in which I live and work. The only place I’ve met any is in locked psychiatric wards, where I’ve gone on a few occasions when my suicidal fantasies have crossed the line into near dreams-come-true (more on this later). But the patients scatter when we leave the unit and retreat to our dark, inner caverns. I would recognize an Underground Man if I saw one at work, or in my neighborhood. There’s an unmistakable look in the eyes, a kind of mixture of fear and sadness which gives us away to those who know what it looks like. I see it every morning in the bathroom mirror. Being an Underground Man is a terrible curse. It made me miserable, and it changed the way I see the world. That thin veneer which used to color the world and allow me to believe things like, “There is a God,” or “Man is basically good,” or “There are universal values,” disappeared. It left me face to face with an ugly reality. Though I used to struggle, I’ve given up trying to rid myself of

the Underground Man. He’s simply a part of who I am. The only way to do it would be through suicide. But I can dream, right? Hence, the suicidal fantasies. There’s one small benefit I’ve gotten from being an Underground Man. It allows me to write ably decent poetry. The other side of me couldn’t write a poem that didn’t read like a syrupy, store-bought card. But a depressed Underground Man likes to write poetry and has had numerous of them published in reputable reviews and magazines. Few at work or in my neighborhood know about this, just as they don’t know about my long weekends in the nut-house. I suppose if any of them read this confession the cat would be out of the bag, but I don’t care anymore. What kind of things does the Underground Man do besides write poetry and dream about suicide? Well, I try hard to wreck the other part of my life. For example, I might be invited by my boss to a dinner party at his house. The Underground Man does not like dinner parties, or parties of any kind whatsoever. The Underground Man is extremely reclusive. But being a Good Employee, I go, along with my wife, Kate. But I cannot enjoy it. The Underground Man makes me feel like a black man at a Klan rally. It takes everything I have to mask my phobia and participate in the “pleasantries” of small talk, laughter and the overall karma of a Wonderful Evening. I fear that any moment I may simply start shaking and cease talking, or bolt from the room. Or get completely and unacceptably hammered on scotch, which I drink to try to calm my nerves. A successful evening is one in which I’ve managed to keep the Underground Man underground. You might wonder how I became an Underground Man. Then again, you might not give a damn. But humor me here. I’ve fallen into a groove. There are those who would look into my past, my childhood in particular, for traumatic events, and having found them, would sit back satisfied that they’ve found the genesis of the Underground Man. I will it that there were events in my childhood that were less than idyllic. Beatings, neglect, orphanages, things like that. Were these circumstances the seeds of the Underground Man? Who knows. To me it seems just as likely that my head is running a depressive deficit in neurotransmitters or that something is not connected properly in my brain. A medical affliction, of some sorts. It’s probably both. Whatever. The fact remains that sometime during my late teens depression hit and the Underground Man was born in me.

I mentioned earlier that I’ve spent some time in mental hospitals. These allexpenses paid trips (thank goodness for insurance) came as a result of failed or aborted suicide attempts. No one but my family knows about the incidents or the nature of my hospitalizations. Two times I overdosed on sleeping pills, and another time I aborted an effort to drill a hole in my head. Once I put a loaded shotgun in my mouth. Then there was the stroll in a subway tunnel. Life in a locked psych unit is, as might be expected, quite different from life elsewhere. Besides the variety of mental illnesses which sometimes manifest themselves in remarkably startling ways, there is an honesty among the patients which is not to be encountered in the Outside World. And, mind you, this is among complete strangers from every sort of social, racial and economic denomination. All the masks come off. Sometimes it is neither a word nor the Look. For example, in the Outside World, if four strangers were plopped down at the same meal table, there would be an unspoken expectation for the people to make small talk. In the hospital there are no such expectations. Four people can share the same table and not only not say a word, but not even feel the need to say a word. One can pick at the pale food for half an hour, drink the coffee and leave without ever leaving the snug bubble of one’s inner misery. Of course, some of the poor souls are forced to listen to voices and even whole choirs of angels in their heads every waking moment of the day – even if they do want to hold a conversation. Those are the ones that amaze me. How they put up with the voices and angels without putting a bullet through the crowd I’ll never know. In the hospital, we Underground People spend time in group and individual therapy, line up for meds three times a day and sometimes sit with visitors from 6:00 to 8:00. When we are in our rooms a nurse pops in for “checks” every fifteen minutes, twenty-four hours a day, just to make sure we aren’t dangling from the ceiling or cannibalizing our roommates. The most amusing thing is shaving. First you have to request a razor from the nurse assigned to you and aver to its safe and proper use. Then you shave while the nurse stands behind you. The mirrors are warped metal (you could slash yourself with glass) so your face takes on all manner of shapes. It’s like shaving in front of a funhouse mirror. It’s a miracle you are actually able to shave at all. When you are done you promptly hand the razor over to the nurse for proper disposal. Life on the unit is generally quite calm, if not depressing, though occasionally a patient will blow a gasket and start screaming or attacking staff. When things get physical we are sent to out rooms where we peer from our slightly-open doors as

our comrade is surrounded, wrestled to the floor, sedated, strapped to a gurney and rolled to the Quiet Room for safe keeping. I think at those times we all thought, “There but for the grace of God…” It didn’t really matter if you believed in God, the thought came to mind anyway. At this point, if not sooner, the reader might well ask, “What about your wife and kids? What do they know about the Underground Man? (I suppose it is presumptuous to assume that you want to know these things about my life, but if you’ve read this far you’re probably at least somewhat interested.) Well, I’ll start with the kids. The boys, being only six and four, are both too young to know about the Underground Man. Oh, they’ve seen me depressed, they’ve seen me holed up in my study, looking like hell, they’ve visited me at the hospitals. But all they’ve been told is that Daddy gets bad headaches sometimes, which is actually true. Someday when they’re old enough they’ll read my poetry and learn more than they want to know about the Underground Father-Man. But for now, Daddy gets headaches. I’ll say this right now: if it weren’t for my boys I’d be dead. Except for a few rare occasions when the Underground Man has become so monstrous, so vile and powerful, as to cut me off from them — their love, and the love of my wife, have sustained me. There have been many occasions when the Underground Man has been sent packing and grumbling by the sheer power of that love. With Kate, things are a bit more complicated. She knows about the Underground Man. She doesn’t fully understand him (then again, who does; I certainly don’t) but she has shown a saintly tolerance of him. And she has had to shoulder the burden of upholding me, the children and the household when I’ve been out of commission – both in and out of the hospital. Her love has withstood the fiercest pressure. It embraces both sides of me and bonds us all together. She is strong. The Underground Man has often argued that she is strong enough to absorb my suicide and move on with her life. But, as with the boys, love wins out and the Underground Man is relegated to feeding on fantasies. Ah, the fantasies. As I mentioned earlier, the Underground Man’s favorite is the alcohol/pills/bridge scenario. I’ve actually gone up on the bridges, during weaker moments, to better visualize things. One cold and dreary morning I walked up on the Longfellow and stood for a long time gazing at the black water below. I noticed that there was just enough room on the others side of the rusted railing for a person to stand before jumping. I also noticed there were gangly, two-foot weeds growing in the cracks in that eight inch ledge. Those weeds made an

impression on me. They struck me as real survivors – clinging to life on the very edge (ledge?) of death. I plucked several of them to take home with me and meditate on. The Underground part of me thought about the visit to the bridge, and the black water below. The healthy me thought about the weeds. I put them in water. In bringing this little confession to a close I would like to pose another question which the reader may have wondered about, if the answer isn’t obvious. “What does the Underground Man want?” Very simply, the Underground Man wants to be an underground man. Six feet under in an oblong box. The Underground Man is weak. He cannot cope with either this world or his life in it, and is bent on self-destruction. The challenge for me is to cling to love and keep the Underground Man from getting what is literally the better part of me. If I fail, I become the Dead Man. I hope you will wish me luck in this daily dual.

A Question of God

A bout the time my father was killed in a car accident, I was sleeping off a hangover from the 50 th birthday party we had thrown for him at the local American Legion hall the night before. The words from my aunt on the phone cut through the fog in my brain like a bolt of lightning. “Oh, no!” I half shouted. “No!”

The rest of that day was a nightmarish blur. The whole extended family gathered at my uncle’s house, only a few blocks from my father’s house. One of his sisters went to identify the body, while another aunt and cousin went to the nearby funeral home to make arrangements. The crowd at the house was the same crowd that was at the party the night before. We were all in shock, and there were a lot of tears being shed. I didn’t know what to do other than drink and talk and cry. In addition to grieving I was also growing increasingly angry. Angry at God. Angry that he could allow this to happen when my father was so young and on the day after his big birthday party. It seemed like some horrible, sick joke on God’s part. He had already taken my mother’s young life nine years earlier. And now it was this. I was thinking “Fuck you, God. I hate you.” That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about my father, about how happy he’d been the night before. He had been surrounded by the whole family, and many friends, and he was having such a great time. He couldn’t have known that within a few hours he’d be dead. It was all so appalling, so perverse. I wept into my pillow and thought about this huge loss in my life, about how I was going to be able to survive. I knew that I would, because I didn’t have a choice. But my shock, and my anger, grew ever stronger, almost by the minute. Despite this, eventually I fell asleep.

