More tales from
My Back Porch

Darrell Case



Proverbs 11:30
Leaning Tree Christian Publishers
Farmersburg IN. 47850
More tales from My Back Porch
Copyright© 2021 by Darrell Case.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means–electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recorded or otherwise –without prior written permission from the author.

Printed in the United States of America.
ISBN: 978-1-5136-8242-6
For more information, visit https://darrellcase.org 



for my beautiful wife, Connie
who is always by my side
1951-2021

 

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments 6
Hemingway’s Typewriter 9
Trig’s Smoking Wheels 27
Moonshine for the Preacher 40
A Rich Man 54
Heart to Heart 68
His Own Worst Enemy 82
The Witch in the Neighborhood 98
Predators 109
Yard Sale 121
Storm Warning 133
Through Gates of Fire 149
Sand Castles 157
The Sweet Smell of Freedom 158
The Face of God 177
Gone Fishing 187
Murder? 192
Death Revisited 202
To Catch Myself 214
Alone 227
Repro 241
Regret 254
A Dog’s Life 269
The Road Ahead 275
The Christmas Gift 288
A Walk in the Woods 303
Robby and the rooster 305
FireFight 314
Running With the Bull 319
 


Acknowledgments

Some say writers of fiction are a little crazy. I partially believe it. We work alone, going deep within ourselves, creating a world and characters unseen by others. We live in that world for the period of time it takes to write a story or a novel. We listen to those we generate speak and act in a way that only we can see. We share their joys and heartaches.
As I write, I let the characters tell me their story. It becomes an exciting process to set down before the computer each morning to see where the story will lead. The first draft of the story is rough. Yet it is a story. After the first, second and sometimes third rewrite, then sent to the editor. Now the book is not mine alone. My editor works the manuscript smoothing it, making the characters real. Now they live and breathe, not just in my mind. The manuscript goes back and forth several times until it satisfies my editor: it is credible.
Others become involved in formatting printing, designing the book cover. A book trailer is created. It is published in eBook paperback, then sent to market. Now it is not just in my mind but yours. Above all else are the readers.
You, my friends, make all the lonely hours putting this and my other books together worthwhile. In this book, you share what only I imagined.
So as I set here in my office, I think of you. Some I have met over the years, both in person or by email. Some of you I haven’t met yet.
Also, I could not forget those who labored with me alone along the way. To my wife Connie, who encourages me to keep going. To my editor Mary Ellen, her insight makes the characters believable. To The Lord Jesus Christ who gave me ability to write.

 
*****

Hemingway’s Typewriter

As a child, Hal Gleason looked forward to his daily trips down the lane to the mailbox. For Hal, it was like enjoying a little of Christmas every day. Ed Jepson was the rural mail carrier for 20 years before Hal was born. From the time the boy was able to trudge the short distance to the mailbox on his own, Ed would wait there with his motor running and a big smile, as though Hal was his most important patron. “Got a package for you this mornin’, Hallie,” he would say and watch with delight as the child’s face lit up.
Eager as he was to claim his prize, Hal never forgot his manners. “Thank you, Mr. Jepson,” he would say before running home to open the package. Inside, Hal would find a secret code ring or a puzzle, or maybe a toy from an offer on the box of cornflakes. Then there were the special times when Hal would receive a letter from his grandmother, She lived just about a mile down the road. Pauline knew her only grandson loved to get letters and greeting cards. He would study the words and images, then place the card with the others lined up on the shelf in his room, displaying them like soldiers on a parade ground. Most mornings, though, there was only the newspaper or some bills. Hal would carry them in and diligently lay them on the kitchen table for his mother. As time passed, there was less mail for Hal and more for his parents.
After Hal married and moved down the road, the assortment of bills in the mailbox made his daily treks less of an adventure. Still, he enjoyed the anticipation of what could wait on the other side of that little metal lid. He would stand in the gravel road for a few moments, savoring the thought. Then he’d grasp the handle and pull the lid down to peer into the box’s dark interior. To Hal, even the bills revealed something new. He never dreaded them as some did. And the newspaper with its announcements of upcoming events: a fish fry, a church picnic, the annual Strawberry Festival.
Of course, the obituaries struck a sad note. The day after Pauline died, Hal had just turned 10. He stood at the mailbox weeping, knowing that day what he would find in the little metal box. The notice of her death appeared in that day’s newspaper. It was the first time he had ever seen his grandmother’s name in print. The cold, formal and abbreviated obituary offended Hal. It said nothing about what a kind, loving and gracious Christian lady Pauline was. Reading it gave Hal a hollow, lost feeling. He felt empty inside. Something was gone from his life, something that could never be replaced.
The funeral was a sad affair. Hal took all the greeting cards Pauline had sent him over the years and lined them up on the table by her casket. After the service, he tucked them inside her folded arms before the casket was closed. It was only fitting that he should return them to her. Later, he stored her obituary clipping in a plastic container and placed it in his bedroom closet. Over the years it would join those of his marriage and his parents ‘fortieth anniversary, and then the death of his mother and father. When life seemed mundane and meaningless, he would reread the articles and reminisce about his younger years.
This early spring morning dawned bright and clear. Birdsong greeted Hal as he made his way down the lane. The scent of apple blossom in the soft air and the warm sun on his back gave him a feeling of wellbeing. He opened the mailbox with renewed anticipation. Giving in to his wife’s urging, Hal had written a short manuscript based on his early life. Of course, he gave his characters’ fictitious names and added a good measure of embellishment to hold the reader’s interest. As a novice author, he couldn’t be sure if the details were too much or too little. All in all, though, he believed his work was quite good. Missy did, too. If Hal created a grocery list, Missy would put it right up there with Gone with the Wind.
Having researched literary agents by the dozens, Hal selected five he believed would be most receptive and winged the manuscript off to them. Now, opening the mailbox, Hal’s breath caught in his throat. Leaning against the right side of the mailbox was one of his return envelopes. He reached in and clutched it. This was the first response he had received. It felt warm in his hand and somehow spirited, as if it had a heartbeat. Hal held it to his chest. This envelope had traveled all the way to New York and back. How much would they offer him for his masterpiece? He had to force himself not to rip it open. No. He would share this joy with Missy, the one who believed in him. His step quickened as he headed in the direction of the house. Along the way he held the envelope up to the sun, but couldn’t make out any figures.
Hal’s smiling wife waited for him on the front porch. How fortunate he was that this beautiful woman loved him. Climbing the steps to the porch, Hal relinquished the envelope to her hand. She glanced at it and gasped. Hal grinned and nodded, watching nervously as she tore it open. The hall clock ticked off four seconds. Missy’s face fell; tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Her mouth quivered. Hal snatched it from her and stared at his carefully worded letter. Scrawled under his signature were the words, “Not for this agency.” The letters blurred on the page.
“Oh, Honey, I’m so sorry,” Missy said, her tears spilling over.
Hal took her in his arms and stroked her hair. “Don’t worry. It’s all right,” he said with more conviction than he felt. “It’s only the first one. Just toss it. I’ll be out in the shed working on the lawn mower.” And work on it he did, after the tears stopped. He felt like someone had kicked him in the teeth, but he kept his misery private. The following day another rejection letter arrived. For the next several months, Hal gave up writing and went back to being a reader.
He loved to read. Losing himself in a book was always one of his greatest pleasures. As a boy of six, he discovered the wonderful world of books. Not that he wasn’t aware of them before, he just never considered the source of the stories his mother read to him each night. Afterward, he dreamed of himself as the knight fighting giants or dragons.
As the years passed, Hal’s taste in reading grew. In his teens he savored the classics by Poe, Fitzgerald, Hemingway and others. Propped up in bed at night, he became part of the adventures of well-known and unknown authors. He came a crossed typographical or a grammatical error even in the best. However, these minor flaws never deterred him from enjoying the novel. Still, often after he finished a book, he would tell Missy, “I could write a book as good as this, even better.”
Missy believed that too and encouraged him. “Honey, with your love of books, I think you would make a great writer,” she said one morning at breakfast.
“Nah, nobody would want to read my writing,” Hal protested, grinning across the table at her. Then his face fell. “I tried that once—remember? — and once was enough.” However, the seed was firmly planted in his mind. Over the next few years, it continued to grow. On Hal’s thirty-fifth birthday, Missy presented him with a book about writers and how they got their starts. Hal sat up half the night reading it. Some were younger, some older. However, they all had persevered over the risk of putting pen to paper. Hal understood that writing a book was a difficult undertaking. He knew full well that the first draft would be jumbled and messy, and that he must write and rewrite it several times over to make it worthy of a following.
One evening in mid-winter, Hal decided the time had come to try his hand at writing again. Sitting down at his computer, he pulled up a blank document and stared at the flashing cursor. He typed a few words, thought for a while, and typed some more. To his amazement, momentum materialized out of nowhere. As he kept typing, the story flowed through him. Outside, the wind howled around the house. Swirling snow pecked at the window. Just as with the novels Hal had read, he became lost in the story.
The girl—a young woman, really — lost in the Northwest wilderness. Fresh from urban Illinois, she had no hint of survival tactics. Having escaped from an abusive situation, she traveled west alone. She began her journey in the fall, with no money and little in the way of provisions.
Hal floundered a bit as he thought about his story and tried to work through the difficulties. What year was it? What dangers did she face? How could she survive? Oddly, he drew a parallel between his character’s predicament and his job at the steering wheel factory. It had taken Hal five long years to prove himself capable and worthy of his current title of assistant manager. A different type of survival, to be sure, but the need for toughness, stamina and determination was the same. He plunged ahead.
The woman stumbled upon an abandoned cabin. She cleaned it out and, although dangerous and foolhardy, climbed up onto the leaking roof to repair it. By the time she finished, the weather was turning bitterly cold. She struggled to find provisions and gather enough firewood to last through the winter.
Amazingly, as Hal wrote, he actually felt the chill of the howling wind. Only when Missy called him to dinner did he realize he was famished. Lying in bed that night, the budding storyteller was sure he heard the woman weeping. Impossibly, his character had become real to him. It wouldn’t surprise him if she knocked on his front door. He couldn’t wait to return to the computer and create more challenges for her to conquer.
He finished the first draft. Reading it embarrassed him. He went over it slowly, chapter by chapter. He was never good at grammar. His high school English grades were barely passing. Now he wished he had paid more attention to his subjects and less to girls. He reread the manuscript and worked on it some more. He read it aloud, making changes where the story lagged or seemed thin.
Finally, one evening he reached the end. The next morning Hal asked Missy to read the manuscript while he was at work. Curiosity daunted him throughout his shift, but he dared not call her. He was afraid to know what she thought of his ramblings, yet he couldn’t wait to hear. What if it was awful? What if she hated it but didn’t want to hurt his feelings? He had studied other authors’ lives. They were great writers who struggled to make their voices known. Take Melville, for instance. During his lifetime, he sold only 50 copies of Moby Dick. Hal refused to allow himself to become discouraged and quit.
His shift over, he hurried home, only to hesitate at the kitchen door. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open. Missy greeted him with red-rimmed eyes. She threw her arms around him and bawled. Good or bad? Hal couldn’t tell. Leaning back, Missy looked him in the eyes. His heart pounded. She was trying to find a way to gently tell him how bad his story was. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he asked, “So?”
“I started reading right after you left.” Stepping to the sink, Missy filled a glass with water, took a sip and sat down at the table. Hal dropped into the chair opposite her. “I thought I would read a little and then wash the breakfast dishes and vacuum the living room. But, Honey, I couldn’t put it down! It was like I was right there with her. When that creep punched her, I could almost feel the blow. When I read how thirsty she was, I had to stop and get a drink. I felt her fear when she was wandering around the forest. The next thing I knew, it was noon!”
“So you’re saying it’s good?”
“Not good. excellent, It’s the best book I ever read. But…”
“But what?”
“You’ve got to have it edited. Your grammar is terrible.” She laid a hand on his arm. Tears were in her eyes again. “Dear, just think, if your manuscript is this good, how much better will it be if you have it edited?”
Hal threw back his head and laughed. “You and my English teacher. He would definitely second that!” Missy threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. Throughout the evening, they chuckled about his grammar.
Lying in bed wide awake, Hal mused about his book being published and prominently displayed on bookstore shelves, about being sought for TV and radio interviews, perhaps winning the Pulitzer Prize. It was nearly two before he drifted off.
Rising early the next morning, Hal searched the internet for fiction book editors. Their prices made him suck in his breath. He sent emails to two of the least expensive. One of them claimed on her website to be the editor for a bestselling author who she refused to name. The second charged by the word. Their replies came quickly. The first told him her fee would be between $1,200 and $1,500; the second was asking $2,200. Hal’s heart sank.
He grappled with the editing dilemma for a month, searching website after website. He emailed more editors, hoping to find just one whose qualifications were greater than their fee. You’re chasing your tail, he chided himself. It made him wonder. How strongly do I believe in my writing? In the book? Is it worth pursuing or should I just let it die?
One thing Hal knew: He felt a kinship with his main character. The struggle she went through to survive matched his fight to keep his book alive. There was one solution, although it would take time. Hal began taking his lunch to work instead of eating in the cafeteria. He cut back on extras like candy bars and donuts. He lost weight. He started running in the evenings; it seemed to clear his head. After a vigorous run, he would take a quick shower and sit down at his desk. Sometimes he wrote for an hour, other times less, but he was always productive.
Hal started a new book and seemed to labor less with it than he had the first. The first was his baby, though, and he was bent on getting it in front of the public. He sent out a dozen more email queries to literary agents, ten of whom came back with refusals so quickly Hal knew they couldn’t have read the entire manuscript. The other two lagged behind, but were no less deflating. One didn’t bother to send a rejection form, merely replying with, “Not for us.” Hal wouldn’t give up. Over the next month he averaged two to three rejections a day. He kept them all, his count nearing 100. In the beginning, he had bragged to his coworkers about the book and his aspirations for it. Now, as the months passed, he cringed when asked about it. He avoided people and their questions. If cornered, he’d just smile and say it was coming along.
He scoured YouTube and other sites, trying to learn how to attract an agent. Surely there was someone out there who would see value in his writing. He discounted the myriad of online ads stressing the benefits of self-publishing, believing only those who couldn’t qualify for a real publisher would choose that route.
One afternoon Ava Sanchez approached Hal after work. “Hey, you still writing?”
“Uh, yeah, some,” he answered as dismissively as he dared without seeming rude.
“Yeah? Listen, my cousin came across something you might be interested in.”
“What’s that?” he asked, not really wanting to know.
Ava leaned over and whispered, “Hemingway’s typewriter.”
Hal couldn’t help but smirk. “You’re kidding, right? Isn’t that supposed to be in a museum or something?”
“That’s what I thought. My cousin says somebody replaced the real one with a fake and smuggled it out. Inside job, I guess.”
Hal turned back from unlocking his car. He thought of the poem, The Night Before Christmas. Sugarplums may have been skittering in those kids’ heads, but books with “Hal Gleason” in big letters on the cover were dancing around in his. “Well, I don’t know, I might be interested. What’s he asking for it?” Hal stumbled over his words a bit; feigning casualness never came easily to him.
“Twelve hundred. But I could probably talk him into taking less.”
“I can’t afford that. I’ve been saving for months just to pay for an editor.” He wanted to tell her to forget the whole thing.
“Yeah but, if you had Hemingway’s typewriter why would you need an editor?” Ava grinned, waved and walked away.
All the way home and throughout the evening, Ava’s words kept pounding the inside of Hal’s head. In bed, he leaned over and kissed the slumbering Missy, then lay awake staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t told her about Ava’s cousin’s offer. Hal’s thoughts were jumbled, but one kept pushing through: The last person to touch those keys was the great man himself. True, Hal would never write books with a style to match Hemingway’s. Still, having that typewriter could bring him such inspiration, so much motivation… He drifted off.
A handsome man with a trim physique and thick, dark hair and mustache handed Hal his typewriter and admonished, “Take good care of it, son. If you do, you’ll be at the top of the bestseller list in no time.”
Hal woke the next morning with Hemingway’s words still ringing in his ears.
At 9 AM he went to his tiny office and phoned Ava. Speaking in low tones, he agreed to meet Ava’s cousin at his home.
“Who were you talking to?” Missy’s voice came from behind, startling him.
“I… ah… Oh, wrong number,” Hal said, his face flushing. Why did he feel the need to lie to her? They had always shared everything. From the beginning, they promised each other there would be no secrets in their marriage. Besides, Hal was too much of an open book to pull off lies or deception. Even as a child, his mother always knew if he was being less than honest. Missy gave him an odd look, but said nothing and left the room.
Hal glanced at the clock. There was time to kill before the meeting. He paced around his office while mentally picturing his fingers flying across Hemingway’s keyboard. Minutes later, Missy was in the doorway, looking puzzled and a little annoyed. “Okay, do you want to tell me what’s going on?” He told her. She wanted to shake him to his senses, but she was wise enough to know Hal needed something to boost his confidence. If a hunk of metal could do it, the price would be cheap.
The petulant look on Hal’s face made Missy think of a little boy being denied his favorite toy. She smiled. “Why don’t you call Ava and tell her we’ll be a few minutes late?”
“We?”
Missy may have not believed the typewriter malarkey, but she believed in her husband. “Yes. If it is Hemingway’s typewriter, they’ll want to keep the transaction quiet. They’ll want cash. So we will have to go to the bank.” She handed him his phone. He grabbed her and kissed her.
Hal stared into the open trunk of Ava’s cousin’s 15-year-old Chevy. Hemingway’s typewriter sat atop a pile of what looked like flea market rejects. It was nothing like Hal had envisioned. It was dull and dingy, the letters on the keys worn and some type bars stuck together. “You really expect to get twelve hundred bucks for that?” Hal asked querulously.
Frowning, Ava’s cousin reached to close the lid, clipping Hal’s nose as he did. “You don’t want?” he snapped with a heavy Spanish accent. “Fine. I got other buyer.”
“Okay, wait,” Hal said. “What’s your bottom dollar?” He crossed his arms, tucking his clammy palms against his chest “I take a thousand, that’s it.” he pushed the trunk lid halfway down.”
Hal hesitated. Missy spoke up. “I have eight hundred here.” She fanned the eight bills and waved them in the air.
“Nine hundred,” Ava’s cousin said.
“Eight-fifty,” Missy countered.
“Done.” The man grinned at her and opened the trunk.
Hal was quiet on the way home. Missy left him alone with his thoughts. Once parked in their driveway, he opened the trunk and tenderly retrieved the typewriter. “Do you think it really was his?” he asked.
It’s a little late to ask that, Missy thought. “Honey, it’s what you believe that matters,” she answered as she headed toward the front door.
“I’m going to see if I can clean it up.”
“Okay, hon. I’ll bring you your lunch.” She flashed him a smile.
“Thank you, my love.” Hal kissed her and headed off to the garage. For the next couple of hours, he worked to restore the relic, first with a paintbrush dipped in soapy water, then solvent, then buffing until it shined like new. To his delight, the stuck type bars loosened and engaged easily when he tapped the keys. Lastly, he removed the ribbon, noting the numbers on the spool.
When he had done all he could, Hal reverently carried the typewriter into his office. He cleared a space on the desk and set it down, then stood back and studied it. Old and outdated as it was, Hal had seen plenty of others just like it. Yet there was something different. He could picture Hemingway hunched over it, bringing The Old Man and the Sea to life. Could this typewriter coax out of Hal anything near as masterful?
Missy carried in a tray holding a slice of pie and a cup of coffee for him. “Okay, Mr. Hemingway, write me a book to set the world on fire.”
Hal grinned. “Soon as I get a new ribbon.”
“I love you. I know your book will be as great as Hemingway’s.” She set down the tray and kissed him.
Hal found his ribbon on Amazon, two-pack for only a little over $10. When it arrived, he carefully threaded it into the machine. As she prepared dinner, Missy listened to the gratifying click-clack of his typing. As they ate, Hal announced, “I’m going to grow a mustache.”
“Oh… really? I think you’ll look very dashing,” Missy stammered, wondering how far this would go.
Over the next few weeks, Hal spent every spare minute typing. He’d respond with a growl if interrupted. Up at five, he would put on coffee and immediately begin typing. At the far end of the house, Missy lay in bed listening, her eyes moist. She was losing her husband and didn’t know how to stop it. Every evening Hal would return from work and within ten minutes sequester himself in his office to work on the manuscript. He barely left that room to eat or sleep.
Hal spent less and less time with Missy. They had talked about having a baby this year, but she doubted that would happen now. Hal came to bed late and rose early. The less sleep he got, the crankier he became. Missy began to avoid him. She washed his clothes, made his meals and quit asking about the book. The bond between them began to dissolve. Hal’s cold, distant demeanor was frightening to her. Her heart cried out to him. She wanted to help him to turn things around, but she no longer felt she could talk to him.
One morning, several weeks after they bought the typewriter, Hal came out of his office to leave for work. He laid the manuscript in Missy’s lap and left without kissing her goodbye or uttering a word. Sitting down with her coffee, Missy began to read. She didn’t get beyond the first page and barely made it to the sink to spit out her mouthful of coffee before choking on it. Maybe she misread it. Returning to her chair, she picked up the manuscript. There was no mistaking it. What Hal had written over the last three weeks was a pitifully poor imitation of The Old Man and the Sea. Forgetting the plagiarism, misspelled words galore and meandering sentences throughout, Hal had tried to make the story his own.
Before, Missy had wept for joy over Hal’s writing; now she sobbed with despair. How could she tell the man she loved his writing was terrible? If he submitted it to publishers, they would laugh at him? All day she watched the clock. She made lunch but didn’t touch it. She avoided looking at the manuscript lying on the kitchen chair where she left it. Time seemed to drag. She cleaned the house just to have something to do. Worried all afternoon about what she would say to him. She knew he’d be crushed to hear that his writing was trash.
What he wrote before, what came from his own heart and mind, this was nothing but a horrible knockoff. Was she supposed to lie? The clock crawled and flew at the same time.
Anxiety followed her into the bedroom. She pulled out her underwear drawer, placed it on the bed and started straightening, tossing a few frayed pieces into the wastebasket. The silence was comforting, but her thoughts continued to race. She heard the kitchen door open and close. It was only four o’clock. Hal wouldn’t be home until five. Missy’s heart leapt into her throat. She always kept the doors locked when she was home alone. In her distress over the manuscript, had she forgotten?
She heard her husband’s voice. “Missy?” He was coming down the hallway.
“Here,” she answered weakly.
Hal stepped into the room and leaned against the dresser. He looked intently at her. “What did you think?”
“You’re home early,” Missy said, avoiding his eyes.
“Yeah, I worked through lunch.” Hal crossed the room and sat on the bed next to her. She tensed. He didn’t seem to notice. He put his arm around her waist and flashed a confident smile. “Couldn’t put it down, could you? Finished it in one sitting?”
“Oh, Hal.” Missy’s voice caught in her throat; tears ran down her cheeks. “How could you? What you wrote before was so beautiful, so… you. What you handed me this morning is nothing but a poor imitation of The Old Man and the Sea. Worse than bad. Pathetic.”
Hal’s smile collapsed. A look of disbelief crossed his face. He pushed off the bed and stood with his back to her. “What do you know, Missy? You’re not a writer,” he said, biting off each word.
“No, I’m not,” she said sorrowfully. “I’m a reader.”
“There were parts he messed up. I fixed them,” Hal argued, his face flaming.
“Hal, sweetheart, The Old Man and the Sea won the Pulitzer Prize. Some say it was his best work. How could you, or anybody, improve it?” Missy moved toward him, wanting him to take her in his arms. She prayed he would come to his senses.
Backing away, he held up his hands, palms out. Turning, he stomped down the hallway. The door to his office slammed. A short time later, Missy quietly passed by the room. His muffled sobs brought tears to her eyes. She longed to take him in her arms and comfort him as she would a little boy who had skinned his knee. But Hal wasn’t a child. He would have to work through this by himself.
Two hours later, she knocked on the door. “Dinner’s ready, Honey.” No answer. “I’ll be waiting for you.” She took her seat at the table, folding her hands in her lap and biting her tongue. The food was getting cold. She heard the door to the office open. Hal sat down across from her, his eyes red- rimmed. For the first time in their marriage, he didn’t pray over the meal. Missy bowed her head and prayed silently. Dinner passed without a word. Finishing, Hal carried his plate to the sink and went back to his office, leaving his wife to sit there alone.
Missy spent the evening in front of the TV, seeing and hearing nothing. At ten, she curled up in bed with a novel she bought the day before. Her mind kept wandering to Hal. Why did she agree to purchase that typewriter? Around midnight she stirred to the sound of typing. Drifting in and out of sleep, it seemed the Lord was speaking to her, assuring her everything would be all right. At four AM, she felt the bed sag and soon heard soft snoring. Missy closed her eyes and prayed.
She awoke to the sound of typing and sunlight streaming through the open window. It was eight o’clock. She never slept this late. The smell of coffee wafted to her nose. Tying her robe around her, she started toward the kitchen. The door to Hal’s office was open. Seeing her, he stopped typing. “Good, you’re up. Get some coffee and read those pages I left on the table. Please.” He smiled. Tired lines creased his face. His eyes were bright, but bloodshot from lack of sleep.
Missy sat down and scooped up the sheaf of typed pages with trepidation, began reading. Half-way down the first page, she was spellbound. Thirty minutes later, she turned over the last page and laid it on the pile. Missy dabbed at her eyes and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. The story of the woman in the woods was good, better than good. It was triumphant. The grammar would make an English teacher run screaming, but the story was riveting and written with a flair unlike any Hal had shown before.
“Well?” Hal asked as he came up behind her. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “What do you think?”
Her eyes moist, Missy looked into Hal’s face. “It’s the best story I’ve ever read.” Her voice was a whisper, but her genuineness was unmistakable. “Better than anything Hemingway ever wrote.”
Hal laughed. “Oh, and you’re not just a little prejudiced.”
Missy stood and wrapped her arms around her husband. “We’re going to the bank for a loan. You’re going to publish this.”
Hal smiled. “For once, I’m way ahead of you. I took a break from writing last night and searched the internet. We can have the book published by Amazon free, and they’ll distribute it all over the world.”
“That’s wonderful, Honey, but you still have to do something about your grammar.”
“I took care of that, too, my love. Remember Mr. Bruno, high school English? I messaged him on Facebook and asked if he knew of anyone. Turns out he’s been doing editing work ever since he retired ten years ago. He was shocked to hear from me, and even more so when I told him I’d written a book.” Hal returned Missy’s grin. “And he only charges a small percentage of the profits, which I think is very fair.”
This proved to be a wonderful decision for all involved. As for Hemingway’s typewriter, it took up permanent residence on a shelf in the garage. That was a smart move, too.
Note from the author
Hal is like many of us. Afraid to venture out on our own, we want to piggyback on some else’s success. However, we find this impossible. It is only in going out on our own that we find our voice. Each one of us must find our way in writing, painting speaking and living. If we copy someone else, we risk being nothing more than a cheap imitation.