Next morning, I called my aunt to talk to her about funeral arrangements. She

told me that there was not going to be a funeral. She said that when dad had been battling cancer some years before, he had said to her that if he didn’t beat the cancer, that he did not want a funeral or a big wake. He wanted simply to be cremated, and his ashes scattered in the ocean, which he loved so much. Any money that would have been spent on a funeral was to be directed toward his favorite charity, to benefit children in need. In a way, I was relieved that there was to be no funeral. I wouldn’t have to face it, even though I got through my mother’s funeral, if only barely. I felt I was weak, because I knew that there are people every day who have to face funerals for their loved ones. Still, I felt relieved. I went to one of my bookcases, and took down my Bible. I went straight away to the book of Job. He was a guy who I felt I could identify with, because he had everything taken away from him, including his children, and he was angry and bitter, just like me. I found a verse that struck me like an arrow: He snatches away; who can stop him? Who will say to him ‘What are you doing?’ And I thought to myself, I will say to him, “What are you doing?” And I found another verse: Therefore, I will not restrain my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul. And I thought, “Amen.” Who is this god, that I should worship him? And Job said: I was at ease, and he broke me in two; he seized me by the neck and dashed me to pieces… And I thought, “Who the fuck is he to demand my worship? He can go to hell. The same hell that he himself created. I ed reading Elie Weisel, in one of his books, where a young boy was hanged by the SS in front of all the prisoners as a warning, and as the boy dangled and struggled, one of the prisoners shouted at Weisel, “Where is your god now?”

And even as I read and thought all these things. I wondered if I was feeling sorry for myself. The lord giveth, and the lord taketh away. How many people are on this planet who’ve never been giveth a damn thing, and what little they have, is taken from them? How many people have lost a child? I don’t have any children, but I can’t imagine anything worse in life than a parent having to bury a child. It seems to violate the order of the universe, the same way a miracle does. I read once about a plane crash, where more than a hundred people were killed. But there was one survivor. And that survivor had the gall to say that God had blessed him, looked out for him, and kept him safe. My immediate thought, in reaction to that was, “How do the loved ones of all those killed feel about that? Where was God’s benevolent hand for all those others that were killed?” And so, these were the thoughts I struggled with that day, and with no end in sight.

Having put my Bible back on the shelf (and not the trash, as was the temptation) I sat down in a chair and thought about my father. I thought about how good a person he was, and all the good times we’d had together, especially after my mother’s death. We became best friends. We did all sorts of things together, everything from cross-country drives, to flying model airplanes at the local park. The model airplanes. It was a cross-generational thing. My father regaled me with stories about his building and flying model airplanes as a boy. He told me about the time he clamped a powerful engine with a twelve inch wood propeller on his mother’s rocker in an enclosed porch, wanting to test the engine. The engine fired up, with a huge racket, spewing engine oil, and driving the chair forward and sideways. His mother, hollering at him, came at him with the back side of a hairbrush on his own back side. Then there was the time, again as a boy, when he spent a month building a three foot, detailed model, all framed up with balsa wood, only to watch it climb straight up, explode, fall straight down, and burn to a heap of ashes, much to the laughter and delight of all the assembled neighborhood kids. On Father’s Day, I once gave him an airplane kit. He wasn’t really into the idea at first, but I convinced him to build it, and once he got started, he really enjoyed working on it. Then came the big day, the day we took it to the park. The plane

was built to fly on a control line which kept the plane flying in circles around the person holding the end of the line. This kept the plane from simply disappearing into the wild blue yonder. He fired it up, gave the control line to me, and watched as I brought the plane gradually off the ground, then higher and higher till it was zooming all around me, going high and low as I adjusted the control handle. I was so happy, laughing and all, and he was too. I suspect he enjoyed it even more than I did, given all his boyhood experiences. All sorts of memories like this came pouring through my addled brain, and each one brought tears and more tears of loss.

It occurred to me that with all this growing pain and anger, it might do me well to talk to a priest. Then it struck me that to talk with a representative of God might do more damage than good, because I was sure to get the same old “God works in mysterious ways” speech. Or perhaps the “God tries the souls of men” speech. Or perhaps any of a hundred speeches, all of them designed to alleviate suffering, and not one of them doing a damn thing, except to make me angrier. No, I would not go to see a priest. But what did other people do? What did I do when my mother suddenly died? Was I this angry? I don’t . It devastated me, but somewhere along the way I must have overcome that devastation, because I’ve had a pretty strong faith until now. A lot of things have tested my faith over the years, but this was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. What should I do? One of the things I tried, which helped, was to think about cars. God didn’t design and build cars. Man did. God gave us that freedom. And with the advent of cars, came the advent of car accidents, and with those, sudden deaths. But why did it happen the day after we celebrated the fifty years of my father’s life? Was it pure coincidence? And why did my mother have to die so young? Was God targeting me? What was I to him that he would do this? Was there a purpose to all this, a purpose that required the deaths of my parents? I hoped not, for I would gladly have given up my own life for the lives of my parents. And what about all the terrible suffering in the world, suffering that far eclipsed my own? Was it man’s fault? Were we being punished? My father was an atheist. Or rather, he became one after my mother’s death. Her

death killed his faith, but it did not kill mine. Of that I am certain. I went to my Bible again, with some trepidation, with some sense of futility. Was I doing anything different than talking to a priest? Seeking solace in the same timeless platitudes? Perhaps not. Perhaps the Bible, allegedly God’s word and gift to us, had hidden within it some further solace. I went to the book of Psalms. I knew that David had raised his hands to God many times in misery, seeking his help, even while he kept his faith, and even while God seemed to ignore him. I thumbed slowly through the psalms, stopping now and again, looking for something to speak to me. David, don’t let me down. God, don’t let me down. Then I came to Psalm 22. David said, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? And I ed that those words were the very same words that Christ himself cried out when he was on the cross. And Christ was the son of God. Even he felt the pain of human misery, and questioned God, his father. But he did not lose his faith, even unto death. I burst into tears, and got down on my knees. I begged for God’s mercy, I cried for his help. For a long time, I cried. And when my sobbing at last stopped, I stayed on my knees, my hands on my face. A sense of peace came over me. I felt consolation. I thought of my father, and felt the pang of lost love. But I also felt that my father was at peace, and that he, through God, would always be with me. Somehow, I knew at that moment that I was going to be okay. That God was going to give me the strength I so much needed. And that God, my eternal father, would always be with me as well. I got back on my feet.

Lizzie Borden and the Witches

G reg, at age twenty-four, worked in a small, second-hand bookshop in the basement of a three hundred year old building in downtown Boston. At the moment, he was alone in the shop and was organizing books on the shelves. He heard the door open, and went out to the front where the counter was, with the . Two attractive young women entered the shop. One was brunette, tall and curvaceous, the other dirty blond and slender. They approached the counter. They were holding hands. One of them smiled and said, “Do you have the Kama Sutra?” His face flushed. “Yes, I believe we do.” “We want an illustrated version, so we can see how many ways people can fuck each other. Sexual nirvana, you know?” He flushed even deeper. He was too flustered to give a quick response. “I can show you,” he said at last. “Good,” the other one said. “You’re cute. You can be our guide.” Greg did not respond but came around the counter and led them to the Eastern Philosophy section. He scanned the titles, and found a copy of the book. He pulled it off the shelf and handed it to the brunette. “Here,” he said. The woman opened it, and flipped through the pages, which were copiously illustrated with Eastern artwork depicting the various erotic scenarios. She smiled. “Perfect!” she exclaimed. “You’re very good, you know? Did you know you’re running a porn shop?” Both of them laughed. It was clear to him that they were both trying to embarrass him. He decided to fight back. “Did you know, ladies, that the mechanics of sex amount to only about twenty percent of the Kama Sutra? The rest of it is a deep religious description of the spiritual nature of love. It’s very far from being pornographic, unless you buy

one of these lurid editions that only give you the twenty percent.” The women looked at each other. Then they looked at him. One of them said, “I’m impressed, Mr. Bookseller.” “Thank you,” he said. He turned and walked up the aisle to the counter, with the two women behind. When he was behind the counter he accepted the book and rang up the price on the . He watched as one of them dug in her pocket for the money. As she did, he noticed her necklace, a silver pentacle. He looked at the other woman and saw the same exact necklace. He was feeling bolder. “Are you two witches?” They both looked at him “I noticed your necklaces” he said. Both women laughed. The blond nodded. “Yes, we are, Mr. Bookseller. You’re quite observant. We prefer, however, to be referred to as Wiccans, which sheds all the connotations of warts, broomsticks and voodoo dolls. Wicca is a legitimate religion, rooted in paganism. “Maybe you won’t be interested then, but I know we have at least a few books on witchcraft. I think there’s an encyclopedia on witchcraft. Do you want me to show it to you?” “Sure,” the brunette said. Greg returned to the same aisle and found the encyclopedia. He also found a book on the Salem witchcraft trials of 1692. “Here’s the encyclopedia,” he said. He opened the book and thumbed through some of the pages. He smiled. “It’s got lots of pictures, too.” Both girls laughed. “Well done, Bookseller,” the brunette said. “You’ve sold another book.” Greg smiled. “What are your names?” “I’m Kelly,” the brunette replied. “And I’m Suzanne,” the other said.