Trig’s Smoking Wheels

There were many things Trig Nelson could do, there were many things he wanted to do but there were many things Trig couldn’t do. He couldn’t run, he couldn’t climb stairs or hills or mountains. He couldn’t play football. Stuck in a wheelchair, there were a lot of things he couldn’t do.
Fortunately, Trig’s parents instilled in him the ability to see beyond his limitations. To focus on what he could do and not what he couldn’t. Summer or winter Trig rolled the three blocks to school or the five blocks to church. They could have taken him and did if there was ice or snow. Other than that, Trig rolled down the sidewalk off the curbs and crossed the streets. When he was little his sister pushed him Never complaining Terri thought of what it would be like if she was the one with deformed legs. So, she helped him sometime into bed or out or in other places where it was difficult to maneuver a wheelchair. Fearlessly independent Trig through he appreciated the help insisted he could do it himself. Two years older, Terri saw herself as Trig’s protector. One afternoon a year ago, she put herself between her brother and two bullies. They had come up behind Trig and dumped him out of his wheelchair on to the soggy ground. There was a lull in the downpour, but the damp air and the cloudy sky still threatened rain. Following behind, Terri dropped her schoolbooks on the sidewalk and ran to her brother’s aid.
“Hey look dudfus has to have a girl protecting him.” Overweight, Fred White said dancing around his fists in the air ready to fight. “Yeah” Greg, Morgan said. Come on Terri, you wanta piece of me.” He charged her. Breathing heavily, her face red, Terri met Gregg with her fist to his nose. The boy flew backward, landing on his butt, blood spurting from his crushed nose. Using her momentum, Terri kicked Fred in his ample stomach. The breath went out of the bully like air from a deflated balloon. One holding his belly, the other his nose, both boys took flight.
Trig lay on the ground bawling. Terri shook her hand it hurt. She might have a sore hand for a few days, but Gregg’s nose would take longer to heal. She grinned Fred liked food. But she bet his dinner wouldn’t go down near as easily tonight. She turned her attention to her brother.
“Are you hurt?” She asks, reaching down for him. He slapped her hands away. “What did you do that for?” He said, big tears running down his cheeks.
“I was only trying to help.” Terri said.
“I can take care of myself.” He said his voice whinny. Both of them knew that wasn’t true. He allowed her to help him set his wheelchair upright. Going back to get her books, Terri pushed Trig home. All the way he sat silently slumped over.
As she pushed him in the front door, she asks. “Do you have to use the bathroom?” He glared at her, his face red with anger and embarrassment. “I can get in and out of the bathroom by myself, thank you very much.” He pushed himself down the hallway toward the back of the house.
“I know. It’s just I have to go, and I thought I’d let you go first.” She said apologetically. Trig stopped rolling. “No, I’m alright. “He said softly. “You go ahead.
Later, while Terri was doing her homework, she heard a soft knock at her bedroom door. With mom and dad still at work, it could only be one person. “Come in.” She said, turning to face the door. Pushing it open, Trig rolled into the threshold and stopped. “I’m sorry. I was just so embarrassed. He hung his head. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
“It’s all right, I understand.” Terri said, staying seated. She wanted to hug her brother but knew Trig wouldn’t stand for it. “How’s your hand?” Lifting his head, he grinned at her. She smiled back. “It’s alright.” She said, flexing her fingers. “Just a little sore.”
“Bet it’s better than Gregg’s nose or Fred’s stomach. “He said, laughing. “I hope he doesn’t try to start trouble.”
“Why should he? It was his fault.” Trig said, still grinning.
“You know how Fred is.” Terri said.
“Yeah, I know.” Trig said.
“You got your homework done?” Terri asks.
“Naw almost through.”
“You better hurry. Mom’s bringing Kentucky fried chicken home tonight and you know how she is about having your homework done before dinner.”
“Yeah, I’ll have it done.” Trig said, hoping it was true. His parents didn’t cut him any slack just because of his disability.
“I mean, it’s ok if you don’t. I’ll just eat your share.” Terri said smiling.
“I’d like to see you try.” Trig said, backing his wheelchair of Terri’s room.
Five minutes later Mage Nelson blew in. She always seemed to be doing three things at once. In the Laundry room she put a load of clothes in the washer, then straightened up the kitchen and reheated the chicken in the microwave.
Going to each child’s room, she called them to dinner. “Do you have your homework done?” She asks, watching her son’s face. Trig never lied to his parents, but sometimes he was evasive.
“I’ve got math done.” He said, averting his eyes.
“Trig, you know what I ask.” Mage scolded.
“Well, most of it.”
“And you know what I say.”
“Work now, play later.” Trig repeated.
“Yes, and those video games are additive. “She smiled. “Come on, dinners ready.”
“Where’s dad? Trig asks, following her down the hallway.
“He had a new client. He’ll be home later.” Mage said.
As they were eating, the doorbell rang. Mage went to answer it. Seconds later she called, “Terri, can you come in here, please?” Terri got up, a frightened look on her face. Trig rolled behind her into the front entryway. Bill White stood on the top step, frowning. “Mr. White has a question for you.” Mage said. Terri’s face paled.
“My son said you kicked him in the stomach, is that true?” Terri looked at her mother for help.
“Go ahead, answer Mr. White Terri.” Mage had confidence in her children. If Terri did what she was accused of, there was a good reason.
Terri opened her mouth to speak. “It was my fault.” Trig spoke up. “Bill White turned to the small boy setting beside his sister in the wheelchair.
“Why was it your fault?” Bill White asks.
“Because I couldn’t defend my sister.” Trig said, looking at his shoes. His shoulders sagged. His face reddened big tears moistened his eyes.
“No, I’m to blame.” Terri said, “They made me so mad.”
“They?” Bill White said.
“Fred and Greg Morgan. They dumped Trig out of his wheelchair on to the wet ground.” She said tears on her cheeks.
“They wanted to fight and I couldn’t do anything about it.” Trig said, head bowed, his hands clenched in his lap.
“So, they tried to fight me.” Terri said. “I’m sorry.”
“I see.” Bill White said. “I’ll let you folks finish your dinner. I think I may pay you another visit after a while.”
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” Mage said. Bill White started to say something, then nodded.
When they had resumed eating, Mage said to Terri. “Could you think of a better way to handle the situation?” She said smiling at her daughter. “I’m very proud of you for defending your brother.”
“I know I should have dealt with them better.” Terri said. Picking up her plate and silverware, she carried them to the sink. “It just they made me so mad. I’ll handle it better next time.”
“Let’s hope there isn’t a next time.” Mage said, adding dish soap and water to the sink.
“Next time I’ll take care of them myself.” Trig said, cinching his fists.
“Like I said, let’s hope there isn’t a next time. “Marge said. “
Yes, mother” Trig sighed. He always called her mother when he was frustrated with her.
They just finished the dishes when the doorbell rang again.
“You guys put the dishes away while I see who’s at the door.” Mage said, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
A few seconds later, she called. “Kids, can you come in the living room, please?”
“Now what? I hope it’s not Mr. White again.” Trig said. Turning his wheelchair toward the door to the living room.
“I hope not.” Terri said, putting away the last of the silverware.
As they came into the room, they saw Bill White and his son Fred standing just inside the front door.
Fred looked like he had been bawling. His eyes downcast. His mouth turned down.
“Fred has something he wants to say to both of you.” Mr. White put his hand on his son’s shoulder. Fred’s mouth moved, but nothing came out. “Go ahead, son.” Bill White urged.
“I…” Fred started, his eyes still on the floor.
Bill squeezed his son’s shoulder. Not enough to hurt him, but just enough to let him know he was there. “Remember what we talked about. Look them in the eyes.”
“I’m so… sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He said looking at Trig, big tears rolling down his cheeks.
All the fight went out of Trig. “It’s alright, you didn’t hurt me.” He said.
“I’m sorry I kicked you in the stomach.” Terri said. She stepped forward and held out her hand. Hesitantly, Fred reached out his hand and gripped hers. Rolling forward, Trig did the same. Fred kept his eyes downcast, not looking at anyone.
“Son, wait for me out on the sidewalk, please.” Mr. White said quietly.
“Sorry.” Fred said again. Turning, he walked out the door and stopped at the end of the sidewalk. Watching him go, Bill White turned back to face Mage, Trig, and Terri.
He sighed. “Fred has had a lot of problems since my wife, his mother, died last year. He blames God for her death and has been acting out. He started running around with Gregg a few weeks ago and I’m afraid one of these days I’m going to get a call from the police.” Bill White said, lines creasing his face. “Well, I’ve taken enough of your time tonight. Thank you for understanding.” He turned to go.
“We’ll be praying for you and Fred.” Mage said. Bill White nodded. “Thank you.” He said. At the end of the sidewalk, he put his hand on his son’s shoulder. Together they crossed the street to their home.
Lying in bed listening to the low rumble of his father and mother talking, Trig thought of what it would be like not to have a mother.
Delayed Chad Nelson arrived home exhausted from the day’s activities. The client showed up an hour late for his appointment. Chad answered all the man’s questions. He came in as Trig and Terri were getting ready for bed. He spent a few minutes with each child and prayed with them. Now, as Trig listened, he couldn’t make out the words but knew they were discussing the indents of this afternoon.
“I wish I could shield him from the hard side of life.” Chad said setting on the couch rubbing his eyes. “But I can’t.”
“I know he has to face the bullies of the world and overcome them with the love of Christ.” Mage said working on her crocheting. She was making a blanket for a family with a new baby at church.
“Yes, and it will not be easy. John Macklin got upset when I said I wanted to be home before my children were asleep.” Chad said, pouring a little more soft drink in his glass. Setting back down, he sighed.” He walked out in a huff and I think I lost the contract.”
Mage stopped and looked at him. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry and after all the time you spent with him.”
“Well,” Chad said, draining his glass. “He may find someone who will be more accommodating, but it will be at a higher price. I’m going to bed. I’ll meet you in there.” He said, taking his glass back in the kitchen.
“I’ll be right there soon as I finish this row.”
As in every household during school and workdays, the house the next morning was a hub of activity. Yet in the Nelson household there was a sense of order that is as much as possible. Chad and Marge insisted the family set down for breakfast. This might only consist of 10 minutes however Trig and Terri were allowed to eat after their father said grace and while he read from a daily devotional.
When the children were ready to leave for school. Chad pulled Trig aside. “Are you ok for today, son?” Chad asks setting on the couch. Whenever he spoke to Trig or Terri, he came down to their level. Even when he had to discipline them. He set down, told them what they did wrong and explained what the punishment would be. He also explained he was implementing punishment so they would live a happy, satisfying life. Afterward he hugged them, telling how much he loved them. He never held any wrong they did against them or brought up past sins.
Trig grinned. “Yeah, dad Terri’s going to follow me around all day and if somebody even looks cross-eyed at me, she’s going to beat them up.”
“Har har very funny.” Chad said, smiling.
“Yes, I’ll be fine. Gregg’s kind of coward and after last night Fred won’t bother me.” Trig said.
“Ok buddy, your mother and I will be praying for you.”
“Thanks dad. “Trig said really meaning it.
The day went better than Trig thought it would, Fred didn’t bother him at all. Gregg acted up in math class and got suspended for three days. Trig even hit a hundred on the quiz in English.
The end of the spring semester was approaching quickly. Everyone including the teachers were becoming antsy. Gregg came back from suspension and tried to couple with Fred, but he wanted nothing to do with him. So Gregg wandered around like a loose cannon. Several times he thought of bullying Trig, but his sister was never far away.
Trig loved summer. Some days he rolled down to the library, checked out a book and went to the park. There by the pond he set, reading in the shade. The fountain in the middle of the water seemed to whisper to him of adventure beyond the confines of his wheelchair. Occasionally Terri accompanied, but most days he went by himself. His mother and father never worried about him feeling the park was safe.
He was reading a dog-eared copy of Moby Dick when a shadow fell crossed the page.
“Well, if it ain’t the twit out here all by his lonesome.” Gregg said, coming up beside him. Panic struck Trig. Even as scrawny as Gregg was, Trig didn’t stand a chance. Thinking quickly, Trig threw the book behind him. Gregg grasps the handles on the wheelchair. Trig grabbed the wheels and tried to set the brake at the same time. At the edge of the pond, Gregg used the momentum of the wheelchair to throw Trig face first into the water.
Slapping his thighs, Gregg doubled over laughing. “Hey, I know where I’ve seen you before you’re a fish and here is your whale.” Reaching down, he picked up the library copy of Moby Dick and toss it into the water. Seeing it flying through the air, Trig tried to catch the book and missed. Dancing around Gregg laughed at the boy’s distress ‘Because they had problems with erosion the park board had a retaining wall constructed. Struggling, Trig finally managed to reach the library book. The pages and cover were completely soaked. The book was ruined. Trig received a small allowance each week. It would take several weeks to pay for a replacement. He glared at his tormenter.
“You idiot you stupid stupid idiot. Look what you’ve done.” He raged, slamming his fist on the water. “Why did you do that? Why are you so mean?”
“What’s a matter, baby? You gonna cry for your mama?” Gregg said. Running up to the retaining wall, he leaned over taunting Trig. “Maybe if you cry loud enough, your sister will come and… and… ah…” Gregg’s feet slipped toward the edge of the wall. He looked like a skater slipping on the ice. For all of his efforts, arms flailing, he fell into the deepest part of the pond.
Going down, he fought his way to the surface. His face pale, he looked frantically at Trig. “Help, help I can’t swim.” He went down again. For one fleeting second, Trig thought of letting Gregg drown. He couldn’t do that.
When he was six months old, his parent enrolled him in a swimming course. Reconciled to the fact he would never walk and if he did, it would be on crunches. So, if he fell into the water, they wanted him to be able to cope. So, he learned to swim. In the water he could forget about his immobility. Forgetting about the book, he swam to where the other boy went down. He reached below the surface; he couldn’t find him. Seconds later Gregg’s head popped up. He looked at Trig, his eyes wild with fright. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Grasping Gregg around the chest, Trig swam toward the overturned wheelchair. Gregg’s arms flailed. Several times he hit Trig in the face, blooding his nose. Two times he socked him in the eyes. Trig lost his grip. Gregg went down. Trig searched for several seconds before his fingers closed on Gregg’s shirt. As he dragged him to shore, his shirt began to tear. Trig was tiring.
Gripping the material, he struggled on. Gregg was now dead weight Trig concentrated on bringing him to shore. It surprised him when he felt mud under his hand. Pulling himself and Gregg up on the bank with handfuls of grass, Trig succeed in getting the upper half of Gregg out of the water.
Breathing hard, Trig looked down at this bully. This enemy. Pale eyes closed, he just looked like a scared dead little boy. Trig only hesitated a second before he started CPR. After a few chest compressions, he rolled Gregg on his side, letting the water from his lungs run out of his mouth. Two more times and Gregg began to cough. Leaving him laying where Trig dragged himself to the overturned wheelchair. Setting it upright, he pulled the chair out of the water. Seated in the wheelchair, he took one more look at Gregg. His hands working the wheels, he started down the road to the park office. Adrenalin gave him new strength. Never a speed racer, Trig’s hands moved in a blur. He covered the quarter mile to the office in two minutes.
A woman came out of the building headed for her car. “Help, help a boy drowned at the pond.” He shouted. The woman stopped. Color draining from her face, she opened her mouth. If she spoke, Trig didn’t hear her. His message delivered, Trig spun the wheelchair around and headed back the way he came. The woman shouted after him, then gave up and ran back in the park office. Arms pumping, Trig raced down the road. Within minutes, the sound of sirens filled the air.
Gregg set up, looking dazed. As Trig rolled up beside him, an ambulance pulled into the park. While the two paramedics gathered their equipment, Gregg looked at Trig. “Why did you do that? Why did you save my life?” The paramedics checking his vitals interrupted him. Before Trig could answer him, they put Gregg in the back of the ambulance. One of the paramedics asks Trig.” Are you alright? Would you like to go to the hospital and be checked out?”
“No. I’m ok, just a little tired. Is he going to be alright?”
“The man smiled. “Yes, he’ll be fine thanks to you. He may have to stay overnight for observation, but tomorrow he’ll be his old self.”
But the paramedic was wrong, Gregg never did return to being the bully he once was. He, Fred, and Trig became best friends. They attended the ceremony when the chief of police gave Trig a metal for heroism. Come to find out Gregg was a gifted artist. He kept it hidden, thinking it made him appear weak.
Beside the picture of Trig receiving his metal on the front of the newspaper, they printed one of Gregg’s drawings. It depicted Trig leaning forward in his wheelchair, his hands moving in a blur. Smoke curled off the wheels. Underneath the caption read ‘Trig’s smoking wheels.’