“I’m Greg,” he said. “Look, I found another book you might be interested in. It’s about the Salem witchcraft hysteria.” Suzanne reached for the book. She looked at it, then showed it to Kelly. “We’ve read several books on the trials, but haven’t seen this one. “We’ll take that one too. You’re on a roll, Bookseller-man.” She looked at the book again. “We have a special interest, not just because we’re witches, as you would say, but because we also live in Salem.” Greg was a bit taken aback. “Oh, come on,” he said. “You two are Salem witches? Isn’t that a bit retro for you folks? I mean, no offense, but Salem’s reputation nowadays is a bit kitchy, with all the Halloween stuff, the tacky gift shops, and all.” Kelly looked him in the eyes. “Then you don’t really know Salem,” she said. “Salem is one of the few places in the country where Wicca has a thriving community, where Wiccans can practice their faith without being ridiculed. Is the town commercialized because of the trials? Yeah, it is. But there are a lot of honest, decent people there who don’t participate in all the goofy Halloween parades and all that touristy crap. There’s a Salem behind the scenes that most people don’t see. There are a lot of legitimate Wiccans there, who enjoy the fellowship of other Wiccans. In fact, both of us are of a very old coven.” Greg was listening with deep interest, but he did not respond. He looked down at the counter and noticed a book lying on a pile of books to his left. It was a book about Lizzie Borden and the murders of her parents. He picked it up. “Do you guys believe in haunted houses?” He handed the book to Suzanne. “I’m being serious.” Without looking at the book, Suzanne said, “Yes, we do. And believe it or not, there are some haunted places in Salem.” She looked down at the book in her hand, and Kelly looked over at it as well. “What’s this for?” she asked. “Well, you know about Lizzie Borden, right? ‘Lizzie Borden took an axe and gave her mother forty whacks’…etcetera.” “Of course we do,” Suzanne said. “Well, the Lizzie Borden house is supposed to be haunted by the spirits of her

dead parents. And, or, Lizzie herself. I just thought since you are interested in that sort of thing that I might be able to sell you another book.” He smiled at them. “I’ve actually been there,” he said. “But I didn’t see any ghosts.” “You’ve been there? Where is it?” Kelly asked. “It’s down in Fall River.” “Here? In Massachusetts?” “Yes,” he replied. “You didn’t know that the Borden murders were a local thing?” The two women looked at each other. “No, actually we didn’t,” Kelly said. “Well, like I said, I’ve actually been there. No ghosts that I saw.” “How did you get to go in?” Suzanne asked. “Is it a museum?” Greg nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s a museum. But, believe it or not, it’s also an inn. I didn’t stay there, though. But it’s still pretty cool.” The two women looked at each other. Suzanne looked at Greg. “That is cool. Sounds like a great place to stay.” “You guys sound pretty morbid.” “You went there. Even if you didn’t stay there, you must be a tad morbid yourself, Bookseller-man.” Greg hesitated. “Fair point,” he said. “But I never believed the legends about ghosts haunting the place.” “Who’s to say it isn’t haunted?” Kelly said. “Just because you didn’t see anything on your tour doesn’t mean it’s not occupied by spirits.” “Okay,” Greg said. “I suppose it’s possible, but like I said, I don’t believe it.” Suzanne dug out some more money and paid for the extra books. “Thanks a lot. You’ve been very helpful.”

“You’re welcome,” Greg replied. He watched as the two women left the shop. He shook his head. “What a pair,” he said aloud to himself. “I just met two lesbian Salem witches.” He went back to organizing the bookshelves.

About an hour later, just before closing, the two women came back. Greg gave them a surprised smile, which they returned with a wave. Another customer approached the counter to pay for a book, and then left. The shop was empty except for the two women. “Ah, my two favorite witches,” he said. “What brings you back?” “We were having coffee across the street” Kelly said, “and got to talking about the Lizzie Borden house. We decided to go there tomorrow for an overnighter. We want you to come with us. Our fearless leader and resident boy-toy. Our favorite bookseller. What do you say?” Greg was shocked. He didn’t know what to say. He was excited, and at the same time, completely put off by it. “I don’t know,” he said. A moment later he added, “I can’t.” The women looked disappointed. “Why not?” Kelly asked. “Are you afraid of the dark?” “No,” Greg replied “I don’t know.” He flushed. “What do you mean by ‘boy toy’?” Both of the women laughed. “Look at him,” Suzanne said. “He’s turning redder than our favorite love potion. What do you think we mean, you cutie-pie? We just bought the Kama Sutra. You could be our real-life toy, which would be much better than a rubber one.” They laughed again. Greg looked down at the floor. His heart was beating fast. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry. I just can’t do that. I’m not…” “You’re not what?” Suzanne interrupted.

“I’m just… I’m just not into what you’re talking about. Besides, I don’t have any money.” “Oh, come on,” Suzanne said. She shook her head. “We’re just teasing you. You drive and we’ll pay for you to have a separate room. How’s that? What do you have to lose, Bookman, besides your virginity?” Kelly laughed. Greg smiled. “You two really are a bit forward, don’t you think? And I’m not a virgin.” “Well, there you go,” said Kelly. “All we need, besides you of course, is your car.” “Even if I say yes, there’s no way of telling if there are any rooms available.” “There’s one way to find out,” Kelly said. She took out her cell phone. “Let’s call.” While she was making the call, Greg flipped the door sign to “Closed” and started to organize the sales counter. He was thinking hard and fast about the witches’ offer. He was half-listening to Kelly as she got the number from Information and phoned the inn. Then he was all ears when she was speaking to the inn’s manager. He could tell by her questions and responses that there were rooms available. “That’s great,” Kelly said into the phone. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” She hung up. “We’re all set,” she said. “Two rooms. Too late for you to back out now, Bookman. And get this,” she added. “The two Wiccans will be staying in the exact room where Lizzie killed her mother!” “God, you two really are morbid,” Greg said. “You take it to a new level.” “We’re not morbid,” Kelly replied. “We’re just open to the darker side.” “Okay,” Greg said, grinning. “Looks like we’re taking a trip tomorrow!” Both women laughed. “Woo hoo!” Suzanne exclaimed. “Okay, Bookboy,” Kelly said. “What time can you leave tomorrow?”

“I can leave here around noon,” he replied. “My manager won’t have a problem with that. And I’m off on Sunday.” “Excellent,” Kerry replied. “We’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget to bring your condoms!” Both women laughed. Greg smiled, nervously. “Those won’t be necessary.”

The following morning back at the shop, Greg was very nervous. Unsure of what he was getting himself into, unsure of how he was going to respond to it all. He was also worried that they would say something in front of his manager that would embarrass him. Precisely at noon one of the witches, Kelly, showed up at the shop. To his relief, all she greeted him with was a smile and a “Hello, Greg.” He was grateful, because he knew she could have purposefully embarrassed him. But she didn’t, and in the matter of about one minute he gathered his stuff and said his goodbye to the manager. His excitement, as he followed Kelly out of the shop and up the steps, was growing palpable. Suzanne was waiting just outside. She smiled at him. “Are you ready for this?” He nodded. “I’m ready. This will be fun!” “Glad you came to your senses,” she said. “Okay, let me bring the car around to pick you up.” As he walked around the corner, he felt like skipping. He had no social life, so going on a trip like this with two witches really was exciting. He pulled the car up in front of the two women, and waited as they piled in with their bags, Suzanne in front. “Where are you going, witches?” They laughed. “The Lizzie Borden House, please,” Suzanne replied. “You got it,” he said.

Having left the city, heading south toward Fall River, Greg and the witches were

filling each other in on the paths of their lives. Greg was very intrigued by the two women, how they came to be Salem witches. He said to himself, “I am driving two witches to the Lizzie Borden house. What the fuck?”