Moonshine for the Preacher

The blast sent a shock wave down Daniel Pickens’ spine. He had half expected it, but not this close. Bark from the overhead branches rained down on his wide-brimmed hat. Spooked, his horse whinnied and skittered. He fought to bring the mare under control. Daniel had smelled wood smoke mixed with the odor of sour mash as he approached the clearing. Despite being an easy target, he urged the horse forward. Sweat running down his back from the scorching July sun mingled with the cold sweat of fear.
“If I’m going to be a pastor to the people on this mountain, I can’t be afraid to ride down a trail,” he grumbled when his wife protested his venturing to the other side of the mountain. Jane agreed, but saw herself as a widow before they passed their first anniversary.
Daniel no sooner got the horse settled down when a second shot tore a hole in a tree not two feet to his left. The mare bucked and kicked out her back legs like a rodeo bronco. He put a hand on the animal’s wet flank to calm her. She quivered under his touch. “The next one will be between my eyes,” Daniel muttered. He kept a tight rein on the mare; she was ready to bolt. If she did, she could easily careen off the side of the mountain.
“What are you doin’ here?” The harsh, demanding voice came from Daniel’s left. Wheeling the horse around in its direction, Daniel opened his coat to show he had no pistol. The beefy, grizzled mountain man crashed through the brush surrounding a big black gum tree. He was a fearsome sight, all in black. His canvas cattleman’s duster dragged on the ground despite his six-foot-plus frame. His coarse black hair stuck out from under a beat-up felt hat. The bristly horseshoe mustache obscuring his upper lip crawled down the sides of his mouth and curled under his chin. “I asked you what you want!” the man growled, training his Winchester 30-30 on Daniel’s chest. His finger rested on the trigger guard. This had to be Eustace Radcliff, reproachfully nicknamed “Useless” by folks around the mountain and reputed to be the meanest human roaming the Smokies.
“He’ll kill you, Preacher. He’s done it a’fore his head deacon Clyde Matson had warned to support Jane’s position. “He’s a moonshiner and he don’t let nobody come onto his side of the mountain, less’n thar buyin’ his hooch and then he runs ‘em right off. You go there, we’ll be putting you in a pine box.”
For several weeks, Clyde’s and Jane’s pleas had persuaded Daniel to confine his ministering to their own side of the mountain where the church was located. That changed last Friday night, when Daniel was called to the Billings’ homestead. Some friends of 16-year-old Nathan Billings had talked him into downing a pint of moonshine. Roaring drunk, the boy holed up in the barn loft, threatening to shoot anyone who came near. He had already taken several pot shots at the cabin where the rest of the family hunkered down. The Billings sneaked their youngest boy out the back door to run and get the preacher. As Nathan’s father said later, “We didn’t want to get the law involved, cuz then Nathan would be doin’ time in the hoosegow.”
After saying a quick prayer with his wife, Pastor Daniel hoisted Nathan’s little brother onto the back of his saddle and set out for the Billings’ place. At a hundred yards out, he let the boy down and watched as he scurried to the back of the cabin.
Swinging down from the saddle, Daniel snuck from tree to tree. He approached the back of the barn and cracked open the walk-in door. Its squawking hinges resounded like a shotgun blast, making him jump. Throwing the door open, he dove into a cattle stall. He squatted listening, thought he heard a growl. He grinned, realizing what he heard was snoring. As his eyes adjusted to the barn’s dark interior, Daniel spotted a ladder leading to the loft. He tiptoed across the hay-strewn floor and climbed up, fully expecting the boy to wake up and start shooting. Reaching the top, he peered through the darkness. A shaft of moonlight coming through the hay door fell across Nathan’s face. The kid’s slotted snore sounded like the throaty growl of an angry cur. The rifle lay across his stomach. Moving slowly, Daniel sneaked up and snatched it. He need not have worried; he could have shouted in Nathan’s ear and not woken him from his stupor. Slinging the strap over his shoulder, the preacher climbed down and headed for the cabin.
The next morning Nathan remembered nothing. He lay in bed moaning while his pals confessed to their parents and Nathan’s father that the source of the liquor was Useless Radcliff. The boys were contrite, as was Nathan once he regained his senses. They asked forgiveness, first from the Lord, then their parents and finally the preacher. Having received it, they swore they would never be tempted by the devil’s juice again. But Daniel knew young people. Their resolve today might be forgotten next week, next month, or whenever the next opportunity presented itself. The best way to kill a snake is to cut off its head. If Daniel could reach the moonshiner for Christ, the problem would resolve itself. Later that morning, over Jane’s objections, he saddled the mare and rode to the other side of the mountain. After following the sight and smell of wood smoke for an hour, Daniel trotted up to Radcliff’s still.
“I asked you before what you want and I ain’t gonna ask agin,” the moonshiner snarled. He raised the Winchester, resting his finger inside the trigger guard. “This time I let ole Betsy do the talkin’ fer me.”
Daniel swallowed the lump in his throat. He forced a smile and hoped the brutish man wouldn’t notice his quivering lip. “Good morning, sir. My name’s Daniel Pickens. I’m the new pastor over at Shady Grove Baptist. I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m just out visitin’ and invitin’ people to our services.”
Useless lowered the rifle barrel and fired at the base of a nearby tree. Panicked, the mare took off at a flat run. Gripping the reins, Daniel tried to no avail to slow her down. “And don’t you come back, hear?” Useless bellowed in the distance. “I ain’t got no truck with preachers!” He leveled his weapon and fired again. Daniel felt the whoosh of the bullet whizzing past his ear. The mare traveled a mile before Daniel got her under control, and then just barely. One more shot and I wouldn’t have stopped her ‘til she hit the barn, he thought.
A little farther on, Daniel happened upon a stream. He dismounted and led the mare down a gentle incline to get to it. The sparkling clear water cascaded over a narrow waterfall before splashing onto the boulders below. On the bank, a weeping willow afforded a cool oasis from the sweltering sun. After letting the mare drink, Daniel tethered her to a tree. He opened his saddlebag and retrieved the lunch Jane had packed for him. Kicking off his boots, Daniel lounged against the willow’s trunk. Having finished his biscuits and jerky, he filled his canteen, then pulled off his socks and dangled his feet in the cold water.
The beauty of his surroundings prompted Daniel to contemplate the glory of the Lord’s creation and provision. Bowing his head, he thanked the Good Lord for the food, for protecting him and for giving him a wonderful, caring wife. He ended with, “And thank you, Lord, that she isn’t a widow.” Feeling inspired, Daniel began singing hymns from memory. When he couldn’t remember the words, he hummed.
Believing his visitor to be a revenuer, Radcliff had followed the preacher through the woods, keeping him in sight by leaping over fallen trees and sliding down hillsides. If Useless let the G-man get away and return with reinforcements, they would destroy his still and throw him in jail. But he was more afraid of losing his freedom than his trade. As a young man, Useless had spent more than a decade in prison and it nearly killed him.
Hidden behind the trees, Useless watched the man eat, drink from the stream and bow his head. He prayin’ or snoozin’? Useless wondered. He soon got his answer when the man’s voice rose in song. The sound of it made Useless cringe, but the familiar words struck a chord.
Blessed assurance
Jesus is mine
Oh, what a foretaste
Of glory divine
This is my story
This is my song
Praising my Savior
All the day long.
In the deepest recess of his memory, Useless could hear his mother singing that song. He lowered his rifle. Guess he really is a preacher, he thought, quietly retreating into the woods with the song echoing in his mind.
As Daniel rode into the barn lot, Jane came running from the house. Jumping down, he embraced her. She kissed him; her lips pressed hard against his. “I was so worried,” she stewed, her eyes brimming with tears. “I could picture you lying by the trail, shot up and dying.”
Daniel smiled and wiped her tears. “Sweetheart, I’m fine. I had a pleasant dinner by a cool stream in the shade of a big willow.”
The creases in Jane’s face relaxed. “So, you didn’t find this Useless fellow?”
Daniel began unsaddling the horse. “Oh, I found him all right.”
“He didn’t shoot at you, did he? Oh please, Daniel, tell me he didn’t try to kill you,” Jane cried, seeming close to hysteria.
Daniel didn’t respond right away, but Jane read the answer in his eyes. “The Lord protected me,” he told her soothingly, hugging her close.
“Yes. Well, the Lord protected the apostle Paul, too, until he had his head lopped off!” Tears flooded Jane’s eyes again.
“Jane, Honey, I’m doing the Lord’s work. I can’t be afraid of my shadow, or anyone else’s for that matter.”
“I know. It’s just that I’m so frightened for you. Everyone knows that man has killed before.”
Daniel thought it best to get her mind off the subject. He smiled reassuringly at her. “I’m going down to cut the weeds in the cemetery. Want to come along?”
“Yes, I would. Give me a few minutes to get the mop and bucket and I’ll clean inside the church while you’re working.” A short time later they carried their tools down the road toward the church. Jane’s free hand reached for Daniel’s and she entwined her fingers with his, gripping them more strongly than usual.
All that afternoon while Useless Radcliff worked his still, he couldn’t get the words of the preacher’s song out of his mind. When he was still Eustace, a kid no more than ten, he hooked himself in the arm while fishing. It hurt like blazes. He worked the fish hook back and forth, trying to free it, while blood dripped down his arm and off his elbow. He couldn’t get the thing out. After a while the pain let up a little, and he kept dropping the line until he had a good mess of fish. Back at home, his father pushed the hook the rest of the way through Eustace’s arm, cut the barb off the hook and removed it. Eustace never forgot that rare display of tender care his father showed him that day.
When Eustace was 17, his father was killed in a dispute with a rival moonshiner. His mother died a short time later. After her funeral, Eustace became Useless when he took murderous revenge on the man who shot his father. He hid in the woods for two weeks while the law hunted him. Now, 25 years on, Useless continued to operate his father’s still and strike fear in the hearts of the mountain folk.
Breaking through the monotonous task of grinding corn, the words of the hymn kept replaying in Useless’ mind. But it was his mother’s voice singing it, not the preacher’s. Mother Radcliff had religion; she sang songs, went to church and prayed. Mostly she prayed for her husband and her boy.
When he was shot, Old Man Radcliff managed to make it back to their cabin. For the next 24 hours, Useless’ mother left her husband’s side only once, while the doctor examined him. The rest of the time she was at his bedside praying, singing and reading the Bible to him. She pleaded with her husband to ask Jesus into his heart. In the last hour of his life, he did. In the waning moments of that hour, the couple urged their son to forgive the shooter and destroy the still. Useless did neither.
As he stood cooking his mash, Useless thought about his life. What had he done with it? True, his corn squeezing was the best in the mountains. His liquor was more in demand than any other moonshiner’s. Even so, he suspected that over the years his liquor had been the cause of countless murders, suicides and serious injuries caused by firearms and brawls. But look, if they didn’t buy moonshine from him, they’d get it from some other hooch peddler, probably with the same result. That’s what Useless used to tell himself every time he heard of another death. Now it came roaring back at him. It forced him to face the fact that he was to blame for each and every death brought on by his liquor. The realization weighed on his back like a hundred-pound sack of corn. Funny how a verse of a hymn can hammer one’s conscience with such gut-wrenching truth.
For the next few days, Daniel worked around his farm and visited members of the congregation. Riding up to the Billings’ homestead, he spotted Nathan busily repairing the roof of the chicken coop. Seeing the preacher, the teenager’s face flamed, and he looked away. David smiled slightly. Nathan wasn’t the first teenager he had dealt with who ran into trouble. He wouldn’t be the last. Dismounting, Daniel strode to the barn and looked up at the boy. “Hi, Nathan, no more bouts of flu, I trust?”
Nathan looked down quizzically at the preacher. Then his meaning struck, and the boy’s face reddened more deeply. “Ha… No, no… I feel fine,” he stammered.
“Good, good. Is your daddy around? I need to talk to him about Sunday School.”
“Ah, no. He went over to the Donohue place to get one of the cows bred. Should be back any time.” Nathan’s face flushed again as he stooped down and spoke softly. “Say, Preacher, you didn’t say anything to anybody about my, ah, sickness, did you?”
“No, son, nary a soul. I just been a’prayin’ the Lord keeps you healthy.”
“Oh, the Lord’s been doin’ that, all right.” The boy grinned sheepishly. “My daddy said if’n I get sick like that again, he’s gonna just shoot me and my friends too that give me that sickness.”
Daniel chuckled. “Well, he may not shoot you, but by the time he’s finished with you, you’ll wish he had.”
“Yer not jokin, Preacher. Oh, here he comes now.” They watched Nathan’s father’s wagon thread its way down the path snaking through the pines. “I better get this roof done,” Nathan said. “Part of my punishment.” He pulled a nail from his tool apron and drove it home.
Leading his horse, Daniel walked down to meet Chester Billings. At the gate, Billings untied the Jersey cow’s rope from the wagon and turned her loose in the pasture. “Well, hello, Preacher. Good to see you,” Billings said, holding out his hand. “Been up to the house yet?”
“No. I was just visitin’ with Nathan,” Daniel said. “Seems like he’s recovered from the flu real well.”
“Yup, and he better not get it again,” Billings said, grinning. “But I think this here cure may be permanent.”
“Let’s hope so,” Daniel said, smiling.
“Come on up to house, Preacher. I’ll have Sadie make us a cold glass of tea.”
Returning home, Jane met Daniel at the barn. She’d been crying. Something was dreadfully wrong. She rushed into Daniel’s arms as he swung down from the saddle. Trembling violently, she stammered, “He’s here. And he brought a jug of that awful stuff with him.”
“Calm down, Honey, please. Who’s here? What stuff?” Daniel’s eyes swept the barn lot, fixating on the cabin. Seeing no one, he looked intently at his wife. “Who, Jane?”
“That… that… moonshiner, and he brought a jug with him,” she croaked through sobs. “He’s sitting on the back porch.”
Daniel planted his hands firmly on Jane’s shoulders. “Does he have a rifle?” Sweat beaded his forehead. He’d gone to see Radcliff while in a bluster over Nathan. He’d cooled off since, but he doubted Radcliff had. Now he feared not for his own life, but hers.
“Yes,” Jane sniffled. “It’s leaning against the wall beside him.”
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You go in the front door. Lock it, then go to the back door and lock it. Do it as quietly as you can. Then get my rifle and load it. I’ll go around and talk to him.”
“You want me to shoot him in the back? Oh, Daniel, I can’t do that.”
“No, no, don’t shoot unless he comes after you. If he breaks into the cabin, use the gun to stop him.”
“What about you?”
“If he makes a move for his gun, I’ll duck around the side of the house,” Daniel said, hoping he was quicker than Radcliff.
“Oh, honey, please be careful. The man is dangerous.” Tears welled in Jane’s eyes again.
Wondering if this would be the last time he would, Daniel kissed her and sent her on her way. He waited until she was inside, then strode toward the back of the house with more self-assurance than he felt. He rounded the corner of the cabin cautiously. Slumped over in the rocking chair, Useless chin resting on his chest. Daniel thought he was asleep. Then he noticed Radcliff’s mouth moving. Oh, great, he really is crazy, the preacher thought. Having dealt with some of this sort before, he’d learned to speak gently to them.
“Mr. Radcliff. What can I do for you, sir?”
Useless looked up and smiled, revealing a nearly toothless mouth. “I been a’waitin’ fer you, Preacher.” He held up the jug. Daniel recoiled. How could this man, this moonshiner, think he, a man of God, would want anything to do with devil’s brew? Radcliff raised the jug in his left hand and reached for the rifle with his right.
There was the sound of breaking glass. A rifle barrel poked through a hole in the window. “Put that gun down or I’ll put a hole in you,” a sobbing female voice warned. Radcliff lowered the rifle. He looked confused, chuckled, and then broke into a fit of uproarious laughter. He leaned back, grabbing his belly and laughing so hard tears rolled down and caught in the black stubble dotting his cheeks.
It took a lot to make Daniel angry, and it didn’t happen often. His face beet red, he stomped onto the porch and grabbed the moonshiner’s rifle, pointing the barrel down. “What in the world is so all-fired funny?” he demanded. Not only did Useless have the bad judgment to come calling with a jug of moonshine, now Daniel was going to have to bear the expense of fixing a busted window.
Radcliff’s laughter stopped as suddenly as it started. He rose from the rocking chair and eased himself down on a porch step, resting his feet on the ground. “Preacher, let me tell you a story,” he said softly. He seemed unconcerned that two rifles were trained on him. His demeanor had changed so drastically from that of the wild mountain man Daniel first encountered that Daniel felt perfectly at ease setting down the rifle and sitting beside him.
“You see,” Radcliff said, lifting his head to gaze at the cloudless sky, “when I was no more thana crawling baby, I remember my Mama singin’ a song. Times I was sick, she’d sing that song to me. Preacher, I’m talkin’ ‘bout the song you sang down by the stream the other day.” His eyes turned to Daniel. “Would you sing it for me now?”
“Sure. I’d be glad to.” Lifting his eyes to the heavens, Daniel began to sing “Blessed Assurance.” At the start of the second stanza, Jane stepped out onto the porch and joined in. The better singer of the two, her strong, steady voice echoed through the hills.
Tears of shamed repentance flowed down Useless Radcliff’s face. When the song was finished, he pawed at his face and looked at Jane. “You sound just like my Ma.” Laying his hand on the big man’s shoulder, Daniel asked, “Mr. Radcliff, do you know Christ as your savior?”
“Yes, sir, I do.” Eustace Radcliff sighed heavily and slowly nodded his head. “The other day after I shot at you, I followed you. I thought you was a revenuer pretendin’ to be a preacher. But when I heard you singin,’ I knew you was for real. And I couldn’t get away from them words. All the rest of that day ‘til dark, it was like my Mama was speakin’ to me. I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking about my Mama. She made me memorize the sinner’s prayer, you know. ‘Bout two in the mornin’, I got down on my knees by my bed and asked Jesus to come into my heart.”
“Praise the Lord!” Daniel cried, clapping the man on the back.
Teary-eyed, Jane sat down next to Eustace and spoke softly. “I know your mother is rejoicing in heaven.”
Picking up the jug of moonshine, Eustace held it out to Daniel. “Preacher. Yesterday morning I busted up the still. I done brought you the last of the moonshine. There won’t be no more devil’s brew of mine destroying people’s lives. So, here, this is the last of it.
Unwilling to take it, Daniel wanted to explain. “Mr. Radcliff, I—”
“Nah, just call me Useless. Everybody else does, “Radcliff said, grinning broadly.
“I can’t do that,” Daniel said.
“Why not? Like I said, everybody does.” He set the jug down next to the preacher.
“Because no one for whom Christ shed His blood is useless,” Daniel answered.
A tender smile crossed the big man’s face. He lifted his head to the sky and closed his eyes. “Yer right, Preacher. I sure wouldn’t want to be useless for Him.”
“What is your given name, Mr. Radcliff?” Jane asked.
“Well, Mrs., my Mama named me Eustace. Guess them boys thought they was clever to get ‘Useless’ out of that, huh?”
“Well, Eustace, no doubt you know I don’t drink, so I have no need or use for moonshine,” Daniel said.
“That’s sure, Preacher. But I do. Tell you why. I want you to baptize me in the creek and I want all the mountain folk to be there.” Eustace held out the jug to Daniel again.
Puzzled, but curious to know what the big man had in mind; Daniel took it. “I’ll send out the word today. We can have the baptism Sunday after church. But what does your being baptized have to do with this moonshine?”
“Well, I was getting to that. After I’m baptized and while they’s all lookin’ on, I’m gonna take old Betsy here and blast that jug of moonshine to smithereens.”
That is exactly what Eustace did. His aim steady and true, he blew every drop of his last jug of moonshine to the four winds. Afterward, the congregation gathered the shards from the jug and buried them, symbolizing the death of Useless Radcliff’s old life.
For the rest of his new life, Eustace Radcliff was dedicated in body, heart, mind and spirit to the Lord, proving useless only to the devil.