As they approached Fall River, Suzanne asked him, “Are you getting excited, Bookman?” “Yes, I am. This is very cool. I’m glad you two came into the bookshop yesterday.” “Likewise,” she said. “You do know, of course, that you are indeed going to be our boy-toy, right? You ought to feel lucky. We don’t sleep around, despite what you might think. Most men act like wolves around us, and you’ve been the opposite, which is one of the reasons we like you.” Greg smiled. “I wish you’d stop with all the boy-toy stuff. You’re always making me blush. But I do thank you for the complement.” The two women laughed. “So, tell me,” he said. “What drew you two to witchcraft? Do you believe in God?” “Well, those are two different questions,” Suzanne replied. “As for God, we believe in many, but pre-eminent for us is Mother Nature. We believe Nature is a higher power, and as Wiccans we try commune with that power through our celebrations of the plenitude, and the cycles, of the natural world, of the seen and unseen. Our rites, our rituals, are a way of harmonizing with the universe in its many facets. Life itself is a harmony, a harmony of dualing opposites. Light and dark, love and hate, birth and death, good and evil, female and male, water and dust.” “Like yin and yang making a circle,” Greg said. “Exactly,” Kelly replied. “So,” Suzanne continued, “when we pray, work our spells and other important rituals, we are tapping into and channeling universal forces, seen and unseen.

Miracles aren’t miracles at all, they aren’t supernatural events. On the contrary, we believe they are quite natural, a part of the natural order.” She paused. “Did I answer your question?” “Yes, you did,” he replied. “Very much so. It’s quite interesting. How did you get involved with it? I assume you weren’t raised as witches?” “No,” Kelly replied. “We were both raised as Protestants, but when we met in college we just started exploring, and we discovered Wicca and it just seemed like a natural fit for us. And after we discovered that Salem is full of Wiccans and covens, we moved there. Now you know our story.” “And you are of a coven?” “Yes. We tried a few different ones, and finally found one that was a good fit for us. We’ve been there two years now. They are wonderful people.” “Wow,” Greg said. “It’s quite an honor to be ferrying around two real-life witches.” He laughed. “You don’t mind if I keep calling you witches, do you?” “Nah,” Suzanne replied. “Just don’t call us wicked witches. We rarely ever change people into toads.” Greg laughed. “One more question,” Greg asked. “If you two are lesbians, aren’t you sort of cutting away the Ying with the Yang, the male with the female that gives the world such balance? “Good question,” Suzanne said. “The answer is that we really aren’t just lesbians. We just haven’t met the right men yet. Men like you, dearest husband. Then we’ll sink in our claws. Till then we’ll have our fun. Got it?” Greg shook his head. “Got it.” “So,” said Suzanne, “what do you believe, Greg? Are you a Christian?” “Well, yes I am. I’m Roman Catholic.” “Hey, she said, “Whatever floats your boat, right? Live and let live, we always

say. But hey, that means you believe in spirits, in devils and demons and all that, right?” “Yeah, I guess so. The first time I saw The Exorcist it scared the hell out of me. I couldn’t sleep. The same with The Amityville Horror.” “I like that,” she said. They were silent for a while, enjoying the ride. Finally, Kelly asked, “Daddy, are we there yet?” Greg laughed. “Almost, my child.”

They continued south, and finally came to the exit for Fall River. They drove into the ancient town, and within minutes they pulled up in front of the inn on Second Street. It was a large brown, nondescript house, with three stories and an A-frame roof. It hardly looked like an inn, let alone a haunted one. Still, they were all excited to be there. Greg said, “I think we’re early enough to catch one of the last tours of the day. They give a nice forty-five minute tour, which is what I took when I was here before. Let’s check in and see if we can catch a tour.” They piled out of the car with their overnight bags, and entered the inn. The proprietor was there, and they all checked in. “Whew,” Greg said to the witches. “You really did get me a separate room.” “You thought we were lying?” Suzanne said. “We could have gotten a room with a cot for you, but we want to stay in the murder room, so you’ll be free to dream of us while lying in your own lonely bed.” The women laughed. “We brought some whiskey, so that we might ply you with alcohol and loosen you up a bit. Don’t forget, we’ve got the Kama Sutra with us. You’re just the sort of guy we’d like to experiment with. And don’t tell me you aren’t interested in sex. You’re still a young, red-blooded male, and we’re young, red-blooded lesbian Wiccans open to experimentation. Keep an open mind, you Book Seller Stud. You ought to be grateful!” Greg blushed. “Damn you,” he said, “you’re always making me flush red.”

“That’s one of the reasons you’re so fun to play with” Kelly said. “Are you really so devout as to up a little harmless fun with two women you love deeply?” Greg looked at the floor. “I am that devout,” he said, looking up. “It’s fun joking about it, but I could never…” “It’s okay, Greg. Really. We respect your beliefs. We’re just having fun.” “Okay,” he said, relieved.

After they’d checked into their rooms, they went on the tour. The main thing they took away from it, besides the facts of the murders themselves, was that it was still an unsolved mystery as to who actually committed the murders. Lizzie was still the primary suspect, but there was evidence that she was innocent, and that the housekeeper, or two other people who had it in for Lizzie’s father, may have been responsible. It was unlikely, the innkeeper said, that the murder will ever be solved. Only the walls will ever know, he said.

Greg and the witches went to a local pub for dinner, which Greg really enjoyed, primarily because of the company of the two women. Afterwards, they returned to the darkened inn and went up to their rooms. A few minutes later, as Greg was unpacking his bag, there was a knock at the door. He opened it and found Kelly before him. “We’re bored,” she said. “Come on over to our place, and have a drink.” Greg smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.” Kelly led him to their room. “Hello, Greg,” Suzanne said. She had opened a bottle of scotch, and she poured some into a glass for Greg. “Cheers,” she said. “Here’s to our one night minicoven.” They all laughed.

After a moment, Suzanne said, “So, listen, Greg, we’ve got something with us besides alcohol. We brought a Ouija board. We’re going to use it. Would you be willing to us?” Greg didn’t respond right away. He was surprised, and unsure of himself. He felt uneasy. But finally he said, “Okay. I’ll try it.” “Good,” said Kelly. The girls sat on the bed, cross-legged and set the board on the bed between them. Greg pulled up a chair next to the bed. “It’ll be okay,” said Suzanne. “Don’t worry. Try to clear your mind and just focus on the questions.” The three of them sat in silence for a while. Then the girls placed their fingers lightly on either side of the planchette. Kelly finally spoke up. “Is there anyone here with us?” she asked. They waited. After about two minutes, the planchette began to move beneath the two women’s fingers, drifting at first. then moving slowly but purposefully to letters of the alphabet. “YES” it pointed out. “Who are you?” she continued. Again the slow response. “ME” “Who is me?” They waited, but there was no response. “Were you here for the Lizzie Borden murders?” It moved slowly. “YES” “Oh my god,” said Suzanne. Kelly continued. “Who are you?” she asked again.

Again there was no response. “Are you good or evil?” “ME” “Do you want anything,” Suzanne asked. “YOU” “What can we do?” “LOVEME” “I don’t like this,” Greg said. Kelly asked, “But how can we love you if we don’t know who you are? What can we do?” There was a long pause. Then, slowly: “DIE” All three of them looked at each other in consternation. Greg shook his head. “Okay, I’ve had enough of this. Whatever it is, it’s not good, and I don’t think we should fuck around with it.” Kelly nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I agree.” “I’m with you,” Suzanne added. “This is disturbing.” “I thought you two liked adventures with the dark side,” Greg said. “Not this dark,” Kelly said, shaking her head. “I was just kidding you.” “I hope you two don’t make a habit of screwing around with that thing just for kicks. I think you’re playing with fire. You’re Wiccans, I’m Catholic. We both believe in demons, and worse. That thing,” and he gestured toward the Ouija board, “that thing is dangerous.” “We’ve used it a number of times,” said Suzanne, “but have never had an experience like that before. That was truly some sort of evil entity.” She shook

her head. “Put that thing completely away,” Greg said. “I’m glad we pulled the plug on it when we did.” “I could use a drink,” Kelly said. “Greg, come onto the bed with us. We’re just going to sit in a circle, legs crossed. We’re going to hold hands, and we’re going to think positive thoughts, we’re each going to think about something beautiful, something holy in your life, past or present, and immerse yourself in it, feel it in your body and soul. And hold hands. Let’s just do that for a few minutes.” And so for five, ten, fifteen minutes they each sat with their eyes closed, holding hands, dreaming. Finally, Suzanne spoke up. “That was beautiful, I feel so relaxed, and in a much better place than I was before.” Kelly concurred. Greg hesitated. “I have to it that I had trouble getting that Ouija thing out of my mind at first, but then I thought about taking communion during mass, and it brought me a sense of peace and a sense of loving fulfillment. It was wonderful.” “I’ll drink to that,” Kelly said. “Will you us, Greg?” “Sure,” he said. “I’d probably be hanging around in my apartment back home drinking anyway, so being here with you two is kind of special. It’s been an interesting day, to say the least. It started innocently enough in my bookshop, and now here I am in Lizzie Borden’s house drinking in bed with two lesbian witches, just minutes after a personal encounter with the devil. Can’t get much better! I want to thank the both of you for dragging me along on this little trip.” Kelly handed him the bottle, and he took a long swig. “Oh, man that tastes good,” and he ed it along to Suzanne. They made a few slow rounds with the whiskey, drinking and laughing until their bodies were infused with a warm happy glow. Kelly unfolded her legs and rested them across Greg’s lap. “Do you mind, Mr. Book Man?” Greg smiled and said, after another swig, “No.” He rested his hands on her legs. “Let me ask you something,” he said. “Do you