A Rich Man

Oscar Feldman checked the numbers on the spreadsheet for the third time. “I’ll never get rich this way,” he muttered. Soaring that morning, the stock market leveled off by noon and lost an alarming amount of ground by the closing bell. Line-by-line, Oscar poured over the numbers again. They hadn’t changed. He looked around his tiny office, feeling as shabby as it looked, and sighed. His bank account was so depleted he couldn’t even afford a can of paint.
Oscar’s kids were asleep and his wife, Olivia, had gone to bed two hours ago. Oscar needed some sleep, too. But how could he relax when his finances were in the tank? He reached for Jon Backis’s book, Taming the Stock Market. It had set him back twenty bucks, but he had to have it, even if that meant skipping lunch for three days. Settling back, Oscar opened to the page marked with a Post It note where he’d underlined the sentence: “If you don’t take the risk, you can’t expect the reward. If you’re down to your last dollar, don’t fritter it away, invest it.” Oscar stared at that line until it became a blur.
Closing his eyes and dozing, Oscar thought about his wife. Olivia was a good woman who loved her job as a kindergarten teacher, the same job she’d had when they married 11 years ago. Her students loved and respected her. But nobody gets rich on a teacher’s salary Oscar promised her on their honeymoon that in five years they would be rich. Very surprised to hear that, Olivia didn’t ask how. It didn’t matter to her. She felt blessed just to be married to him.
Then the babies came, and much of the money the couple had saved went to meet their unending expenses. The years passed quickly with more than enough demands to finish off their nest egg. The children were older now, but financially the Feldmans had still not recovered.
When his old clunker finally gave up the ghost, Oscar had his eye on a new Mercedes. He settled for a 10-year-old Cadillac. He cleaned and polished that car from engine to trunk until it looked showroom fresh. Over the years, the car accumulated some dings and scratches. Always the penny-pincher, Oscar wheedled and cajoled a friend who owned a body shop into removing them for the cost of the paint.
A thrifty and conservative woman, Olivia said she thought the Cadillac’s renewed finish looked terrific. “Honey,” she said as she walked around it in the driveway, “it’s the best car we’ve ever owned. I feel like a queen when I drive it.”
“No, Liv. If you really were a queen, you’d be sitting in the back of a chauffeur-driven limo,” came Oscar’s dispirited reply as he rubbed at a perceived spot on the fender. Olivia’s face fell. Straightening up, Oscar reached for her hand and spoke gently. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. I just want you and the kids to have the best.”
“I do,” she said, kissing his furrowed brow. “I have you and Bobby and Susie. What else do I need? Not waiting for an answer, she added, “Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.”
At the table, the children chattered about school. A new boy in Susie’s class had come all the way from New York. Tomorrow Bobby’s class was taking a field trip to the early history museum. Their mother engaged them by asking questions and listening intently to their answers. Oscar sat silent and detached, barely touching his food and oblivious to their conversation. As soon as dinner was over, he excused himself and went to his office. When the children came in to say goodnight, he dispatched them with perfunctory pecks on each of their cheeks and sent them on their way.
Around eleven, Olivia came in and stood behind her husband’s chair. She rubbed his shoulders and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. “I hardly saw you all evening,” she said softly.
“Sorry. I have a problem, I have to work out,” Oscar lied. He’d been searching for another book on wealth, quickly changing screens when Olivia approached. “You go ahead, hon. Get some sleep. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He turned back to the laptop.
She closed the door behind her and Oscar became immersed in his quest again. Olivia didn’t share his passion for chasing wealth. After all, her children were healthy, she enjoyed teaching, and she loved her husband. She felt they were rich in the only ways that mattered.
Oscar knew otherwise. Growing up, he never missed an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. The reason for his growing obsession to acquire all things material was inexplicable, even to him. His family was middle-class and financially comfortable. But there it was. By the time Oscar was out of his teens, his life’s mission was to be a billionaire able to afford all the lush amenities his heart desired. At work he filled desk drawers with brochures, touting luxury cars, opulent Oceanside estates and long vacations in exotic locations. He would study them every chance he got and forget for a while that with each passing day he was growing poorer.
But Oscar had a plan. Secretly, and only occasionally at first, he pocketed the family’s church offering, placing an empty envelope in the plate when it passed. If the pastor mentioned tithing during the service, Oscar would avoid listening by writing in his small notebook. Olivia assumed Oscar was taking notes on the sermon, but in actuality he was calculating his return on the money he just stole from the Lord.
As a child, Oscar’ s parents would give him a few coins to place in the offering. When he was seven, he decided one morning to keep the money. Except for God, no one would know, and Oscar didn’t think God would care. God didn’t need his small change.
Passing by the bedrooms, Oscar checked to make sure his wife and children were sleeping. Back in his office, he locked the door and unlocked the bottom desk drawer. Fishing an envelope from under a thick sheaf of papers, he dumped its contents on the desktop and began counting. Nine hundred eighteen dollars. Not exactly bull market worthy. He opened the laptop and pulled up the video that always kept him motivated. It featured no narrative, just a slow camera pan over meticulously manicured seaside lawns, a graciously appointed living area, and an immaculate garage housing half a dozen luxury motorcars. Asking price? Ten million, but possibly negotiable.
From out of the blue, Oscar recalled a line from chapter five of Backis’s book: “If you don’t have at least $10,000 to invest, stay out of the market.” Brushing off the thought, Oscar shut out the light and headed to the bedroom.
Olivia rolled into his arms as the bed sagged. “Thank you for working so hard,” she murmured sleepily against his chest.
“I love you,” he said, kissing the top of her head. Her breathing became heavier. Tears came to Oscar’s eyes. When they married, he promised her the world. In the light of the full moon streaming through the window, he scrutinized the furniture. Dated and worn, it was the set they bought at a second-hand store when they returned from their honeymoon.
Lying next to his wife in the quiet of the night, Oscar devised the plan that would change his life and the lives of his family forever: Tomorrow he would start taking money from his employer. He lay awake reasoning with himself for another hour. The jewelry chain’s owner was so rich he would never miss a few dollars. As soon as Oscar hit it big in the stock market, he would pay it back with interest. That made it borrowing, really, not stealing. Yes, that was exactly it—the man was just his banker, or you could say his financial backer. His conscious assuaged, Oscar turned on his side and went to sleep.
The next morning Oscar kissed his wife and the kids as they hurried off to school. Soon, he thought, no more rushing off to work for Olivia and me. We can spend our days lounging at the pool or relaxing at the country club He visualized himself kissing the children goodbye as the chauffer waited to whisk them off to their private school in the limo.
On his way to work, Oscar stopped by the post office and rented a box. Just before lunch, his fingers trembled as he wrote the first check to the dummy corporation, he set up that morning. There would be more, but it was that first $1,000 check that set him on the path to destruction.
That afternoon he worked on payroll, which was due on Friday. He studied the roster. Could he slip in a fictitious employee? He’d risk it, but not long term, just long enough to gain a few thousand.
Late Friday evening, Oscar sat studying the market report. It hadn’t been a good day on Wall Street. However, stocks being down meant he could buy more. Tomorrow morning he would travel to Culver City, open an account at a bank where they didn’t know him. He could deposit the checks. Later, he would establish online banking so they could make the deposits electronically.
He had forgotten all about the outing to the state park that Olivia had planned for Saturday. When she remained him at the breakfast table asking what time he thought they should leave? He avoided her eyes, saying he had to go to the office. Olivia seldom became angry at her husband, or anyone for that matter. Now an exasperated frown crossed her face. She sat pole straight in her chair and crossed her arms. “Oscar, your children have been looking forward to this all week. You were the one who suggested we do this, remember?”
“I know dear, I’m so sorry. But something came up unexpectedly,” Oscar fudged as he stuffed papers into his briefcase. “Tell you what. You and the children go ahead and I’ll try to meet you there around noon. How does that sound?”
“It sounds like you’re trying to avoid spending time with your family. I hope whatever’s so important at the office is worth disappointing our kids.” She stomped toward the door, but turned back to him when she reached it. “Fine,” she huffed. “Meet us at the picnic area. That is if you can find the time.”
Oscar sighed and latched the briefcase. How could he explain that this was all for her and the children’s benefit? How horrified she would be if she knew he was stealing from the company. In no mood to put up with their crying, Oscar left before the children got up.
Passing one of his employer’s jewelry stores on the way out of town caused Oscar’s stomach to churn. A small voice in his head told him it wasn’t too late. He could destroy the checks and no one would know. Oscar felt nauseous. Pulling to the curb, he put his head in his hands. What was he doing stealing from a man who had always been kind and fair to him? It’s the only way! A louder voice insisted. Pulling back into traffic. He almost sideswiped a Jeep. Swerving wildly into the other lane, its driver leaned on his horn and made a rude gesture.
Arriving in Culver City, Oscar pulled between two cars on the third level of a parking garage. Pulling his best suit from the hook over the back seat where he’d secreted it the night before, he scrambled to change before anyone approached. He stepped from the car, smoothed his clothes, and hoofed it down the block to First City Bank. Struggling to hide his nervousness, he approached a teller. “I’d like to open a business account,” he told her in as calm a voice as he could muster.
The woman picked up the phone. “I have a gentleman here who wants to open a business account.” She listened, then looked at Oscar. “Your name, sir?” He faltered as the sick feeling rushed his gut again. It never occurred to him that they would ask for his name, just the name of his business. How stupid. The teller was staring at him, waiting for an answer. He couldn’t use his own name, right?
“Rodger Stillman.” Except for the words “YOU IDIOT!” blaring in Oscar’s head, everything, including Oscar, froze. The teller’s eyes widened. She repeated the name into the phone with a tone of respect that wasn’t there before. Oscar’s face burned. Of all the names in the world, why did he have to blurt out that one? Rodger Stillman was his millionaire boss. Known throughout the state. His photos were everywhere.
“Our vice president will be down to speak with you in a few minutes, sir. Please take a seat in the waiting area. He won’t be long.”
“Yes, thank you,” Oscar said simply, looking toward the exit. The moment the teller busied herself with the next customer, Oscar hightailed it out of the building.
Back in the car, his fingers shook as he fumbled to insert the key in the ignition. Starting the engine, he pulled to the parking garage exit and waited for an opening in traffic. He did a double take, sweat popping out on his forehead, when a police car slowed to a stop in front of the bank. Oscar could almost feel the handcuffs chafing his wrists. He watched in the rearview mirror as two officers exited the car and headed toward the bank entrance. One of them glanced Oscar’s way, only for a second or two, but Oscar was sure he was staring at him. Panicked, Oscar shot out into traffic. Tires squealed; horns screamed. His heart pounding, Oscar sped away. Another shock gripped him: Cameras! The bank had a video of him impersonating his boss, no doubt audio too. Forcing himself to slow down, he nearly crashed into a guardrail when he spotted a state trooper sitting in the median.
Keeping a constant watch in the rearview mirror, Oscar pulled into a rest area 25 miles out of Culver City. He parked next to a dumpster and shut off the engine. Dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. Reality bit hard into his conscience and soul. His mind raced. What was I thinking? To take from God was bad enough, stealing from his boss was as low as it got. The checks in his shirt pocket weighed like boulders on his chest. He took them out and looked at them. Soaked with sweat, worthless. Serves you right, he thought.
He glanced around to see if anyone was watching. An elderly couple sat at a picnic table 50 feet away. A family of four was just getting into their car. Tearing the checks into tiny pieces, Oscar held them for a moment in his palm. Those bits of paper represented his future. He got out and tossed them into the dumpster. Leaning on the car in the bright sunshine, he took several deep breaths. The air felt sweet and soft in his lungs. It was the taste of freedom. He would take care of the missing checks. He’d done it a few years earlier after issuing duplicate checks to a supplier.
He walked to the vending machines and bought a morning paper and a cup of coffee. Back in the car, he perused the paper as he sipped the coffee. Turning to page three, he nearly choked. There in living color was a photo of the author of Taming the Stock market. The headline read.
Author, Broker Arrested for Insider Trading
The article recounted how Jon Backis allegedly used his status as a high-profile broker to gain millions of dollars. The information he conveyed in his book skirted the laws against insider trading, but just barely. The dragnet across the county resulted in the arrests of 30 of Backis’s cohorts. Oscar threw down the paper in despair. He was almost number 31.
“How could I have been so stupid?” he said aloud. Starting the car, he looked at his watch. Twenty after ten. He could be at the park by eleven. As he drove, he thought of a story by Russell Cromwell he read years before. A wealthy farmer sells his holdings, leaves his family, and searches the world unsuccessfully for diamonds. Believing himself to be a failure, he commits suicide. Meanwhile, the farmer who bought his property discovers it is one of the richest diamond fields in the world. The moral of Cromwell’s tale was that each one has his or her own acres of diamonds; we just have to look around us.
Oscar thought of his own life. He had a loving wife and two wonderful, healthy children. He had a secure job and, thanks to Olivia’s frugality, they were almost out of debt. All they owed was a couple of thousand on the car. Those who followed Backis’s lead would be fortunate to avoid prison sentences.
As Oscar neared the park entrance, he found himself whistling. He sat for a while in the parking lot next to the ball field, watching his family, his own acres of diamonds. His wife tossed a beach ball to the children. It occurred to Oscar just how wealthy he was in things money can’t buy. Tomorrow his offering envelope would be stuffed to overflowing with the $918. He chuckled, thinking he might have to use two envelopes. Vowing to throw Backis’s book away when he got home, Oscar joined Olivia and their children.
Oscar arrived at his office Monday morning in a cheerful mood. During the Sunday night service, the pastor had commented on the generosity of the one who gave almost $1,000 to the Lord in that morning’s offering. As it turned out, Oscar did have to use two envelopes and, as always, he left his name off them. No matter. The Lord knew, and it made Oscar feel like the richest man in the world.
He voided the checks he had written the week before and was engrossed in the number three store’s balance sheet when his intercom buzzed. “Yes?”
Breathlessly, his secretary announced, “Mr. Stillman would like to see you, sir.”
Oscar’s head reeled. She never called him sir. It seemed like an omen. Well, if Stillman just went ahead and fired him, maybe he wouldn’t have to do jail time. But if he had him prosecuted, it would be Oscar’s own fault. He bit his tongue to keep from asking if Stillman came with the police. He gulped down the lump in his throat and said, “Send him in, please.”
Hardly an imposing figure, the slight-of-build Roger Stillman stood 5’7” in his stocking feet. His brown hair was thinning. Seeing him turn the corner and head down the hallway, Oscar rose from his chair and walked toward him, hoping his knees wouldn’t buckle. Ushering the company’s top gun into his office, Oscar shook Stillman’s hand limply and offered him a chair. Noticing the moistness of Oscar’s palm, Stillman attributed it to his presence.
“Mr. Stillman, it’s good to see you.”
“Oh, call me Roger, please. It’s good to see you, too, Oscar.” Stillman’s strong, husky voice belied his appearance. “It seems the only time I meet my employees is at our Christmas parties.”
Oscar dropped in the guest chair across from his boss. “Well, we appreciate your inviting us. My wife always comments on your and Mrs. Stillman’s kindness.”
“That’s nice to hear. Oscar, I want to let you in on the secret of my success. Although it’s really not a secret at all. It’s just that few practices it.” Thinking maybe Stillman didn’t know about the checks or the fiasco at the bank, Oscar leaned forward as Stillman continued. “The best way I found to run my business is to follow Matthew chapter seven, verse twelve. ‘Treat others the way you want to be treated.”
It amazed Oscar. He had read that very passage this morning. “Yes, sir. I think that is the way all businesses should operate.”
“Stillman nodded. “And it’s why I came to see you. I’ve been watching you.”
Sweat trickled down Oscar’s back. He thought of trying to explain. But how could he possibly justify his attempt to steal from this man? He might as well confess and plead for mercy. One thing was certain: No one in the financial world would ever trust him again. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Stillman didn’t seem to notice. “Oscar,” he continued, “I know you and your family have struggled financially and I also know you’ve worked hard to overcome your difficulties.”
There was a long pause. All Oscar could do was sit there suspended in angst-filled apprehension. “Oscar, I want to offer you the position of vice president of the corporation. George Bowman is retiring and I need someone with integrity.”
Oscar swallowed hard. Was Stillman baiting him? Were the cops right outside the door? “Mr. Stillman, I–”
“Look, I know it’s a big move, but I believe in bringing deserving staff members up through the ranks. You’re the right man for the job. So, what do you say, Oscar? Want to join my team?”
“I… I’d be honored, sir.” Oscar thought he must be dreaming. Stillman stood and thrust out his hand. “My wife and I are having a little get-together at our home Friday evening. I’d like you and your wife to be there so I can to introduce you to the board. Seven o’clock.”
After Stillman was gone, Oscar sat at his desk reflecting on his life. He shuddered to think of the crime he almost committed. Stepping to the window, he watched as two stories below Roger Stillman opened the door of a two-year-old Cadillac. Twenty minutes later Oscar informed his secretary that he was taking an early lunch. Still mentally pinching himself, he drove to the school, found Olivia and told her of Stillman’s offer. Hugging him tightly, she wept.
Two Years Later
Oscar sat at his desk, eyeing the young man standing before him. In his last year of college, Benny had worked part-time at one of Rodger’s jewelry stores for the last two years. He was a great employee until they caught him on a surveillance camera stealing a ring. Roger Stillman had tasked his vice president with deciding how to deal with him. Browsing through the young man’s employee file, Oscar saw he was an A student. His father was a janitor, his mother a cook. The price of the ring he stole was almost $500.
Now the young man stood wringing his hands as he haltingly explained how he wanted to propose to his girlfriend but had no money for a ring. So, he “borrowed” one from the store. He tried to tell her that he had to return it, but the minute he put it on her finger she said, “Yes!” and rushed off to show her mother and friends. He couldn’t bring himself to ask for it back.
Over the last two years, Oscar had stopped blaming God for his financial problems and regularly paid his tithe, and more. Instead of buying a new car, he purchased one a few years old. He and Olivia bought new furniture but scrapped the idea of refinancing their mortgage to pay for remodeling the house. These days, instead of spending time on the computer trying to parlay wealth, Oscar discovered the true riches of life in his family and friends. He spent all the time he could with them.
There was a choked sob. Placing the file on the desk, Oscar looked up. Tears coursed down the boy’s cheeks. Embarrassed, Benny buried his face in a wad of tissues. Oscar had no desire to humiliate him further. He motioned the young man to take a seat. “Son, you made a mistake, didn’t you?
The boy kept his head down. “Yes, sir. And I am so sorry. I never did anything like this before. My parents are going to be so disappointed in me.”
Oscar came around and sat on the edge of the desk. “Well, right now only Roger, the store manager, and I know about your indiscretion. Let me share something with you. I knew someone like you a few years ago. He was a good person who made a bad decision. I think that’s what happened here, too. As far as the three of us are concerned, this incident never happened.”
The kid lifted his eyes. “Really? Oh, thank you, Mr. Feldman. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll work for free.” He smiled through his tears.
Oscar waved the boy’s proposal away. “Not necessary. But before you leave, there’s one more thing.” With no further mention of the boy’s misstep, for the next few minutes Oscar told him about his own pursuit of wealth and how he became a truly rich man.
Author’s note:
How many of us are like Oscar? We are so busy seeking more a bigger house, a better car, more income. Yet if we stop and look around us, we are wealthy. Material things will never bring us happiness, they just press down upon us. True joy comes from family and friends. All around us are acres of diamonds, we just have to open our eyes.