have men…” The girls laughed. “No, not right now,” Suzanne said. Greg laughed. “No. I guess not. I guess I feel lucky.” After a few more rounds, when they’d drunk half the bottle, they were feeling a bit giddy and lightheaded. The three were still in a rough circle, Do you have any men in your coven?” he asked. Kelly laughed. “Why, are you thinking about ing?” “No, I’m just curious.” “Well, the answer is no.” “Why is that? Are all covens women only?” “No, a lot of them are mixed. Our coven, we used to it men, but that didn’t work out too well. We had a couple of our women getting harassed or worse by some of the so-called male Wiccans, so we booted them out and decided to make if a female-only coven. If we had nice, serious guys like you it would be a different story.” “Are most of them lesbians, like you?” “Some of them are,” replied Kelly, “but mostly not. And some,” she said, “are a little of both. Like us for example,” and she smiled at Suzanne. who smiled back. Kelly leaned toward Greg and pulled him close. They kissed. It felt so beautiful and natural to him, and they kissed deeply. Then Suzanne said, “My turn, Missy.” She leaned forward and kissed Greg the same way. And then he watched as the two women kissed each other. Kelly leaned over to kiss Greg again, but he shook his head. “I’m sorry Kelly, I’m sorry Suzanne, I just can’t do this. A part of me wants to, but I just can’t do it. I hope that you will forgive me, and not hold it against me. You are both of you marvelous women, and I consider you new friends. But I just can’t do this part of it. I’m really sorry. You certainly gave me enough warning, but you also reserved me my own room, where I will be sleeping

tonight, thanks to your generosity. Greg felt a sense of relief, but also a sense of regret. The girls smiled at him and told him it was okay. “Oh, well, we tried,” Suzanne said with a laugh. “Thank you for a wonderful day, and night,” he said, getting up from the bed. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds to do your thing, only you have to think of me the whole time, okay?” They laughed. “And don’t take that damn Ouija board out again!” “No problem with that,” Kelly said. He leaned over and gave each of the women a kiss on the cheek, then said good night and closed the door behind him. His room was up on the third floor, and as climbed the stairs he felt pangs of regret at turning down what surely would have been a wonderful experience. And yet he felt it was wrong, at least for him. He couldn’t participate in something his conscience objected to. When he was undressed and in bed, his thoughts turned to the girls, but not about his near sexual experiences with them. He thought about the Ouija board, and the bizarre and sinister responses they were getting. It shook him up again.

They had a continental breakfast the next morning, and mingled with the few other guests at the inn. They were eating in the dining room and right over there in the front room is where Lizzie’s father was butchered on the sofa. “Food for thought,” Suzanne quipped. Kelly said afterwards that they should gather their belongings and check out. “Fine with me,” Greg said.” They returned to their rooms and packed their bags. They checked out and got into the car for the long drive home. “That place was a trip,” Kelly, said.” “We got our money’s worth.” “Agreed” said Suzanne. “I agree,” said “Greg. “And thanks for getting me my own room. I have to say you two made it very difficult for me to go up to my own room. It was a damn

hard thing to do.” “How hard was it?” Suzanne said with a giggle. Greg blushed, and laughed. “Plenty hard.” After a pause, Greg asked, “Where does your coven meet? “We practice our craft right in the comfort of our own homes,” Kelly said. “If you’d like to visit some time, you can be our special guest. Come over Friday night if you want. Here, here’s my card.” “I’d like that” he said. “But just as an observer.” “That’s fine,” Suzanne said. “You can participate as much or as little, or not at all, whatever you want. Like I said, you would just be our special guest.” “Okay,” said Greg. “That sounds good.”

Greg drove them all the way up to Salem, to save them the train ride from Boston. He followed their directions, and finally pulled up in front of a handsome brick townhouse. He got out and helped them with their bags. They went up the few steps to the door. “Would you like to come in for some tea?” Suzanne asked. Greg shook his head. “No, I should be getting back. But thanks.” Kelly leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Then Suzanne, kissed him. “Will we see you Friday?” Kelly asked. “Because we know where you work. We’ll hunt you down.” “I’ll be there,” he said, “but I’m bringing my exorcist with me, just for protection.” They all laughed. Suzanne punched him in the arm. “You better not,” she said. “The Spanish Inquisition, and all that. He’ll make us nervous.” “Gotcha,” Greg replied, smiling. “I’ll see you girls Friday. I’ll give you a call

before hand.” He turned and went back to the car. The two witches waved and entered the building. Greg got into the car and started the engine. He looked back at the entrance to the home. He shook his head. “Wow,” was all he could say.

Tom Moore’s Poems

A fter a long, bitter and acrimonious divorce settlement Michael finally decided to take a vacation to get away from it all. He chose to take a cruise to Bermuda, which was for him a truly enchanted isle. He knew there might be some emotional issues, some sadness, when he got there because all of his trips there had been with his wife Carey, and that everywhere he went would trigger memories of her. At least they would be good memories, beginning with their two week honeymoon and extending through all their subsequent trips there. Also, this time he would be taking a cruise ship, which Carey and he had never taken before, so Bermuda would be the locale for a few days, but other days would be spent at sea, enjoying the grandeur of a one-thousand foot ocean-going vacation resort with everything from beautiful dining rooms, lounges, a casino, library, theatres for live shows, pools and on and on. He was justifiably excited, even though he was travelling alone. He needed this. On the afternoon the ship sailed, he stood along the rail and watched Boston and the harbor islands, including Boston Light, dip below the horizon. Now they were truly at sea. A sense of freedom filled him. He went down below decks to his stateroom, which was an inside room with two narrow beds, a dresser, a closet, a bathroom and a mini-bar in a cabinet. There wasn’t a window, but he did not plan on spending any time in the cabin besides sleeping. His first order of the day was changing into some smart casual clothes (jacket, nice shirt, tan slacks) and head up to the dining deck. Dinner wasn’t till 7:30, so he had an hour to wander around and familiarize himself with the nearby areas of the ship. There were some expensive - looking a la carte restaurants, including a beautiful French one he made up his mind to visit that week. There was also the casino, where he intended to play later that night. He loved roulette. When the hour had ed, he went to the main dining room. It was lovely, made up of high, decorative ceilings, blue carpeting, and a grand curving staircase down which guests arrived. The tables, of various sizes, were covered with white tablecloths, gleaming silver and glassware. Waiters were dressed in black tie.

There were also grand windows with beautiful ocean views. Being alone, he was seated with a table full of strangers, apparently a family, and they were all speaking French. They all looked at him with curiosity. One of them, a middle aged woman who was presumably the mother, greeted him in English, then went back to speaking French to her family. He would rather eat on his own and not have to make small talk over dinner with strangers. That sort of thing made him very anxious, and he did not want to be anxious. While he was waiting for a waiter, he studied the family next to him. There was the mother, the father, and two sons, who appeared to be in their twenties, and a daughter, also in her twenties. They were all handsomely dressed. After a while, after he had ordered his wine and meal, and as they conversed away in French, the girl, sitting opposite him, looked at him and smiled. She had auburn hair, and was quite beautiful. “Bonjour,” she said. “Bonjour,” he replied “Mais je ne parle pas francaise”. She laughed lightly. “It’s okay. I speak English.” “Oh, good,” he said, smiling. “I’m Michael.” “And I’m Simone.” They shook hands. Where are you from?” she asked. “I’m from the Boston area. How about you?” “We’re from Paris.” “Paris. Nice.” Her face brightened. “Have you been?” “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I wish. But it is a place I would very much like to visit someday. Most of my ancestors came from , particularly

Normandy, Paris and Britanny.” She smiled. “We’re practically cousins!” He laughed. “Why were you in Boston?” “My brother, Jean,” she said, nodding toward one of the young men at the table. “He just graduated from college.” “Oh, where did he go?” “MIT,” she relied. “He studied engineering.” “Great school,” he said. “He’s a smart kid.” “So all of you are on a celebratory vacation cruise?” “Indeed, we are.” She paused.” “How about you?” “Just a week off. I’ve always loved Bermuda. Have you been before?” She shook her head. “No. I’ve never been, but I hear it’s lovely.” “It truly is,” he said. He found himself attracted to the young woman. “If you’d like, I could escort you around the island and show you all the sights.” She laughed. “You’re sweet. But I must decline.” “Okay.” He was disappointed. “May I continue to you and your family here for dinners?” “Of course!” she said. “In fact I’ve been rude in not introducing you.” She tapped the handle of her knife against her glass until her family stopped talking and looked at her quizzically. “Everyone,” she said, looking around the table. “This is our cruise table-mate, Michael.” Everyone along the table raised their glasses and smiled in welcome. He flushed. “You’ll find they are quite nice people. Most of the time.”