Heart to Heart

The Adkins’ troubles began the afternoon of August eighth. Their plan was to start down the bike trail after lunch at Shutter’s Inn. The waitress seated them by the row of windows at the back of the restaurant. Angie laughed as they watched the antics of the squirrels chasing each other from one bird feeder to the next. One curious little fellow jumped up on the window ledge. Angie put her finger on the glass and was amazed when the small creature put his paw against her finger. She looked at Nick, her lips curving into a big smile. He burned that image of this gentle, loving woman into his mind. After six years of marriage, Nick was still amazed to think that one so beautiful had agreed to be his wife. He leaned across the table and kissed her.
As usual, Angie ordered a salad with oil and vinegar dressing. Nick went for the cheeseburger, with onion rings and plenty of fries. “Looks delish but I have to eat light if I’m going to beat you on that trail,” she said, looking longingly at his overflowing plate.
Nick reached over and squeezed her hand. “You should eat something more substantial than salad if you want to beat me. On second thought, it wouldn’t make any difference. You can’t win. Not at that.” He winked at her. For the last two years, Nick and Angie had been trying to have a child. They would try again tonight.
Angie pulled her hand away in mock annoyance. “We’ll just see about that, Mr. Smarty.”
After lunch, they poked around the gift shop. Nick bought Angie a silly hat with a duckbill. She insisted he get one too. They laughed and teased like children without a care on this bright, sunny afternoon. Nick would remember this day for the rest of his life.
Sporting their duck hats, they strolled the grounds, enjoying the beds of cornflowers, black-eyed Susan, butterfly weed and a host of others they couldn’t name. At the lake, they sat holding hands on a bench and watched a group of children play. Angie’s eyes took on a faraway look. Nick knew she was yearning for a child of her own. He put his arms around her and held her close, feeling her heartbeat. Walking on, they stopped for a while to sit in the shade of a giant oak, where she told Nick of her dreams for the future. Nick listened with genuine interest. Still, it was 2:20and he was eager to get their ride under way. “We should get going, honey. We want to be back before it starts to get dark.”
The state park was one of their favorite places to ride. The bike trails were easy to navigate and offered spectacular views. Stopping at an overlook, Nick noticed that Angie’s breathing was slightly labored as she pulled up next to him. He attributed it to her being a little out of shape. Dismounting, Angie leaned against a nearby boulder. The southern breeze ruffled her hair. Nick reached out his hand and massaged her back. She lifted her face to him. Reluctantly, they left the peaceful place, vowing to return shortly. Fifteen minutes later, Nick’s world fell apart.
“Race you back to the car,” he challenged, grinning.
“You’re on, mister.” Jumping on her bike, Angie took off pedaling as fast as she could. Nick gave her a head start, then pedaled hard to catch up. Fifty feet ahead, Angie stopped abruptly in the middle of the trail. Nick sailed past her, so busy teasing her with a mocking smile he came close to slamming his Schwinn into the trunk of a huge oak. Skidding to a halt, he held up two fingers in a victory sign, glancing back to see her reaction. His smile quickly vanished. Her face deathly pale, she leaned over the handlebars, clutching her chest. His heart hammering, Nick wheeled his bike around and raced to her.
The last time Nick saw his wife like that was five years before when she came down with a deadly strain of flu. Nick was by her bedside day and night, bathing her face with cool water, making sure she took her medicine as prescribed, and praying to God not to take her from him. He made all kinds of vows, vows he fully intended to keep but didn’t. In the wee hours of the morning, he would sit by her bedside listening to Angie’s shallow breathing as she slept. He couldn’t stop thinking how lonely and empty his life would be without her. In what to Nick was a miracle. Early on the third day, Angie turned the corner. After being restless and feverish all night, she finally settled into a deep sleep. Exhausted, Nick lay down beside her.
Reaching her now, Nick jumped off his bike before it stopped rolling. Helping Angie off her bike, he gently sat her on the ground. “Angie, honey, what is it?” he croaked, his voice tight with panic.
She answered with a weak smile that quickly twisted into a grimace. “I’m all right,” she answered hoarsely, ”just a little short of breath.” He didn’t believe that. Angie was the kindest, gentlest woman he knew. Yet her one fault, if it was a fault, was that she cared more for others than she did herself. She worked at the food pantry, taught Sunday school to four- and five-year-old’s, volunteered at the Christian Life Center, took care of the house. She had so little time left, Nick had to force her to make a doctor’s appointment, shop for new clothes or do anything for herself.
Nick took off her helmet and watched helplessly as Angie gulped in short, choppy breaths. He pulled his phone from his pocket to call 911; she held up her hand to stop him. After five long, agonizing minutes, her breathing evened out. She smiled thinly at him. “Let’s go home,” she whispered.
Nick helped her to her feet. “Are you sure? I think we should get you to the emergency room.”
“No, honey, I’m fine.” Her tone was insistent, but she wasn’t fine and Nick knew it. He buckled her into the passenger seat and loaded the bikes in the back. Alternating between keeping his eyes on the road and her, he drove the 20 miles to their home. Waving off his outreached hand as he opened her car door, Angie walked to the house unassisted. Nick kept a close watch on her throughout the evening, ready to call the paramedics at a moment’s notice.
“I love that you care so much for me,” Angie told him. “But honestly, honey, I’m okay. Just tired.”
They turned in at 11. Afraid to rest, Nick lay propped on his elbow and watched her sleep until his eyes refused to stay open. At 2 AM, he awoke to the sound of Angie’s labored, irregular breathing. He touched her arm; it felt cold. He tried to wake her. Her head lolled in his arms. Dressing quickly, he carried her to the car. Racing through the deserted streets and running stoplights, he drove with one hand and clutched his wife’s arm with the other.
At the hospital, he left Angie in the car and sprinted into the emergency room. “My wife!” he shouted at the nurse behind the desk “Something’s wrong with my wife!” Not waiting for their response, he raced back to the car. Angie had stopped breathing; her lips were blue. Two nurses wheeled a gurney to the open passenger door. “She’s not breathing!” Nick screamed. “Do something!” Tears streamed down his face.
“Please step aside, sir,” the male nurse said. Pulling Angie from the car, he and a female nurse laid her on the gurney. A third nurse appeared and pumped Angie’s chest as they rushed her through the lobby and into a treatment room. Following on their heels, the door slammed shut in Nick’s face. Pacing the waiting room, he half muttered, half shouted, “Please God, let her be alive. I can’t live without her!” He collapsed onto a bench, guiltily remembering the vows he made when she was so sick with the flu. A woman stepped in and in a detached, businesslike manner wrote down whatever Nick could tell her about Angie’s medical history. Then she was gone, leaving Nick alone to deal with his anguish.
His afternoon at the park with Angie seemed eons ago. Her laughter rang in his ears while he restlessly changed positions in his seat. In his mind’s eye, he saw Angie’s smile–so fragile, so gentle. Nick’s life was wrapped up in her happiness. He buried his face in his hands and wept.
The minutes dragged by. Ten became 15, then 30. Consumed with dread, Nick paced, sat, then paced again. Two hours passed before a white-coated doctor pushed through the swinging doors and peered at the room’s only occupant. Nick jumped to his feet. “How is my wife?” he asked, barely able to get the words out. Sure, that the doctor would say she was dead, tears welled in Nick’s eyes.
“She’s a very sick lady, but alive,” the doctor said matter-of-factly. Nick dropped to the bench, weak with relief. The doctor didn’t smile. “There is a problem, though. Tell me, has your wife experienced any signs of weakness recently? Any dizzy spells?”
Fear gripped Nick again. “Yes, but nothing constant,” he stammered. “Only two or three times that I know of in the last year.” If there were more, would she have told him?
“I have an idea there may have been some you don’t know about. Her heart muscle is only functioning at thirty-three percent. That’s the cause of her trouble”
“Oh, no. So… what can we do? Is there medicine?” Nick’s tone was desperate. His angel needed him. He would do whatever it took to make her well.
The doctor looked at the intake sheet. “She had a severe bout of flu a few years ago?” Knowing his voice would crack, Nick nodded. “That’s undoubtedly what weakened her heart. It’s deteriorated significantly, and that doesn’t happen overnight.”
A chill shot through Nick like a bullet. He found it difficult to breathe. “What are you saying, Doc?”
“Left as it is, your wife’s heart will fail in the fairly near future. Her only hope is a transplant.”
Nick’s heart dropped; his face drained of color and his hands trembled. He stared blankly at the doctor, finally composing himself enough to ask, “When can she have the operation?”
The doctor looked slightly perturbed. “Well, it won’t be tomorrow. Tests have to be done and then she’ll be put on a waiting list. If and when a donor becomes available, we’ll have to make sure that person is compatible.”
“If and when? You don’t know how long that will take?”
“No, not with certainty. It could take months. But hopefully no more than a year.”
“A year? Oh, Doc, you have to do better than that. Please!”
The doctor raised his eyebrows at the stridency of Nick’s tone. “Mr. Adkins, more than four thousand people in this country alone are right now waiting for a new heart. Someone is added to the national transplant waiting list every ten minutes.” He didn’t add that, on average, 20 people die every day while waiting for a transplant. Angie’s chances were no better than theirs. “We’ll get her name as close to the top of the list as possible. I’m sorry. I wish I had better news for you. If you will excuse me, I have other patients.”
“Can I see her?” Nick asked through a sob.
“Probably in about an hour. I’ll send a nurse down to let you know.”
Thirty minutes later, Nick sat by Angie’s bedside watching her sleep. Slumping in the vinyl chair, he drifted off sometime after 5 AM, only to be jolted awake by a bad dream that immediately evaporated. Standing stiffly to his feet, he stepped to the bed and smoothed Angie’s hair. She opened her eyes. He smiled at her through tears. “I love you, Nick,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“I love you too,” he said softly. “I almost lost you.”
“I know, I saw you in the waiting room. I felt so bad for you.”
“You saw me? How is that possible?” Nick asked in astonishment. He had heard of such things but never believed them.
“I don’t know, honey. I just did,” Angie murmured, her eyes closing. She drifted off, a faint smile gracing her lips. A nurse came in to check Angie’s vitals. After listening to her heart, taking her temperature and checking her blood pressure, the nurse whispered. “She’s resting comfortably. The doctor will be in later this morning. If you need anything, I’ll be right down the hall.”
“Thank you,” Nick said. The nurse closed the door behind her, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Not a religious man, Nick had heard and read of near-death experiences, but put no stock in them. Until now. Angie went to church every Sunday and happily taught Sunday school to preschoolers. She tried time and time again to persuade Nick to go with her. He had done so only a few times over the last five years, so few he could count them on one hand. Two or three Christmases, Easter Sunday once or twice. That was it. Now he vowed to change that.
He gazed at Angie’s peaceful expression as she slept, contemplating what life would be like without her smile, her companionship, always being there in good times and bad. Every year she used her time and talent to make their Christmas special–decorating their home, deciding on gifts for family members and friends, shopping for months before, baking, and beautifully wrapping even the simplest gifts. Nick tried to help but burned the cookies, and his attempts at gift wrapping ended up in the recycle bin.
The first year they were married, Angie treated him to a birthday celebration the likes of which he could never imagine. He thought of his birthday just past. The minute he woke up that morning, she presented him with a small boat intricately carved by an old man they had met in the Smokies. After an elaborate breakfast she gave him another gift, another after lunch and so on throughout the day until the final (and best) one was waiting on his pillow that night. She was the love of Nick’s life and his best friend. How could he go through life without Angie? She was his life.
Sam Morris sighed. This was the last church on his tour. His dream was about to come true. He thought back to the day when as a seven-year-old he had watched the slides of missionaries in Uganda. The children with their hungry eyes struck him with their bloated bellies, living in squalor. During lunch that day with his parents and the missionary couple, Sam boldly announced, “When I grow up, I’m going to be a missionary.” Abruptly, the man stopped chewing and put down his fork. He reached for Sam’s hand and solemnly shook it. “Thank you,” he said simply. Then, laying his hand on Sam’s shoulder, he prayed that God would lead, guide and bless the boy. As he listened intently, Sam felt a warmth in his heart that slowly spread throughout his entire body. That night, as his mother and father tucked Sam into bed, they told him how proud they were of him. From that day on, Sam studied the Bible as well as the lives of great missionaries. This past spring, Sam graduated with a degree in theology. After a short vacation with his parents, he took to the road to begin sharing his vision wherever the Lord sent him.
If his Chevy was human, it would be Sam’s grandfather. The tires were an eighth of an inch away from their wires being exposed. Oh well, Sam reasoned, another six months and I’ll be in South Africa. After learning the language, Sam would travel from village to village preaching the gospel. How many nights had he lain in bed envisioning himself standing before a crowd of natives and proclaiming the name of Christ?
Just 30 more miles and Sam would be home. His parents were waiting up, eager to hear how the service went. The vibration in the right front tire was getting worse. Tomorrow he would replace it with the spare, which wasn’t much better. There was a loud pop. The steering wheel whipped in Sam’s hands. It took him a second to realize the tire had blown. The car careened back and forth across the highway. Wrestling with the wheel, Sam prayed, “Help me, Lord.” Headlights came speeding toward him. With super human strength, Sam pulled the wheel to the right, knowing the fate of the other car’s occupants was in his hands. With a deafening screech and horrifying grind, the Chevy crashed into the guardrail, bouncing crazily along the unyielding metal. The car’s passenger side hit, caving in the compartment, glass shattered. The car’s backend lifted off the ground, driving the front into the asphalt. Smashing back to earth, the car flipped over the guardrail and cartwheeled down the mountainside. Sam’s seatbelt broke, tossing him around the compartment with such force he could hear and feel his bones snap. Conscious throughout, Sam prayed for his mother and father and the people of South Africa. The car went airborne, slamming Sam head-first into the windshield. Darkness filled his vision. He was floating toward a brilliant light. On the highway above the mangled wreck, the driver of the second car dialed 911.
Sam’s father called the pastor at 11 PM. “I really don’t know, Mr. Morris. Sam left here at 8:30. He should have gotten home hours ago.”
“Thank you, Pastor. I’m sorry to have awakened you.”
“Not at all. I’m sure he was just delayed. I’ll call our prayer chain. Please let us know. Sam struck me as a fine young man.”
“He is, Pastor. Thank you.” Sam’s father ended the call. He and his wife were still on their knees when the State Police knocked on their door. It seemed as if their lives ended that night.
Sheila Morris ran her fingers over the faded growth chart in the kitchen. She could not push the memories from her mind. Sam as a baby taking his first steps, his first day of kindergarten, the night he went forward in church to give his heart to the Lord. How quickly he had grown up. Too soon he was off to college, then seminary.
Sheila’s tears flowed relentlessly. Herb did his best to comfort her. Time after time she collapsed in his arms, sobbing. “I don’t understand why the Lord took him. He was so full of life, so full of promise. Remember how young he was when he decided to go into the mission field? He devoted his life to the Lord. Why, why would He take him?”
Herb could only hold her securely in his arms. “I don’t know, honey. But God will still use him. He was an organ donor, remember.”
“Yes. Sam had a good, strong heart, spiritually and physically.”
The next two days were agony for the Herb and Sheila Morris. At times they felt like vultures parting out their son’s organs, at others philanthropists. Throughout the process, though, they heard Sam’s voice urging them on.
Nick would never forget the day and time. The call came at 2:23 AM. Angie stirred at the cellphone’s ringing, then sat bolt upright as she realized what the call was about. “We have to go right now,” Nick said excitedly. Rushing to the closet to pull out clothes for both of them, he glanced back to see Angie still sitting in bed. Her expression was a mix of joy and fear.
“They have a heart?” she asked in a small voice. Reluctantly, she got out of bed. This was something she had both prayed for and dreaded. As strong as her faith was, the thought of having her heart removed frightened her. Worse, someone had to die so she could live.
“Yes, from a young guy. I think they said he was 25. He died in a car wreck. There was no damage to the heart, though.”
As they sped through the empty streets, Angie prayed for the young man’s family. As wonderful as this night was for her, it was tragic for them. At another hospital 100 miles away, Sheila and Herb prayed for the one who would receive their son’s heart.
The Adkins arrived at the hospital to find the team of doctors and nurses waiting. Nick barely kissed Angie goodbye before they whisked her off to surgery. He paced the waiting room, his haggard reflection in the window his only companion. Staring up at the sky over the sleeping city, he prayed, “Oh, Lord, please don’t let Angie die. I need her.” Nick wept. The last four months had been an unimaginable ordeal, their daily lives dominated by hope the call would come seesawing with the gut-wrenching fear that it wouldn’t. Nick felt guilty praying for someone to die so his Angie could live.
The hours dragged into dawn. Nick watched as the curtain of darkness slowly parted to let in the light of day. A light snow swirled, turning the world dusky white. Nick watched but didn’t see. Thoughts filled with apprehension and fear continued to vex his mind. What about the love of his life? Was she alive? What if this operation meant to save her life ended up killing her? He couldn’t fathom going on without Angie by his side.
It was 8 o’clock. The surgery should have taken four hours. Nick paced the hallway, keeping the double doors at the end of the hall constantly in sight. By nine, he was frantic. Back in the waiting room, he dropped to the bench and talked to himself out loud to keep from screaming. Then it was over. Nick jumped to his feet. Still wearing his scrubs, Dr. Arthur Durum stepped into the room. At the sight of Nick, the doctor’s-tired face curved into a smile. “Well, Nick, it’s been a long night for both of us.”
“How is she?” Nick asked, his voice more demanding than he intended. He swallowed hard, determined not to cry again no matter what the answer.
“She’s doing well, very well. The heart is beating strong, just like it was made for her.”
Nick’s shoulders slumped with relief. Had he heard, that right? “She’s really doing okay?”
“More than okay. She’s doing great.”
“Oh, thank God. When can I see her?”
The doctor raised his hands, palms up. “Whoa, buddy. It’s been a tough struggle for all of us. She needs to rest, and from the looks of it you do too.”
“I can’t rest, Doc. Not until I see her.”
“All right. Well, she’s in recovery and will be until this afternoon. At least go get something to eat. She’s going to need you at your strongest for the next few weeks.”
Those weeks turned into months. First there was physical therapy, then exercise at home. Angie got stronger every day; by the end of the third month, she was walking two miles a day. Nick was in awe of her progress. Athletic, Angie had more energy than ever. But Nick couldn’t ignore the signs she had changed. When they were watching TV, taking a drive or at a restaurant, it was clear she was somewhere else. He would speak to her and get no response, only a turn of her head revealing tears in her eyes. It troubled him. If he touched her arm, she would smile and ask what he had said. Lost in the pools of her eyes, Nick could not remember.
Then one night, six months after Angie’s surgery, Nick woke to find her side of the bed empty. He heard sobbing coming from the living room. “What’s wrong, honey?” he asked from the bedroom doorway.
“I can’t stop thinking about the man who gave me his heart,” she said hoarsely through sniffles while kneading a wad of tissues.
“Come to bed, sweetheart. We’ll call the doctor tomorrow.” She let him lead her to the bedroom and hold her until she slept.
Nick spoke to Dr. Durum the next morning. “That’s not uncommon with transplant patients, Nick,” the doctor told him. “It can help both families to have closure. I’ll make some calls and get back to you.” The call came early that afternoon. The donor’s parents had asked to meet Angie and Nick.
Two days later, Angie paced the floor, stopping every few seconds to look at the clock and glance through the window. “What if they don’t like me?” she thought out loud, a worried expression on her face.
Stopping her in her tracks, Nick enfolded her in his arms. Angie, honey, everyone likes you, and the rest of us love you!
She kissed him. “Thank you, dear, but that’s no help.”
A car pulled into the driveway. A couple who looked to be in their 50s got out and made their way up the walk. Greeting them at the door, Nick ushered them inside. The moment Sheila laid eyes on Angie; she fell weeping into the younger woman’s arms. The men shook hands, their eyes moist. It was several minutes before the two women separated. Sheila held Angie at arm’s length. “Oh, my dear, I know Sam would have loved you,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion.
“And we would have loved him,” Angie answered.
“Yes, we would have,” Nick said softly.
Reaching into her purse, Sheila took out a stethoscope and held it up to Angie. “May I”?
“Yes, of course,” Angie agreed with a big smile. Nick nodded.
Together, Sam’s mother and father listened to the heart their son had given to this lovely young woman. “Please, one more time?” Sheila asked. Angie held the device against her chest again. With tears of joy and sorrow, Sam’s mother listened to the beat of her son’s heart and whispered, “I love you.”