The others chuckled. “Welcome,” one of them said. He smiled at Simone. “If they’re half as nice as you I’ll be all set.” She raised her glass to sip, and she eyed him as he sipped from his own. She lowered her glass. “Are you alone?” she asked. “Yes,” I am, he said, and he looked down at his plate. “Do you have friends or relatives in Bermuda?” “No. It’s only me. I just decided I would take a break at my favorite island destination.” Just then their food arrived, and everyone seemed to be pleased by the artistic presentation of the plates. Michael took a bit of his entrée and was pleased. “This is quite good,” he said. He got up his nerve. “Do you have any plans for the evening?” Simone smiled. “Yes, I do,” she said. “We’re going to the play tonight. Would you like to come? There might still be tickets available.” Michael was slightly crestfallen. “No, I think I’ll skip that tonight. I’m going to wander the ship, visit some of the clubs and lounges, maybe hit up the casino if I’m feeling lucky.” “That sounds like fun,” she said. He smiled. “I’m an animal. What can I say?” “Well,” she said, “perhaps we’ll run into each other later on.” “I’d like that,” he said. They both ate their meals, followed by dessert and coffee. The conversation was light, and several times he was asked questions by of the family. He congratulated Jean on receiving his degree. Jean was obviously proud and happy to be done.

At the end of the meal, Michael rose from the table and thanked them for allowing him to dine with them. “I think this is a permanent assignment,” he said, “so I will see you all again tomorrow evening, if not sooner!” He turned to Simone. “It was so nice talking to you Simone. I hope to see you around the ship.” He reached out and shook her hand. “Goodnight. Enjoy the show.” He climbed the grand stairway and emerged into the enormous atrium in the heart of the ship. As he wandered, his first stop was at the cigar bar. A cognac and a good cigar struck him as the perfect thing just now. He wandered around looking at the cigars, selected one and ordered the drink. He sat in a chair overlooking the moonlit ocean. As he lit and smoked the excellent cigar, he reflected on his broken marriage. His mood declined. He thought about just going to bed. But he convinced himself that he was here to have a nice time, a nice diversion, a reward for having survived. So he stayed and finished the cigar and cognac. He wondered where to go next. He decided to go outside and walk the promenade around the ship. The weather was perfect. Warm but with a nice breeze. He strolled along, watching the other people out as he was, and enjoyed the briny smell of the sea. The ocean was calm. He was eager to see Bermuda again, but was glad he had decided to take a cruise. He thought of Simone. He wished she was here with him. He continued to wander. He stopped by the pool area, where there were still a lot of revelers, many of them young. The whole set-up there was really well done, he thought. If he’d had a suit on he might have gone in for a dip. He ordered a drink from the poolside bar and continued walking the ship. Then he thought of the casino, and thought he’d try his luck at the roulette wheel. He entered the casino and spotted one of the roulette tables. He stood watching for a few minutes, and when a seat opened up he sat down. His method of playing was simple. He only played the outside bets on color, and he doubled down if he lost a spin. It was slow, but leisurely, and he usually came out ahead, if only by a few dollars. He enjoyed it. He sipped from a single malt as he played. He was having a good night this night, and had nearly doubled his money. He

felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up. It was Simone. “Hey!’ he exclaimed, smiling. She smiled back. “I thought I might find you here.” “How was the show?” he asked. “It was okay. Not great, but entertaining nonetheless.” “Well, good,” he said. “How are you doing?” she asked, nodding toward the roulette table. “Not bad, he said. I’m up about double.” “Oh. Then you can afford to buy me a drink.” “You bet,” he said, smiling. “Pun intended.” The waitress came and he ordered her a glass of wine. “Why don’t you grab a seat here and me. Here,” he said, moving his winnings over to the spot next to him. “Have a seat.” He was pleased when she accepted his offer. His evening had taken a very pleasant turn toward happiness. “Have you played before?” he asked. “Yes, a few times. I won in Monaco.” She smiled. “Holy moly,” he said. “The shrine of casinos.” “Yes,” she laughed. “What do you play?” “Me? I usually play random numbers. That’s it. I almost always lose in the end, but it’s still fun.” She took a stack of chips and proceeded to spread them out across the numbers, with a small stack on number 33. He put a stack on black. The number 34, a black, came up. “Well,” he said,” I won another drink for the both of us.” She laughed. She did win a few split bets, which mitigated her losses, but she quickly lost the chips he had given her.

“Where is your family?” he asked. “Scattered to the winds,” she replied.” Actually, I think one of my brothers is here in the casino. I think he’s playing blackjack. Yes, there he is,” and she pointed. “What do you say,” he said. “Want to explore a bit, or go for a stroll?” “Sure,” she said, standing up. They left the casino and entered the atrium. “Hey, do you like to dance?” he asked. “I saw a dance club, if you’d like to dance.” “No, but thanks. I think I’m actually going to my mother and father, on the promenade. You’re more than welcome to come if you’d like.” “Thank you,” he said. “I think I’ll wander around a bit more then retire to the cabin for a bit of reading and bed.” “Okay,” she said. “I understand. By the way, what are you reading?” “You ought to appreciate this. I’m reading a bi-lingual, French-English translation of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. How’s that for a coincidence?” “Bravo,” she said with a smile. “How are you making out?” I’m just lucky the English is there, is all I can say.” She smiled. “Keep at it. Maybe tomorrow I’ll read you a few ages.” “That would be great,” he said, smiling in return. “In any case, I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.” He shook her hand. “Good night.”

When he woke the next morning, Simone was the first thing he thought of. He hoped he would see her again before dinner. He wondered too if he would be able to escort her when on the island. He dressed casually and went to a café for a buffet breakfast. He had brought his book with him, and decided to sit on a lounger above the pool area. The weather was perfect. When he found a recliner, he took his shirt off and settled down to read his book. In another hour he finished it. He put it aside and decided to take a little nap in the sun. He woke about half an hour later and decided to go down to the poolside bar and order a daquari. He sat at the bar in the cooling shade and watched the crowd in and beside the pool. After finishing his drink he decided to go back to his cabin and grab another book. First, however, he walked the promenade for a while, partly for exercise, and partly in the hope of seeing Simone. He returned to his tiny cabin. He chuckled to himself. All the ship’s promotional brochures, and on the cruise itself, referred to it as a “stateroom”. It sounded like such a grand title. The second book he had brought was a massive philosophical tome called Being and Nothingness by Jean-Paul Sartre. He wondered if Simone would be impressed that he was reading a French author, albeit in English. He turned on the cabin TV to check the ship’s channel. It indicated that tonight’s dinner was to be a dress dinner. Black tie or suits for the men. Gowns or other dress outfits for the women. He knew in advance that there would be one or two such formal nights, and he looked forward to seeing Simone in a fancy dress. He did not have a tux, but he had brought his formal American Legion dress uniform which, with all its gold braiding, looked quite handsome, he thought. He hoped it would impress Simone. He donned some Bermuda shorts and a polo shirt. With his book in a bag he went up to buy another drink, then picked out a recliner and settled down with his book. It was a hard book to read with all the distractions of his fellow travelers and the sight of the ocean, and after a time he dozed off. When he woke a short time later he was shocked to see that Simone was sitting right next to him. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “It’s you!”

She smiled. “The one and only.” “How are you?” he asked. “What have you been doing today?” “Oh, just wandering around, for the most part. I also spent a fair amount of time sunning on the balcony of our suite.” “Nice,” he said. “You have your own private balcony?” “Yes,” she replied. “It’s such a nice day,” he said. “I’ve spent a good deal of time sun-bathing myself. I finished The Old Man and the Sea. I love that book. I read it every year. It was special to read it this time with the French translation.” “Yes, it is a marvelous book,” she said. She looked at the book on his lap. “I see you’ve moved on to some light reading” she said with an amused smile. “Oh. Sartre. Yes, light reading,” he chuckled. “More French related reading,” she said. “You’re a Francofile, aren’t you? He nodded and smiled. “Yes. I suppose I am.” She smiled as well. “Have you read Sartre?” he asked. “Yes. I’ve read a lot of his work, including the book you’re holding. A lot of his work I read at university. I haven’t read any since then.” “You’re something else,” he said. “What do you mean?” she asked. He flushed. “Because you’re so damn beautiful — and smart on top of it.” He felt embarrassed that he’d been so forward. She only laughed. “Looks are deceiving,” she said. There was a pause in the conversation.