His Own Worst Enemy

Ryan Kingston’s sad, bewildered eyes stared back at him through the rearview mirror of his patrol car. How did things get this far? There was a time he couldn’t wait to be with Janet. Just seeing her gave him a thrill. He thought of the morning he showed up unannounced at her apartment. She cracked the door open just enough for him to see her clutching a ratty-looking robe around her middle, her eyes puffy with sleep and her hair in curlers. She screamed and slammed the door in his face.
He heard her sobbing. “I’m sorry, Janet. I’m so sorry, honey. I just wanted to surprise you.”
Her crying stopped abruptly. “You succeeded!” she yelled, her voice high-pitched and piercing. “I look horrible in the morning. I never want you to see me like this.”
“No, Janet, you’re beautiful,” Ryan appealed through the door, worried her neighbors were listening. This was hardly how he had envisioned his proposal with his beloved. “You’re the most beautiful woman I know.” He took a deep breath. “Besides, I’ll see you with curlers and no makeup every morning after we’re married.”
There was silence on the other side. Hoping she would open the door, Ryan got down on one knee. “Janet,” he said as loudly as he dared, “will you marry me?” Nothing happened. She was going to say no. Crestfallen. He started to put the ring box back in his pocket. Suddenly the door flung open. While not missing a word of Ryan’s entreaty, Janet had managed to lose the curlers, brush out her hair, put on some lipstick and throw on a nicer robe. Now she stood in the doorway, a vision of loveliness.
“Yes! Oh yes, I will!” she shouted. Grinning from ear to ear, Ryan glanced around, wondering if the ruckus woke everyone in the building. He didn’t care. After sliding the ring on her finger, he took her in his arms. They spent the day walking and talking in the park. That evening Ryan took her to the best restaurant in town.
Waiting at the altar on their wedding day, Ryan watched Janet walk down the aisle on her father’s arm. Ryan had never seen her look more beautiful. Her eyes shone with tears; his heart swelled. He couldn’t believe she was about to become his wife.
The wedding was out of a dream, the honeymoon spectacular. They spent every minute together. On the second night, Ryan awoke to a see a shaft of moonlight falling across his bride’s face. Her beauty took his breath away. He pushed himself up on his elbow and watched her sleep. He thought his heart would burst when a whimsical smile flitted across her lips. He leaned down and gently kissed her. She stirred but didn’t wake. He lay on his back and listened to her breathing, telling himself how fortunate he was. In the morning, Ryan asked what she had dreamed. Janet blushed and refused to tell him. He laughed and teased, “Oh, okay, never mind.” She giggled and gave him a playful shove.
How had it changed? When did Janet change? For reasons Ryan couldn’t guess, she had transformed from his beautiful bride into a nagging, argumentative scold. She let herself go completely, schlepping around the house in that tattered old bathrobe and curlers that seemed never to produce curls. Before the children came, she would greet Ryan after his shift with a hug and kiss and wearing something pretty. For a long time after they were married, Janet got up early and put on makeup before he awoke. She made him breakfast every morning and let him know how much she enjoyed doing it.
These days when Ryan came home, he knew just where to find her lolling on the couch watching soap operas in her scruffy robe. Janet’s mother gave her that robe a few months before she died. That was four years ago. Ryan hated the thing. It clung to her like a bad habit. Janet hadn’t been to a hairdresser in months and looked it. Grown out of its once trendy style, her hair always looked like she just got out of bed. Putting on makeup was a thing of the past.
The first time they fought, Ryan was sick with shame. They had promised each other on their honeymoon that they would never argue and bicker as other couples did. If they disagreed about something, they would sit down and calmly work out their differences. For a while they held to that, apologizing to each other and sharing a laugh once they reached a resolution. The next day, they couldn’t even remember what the issue had been.
That was then. By their third year of marriage the blush was off the rose and they fought, both of them digging in their heels and refusing to hear the other. The first time it happened, they kissed and made up. The second, though, particularly heated and ended with Janet sleeping in their bed while Ryan spent the night in the guest room. They were still not speaking when he left for work the next morning. That night when he got home, he expected to find the house dark and Janet sulking on the couch. To his pleasant surprise, she met him at the door, freshly bathed and wearing little more than his favorite perfume. They vowed never to fight again. But that promise soon broken. They simply could discuss nothing without anger and rage taking over. They battled each other about anything and everything–money, her failure to keep the house clean, his failure to discipline the children, their lack of intimacy, on and on. Their fighting progressed from mere disagreements to flat-out, full-fledged war.
Now, after eight years of marriage, Ryan and Janet barely spoke and when they did it was to criticize, vilify and humiliate each other. Last night was the climax of a week of nightly battles. In the beginning, they would send the children out of the room or wait until they were in bed. Now they fought in front of them. The little ones’ tears had no effect on their parents’ screaming matches. At seven and six, the son and daughter mirrored their parents’ behavior, even to the point of becoming physical.
Lately, when Ryan entered the house, he felt like he was walking into a freezer. What started it last night? He wracked his brain. Janet had gone on a rampage about wanting a new purse they couldn’t afford, and it escalated from there. Her last words to Ryan on his way out delivered the knock-out punch.” Just so you know, I have an appointment with a divorce lawyer today.”
It wasn’t so much her announcement, but how she timed and delivered it with all the emotion of a weather report that sent a chill down Ryan’s spine. The tone of his reply was just as cold. “Wonderful. Now you can go and make some other poor slob’s life miserable.” He slammed the door behind him before Janet could answer. Backing the patrol car out of the driveway, he waved at his children standing at the window. They didn’t wave back, just stood there staring. Their father had become a bad guy to them. Here he was, one of Newburg’s finest who knew how to resolve the conflicts of others but was helpless to fix his own.
His instructors at the academy had warned him and his fellow cadets about handling domestic violence calls. “They can be more dangerous to a responding office than a holdup or hostage situation,” the grizzled sergeant summarized. They couldn’t know that the most dangerous–not physically but emotionally–situation Ryan would struggle with was in his own home. He would rather face a hundred guns than fight with his wife. Yet that’s all they did. They had become two strangers living under the same roof. Six months ago, Ryan moved into the guest room, promising himself it would only be for a short time. But little by little his clothes ended up there, too. Leaving the house before Janet got up became Ryan’s priority. If he had breakfast at all, it would be at McDonald's.
This morning, early, she knocked on his door. Ryan got up and ambled to open it. Janet stood there, her eyes red and puffy. “We need to talk. Can I come in?” Her voice was hushed. He stepped back to let her pass. She sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor. “I’ve been awake most of the night.” He knew he should apologize for arguing with her last night. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. The love he once had for this woman was dead.
“I want the divorce,” Janet said, her voice breaking.
“So do I,” Ryan answered impassively.
She glanced at him with tear-filled eyes. “We can work out a custody agreement and you can have the kids on the weekends.”
Snickering snidely, Ryan leaned against the closet door and crossed his arms. “Well, that’s generous of you. Maybe I’ll go for full custody and let you have visitation rights. That is, if you can handle them, which I doubt.”
Janet’s mouth became a straight line. She stared coldly at him. “You’re not getting my children. I have always ‘handled’ them, as you put it, and this house, and the bills and everything else you’ve dumped on me,” she snapped. “I’ve had it–”
“You’ve had it? Oh, that’s rich.” He flung open the door. His words seethed through his clenched teeth. “This is still my house and I want you out, now.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, darling, but it belongs to the bank for another twelve years,” Janet snapped back. She pulled a balled-up tissue from the pocket of her robe and dabbed at her eyes as she rose from the bed. His hand on the doorknob, Ryan gestured a sweeping motion. With his other hand, “There is so much you’re going to regret,” came her parting shot as she passed him.
“I already do,” Ryan yelled as he slammed the door behind her. He heard his son call, “Momma?” and his daughter crying in the background. Taking the boy by the hand, Janet led him down the hallway to his sister’s bedroom. Feeling like a heel, Ryan waited until they went into the kitchen, then sneaked out the front door.
The affair was over before it began. It never became physical. He met the woman in a late-night internet chat room frequented by cops. As usual, he and Janet had ended the evening with a spat over what he couldn’t recall. The woman in the chat room called herself Blondie.
Lonely, hurt, and feeling vengeful, Ryan logged on and started reading accounts of his colleagues’ lives on and off the job. An attractive detective, Blondie spoke about her nightmare of an ex-husband. From what she was sharing, the guy sounded like a real dirt bag. He rarely visited his three kids, and when he did, he spent the entire time badmouthing their mother. Ryan wanted to talk to Blondie but had no idea how to start the conversation. He’d wait ‘til tomorrow. Much to his disappointment, the following night he logged on only to find she wasn’t there.
A few days later, he came across Blondie’s text about a shooting involving her and her partner. They had responded to a report of a liquor store robbery. When they got to the scene, the suspect opened fire. Blondie’s partner was hit in the shoulder; a second bullet bounced off her vest. Returning fire, she killed the robber. While a second unit secured the scene, she stayed with her partner and administered first aid until the paramedics arrived. For the next three days she rode a desk while Internal Affairs investigated. This morning they declared it a righteous shoot. By afternoon, she was back on the street where she wanted to be.
Intrigued, Ryan sent her a message and included his email address. Blondie answered immediately and suggested they instant message. That first night they chatted for two hours, the next night for three. She told Ryan her real name: Alexa Pierce. Their nightly chats continued for two weeks. She told him details of investigations in which she conducted he rambled about his life as a patrol officer and the conflict at home.
One night, Alexa told Ryan she was pulling the late shift and would get off at midnight. It sounded to him like an invitation to meet. He had a burning desire to see her, hear her voice. He debated with himself for some time. Finally giving in, he called the San Bernardino police department and asked for her by name.“I’m sorry, we have no Detective Pierce here. Are you sure you have the right city?” the night duty officer said.
“Maybe not. Thanks anyway.” Ryan hung up. Something wasn’t right. Copying the photo on Alexa’s chat room profile, he Googled her. The image that came up belonged to a fashion model who’d been famous in the ‘90s. Ryan sent ‘Alexa’ an email asking her to explain. Not only did she not reply, she disappeared from the chat room. Ryan felt like a jerk. He’d been snookered. The big, tough cop got catfished. The only thing that stung more than the disappointment was his humiliation. So that was that. Or so he thought. The next night he came home to Janet waving around some of the saucier emails Ryan had sent to his chat room friend. Withering under a shrill barrage of accusations and invectives, he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing the woman–if indeed it was a woman–was nothing but a fraud. The real and biggest losers hid in their rooms from the battle while once again their parents worked at tearing the family to pieces.
After being blindsided, Ryan didn’t bother to ask Janet whether she’d seen the attorney. He spent the evening alone in front of the TV, wondering how anyone could call a string of dirty jokes entertainment. He thought about his parents. He hadn’t told them about his crumbling marriage or the impending divorce. His parents were coming up on their 42nd anniversary. His father was a deacon in their church. They wouldn’t understand what it was like in the real world.
Lying in bed that night, Ryan thought he heard crying. He was about to go and check when he heard Janet speaking in low tones. He opened the guest room door. A soft light from his daughter’s room fell across the hallway. Closing the door quietly, Ryan got back into bed. What could he possibly say to his children at this point? How could he comfort them? What words were there to soften the blow? “Mommy and Daddy are getting a divorce. We’re about to rip your lives apart. But don’t worry, kids, you’ll get to see your daddy once a week whether you want to or not.”
Ryan’s thoughts returned to his parents. He remembered lying in bed as a young boy listening to his mother softly singing a gospel hymn. When she finished, his father read aloud from the Bible. Sometimes Ryan would hear them pray before they got into bed. Ryan and Janet never did any of that. As newlyweds they would attend church occasionally, but then Ryan joined the police department and had to work Sundays. Janet took the children a few times after that but felt uncomfortable without Ryan, so they stopped going. Now it seemed pointless to go. They were too far gone even for God to help.
Ryan left roll call ticked. He’d been assigned to patrol the south end. He hated that part of the city, with its drug deals going down on every corner and prostitutes parading the streets even in the daytime. Performing traffic stops was like spitting into the wind. Down there, no one obeyed the law. If that wasn’t bad enough, domestic disputes were rampant.
During the first hour, Ryan patrolled the streets just to let his presence be known. Was it doing any good? He wasn’t sure. Then came the call that every police officer feared. “Forty-five twenty-eight, domestic dispute. One eighteen Silver Street, apartment two. Nine twenty-eight AM.”
“Forty-five twenty-eight responding. ETA three minutes.”
“Sixty-seven forty-five responding as backup. ETA four minutes.”
“Roger,” Dispatch answered.
Hitting the light bar and siren, Ryan screeched to a halt in front of the house in less than three minutes. Even if he hadn’t had the address, he could have guessed this was the house. The front screen door hung drunkenly by one hinge. Yelling and screaming came from inside. Ryan waited for the other unit. Thirty long seconds later, Matt Henson nosed his patrol car to the curb.
“This could be bad,” Matt said as he approached Ryan’s squad.
“Yeah. How do you want to handle it?
“Bad neighborhood. Chances are he’s got a gun,” Matt surmised.
“Let’s just hope it’s not in his hand. You take the left, I’ll go right,” Ryan said.
“Got it,” Matt said, already moving. The officers positioned themselves on the porch. Matt rapped on the leaning door. “Police officers, coming in,” he called. Neither officer had drawn his weapon. Their body cams recorded what happened next.
Two shots rang out. Stumbling backward, Matt tumbled over the porch railing onto the ground. Grabbing his pistol with one hand, Ryan keyed his radio with the other. Looking down, he saw blood spreading across Matt’s chest. “Shots fired! Shots fired, officer down!” A bullet ricocheted off the porch floor, spraying dust and splinters in Ryan’s face. His eyes stung; he couldn’t see to return fire. He pawed at his eyes and shook his head to clear it.
“Police officer! Put down the weapon!” he shouted. Through the screen, he could see two shapes scrambling for cover under a table. A bullet pierced the screen door and whizzed past Ryan’s head. He returned fire, the bullet entering the house another lodged in the tabletop. Wriggling farther back, the suspects fired back at him. Dropping on his stomach, Ryan shimmied toward the porch steps. Before he could reach them, he felt a sting, then a burning sensation in his left arm. It took a few seconds for him to realize he’d been hit. They had wounded Matt, maybe fatally. Would he be next?
Pain spreading through Ryan’s body brought with it regrets of how he’d lived his life. Why did he always feel he had to be right, had to win every argument, no matter what the cost to his wife and children? At one time he had loved Janet. He would have given his life for her. He remembered the thrill when the children were born, how his father prayed with him in the waiting room. Seeing his babies through the nursery window. How tiny they were. The way his chest swelled when his mother told him they were beautiful. Now he would die in the dirt with no chance to make amends.
Ignoring the pain, Ryan wobbled to his feet. Holding onto the porch rail, he emptied the magazine into the doorway. Blocks away, sirens screamed. Taking no time to reload, Ryan jammed the pistol into its holster. His left arm hung useless, he managed to crawl to where Matt lay. He knew he shouldn’t move his comrade, but Matt was bleeding to death. Every second Ryan waited for the paramedics would be a second too long. With his last ounce of strength, he grabbed Matt’s shirt and dragged him across the yard toward the street. His cover gone; he felt a ping in his leg. Falling to the ground, Ryan covered Matt with his body and struggled to shove a fresh magazine into his pistol. As he did, a burly African American man rushed down the porch steps, the gun in his hand spitting fire. Time stood still. With bullets whistling all around him, Ryan pointed his Glock at center mass and squeezed the trigger three times. The shooter stopped in mid-stride, a shocked expression crossing his face. Dropping his pistol, he clutched his chest and crashed to the ground. The world turned to chaos as the neighborhood exploded with the din of sirens and a half-dozen officers jumped from their cars and raced to pull Ryan and Matt to safety. The second suspect’s attempt to take some cops out ended with him going down in a hail of gunfire. Ryan closed his eyes and let the paramedics take over.
In the emergency room, Ryan raised himself up on his elbows. The nurse at his bedside gently pushed him back down. “What about Matt? How is he?” Ryan asked, his throat dry and raspy.
“He’s in surgery,” the nurse answered crisply, “which is where you’ll be very soon.”
“Is Matt going to be all right?”
“The doctor will talk to you later.” It seemed to Ryan she was being evasive. “Don’t try to get up. You’ve taken two bullets.” Two orderlies pushed a gurney through the swinging door, lifted Ryan onto the cart and whisked him down the hall. He closed his eyes and thought of his family.
Ryan didn’t remember a thing. When he opened his eyes, Janet was leaning over him, her eyes moist. His mouth was so dry Ryan could barely squeak out a “Hi.”
“Hi yourself,” Janet said, her eyes a study in mixed emotions. She placed an ice chip on Ryan’s tongue. It was the most tender, loving gesture she had made toward him in a very long time. He closed his eyes. Was she real or a dream? He opened them again. Janet was gone. Oh well, why would he think she cared if he lived or died? After all, if he died it would save her the trouble of divorcing him. Besides, she was the sole beneficiary of his life insurance.
The next time Ryan opened his eyes, he was back in his room. He tried to move his arm but couldn’t. He looked around and was startled to see Janet and his parents gathered around his bed. How long had it been since she’d been in his parents’ company? How sad that their long-overdue reunion was taking place in this hospital room.
Seeing that Ryan was awake, Janet came alongside him. “Do you want more ice?” she asked, smoothing his hair. Her touch was soft and reassuring. This woman, did he truly know her? It had been years since she confided in him about her hopes and dreams. Had he stolen them all away from her? How long had it been since he so much as asked how her day went?
“Sure,” Ryan croaked through the lump in his throat. Silent tears rolled down Janet’s face as she lay several pieces on his tongue. Ryan placed the fingers of his good arm on her hand and looked into her eyes. “Matt?”
Ryan’s father answered. “Matt will be fine, son. You saved his life.” He spoke to the women. “Why don’t you go get a bite to eat? I’ll stay with him.”
Janet squeezed her husband’s hand. “You go ahead. I’ll be okay,” he assured her.
The door closed behind them. Ryan’s father leaned over the bed and smiled at his son. Moments passed before he spoke. “Well, son, are you ready to listen?”
Why was his father talking this way? Ryan could barely get the words out. “Wh… what do you mean?”
“You’ve run your life and your marriage your way for years. How’s it working for you?”
Feeling like someone had slapped him, Ryan’s voice rose defensively. “She told you?”
“Nope. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. You think your mother and I are blind?”
“Come on, Pop. You don’t understand.”
“You’re wrong, Ryan. I understand perfectly. You tried it your way, and it didn’t work. Now you want to divorce her and start over?”
“It’s better for the kids that way.”
“You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
“Wait a minute,” Ryan argued. “I thought you were here to support me. You do know I was shot, right?”
“God brings incidents into our lives to teach us. But it doesn’t help if we don’t listen.” He paused as Ryan stared up at him quizzically. “Listen, remember when I had that accident? I think you were about ten.”
“Nine. I had just had a birthday. We didn’t think you’d live.” Ryan wondered where his father was going with this. “Mom spent so much time at the hospital, we hardly saw her for two weeks. I never told you this, but we kids didn’t appreciate being stuck with Aunt Ethel.”
Mr. Kingston chuckled a little. “What you didn’t know, what we didn’t tell you, was that I was on my way to see a divorce lawyer when I ran into the back of that semi. I was distracted and, hated to admit it, the tears in my eyes were blurring my vision.”
Ryan was stunned. “You and my mother were divorcing?” Suddenly he realized something. “You and Mom started going to church the Sunday after you came home.”
“Yes, but more than that, we asked Christ into our hearts. That’s what made all the difference in the world.” Both men were silent. Then Ryan’s father asked, “Son, do you want to save your marriage?”
Choking back tears, Ryan answered, “Yes, Dad, I do.”
“Good. Then the first thing you have to do is ask Christ into your heart and be born again.” Wiping his tears, Ryan nodded. Together, father and son prayed, one asking the Lord to grant him a new life and the other with thankfulness that his son was now also a brother in Christ. Ryan would learn later that his mother was having the same conversation with Janet. To Ryan’s joy, with the same result.
When they finished their prayer, Ryan opened his eyes to see his father smiling at him. “I have something for you,” Mr. Kingston said. He reached into his shirt pocket, brought out a small notebook and handed it to his son.
“What’s this?” Ryan said. Laying it on the bed, he flipped through the pages with his good hand. Stopping a few pages in, he read. Tell her you love her each day, no matter how you feel or what’s going on.
He turned the page. Give her flowers for no reason. Kiss her in front of the children. Brag on her to others in or out of her hearing. He read one more page. Love her unconditionally. Pray with and for her. Never go to bed angry. If you’re wrong, say so; if you’re not, apologize anyway.
“Do these things for six months and you’ll save your marriage,” his father said. Ryan nodded and started to hand back the notebook. “No, son, you keep it and read it every few days to remind yourself.”
“Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate it.”
“Oh, and by the way, the blank pages are for you to add your own entries. Do it, and I guarantee within two months you’ll find you love her more than you did when you got married.”
Six Months Later
Ryan rolled over in bed. Something poked him in the ear. Today was his birthday. She remembered. He read the delicate writing on the red envelope:
To Ryan,
The greatest husband and father in the world.
Tears welled in Ryan’s eyes. “Thank you, Lord. Thanks, Dad.” There was rumbling in the hallway. The kids knocked and piled in without waiting for an answer. Tucking the card under his pillow, Ryan pulled the covers up to his chin and pretended to be asleep. Giggling, the kids yanked the covers off their dad and jumped into the bed and into his arms. Looking young and lovely in her new robe, Janet appeared at the door. She crossed her arms and said in a mock scold. “Are you two bothering your daddy again?”
“Yes!” they exclaimed in unison.
“And you didn’t wait for me?” Janet teased. “Well, I’ll fix that.” Jumping on the bed, she began tickling Ryan. Shrieking with laughter, the children joined in. Ryan howled. “No! No! No!” he begged as the fingers of six hands danced on his rib cage.
Come to find out, Ryan’s mother had given Janet a notebook like the one Ryan’s father gave him, only written for wives. On that very day, right after Janet received Christ in the hospital chapel, she and her husband just happened to turn to the last page of their notebooks. There in bold black letters were the words:
Don’t be
Your own worst enemy