Then he said, “I saw that tonight’s a formal dinner.” “Yes,” she replied. “Will you be handsome?” He laughed. “Will you be beautiful?” “I don’t know,” she said. “That will be for others to judge.” Another pause. “Hey,” he said. “Want to go to one of the lounges for a drink?” “I have a better idea. Let’s go to my family suite. Open bar and a view.” “That sounds very nice,” he said. “I’d love to.” They both got up and went into the cool shade of the ship’s interior. They took an elevator up. When they stepped off the elevator, Simone led him down a corridor. She inserted her key and opened the door. As they entered, his jaw dropped open. It was a spacious suite, with a stairway spiraling up to the bedrooms, beautiful furnishings and artwork, and a huge balcony with recliners and tables. “Oh, my God,” he said. “This is magnificent.” “We are happy with it,” she said. “Would you like a drink?” “Now I know what the poor people are doing.” “What do you mean?” she said. He laughed. “Now I know what I am doing. You should see my cabin, or my ‘stateroom’ as they like to call it. It’s probably smaller than one of the closets in this place. It doesn’t even have a window. They installed a mirror instead to make the room seem bigger.” She smiled. “So, would you care for a drink? We have a pretty good assortment.” “Sure,” he said. “I’ll have a scotch, straight up.” “Okay,” she said. “Sounds good. I’ll have one too.”

When she’d poured the drinks, and handed him his tumbler, he said, “Here’s to a marvelous trip.” They touched glasses. “We’re off to a good start.” They sipped their drinks. “Let’s go out on the balcony,” she said. They sat beside one of the tables. He took another sip. “I know this is none of my business,” he said, “but what does your father, or mother, do for a living? I mean, this is one hell of a shipboard suite.” “It’s okay,” she said. “My father owns a shipping company. Freighters, mostly.” He chuckled. “Does he own this ship?” “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” “So tell me, Simone, since I’m in a prying mood, what do you do for a living?” “I’m an artist.” “I should have guessed that. Gosh, I’d love to see your work.” She laughed. “Sorry, I don’t have a portfolio with me.” There was a pause. They both sipped their drinks. “My turn, now,” she said. “What do you do for a living?” “Me? I’m in the publishing business. I help expedite the editorial production of books for a publishing house in Boston.” “Books? Seems like a good match for you.” “It’s okay. I like it, and it pays the bills.” Another pause. Michael couldn’t stop himself. He blushed even as he was asking the question. “Simone, are you in a relationship?” She looked at her tumbler, then looked up at him. “You are forward, aren’t you?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.” “It’s okay,” she said. “The answer is no.” He smiled, a bit uncomfortably. “What’s wrong with the men in Paris?” She laughed. “No, I mean it,” he said. “You’re assuming I like the men of Paris,” she said. “Okay. I apologize again.” “What about you?” she asked. “What’s your status?” “I’m recently divorced he said,” looking away. “Oh. I’m sorry,” she said. “No, it was for the best. For the both of us.” “How long were you married?” “Five years,” he replied. “Do you have any children?” “No.” They were quiet for a moment. “The reason I’m on this trip,” he said, “is to try to relax and recover a bit from the ordeal of the divorce proceedings. It wasn’t pretty. So I really needed this. Meeting you has just been the icing on the cake.” “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a rough time.” “Yeah, but hopefully much better times are ahead.” “Cheers,” she said, holding out her drink.

“Cheers.”

They sipped their way through two drinks. By this time the afternoon was waning and they parted ways. He headed down through the decks by foot. When he got to his cabin he marveled at the difference between his stateroom and hers. He wondered what their home in Paris looked like. He took his uniform out of the closet and laid it out on the bed. It would do, he thought. He showered and shaved, and put on the uniform. Looking in the large mirror, he ed the dress tuxedo he had in the Navy, the white waist coat with the black pants and gold cummerbund. Plus his medals. Though it was still early, he decided to go up and wander around a bit. One place he wanted to visit was the library. He checked his pocket directory and found that it was on the same deck as the area where most of the shops were located. When he entered the library, he was impressed by the beauty of the place. However, when he inspected the books he was a bit disappointed as the books were almost all contemporary mysteries and romances, with a smattering of history. He decided to move on to the shopping area. As he expected, the boutiques were quite expensive. But as he looked at the various items, he got the idea of buying a small gift for Simone. Something tasteful, but not too expensive. He found one item he thought would be very nice, that she would like, and it was in his price range. It was a small, modern, turquoise vase made of glass. He bought it, had it gift wrapped, and hurried back down to his cabin to drop it off. He didn’t want to give it to her at dinner, in front of her family. When he’d deposited the gift in his cabin he made his way back up to the dining room. He was a bit early, but he sat at the table to wait. He was getting excited about the evening ahead. Suddenly he saw the Heberts coming down the grand stairway, and as he saw Simone his breath was taken away. She was wearing a long black evening dress, slit up the side. Her pearl necklace was a beautiful contrast. He stood up as they approached, and they smiled at the sight of him. Simone’s mother said, “My, aren’t we handsome tonight!” “You look very nice too, Madame Hebert. That’s a lovely dress.” “Thank you,” she said. He turned to Simone. “You look marvelous,” he said.

“You, too,” she said, smiling. They all took their seats. “Is that a Navy uniform?” she asked. “No. I was in the Navy, but this is my American Legion uniform.” “American Legion? What’s that? “It’s a veteran’s organization,” he replied. “Oh. Well, you look nice. What did you do in the Navy?” “I was a journalist in the Navy Office of Public Affairs.” “That sounds interesting.” “Yes, it was.” They went on to have a nice dinner, and he engaged in conversation with the rest of the family several times. But Simone garnered most of his attention. “So, Simone” he said at one point. What sort of things do you paint? Do you have a favorite subject?” “Yes,” she replied. “Mostly pastorals, especially scenes that include country churches. I also paint a lot of Parisian scenes. There’s no end of subjects there.” “I’ll bet,” he said. “I wish so much I could see your work. Do you sell your paintings?” “Some I sell. My work is sold primarily through art dealers. I’ve also had a few showings, which have resulted in a number of sales. I don’t worry too much about selling them though. I just love to paint.” “Wow. That’s great. Tell me, what style is your work? Is there an artist whose work is similar to yours?” She thought for a moment. “Of the major artists, I would say Pissarro, or Sisley. Some of my favorites.”

“I’m not familiar with their work. I’ll have to check them out,” he said. When they had finished, Simone and her family excused themselves. They were going to another show together. Michael was disappointed but held out hope that he would see Simone again later on. Unfortunately, after spending some time in the casino and walking the promenades, he did not see her. He decided to retire for the night.

The next morning he found her reading in a chaise lounge on the balcony above the pool. “Good morning,” he said. She looked up. She was wearing sunglasses, so he couldn’t see her beautiful eyes. She smiled. “Hi, Michael. Good morning to you,” she said. He sat down on the chaise next to her. “What are you reading?” he asked. “The Imitation of Christ,” she answered. It surprised him. “Oh. Kempis, right?” “Yes,” she replied. “Have you read it?” He shook his head. “No. I’ve just heard about it.” “I think I’ve read it four or five times now. I find it very inspirational.” “Inspirational?” he asked. “So you are a Christian?” “Yes, I am. I’m Roman Catholic.” “I don’t know why,” he said, “but somehow that surprises me.” “And you don’t know why?” “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you said you’ve read a lot of Sartre, including Being and Nothingness. His atheism shines through.” “Yes, it does, but I think I also said I read most of it while at the Sorbonne. He was required reading for some of my courses. I will it, however, I did read

some of his work on my own. That was a time when I was having a bit of a crisis of faith.” “Do you mean you were an atheist for a while?” “Yes, I suppose I was.” “And why did you go back to the Church?” She paused for a moment. “Well, as Kempis said, ‘Without the way, there is no going.’ I believe that.” “And you think the Catholic Church is the way?” “Yes,” she said. “I do.” “So, are you devout?” he asked. “I would say so.” “Like I said, I wouldn’t have guessed that about you.” “Well, it’s true,” she said. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you.” There was a hint of irritation in her voice. “No, no,” he said. “I didn’t mean to denigrate your faith.” There was a brief silence. “What about you?” she asked at last. “I assume you are an atheist?” He nodded. “Yes, I am.” “Why can’t you believe?” she asked. “I just can’t. It all seems like superstition to me.” They were both silent for a moment. She broke the silence. “Do you think I am hell?” “Hell? What do you mean?”

“Sartre said ‘Hell is other people.’” “He didn’t say that. A character in one of his plays said it.” “Oh, come on!” she exclaimed. “He didn’t think de Beauvoir was Hell. They were together fifty years.” “I suppose she was an exception.” “I would argue,” he said, “that Sartre loved people. That’s why he tried so hard over the years to help others, both through his writings and by direct action. He was a leftist. His apartment was bombed twice for his stance on Algerian independence.” “But you can’t deny that a lot of his work is so grim.” “Well, the world is grim,” he said. “The Bible itself is pretty grim. And just as an aside regarding the Bible…it’s amazing to me how many people cherish the Bible when they’ve never even read it. Or maybe they’ve read some of the New Testament and a few psalms.” “Nonetheless,” she said, “the Bible offers hope for all people willing to open their hearts. Especially with the advent of Christ. The simple act of going to church exposes people to the Bible, and the sacrament of the eucharist puts people in communion with God, through Christ. And just as an aside regarding the Bible, I assure you I’ve read it cover to cover. More than once.” “Well, that doesn’t surprise me.” “And why is that?” “Because you have the courage of your convictions. Plus you’re well read and smart.” “But not so smart as to be an atheist,” she said. “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying what I believe, or rather, what I don’t believe.” “Look,” she said, “I know where you’re coming from. As I said, I went through

a phase of atheism. And I can honestly tell you that since I regained my faith I’ve been a better person, a happier person.” “I don’t doubt that.” “I don’t mean to imply,” she said, “that I think you’re not a good person, and a happy person. I’m just telling you the effect it had on me.” “I understand,” he said. “But I just can’t believe that there’s this benevolent, supernatural being pulling our strings, and asking us to believe people are rising from the dead, and turning water into wine and all the rest of it. And I can’t believe in all the Church rituals, and the infallible pope, and the ban on women priests, etcetera, etcetera.” He continued. “As you no doubt know, Sartre said that existence precedes essence. We define ourselves by our choices. Who we are is not pre-ordained by some god. We are the sum of our past, and we are continually making ourselves. We’re free to be who we want to be. As a Sartrean existentialist, that’s what I believe.” “Okay,” she replied. “You, like Sartre, say existence precedes essence. I would turn it around and say that essence precedes existence. We are born with an innate essence that makes us human. And our choices are informed by that human nature.” “But what about evil?” he asked. “If we’ve got some sort of divine nature driving our decisions, why is the world such a bad place, so full of evil?” “It’s because of a perversion of our freedom of choice. People make bad decisions, evil decisions, and that goes against our nature as human beings. God isn’t pulling all the strings. He gave us the gift of freedom of choice. And unfortunately, a lot of people make bad choices. That’s the source of evil.” He laughed. “Good answer. I thought I’d trip you up with the evil thing.” She laughed too. “Did I the exam?” “I don’t know,” he replied. “Did I?” “I would say we both ed. How’s that?”

“I agree.” “You know,” she said, “sometimes talking religion, or the lack thereof, is like talking politics. People have very strong feelings one way or the other and never the twain shall meet.” “Right. Agree to disagree.” She smiled. “I agree.” “I have one more question for you.” “What’s that? “Will you marry me?” They both burst out laughing. “I’d even have the ceremony in a church!” “Buy me a daquari,” she said, “and I’ll think about it.”

That evening, after another splendid dinner, Michael and Simone left the dining room together. They had after-dinner cognacs in an elegant club with an art deco ambiance. “There’s a jazz club with dancing, you know,” he said. “Would you like to go, or do you have plans with your family?” “That sounds fun,” she said. “Let’s go.” They went to the club, and listened to the music for a bit. When a slow number came up, he asked her to dance. As he held her close, he felt like he was a million miles from the hardship that had led him to taking this cruise in the first place. “Thank you, Simone.” “For what?” she said.

“For making this cruise such a happy one for me. I really needed this.” “Well, I’m enjoying it too. I’m looking forward to seeing Bermuda tomorrow morning.” “Huh! I almost forgot we’re going there!” After dancing and listening to the jazz band for another hour or so, he decided it was a good time to give her the glass vase he had bought for her. He leaned across the small table. “Simone, I have something I’d like to give to you. It’s down in my cabin. Would you like to come down with me to get it?” He smiled. “My intentions are entirely honorable. In fact, if you want you could wait here, and I could bring it up to you.” She smiled in turn. “I’ll go with you. Just to see how the other half lives.” “Okay, great! Let’s go.” He escorted her down to the bowels of the ship. When they got to his door, he unlocked and said, “Welcome to my stately room.” He opened the door and led her in. “Voila!” he said with a dramatic sweep of his hand. She laughed. “It is, well… it’s small alright!” “You’re just spoiled.” “Yes, that is true.” “Okay” he said, picking up the little package on the bed. “I thought you might like this.” He handed it to her, and watched her face as she opened it. When she saw the vase, she smiled, still looking down at it. Then she looked up at him and said, “This is beautiful, Michael.” “It was made in Bermuda.” “It’s lovely,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. I’m happy you like it.” She put one hand behind his neck, drew him close, and kissed him on the lips. “Thank you again,” she said softly. “Thank you,” he said, also softly. “This is as far as it’s going to go,” she said. He paused. “I understand.” “Okay,” she said. “I’m getting claustrophobic. Let’s go up and take a walk on the promenade.” He smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

The next morning they met for a buffet breakfast, then went up on deck to watch as the ship approached Bermuda and prepared to dock. The closer they got, the more beautiful the water became as it shifted from blue to turquois. The white roofs of all the houses and buildings became visible, and the ship navigated a channel toward the western tip of the island, the location of what was once the dockyard of the British Royal Navy and was now a large tourist area catering to the thousands of tourists disembarking from the huge cruise ships that regularly arrived.

The Heberts had made arrangements to have a six person mini-bus take them on a private tour of the island. They invited Michael to come, and as he had been to the island a number of times he was able to augment the driver’s comments about the various places they saw as they were driven to the old town of St. George’s, at the eastern end of the island. He came up with an idea for a place they could go for lunch on the way, the Tom Moore Tavern. He described it to them, that it was a charming, intimate place with outstanding food. The driver seconded the description, and the Heberts readily agreed to stop there. As they drove along the narrow, winding and exceedingly beautiful way,

Michael pointed out to Simone, who was sitting next to him in a window seat, the small, handsome churches along the way. At one point, he asked the driver to pull onto a side road where he ed there being an especially beautiful blue and white colored church with a cemetery where all the graves were above ground and white. With her interest in painting small rural churches, he thought that Simone would especially like seeing some of the churches along the way. As at last they neared the tavern, he explained the significance of the place, beside it being for many decades a fine dining establishment. He told them about Tom Moore, a famous Irish poet who had stayed there for a time more than two hundred years earlier. He wrote a number of poems about the island and its people, and became sort of the unofficial, permanent poet laureate of Bermuda. There was an ancient calabash tree next to the building, and allegedly Moore wrote some of his poems beneath its spreading limbs. There was something else he wanted to say about Tom Moore, but he wanted to save it for Simone alone, so he did not mention it to the family. They pulled up in front of the tavern, which was painted pastel green with the ubiquitous white roof and trim, and surrounded by lovely floral gardens. As the driver opened the door for them, Mr. Hebert instructed him to make himself comfortable and wait for them. Michael was struck again by the wealth of the family, as private transportation on Bermuda was expensive in the extreme. And a meal at the Tom Moore Tavern would not be cheap. But he was certain they would like it.

They had a fine meal, and he was glad the Heberts liked it, as they obviously did. The Heberts all thanked him for the suggestion. They boarded the mini-bus and continued on to St. George’s, which was a very quaint village that had been the capital of Bermuda for two hundred years, until the early 1800s when Hamilton became the present day capital. They disembarked at the central town square. There were scenic village streets everywhere one looked. The family split up after a few minutes, as the pere and mere Hebert stopped into some of the boutiques and the sons went on their way. Michael and Simone wandered down some side streets that were not much wider than paved paths. As they walked along they came to a small bookshop. They both were happy to find one, and they went in. They split up inside.

He knew exactly what he was looking for, and he found it. It was a small modern edition of Tom Moore’s Bermuda poems. He paid for it while she was still browsing around. “Take your time,” he said. “I’ll just be outside.” He was excited because it was this that he wanted to talk to her about at the inn. After a few minutes, she came out. She had purchased a book, which she took out of the bag to show him. It was a collection of Bermuda watercolors done by a local artist. He opened the book and looked at some of the paintings. “These are beautiful,” he said. “Aren’t they?” she replied. He handed the book back to her. “I’ve got something for you,” he said. He opened his bag and handed her the book, Tom Moore’s Bermuda Poems. She laughed. “Thank you,” she said. “But you’ve got to stop buying me presents!” “I know,” he said. “But I wanted to give this to you because there’s something about his work I wanted to tell you about.” “Okay, what is it?” she asked. “Well, while he was here in Bermuda, he fell in love with a woman. The problem was, she was married. He couldn’t have her. So he poured out his feelings in these poems.” He was beginning to feel embarrassed. “I just…it made me think of you. We’ve just met, I know, but I like you a lot, and I would love for us to have a relationship, if you feel the same. But we can’t, for obvious reasons. I just wish we could. And so, like Tom Moore, I have to live with the fact that I’ve got no shot with you.” She was silent for a moment. “Michael, I wish we could see each other too. I’ve loved our short time together. If you lived in Paris, we could maybe give it a try. But you don’t.” He lowered his eyes. “Besides, Michael” she continued, “you’re just coming off a divorce. I’m not

even sure if you lived in Paris that it would a great idea for you to go rushing into another relationship without some time to, well, get back on your feet again.” He knew she was right. He felt almost foolish for giving her the book. “I’m sorry, Simone,” He said. “You’re right. It’s just been so long since I’ve experienced anything approaching romance in my life.” He paused. “Do you want to keep the book?” “Yes, I do,” she replied. “It’s a very thoughtful gift, and it will make me think of us when I’m back in Paris.” “I hope so,” he said. “Thank you.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “God bless you.”