The Witch in the Neighborhood

Larry Grant sat up in bed. It was almost time. Taking no chance that she would see him; he left the room dark. He moved to the window in the dim glow of the streetlight and dragged aside the curtain. As usual, a light shone from the downstairs of the house across the alley. Halloween was just a few days away. Larry was sure she was at it again.
The green dot of light moved through the lower part of her house. This was the third night. Larry drew in a sharp breath. At 14, he ought to be braver, yet he wanted to pretend this wasn’t happening and jump back into bed. . The eerie light weaved and bobbed up the stairs. Larry glanced at his clock one minute from the witching hour. He fixed his eyes on the second floor and sure enough, there was that green glow She was right on time. If she saw him watching, she might put a curse on him like she did the Rumbis’s down the street. They had always been healthy. Then two weeks ago, right after their dog dug up a bed of flowers in the witch’s yard–BANG! the whole family got sick.
The green light disappeared. Seconds later it flashed back on in the room directly across from Larry’s bedroom. The shadows on the curtained window sent chills up Larry’s spine. With the light behind her, he could clearly see the witch’s movements. She seemed to float over the floor. He watched as she began the same ritual he had seen twice before. She opened a book. Her mouth made faint movements. After a time, she closed the book and placed it in the exact same spot. Larry was sure, he wouldn’t sleep. Maybe he would never sleep again. He closed his eyes and saw himself running through the woods, being chased by something he couldn’t identify. The faster he ran, the faster it ran. He tripped and tumbled head over heels down a steep hill. When he finally stopped rolling, he was on his back looking up into the face of the witch. She opened her mouth, baring her jagged teeth. He tried to get up and run thwarted by a thick vine tangled around his arms and legs. Twitching and kicking at the bedsheets, Larry woke to the whirring of a lawn mower down the block.
In the light of day, Larry’s fear of last night’s events seemed ridiculous. But he knew it wasn’t his imagination. Then he remembered it was Saturday. There was a knock on his door. For a fleeting moment, he thought it might be her. The door opened.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. It’s after eight,” Larry’s mother said cheerily.
“Be right there,” Larry answered, stretching and throwing back the covers.
“Better hurry. I made your favorite chocolate pancakes.” She closed the door. Larry pulled on his clothes and charged downstairs. As he entered the kitchen, his mother took a stack of pancakes out of the microwave. Larry said a quick prayer and went to work on them. After last night’s scare, it surprised him he even had an appetite, let alone be famished. Watching him eat, his mother remarked, “Wow! Should I fix you some more?”
Guzzling down his milk, Larry blushed. “No, Mom, I’m good. Sorry. I guess I was hungrier than I thought.” He put his dish and glass in the sink.
“What are your plans today?” Mrs. Grant asked as she took off her apron.
“Me and Andy are going to ride our bikes to the park and walk some of the trails.”
“Andy and I.”
“Right, Andy and I, “ Larry repeated. Larry was a C student in English, but with his mother’s help, he was trying to improve.
“Okay, well, I’m going to the mall to get my hair done. Your father will be home this afternoon.”
“Where is Dad? I thought he was out in the shop.” Larry’s father worked for a refrigeration company and in his spare time handcrafted wood furniture.
“He had an early job in Newtown. He asked if you would mow the lawn sometime today.”
“How about I do the front before I leave? Andy’s not coming ‘til ten.”
“That’s fine. Just write your dad a note and leave it on the table so he’ll know you’ll finish this afternoon.”
Larry scribbled the note and propped it against the napkin holder. He was walking out the back door when he heard the doorbell in the front. Andy was early. Heading down the hall, Larry detected two voices. His mother was talking to someone whose voice was feeble and scratchy. Larry stopped in his tracks. It was her; he knew it. He crept a few steps forward to hear.
“I can’t get used to living alone. I love to bake, but I always make too much. I made a big pan of brownies. I thought your family might like to have some.” Larry blanched at the thought of the witch bringing them food. She knew Larry was on to her. She must have seen him with those beady eyes, even in the dark. Now she was trying to poison his entire family.
“That’s so kind of you, Mrs. Page,” Larry’s mother said. “They look delicious. I’m sure we’ll enjoy them.”
“Wonderful! Well, I won’t keep you. I know you’re busy. I saw your husband leave early this morning.”
“Yes, he had a call over in Newtown.”
“You have a good day.” Turning to leave, Mrs. Page snapped her fingers in the air. “Oh, I almost forgot. Do you think Larry would want to do some yard work for me? I might need help around the house, too. I’ll pay him, of course.”
“I can ask him.”
“Let me know, then.” Mrs. Page toddled off down the walk.
“I will. Thanks again,” Mrs. Grant called after her.
Larry skedaddled out the back door. Knowing his mom didn’t eat sweets, he wasn’t worried about her. His father was a different story. If he got his hands on those brownies, he’d scarf down three or four in a heartbeat.
Placing the pan on the kitchen table, Larry’s mother looked at the clock. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for her appointment. She thought of telling Larry about the brownies, but he was already out back.
As his mother backed down the driveway., Larry pushed the lawn mower out of the shed. With a quick wave, she drove away. Starting up the mower, Larry guided it in neat vertical stripes up and down the front lawn. Carefully he maneuvered the mower around his mother’s flowerbeds. As he worked, he devised a plan to get rid of the poisonous brownies.
It was nearly 10 when he finished. He put the lawn mower away and hurried inside to his room. Kneeling in the doorway of his closet, he rummaged around until he found his backpack. Normally a neat person, Larry hastily dumped his school books on the closet floor and left them there. Charging downstairs, he emptied the pan of brownies into the backpack. He and Andy planned to stop at McDonald's on their way out of town. Worried that the poison might seep through to their hamburgers, Larry grabbed a couple of plastic grocery bags and laid them over the brownies, tucking in the edges. Taking two bottles of water from the refrigerator, he went outside to wait for his friend.
A heavyset boy, Andy Thompson didn’t have many friends. Given his weight and poor grades, even most of his teachers treated him with only thinly veiled disdain. A sensitive, caring boy, Larry had noticed how the shy, awkward Andy was shunned even when the two boys were in kindergarten. Larry befriended him and had been Andy’s loyal ally ever since. As the two boys got older, Larry was the only one who saw Andy’s potential as a great softball player. Andy could catch the ball easily if it was within his reach. Just don’t make him run for it. And Andy could hit hard. However, by the time he reached first base he’d be huffing and puffing so hard Larry feared he’d have a heart attack.
Wanting to help, Larry formulated a weight loss plan for Andy. It was working; Andy had already dropped 10 pounds. Biking the five miles to the park would be a challenge, but Larry was sure if they took their time Andy could make it.
Andy came slowly, pumping his bike up the street. Stopping in front of the Grants’ house, he stepped off and exhaled loudly. His face glistened with sweat. “Do we really have to do this? I’m not feeling well,” he groused as he plunked down on the step beside Larry.
“How many bottles of water did you bring?” Larry asked, trying to ignore the tremor running through him. He wanted to ask Andy when he started feeling sick. But he was afraid he knew the answer: midnight.
Andy mopped his face with a red bandana. “Five, but I’m not sure that’ll be enough.”
“Okay,” Larry said. “Well, I got two, so that’s seven.”
“Hey, how ‘bout we get some cokes at the dollar store?” Andy suggested hopefully.
Larry grinned at his friend and wagged his finger in a mock scold. “How about we get a couple of salads at McDonalds?”
Andy frowned. “Ah, come on, I need something to give me energy. Rabbit food ain’t gonna do it.”
“We better get going. I promised Mom I’d be back in time to mow the backyard,” Larry said, wheeling his bike to the street.
Next door, Mrs. Page watched the boys through her living room window until they turned the corner. Turning away, she murmured under her breath. “You boys enjoy your day.”
It took an hour and four bottles of water for them to reach the park. They had to stop and rest five times, not counting their visit to McDonalds. Larry did his best to be patient, but he was eager to hike the trails. If Andy kept stopping every five minutes, by the time they got there it would be time to go home.
“I gotta rest,” Andy whined as he flopped down on a bench just inside the park entrance. Larry wanted to yell, “We’ve been resting!” but didn’t. Opening his pack, Andy pulled out his next-to-last bottle of water and glugged it down. “Maybe if we eat our burgers, I’ll get to feeling better,” he said as he grabbed one and pulled off the wrapper.
Avoiding the brownies, Larry dug out his hamburger. After a short prayer, the boys made short work of lunch. When they were finished, Larry asked, “Ready for the trails?”
“Nah, you go on. I’ll see if I can catch up later.” Andy punctuated his answer with a loud belch. “Oops, sorry, didn’t mean to do that.”
Larry looked at his friend’s pale, sweat-coated face. He was anxious about leaving Andy alone, but he had looked forward to hiking the park all week. Resentment rose in Larry’s heart. He should have known Andy didn’t have the stamina to handle the five-mile ride. Why did he invite him along? “Okay, then. Suppose I check back with you in a half hour?” Not waiting for a reply, Larry walked off.
He took a more rugged trail than he would have if Andy was with him. Andy would never make it down the steep slope. Larry loved the trails with their rock formations and the way the streams cut through the hills. At the swinging rope bridge, he looked at his watch. He’d lost track of time; nearly an hour had passed. He felt no resentment now, only guilt. Just because Andy was overweight was no reason to desert him.
Making his way back to the clearing, Larry could see that something was wrong. Andy lay on the bench gripping his stomach. Larry’s backpack lay open on the ground nearby. Larry started running. Approaching, he could hear Andy moaning. His skin was grayish and waxy, and he had vomited. Terror shot through Larry. His hands trembled as he grasped Andy’s shoulders and shook him. “Andy. Andy! Did you eat those brownies?”
Andy groaned. His eyes rolled back in his head. “My belly hurts bad.”
“Andy! Tell me! Did you eat any brownies?”
Andy’s answer was slow and slurry. “They were good. Couldn’t stop.” Larry looked at his bike. He had to get help, but where to find it? “I think I’m going to throw up again.” Andy’s whimpering pierced Larry’s panicked mind.
He’s gonna die, and it’s my fault, Larry thought. He wanted to sit right down on the ground and bawl. Swallowing his tears, he looked around and spotted a family in the picnic area. The two little boys stared at Larry as he raced toward them. “Help! Help! My friend’s dying! He ate some poison brownies.” The mother abruptly stopped packing her picnic supplies in her basket and shouted, “John!”
The man dropped the folding chair he was about to load in the trunk of their car. Seeing Larry, he shouted, “What’s wrong?”
“My friend ate some brownies!” Larry shouted back. “I think they were poison!” He didn’t want to cry, but tears spilled from his eyes.
“Where is he?” the man asked as he trotted toward Larry. “Is that him over there?” He strode quickly to the bench where Andy lay, with Larry on his heels. Andy was motionless, making no sound. He was so still Larry knew he must be dead. “What’s his name?” the man asked.
It took a few seconds for Larry to comprehend. “Andy Thomson,” he finally choked out.
The man tapped the boy on the arm. “Andy. Andy! Can you hear me?”
Andy moaned softly. “Hurts,” he murmured.
“Where? Where does it hurt?” the man demanded.
“Stomach, side.” Standing a short distance away, the man’s family members looked on.
“Tell me if this hurts.” Placing his hands on Andy’s stomach, the man pushed. His friend’s scream made Larry jump.
“Should you be doing that? Shouldn’t we find a nurse or something?” Larry croaked anxiously.
To Larry’s relief, the man pulled a cellphone from the pocket of his shirt and punched in 911. “This is Doctor John French. I need an ambulance at Prairie Creek Park for a possible appendicitis.” He listened. “Yes, yes, I know what to do. Yes, I’ll be here.” After making Andy as comfortable as possible, the doctor turned to Larry. “It’s a good thing you were with your friend. I think his appendix has burst. If you hadn’t been here, he may have died.”
“You mean he wasn’t poisoned?” Larry reached into the backpack, pulled out the remaining brownie and held it up gingerly. He still unconvinced the innocent-looking morsel didn’t cause Andy’s trouble. Knowing Andy’s weakness for sweets, Larry regretted not thinking to grind the brownies up in the garbage disposal before leaving this morning.
The doctor turned to his wife, “Hon, bring me a plastic bag, please.” She was back in a minute and handed him the bag. Taking the brownie from Larry, the doctor dropped it into the bag. “I’ll have the lab analyze it, but I’m quite sure your friend is suffering from appendicitis. That’s what his symptoms are telling me.”
The next half hour was chaotic. An ambulance arrived with the paramedics rushing to check Andy’s vitals. The doctor called the hospital to ensure a team was standing by. When the ambulance pulled away with the siren screaming and the doctor and his family following behind, Larry felt very alone. He called his father.
Ten minutes later, Mr. Grant arrived at the park. He and Larry hurriedly loaded the bikes into the bed of the pickup. After dropping them at home, they sped to the hospital. On the way, Larry told his father about the witch and her poison brownies.
After speaking to Andy’s parents in the emergency waiting room, Mr. Grant put his arm around Larry’s shoulder and said, “He’s in good hands, son. Let’s take a little walk.” The afternoon sky had turned cloudy. A stiff breeze blew through the trees. Still, Larry was relieved to have his father with him and be outside. They walked to a bench and sat down. Larry wondered about the seriousness of his father’s expression.
“Son, do you remember learning about Desert Storm?”
“Sure. We read about it in history last year.”
“There’s something I think you should know about Mrs. Page. Her son was in one of the first divisions to go. They were in a fierce firefight and he was badly wounded. Even so, he was able to save three of his buddies by charging the sniper and killing him. But he took several more bullets in the process. He was sent to a hospital in Germany, then to one here in the states. He underwent a couple of surgeries. When they had done all they could for him, he was discharged and sent home. By the way, his bedroom is the one directly across from yours.”
“But that room is empty. And I’ve never seen anyone but Mrs. Page around her house,” Larry said.
“Because,” his father continued, “her son died fifteen years ago this week, the year before you were born. So, at this time every year, during the week of the anniversary of his death, Mrs. Page takes a little green lantern her son played with as a child and somehow gets up those stairs with it. She’s riddled with arthritis, you know. Anyway, she sits in a rocker next to his bed and reads his favorite passage from the Bible. I know all this because Mrs. Page told your mother and me about it when you were just a baby.”
Larry’s face flushed. He was thinking of the verses in the Book of Matthew that warn about judging.
“What you saw was her struggling up the stairs with the lantern and then sitting by his bed reading his Bible. Evidently that lantern has some special meaning for her. In any event, she does that three or four times during the week of the anniversary of his death.” Laying his hand on Larry’s shoulder, Mr. Grant looked earnestly into his son’s eyes. “What you saw was not the incantations of a witch, but a mother grieving for her son.”
Larry hung his head, tears of shame stinging his eyes. “Oh, Dad. I’m so sorry. Do you think she will forgive me?”
“Look, son, from what you told me, you and I are the only ones who know about your suspicions, right?”
“Yes. I didn’t tell anybody, not even Andy. But the doctor took one of those brownies and the lab is going to test it for poison.”
“That test will come back negative. I’m sure of it. Come on, let’s go back. Andy should be out of surgery soon and–Oh, here comes your mom.”
The test for poison proved negative. After recovering from his surgery, Andy got serious with his weight loss program. By the time school started, he had lost another10 pounds. His athletic talent took him to the football field, where he became the school’s star quarterback.
Larry found Mrs. Page to be a very kind and considerate employer. He and Andy remained friends throughout high school and their college days. The lesson Larry learned about reserving judgment stayed with him, serving him well throughout his life.




Predators

Fourteen-year-old Noah Harper cast the fly, skimming it deftly over the surface of the lake. He glanced at the tent. No movement. His father was still asleep, which meant Noah’s plan was on track. The campfire was blazing. The coffee pot ready to go, but for now it sat on a tree stump near the fire pit. The smell of coffee perking would surely wake his father, and it wasn’t time yet. Noah breathed in the crisp, pine morning air. He couldn’t get enough of this. Sure, they lived in the country and every morning he awoke to the sound of birds outside his open window. Most days he watched deer walk through their yard. But this was different. This was wilderness.
The helicopter pilot who brought Noah and his father to the remote campsite two days before had let them know that the nearest residence was 25 miles away. Once they landed, the pilot checked and rechecked the first aid kit before handing it over. “I’ll be back Friday at four,” he assured them. “If anything happens and you need help, you have the radio.”
“Thank you, Frank. We’ll be fine,” Ranger Benjamin Harper said. “Thanks for a good ride up.”
“Sure thing. See you Friday.” The pilot closed the door to the chopper. The rotors started to churn. Noah felt a little shiver as he and his father watched the chopper grow smaller and smaller until it finally dropped over the ridge.
“Well, son, we’re on our own. Let’s get moving. We have a lot to do to get camp set up before nightfall.” Thus began their adventure.
A ranger with the forest service, Harper wanted his son to enjoy and appreciate the land. His purpose for this trip was two-fold: to spend time with Noah and to teach him how to live off the land. “If you’re ever lost in the wilderness, you’ll need to know how to survive,” Harper told him as they headed for the lake.
“I’ll never get lost. I know the woods too well,” Noah said with an almost cocky confidence.
Ben Harper frowned. “Son, don’t be so sure. Some of the best trackers I know have become disoriented and gotten turned around in the woods.”
Noah didn’t want to alarm his father, but he was worried that may have already happened. He didn’t recognize the trail they were on and thought they might be off track. Harper knew these woods like the back of his hand, though, so Noah held his tongue. At noon, they stopped at an overlook. Noah ate the sandwich his mother had prepared and looked down on the valley. Far below he could see where the helicopter had landed by the river. By three o’clock they reached the lake.
Noah thought they would set up camp at the water’s edge. Instead, his father picked a spot on a rise overlooking the lake. When Noah asked why, Harper motioned him to come down to the shore. “What do you see?”
Noah looked down at the soft dirt. “Deer, coon, and wolf tracks,” he answered.
“Keep looking. What else?”
The hair on Noah’s neck stood up. “Is that a grizzly bear track?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
“It is. Look at the size of it.” Ben looked around. “Don’t worry. We won’t bother him if he doesn’t bother us.”
Harper had brought along a rifle and bear spray. Having grown up in the mountains, Noah knew enough to stay aware of his surroundings. He’d learned more about bear attacks from his ranger father than the touristy types would ever know. City slicker’s day-tripping in the park got into trouble because they ignored signs that warned of danger if they got close enough to take pictures of a bear or leave food within its reach.
Once, when Noah was five, the park was closed while the rangers hunted for a killer bear. Noah remembered hearing his mother walking the floor late at night, waiting for his father to come home. Noah thought maybe his father stayed out because his parents were mad at each other. He went down to breakfast the next morning to find his father sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. Afterward, Noah heard snippets of the rangers’ harrowing experience, but Harper withheld the details from him until years later. One winter night when Noah was eight, he decided it was time to ask about the encounter with the grizzly.
“Well, I guess you’re old enough now,” his father conceded. “You do need to know to stay away from them.” Harper sat back in his chair and began his story.
“The call came in around three in the afternoon. Two tourists were missing in the north section of the park. There had been reports of a grizzly in that area. One of the new hires, a young guy, went up to check on them. Half an hour later, he radioed in. Their camp was all torn up, everything scattered for a hundred yards around.” Harper paused to take a sip of coffee. “The kid found the campers’ bodies half buried under a pile of leaves and brush. Then he saw the bear. He didn’t have a rifle. He hadn’t thought he’d need one. The boy knew not to run. He walked backward slowly toward his pickup. When he was about ten feet from it, the bear charged. He was lucky to be able to jump in just before the grizzly hit. The bear crashed into the door and made a big dent in it. Then, with one swipe of his paw, he ripped off the side mirror. The kid backed the truck out of there and took off with the bear chasing after him. When he got back to the station, he was shaking like a leaf. Claimed all he saw through the side window was teeth.” Ben stared into the roaring fire. Noah waited.
“The grizzly’s trail was fresh.Starting at the girl’s campsite, we tracked him for miles. The most experienced men, the ones who had tracked dangerous animals before, went in front. We were losing daylight. We all knew the worst time to track a grizzly is at night, but we couldn’t let him get away. He’d killed once, he’d do it again. So, we kept going. It was pitch dark when we realized he was stalking us. He’d circled back and was behind us. We went into a canyon and waited. It didn’t take long. We heard him coming, nine hundred pounds of angry bear crashing through the brush We had set lanterns a hundred yards out, thinking that would give us enough light and time to bring him down before he got to us. As soon as we spotted his snout, we started shooting. Nothing should have survived that hail of gunfire. But he just kept on coming, as if he was immune to bullets. We jumped out of his way, two to one side, two to the other. He charged right between with his claws out, nearly raking our faces with them. Lord help us if he had.” Ben paused, his mind going back to that fearful night.
“Afraid we’d shoot each other; we held our fire until the grizz was gone. We knew we had to bring him down. Nothing is more dangerous than a wounded grizzly. We had the blood trail to follow, which would make the tracking pretty easy. We reloaded our rifles and went after him. About ten minutes later, rain started washing away his blood. A half mile farther on, he was waiting for us by the side of the trail. He came at us and mauled one guy to death before we knew what was happening. One of my best men. Then he turned on the rest of us. He was dying from the bullets we put in him, but he was gonna kill us first. His mouth was wide open. We aimed at it and loaded him up with everything we had. He dropped five feet away from me and lay there twitching.” His father stopped speaking, looked in to the fire and closed his eyes.
That was the end of the bear and the story. Now, as Noah peered at the paw prints, he shuddered at the prospect of a huge grizzly barreling out of the woods and charging them. He looked at his father. “You sure we’ll be safe?”
“That’s the reason we pitched the tent away from the water and why I brought two cans of bear spray and the Ruger Hawkeye. We won’t keep any food in the tent and we’ll hoist our packs sixteen feet off the ground.”
That night Noah barely slept. Every sound he heard was the bear. Up at first light on the third day, the first thing he did was feed the fire by dropping kindling onto the hot coals. He set up the coffee the way his father liked it, but for now the pot stayed on the tree stump. He’d hang it over the fire once he caught a fish. Casting out the line again, he landed the fly next to a submerged log, just as his father had taught him. He jiggled the line gently to imitate the movement of an insect. The trout hit his hook hard, then instantly started fighting. Shooting through the air, it landed with a splash; the spray creating a small rainbow. It took several minutes for Noah to bring the fish to shore. Hooking his fingers in its gills, he held it up. Standing there admiring his trophy, Noah slowly became aware of an unpleasant, musky odor. He heard a grunt. Terror shot through him, making him weak.
His father spoke softy behind him. “Noah, lay the fish on the ground, gently.”
Shaking, Noah followed the instruction of his father’s words. Slowly, robotically, Noah bent down and placed the fish on the grassy bank. His father’s voice came again. “Turn toward the bear. Don’t run. Walk slowly backward toward the sound of my voice.” Trembling with fear, Noah turned. There, not 10 feet away, stood the most enormous bear he’d ever seen. It had to be seven feet tall and weigh over 1,000 pounds. The boy’s wobbling knees felt as though they would give way. “Now back away, keep facing him. Speak to him, let him know you’re a human. That’s it. One step at a time.”
“Good bear. I’m a human, a boy. Have you ever seen a boy? That’s my dad. His name is Ben. Good bear, good bear.” Noah’s voice trembled, but he kept on talking and backing up. With his rifle in one hand and bear spray in the other, Ben Harper never took his eyes off the grizzly.
Once Noah reached him, Harper handed him the bear spray. Placing his hand on Noah’s shoulder, he slowly guided him backward, putting more distance between them and the bear. When they were 100 yards away, Harper sat down on a rock. Still watching the animal, he gripped Noah’s arm to try to stop his shaking. “Son, you did great. That was exactly the right thing to do to get away from that bear.”
When the bear finished with the fish, he raised his craggy head, sniffed the air and grunted. Noah was afraid it was going to charge. His father raised the Ruger to his shoulder. “If he comes at us, get behind me, okay?”
“Okay, Dad.” Noah said, his voice quaking. Thoughts of the grizzly that killed the campers and the ranger years earlier ran through Noah’s mind. Lowering its head, the bear ambled off in the opposite direction. To be safe, father and son waited an hour before cooking breakfast. Noah didn’t have much of an appetite. The image of the bear ripping apart the fish kept coming back to him.
“There are all kinds of predators in this world, son,” Ben said as he washed the frying pan. “Some animal, some human. You just have to watch out and be ready for them.”
Throughout the rest of their stay, Noah remained jumpy. But they didn’t see the grizzly again. Always alert to danger, he and Ben hiked, fished and talked. Ben cherished the time with his son. At night, he told Noah stories, some old Indian legends, others from his own childhood.
When Friday afternoon rolled around, they were ready to leave. They sat on a rock outcropping in the meadow and waited for the helicopter. After a while Ben broke their silence. “Son, of all the things I can teach you, the greatest is to trust the Lord. If you’re ever in danger, call on Him.” He got up and gave his son a one-armed hug.
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll remember.”
They heard the chop chop of the helicopter in the distance. After boarding and beginning their ascent over the lake, Noah pointed excitedly at the window and yelled over the rotors’ din, “Look, Dad! There he is!” There below was the grizzly, standing on his hind legs with his paw raised as if waving goodbye. Noah’s father grinned and tousled his son’s hair. Back at home, Noah told his mother and sister about his adventure with the bear, leaving out how terrified he was.
School started the last week of August. With only 100 students from kindergarten to 12thgrade there, the ratio of teachers to students allowed for plenty of individual attention. As a result, even the slower students ultimately performed well.
Noah loved school. Although at 14 he was technically a freshman, he took on some 10th grade courses as well, and quite capably. He liked the challenge. Tests were mere yardsticks of his progress. Only rarely did he miss getting A’s in the advanced classes. Needless to say, he was a favorite among his teachers. He didn’t let that go to his head, though, and easily made friends with the older students.
If the weather was good, Noah enjoyed walking to and from school. It gave him a chance to unwind. Most days he took a shortcut through the woods, always on the lookout for any sign of bears or mountain lions.
One afternoon in late September, Noah emerged from the woods and was walking on the side of the highway when a light green pickup coasted alongside him. The man driving wore a ranger’s hat. Rolling down the passenger side window, he shouted. “Noah, get in! Your daddy’s been attacked by a grizzly!” Noah stared open-mouthed at the stranger, his heart failing him, his knees weak. The very thing he always feared had happened. His eyes leaked tears. The man pushed open the passenger door. “C’mon, hurry, get in. He’s hurt bad.”
“Where is he? What happened?” Noah had a million questions for the man and no time to ask them.
“Come on, boy. I’ll tell you on the way. Your daddy asked for you, wanted to see you one more time before he dies.”
Against his better judgment and everything they had taught him, Noah jumped in the truck and slammed the door. He bawled, tears flooding his eyes until he couldn’t see. His father, his best friend, was dying. He prayed he would get to the hospital in time to say goodbye.
The pickup’s driver sped up to just under the speed limit. The last thing Carl Sewell needed was to be pulled over. To be caught with a victim would put a quick end to his plan.
“Can’t you go any faster?” Noah cried, tears choking his voice.
The man handed Noah a red bandana. “Here, wipe your face. Your daddy don’t wanna see you cryin’.”
“Hey, what’s that smell on here?” Noah asked as he rubbed the tears from his eyes. He suddenly felt woozy.
“Nothin’. It’s all right. Wipe your nose,” Carl said. He glanced through his mirrors. The road was clear behind and ahead. Pulling to the side of the road, he turned to Noah and grinned. Alarms went off in Noah’s head. Every warning his parents ever taught him about strangers flashed across his mind. He reached for the door, but he couldn’t control his arm. It seemed to be detached from his body. The world swam before his eyes.
Grabbing the hair on the back of Noah’s head with his right hand, Carl held the bandana to the boy’s nose with his left. Noah slumped over in the seat and held his breath, forcing himself not to exhale. A minute passed, and he still felt muddled, but his surroundings were coming back into focus. Believing his victim had passed out, Carl pulled back onto the highway and again drove just under the limit. He started talking to the unconscious boy.
“Mauled by a bear, huh? I wish all them rangers were killed by bears, but that would deprive me of the pleasure of killing Harper when he comes to rescue his precious son.” He rambled on about the things he wanted to do to Noah’s father. “Gonna kill me a ranger today. Dun killed a judge an’ a DEA agent an’ a trooper in Colorado. Your daddy’ll be small potatoes compared to them, but I’m gonna kill ‘im, anyway. It be like throwin’ a rock at a hornet’s nest. Really stirs them up to kill one of their own”
Fear nearly paralyzed the boy. His tears leaked onto the seat of the truck, but somehow, he kept his breathing even. He dared not move. He felt the truck leave the highway as Carl kept up his screed. “There’s an old barn up here. I’m gonna tie you up and call your daddy. It’s wide open around the barn. He won’t be able to sneak up on me.” He reached over and shook the boy. Getting no response, he kept talking. “I’m gonna tie your hands behind your back and then just wait. Oh, I might dangle you by your feet out the loft door, but that’s all your daddy’s gonna see before I shoot him down like the dog he is. By the way, I’m gonna kill you too. Sorry ‘bout that.”
Sewell brought the pickup to a stop and cut the engine. “I reckon you’ll be all right for a few minutes.” Stepping out, he glanced back at the boy, then disappeared. Noah thought of running but knew he wouldn’t get far if Carl had a rifle. Quickly, Noah transferred the pocketknife his father gave him from the side to the back pocket of his jeans. A second later, Carl opened the passenger door. Picking up the boy, he carried him into the barn and laid him on the floor. Noah was afraid Carl would search him. Still pretending to be unconscious, he felt the rough fiber of rope being wound around his wrists. “Hope I didn’t give you too much of that stuff,” Carl muttered. “Oh, well, if I did then your daddy’ll die after you. Doesn’t matter.”
Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, Carl walked toward the barn door. A moment passed and Noah could hear him speaking. “Yeah, and you better come alone or I’m gonna kill your kid. No, you can’t talk to him, he’s sleeping.” Carl laughed. “Or you could say he’s knocked out.” There was silence as Carl listened. Then, “Oh yeah, you got one hour. And if I see any sign of the law comin’ with you, the kid’s dead.” Noah could hear shouting through the phone. Carl ended the call.
With the pickup parked behind the barn, it couldn’t be seen from the highway. Carl pulled down the tailgate and sat on it, swinging his legs. Peeking through the cracks in the barn’s boards, Noah saw a rifle in his abductor’s hands. Carl laid down the gun, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook one out and lit it.
Wrestling the knife from his back pocket, Noah managed to open the blade and start sawing on the rope. He wished he had sharpened the blade. If he was a student in a big city school, he wouldn’t be allowed in with a knife. But because some kids at his school were Native American, the principal permitted it. Noah kept one half-open eye on the man. His fingers were getting numb. Using all his strength, he pulled his hands apart. Nothing happened at first, but slowly the strands began to unravel.
Tossing down the cigarette butt, Carl hopped off the tailgate and returned to the barn. He looked at the boy. Noah held his breath. Kneeling beside him, Carl felt for a pulse. “Dead, just like your daddy’s gonna be right soon.”
Whipping around the knife, Noah stabbed Carl in the thigh. The kidnapper howled. The boy jumped to his feet. Carl grabbed for him. Noah slashed him across the palm of his right hand. Cursing, Carl lunged at the boy and got a hold of his left ankle. Kicking Carl’s hand away with his right foot, Noah ran. As he sprinted past the pickup, he grabbed the rifle. Hobbling out of the barn brandishing a pistol, Carl aimed it at the fleeing boy and shouted, “You think that’s the only gun I have?” Noah kept running. Raising the pistol, Carl fired. The bullet kicked up dust at Noah’s heels. “I was playing with you that time, boy. Now you’re done!”
Even mustering all the speed he could, Noah knew any second he’d be dead. He wouldn’t save his father, and that realization brought more pain than any bullet. A shot rang out. Noah braced himself for the end. It didn’t come. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Carl crumpled on the ground beside the pickup. Then, to his astonishment and relief, he spotted his father emerging from a ravine 300 yards away. He was holding his old Henry rifle, the one mounted over their fireplace. Ben Harper spoke into his radio, then hooked it back on his belt and started running. Throwing down Carl’s rifle, Noah ran into his father’s arms.
Sirens echoed from all directions. Two sheriff’s vehicles screeched to a halt on either side of the barn. Uniformed deputies jumped out with guns drawn. Seeing the kidnapper’s lifeless body, they holstered their weapons. Ben Harper walked toward them with the Henry dangling from his right hand and his left arm draped around his son. After checking the kidnapper for a pulse, one deputy said, “You were right, Ranger Harper. That’s the man wanted in Colorado for kidnapping and murder. Son, you’re lucky to be alive.”
“No, sir, not luck,” Noah answered with a broad smile. “I’m blessed with the best dad in the world.”




Yard Sale

Francine Henderson loved yard sales. Spring, summer and fall she scoured the classifieds to find them, and she didn’t mind doing some traveling to get to them. Estate sales, garage sales and moving sales didn’t interest Francine. But tell her about a yard sale in the next county, and she’d arrive on the sellers’ doorstep before they brought out the first item. Francine’s obsession was a standing joke around their small town, where she’d come to be known as the yard sale lady.
Francine’s bedroom closet, garage, and the garden shed out back was crammed full of her treasures. Her husband, Jim, tried over and over to persuade her to not buy so much. After all, she used none of it. “I might someday. Besides, you know I can’t resist a great bargain,” was always Francine’s defense. Might as well step in front of a runaway bulldozer, Jim thought. He finally gave up.
Early in Francine’s yard-sailing days, Jim would go with her. But he soon tired of waiting in the truck while Francine took her time scavenging tables and rummaging through bins. Years ago, when Francine’s stuff began overflowing into Jim’s shed, he convinced her to have a yard sale herself. Bad idea. She vacillated for weeks over which items to sell. She simply couldn’t decide what she could bear to let go. “Start with the shed,” Jim suggested. “That stuff’s been there so long, most of it has to be antiques by now. Just watch out for the spider webs.”
Francine settled on 50 pieces, most of them junk. Now, what to price them? Surely, they were precious, at least to her. The night before the sale, Francine’s excitement and anxiety had her tossing and turning. Up early the next morning, she found Jim’s side of the bed empty. During the night, he went to sleep on the couch.
As Jim set up the tables, Francine busied herself changing the items’ prices–always higher. Then the horde arrived: young, old, middle-aged couples with children and babies in strollers. Francine cringed to watch them manhandling her treasures. Francine was a skilled negotiator herself; she never paid the listed price. Sometimes, if the piece was too high, she would leave and return when the seller was about to tear down. If the item was still there, she almost always got it for her price. Now the shoe was on the other foot, but Francine held firm. Sometimes, she even raised the price after the thwarted would-be buyer walked away.
Francine suffered through the first four hours, selling just one item, and that to her friend, Marge. Over Jim’s protests, she closed down the sale at noon. While Francine hauled the stuff into the garage, Jim sat in a chair at the end of the driveway, turning lookers away
Everything put away she closed the overhead door. At two o’clock, she assumed the sentry position so Jim could take down the signs.
You would think Jim would get some relief during the winter. But starting in November, Francine, whose hoard now dominated most of the house, brought more stuff in from the garage and shed. Actually, it was Jim who brought in the items while Francine examined, washed, dried and polished each one. If it plugged in, she plugged it in and ran it for several minutes to make sure it worked. Even if it didn’t, she kept it.
A few years back, when the first yard sale signs popped up among the dandelions, Francine was so pumped she was up on a Saturday at 4 AM. She had persuaded Jim to let her use the pickup to make her rounds. That was no small feat. Less than a year old, the fire engine red Ford truck was Jim’s baby. He could have gone with her, but aside from the boredom of waiting while she oohed and ached over worthless junk, he couldn’t bear to see her throw their money away on it.
About once a month, when Francine was grocery shopping, Jim would load up a couple of big trash bags with yard sale junk that had been around so long he knew she wouldn’t miss it. Taking them to the landfill and heaving them with all his might into the great garbage beyond gave him a guilty pleasure he felt he’d more than earned. When Francine wondered why there always seemed to be room to stash her new stuff, Jim would simply shrug and turn away with a self-satisfied smile.
This morning Francine took a flashlight and went out to the shed. It surprised her at how much room she had. It seemed like there should be more items. She vaguely remembered stacking a bunch of magazines in the corner. Now there were just a few. Oh. well, they’re around here somewhere. She returned to the kitchen. Laying a map of the city and the morning paper on the table, she planned her route. The yard sale ads promised all kinds of goodies. At 7:45, she headed out. It was going to be a glorious day. Driving over to the north side, she found the first address with no trouble. She pulled up to the curb and looked at her watch. Five after eight. No sign of activity, no tables, no sign, although she had seen one at the end of the block. She double checked the address. This was the place.
Francine called out to an elderly man walking by with his dog. “Pardon me, sir, isn’t there supposed to be a yard sale here today?” she asked with a friendly smile. Francine always found it more productive to be cordial when asking for information.
“Yup, they canceled it, though,” the man answered. He stepped up to the truck and leaned on the passenger door.
Feeling uncomfortable, Francine fumbled for a reply. “Oh. That’s disappointing. Do you know if they’ll reschedule it?”
The man poked his head through the open window and looked around the truck’s interior. Francine drew back as far as her seatbelt allowed. “No, can’t say that I do. Had to take their baby to the hospital ‘bout three this morning.” His little white dog sniffed at the truck’s front wheel as they spoke.
“I see. Okay, thank you. Please let them know I’ll be praying for them.”
Francine put the truck in gear. Stepping back, the man pulled his dog away from the wheel. “Yup, I’ll sure do that. You have a good day.”
Francine didn’t hear. She was already moving to the next sale, and the next. All in all, it was a disappointing morning. No one was willing to negotiate. At noon she stopped at a fast-food restaurant and ordered a hamburger with iced tea, no sugar. She thought about fries but was trying to lose weight. Francine sported a stylish hairdo nicely dressed, she constantly battled 15 pesky extra pounds.
In a frustrated stew, Francine munched her food and wondered what to do next. Should I just pack it in and go home? She thought of calling Jim to vent. He’d at least be sympathetic. But he might not hear the phone. He always mowed when Francine was out yard sailing, and it was pointless to call him then. “Sweetheart, I can’t hear a thing when I’m mowing,” he would counter when Francine complained. She knew Jim used the lawn mower din as an excuse. Sometimes, even when the mower or the car or the TV shut off, he didn’t hear his cellphone ringing. Of course, at 70, she could forgive him.
Francine dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and dumped the remains of her lunch in the trash. Back in the truck, she headed home. Jim would probably be finished mowing. Maybe they could have a nice dinner and go for a walk.
She almost drove right past it. Yet there it was in big bold letters:
YARD SALE
NAME YOUR PRICE
The sign hadn’t been there this morning; she didn’t remember seeing an ad for it in the paper. Turning around at the next block, she parked across the street and eyed the offerings. She was disappointed. There were only two tables holding a few items that even to her looked like worthless castoffs. An elderly man toddled between the tables. Francine almost drove on. She shifted the truck into drive, then thought better of it. Francine never went home without at least one bargain.
She shut off the engine. The old guy watched expectantly as she entered his yard. “If you see anything you like, we’ll talk about price,” he said, grinning.
“Sounds good,” Francine said, returning his smile.
The table nearest Francine held men’s items–an old chrome razor minus blade, a pocket knife, various tools. The other stacked with a mishmash of household items: a hand-held can opener, serving spoons, some beat up baking pans and various other kitchen gadgets.
Leaning against the second table was an ugly painting of a small girl standing at the edge of a lake feeding ducks, or maybe geese. Ten dollars. To Francine, the thing was hideous. The colors garish and the treetops, glommed on in a harsh, unnatural looking green. It assailed her eye in a most unappealing way. Francine didn’t want it, but she abhorred going home with nothing to show for her effort. She thought of asking the man if he’d take less. But, even if he sold everything including the painting, his take would total less than$20. She pulled out the ten-dollar bill she had saved all day..
“Thank you, Ma’am. You made my day,” the man said as he placed the painting on the floor of the truck’s passenger side. “When my wife and I moved here forty years ago, that thing was hanging over the fireplace. We put it up in the attic and that’s where it’s been until today.”
It won’t go in my attic, it’s too full, Francine thought. Maybe in the shed. On the way home, she glanced down at the painting and wondered aloud, “Why did I buy that thing? It’s grotesque. If Jim sees it, he’ll never let me live it down.” She nearly slammed on the brakes when she passed a dumpster, but thought better of it.
In all her days of making the yard sale rounds, only once had Francine gone home empty-handed. That was two years ago, when she tripped over a curb, splitting open her knee. Jim had insisted on taking her to the ER. All they did there was bandage her up and send her home with instructions to take Tylenol and stay off the leg for a couple of days. But to Francine, the disappointment of losing an entire day’s bargain hunting was more intense than the pain in her leg.
Back at home with the painting, Francine tried to sneak it into the shed without Jim seeing. “Whacha got there?” Francine jumped, nearly dropping the picture. “What is that? Let me see,” Jim said, holding out his hands. Reluctantly, she handed it to him. Holding it out with both hands, Jim thought it was the ugliest thing she’d brought home yet. In that instant, he decided to teach Francine a lesson. “Wow!” he said, hoping his true feelings didn’t show on his face. “Look at that texture, those colors, that detail. This has to be valuable. Wherever did you find it?”
It flabbergasted Francine. Jim had never reacted like this to anything she’d brought home before. Carrying the painting proudly into the house, he plopped it down against the couch. He took down the struggling artist’s work from Walmart, replaced it with the monstrosity. “If she has to look at this awful thing every day, maybe it’ll cure her yard sale addiction,” he said under his breath.
“Did you say something, dear?” Francine asked from across the room.
“Ah… oh… just saying how nice it looks.”
Francine didn’t think so, but wasn’t about to admit it. “Hmm, yes, the green in the trees doesn’t go with the couch.”
“Oh, I think it’s a nice contrast,” Jim told her, trying to keep a straight face.
The painting dominated the living room. It was the first thing Francine saw upon entering the room, and each time she did she disliked it more. Not Jim. He even bragged about it to his friends at the senior center and went so far as to bring a couple of them home with him to see it. Nobody wanted to tell Jim they never saw anything uglier.
After two months of living with the thing, Francine began plotting to rid of it. She knew Jim would be heartbroken, but she couldn’t stand looking at it one more day. When cleaning the living room, she avoided looking at it. Whenever she walked through the room, she kept her eyes on her shoes.
One effect the poisonous fruit of her labor had on Francine slowing down on yard sales. She didn’t quit altogether, but she became picky with her purchases. Jim congratulated himself on his wife’s improvement. Now he took just one bag of her yard sale items to the dump once every three weeks.
Francine thought of having another yard sale, but cringed when she remembered the last one. If she did, the painting would be front and center, even though she couldn’t imagine anyone buying the thing. Jim’s predicament was the same as Francine’s. He wanted to be free of the horrible thing hanging over their heads.
One day in late July, Francine was having lunch with some friends. Instead of opening a can of soup for his noon meal, Jim decided to go to the senior center. Their lunch was always better than what he fixed for himself, plus easy on his billfold.
That day the center served boiled beef, mashed potatoes, green beans and squash and pudding for dessert. Better than a can of soup and eating alone.
“Hey Jim,” Morse Johnson called, “you still got that painting your wife bought at the yard sale?”
“Yeah, hanging in the living room,” Jim said, taking another bite of his pudding.
“I was telling my neighbor about it. He moved here from New York a couple a weeks ago. He said he’d like to take a look at it if you don’t mind.”
Jim sighed “Sure, send him over. Who is he, anyway?”
“Don’t know much ‘bout him. Said he used to work in a museum or somethin’. Name’s Hammersmith.”
Jim left the center depressed. Another gawker. That’s all he needed, somebody else to gossip about Francine’s gullibility. Later that day, Jim was trimming the roses in the backyard when a tall, gray-haired man walked around the corner of the house. “Hello, Mr. Henderson. I’m Jay Hammersmith,” the man declared with a British accent He held out his hand. Taking off his glove, Jim shook it.“Mr. Johnson tells me your wife acquired a painting at a local yard sale?”
“Yup, sure did, little over two months ago,” Jim answered with a bemused expression.
“Could I impose on your hospitality to observe it?”
“Uh, sure. Come with me,” Jim said. He led Hammersmith through the back door and proceeded into the living room. He stopped at the painting and turned to Hammersmith, hoping this wouldn’t take long. The man stood staring from the kitchen doorway, his mouth hanging open. “Pretty awful, huh?”
Jay Hammersmith seemed not to hear. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he removed a small magnifying glass. “May I?”
“Be my guest,” Jim said, curious to know what the guy was up to.
“Would you mind if I took it down?”
“I don’t mind. Want me to help you?”
“No, no, I can manage.” Gently grasping the frame by its sides, Hammersmith carefully lifted the painting and set it on the couch. For the next five minutes he kneeled in front of it and examined it from top to bottom. Jim was growing impatient; he wanted to have the roses done before Francine got home. Finally, Hammersmith rehung the picture on the wall and, his face drawn, asked for a glass of water. Silently, Jim went to the sink, filled a glass and took it to him. After drinking about half, Hammersmith said, “Would you excuse me? I need to make a call.” Taking an iPhone off his belt, he crossed to the far side of the living room and dialed.
Jim heard a car door slam. So much for finishing the roses. He met Francine on the front steps. “There’s a guy inside looking at the painting.”
Francine was ready to give up her pretense. She just wanted the thing gone. “Oh, Jim, not another one. It’s bad enough I brought it home, let alone displaying that ugly thing.”
As she spoke, Hammersmith opened the front door and stepped onto the stoop. “Oh, here you are,” he said. He was smiling, but his face still looked oddly pale.
“This is my wife, Francine,” Jim said. “Francine, Jay Hammersmith.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Henderson, I am astounded by your painting,” Hammersmith said.
“Perhaps you’d like to buy it?” Francine said hopefully. If not, she’d give it to him.
“Yeah.” Jim said. “We’ll make you a real good deal.”
A museum had never directly employed Hammersmith; however, he had worked with several. This would be a golden opportunity for him to take advantage of the couple’s lack of knowledge about art. He was a man of integrity, though, and the thought never crossed his mind.
Jim and Francine took Hammersmith’s silence for hesitation. “Morse Johnson said you worked at a museum, so do you think it has some value?” Jim asked casually. He’d take $100 for it, but he held off saying so.
Hammersmith chuckled. “Oh my, yes. I would love to have it in my home. However, I could never afford such a wonderful work of art.”
Jim’s heartbeat sped up. “Huh? What do you mean? My wife bought that thing from a guy who had it in his attic for forty years!”
“Please explain, Mr. Hammersmith,” Francine said, her mouth dry.
Hammersmith explained, “for many years a high-end auction house employed me. Perhaps you’ve heard of Christie’s?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Jim said. Francine shook her head.
“No matter,” Hammersmith said. “I became somewhat of an art expert. What you have hanging in your living room is a famous nineteenth century painting. That call I made was to Christie’s. If you’re interested, they will sell this wonderful work at auction.”
Francine felt faint. Jim leaned against the house. “Wh… what do you think it’ll go for?” Jim asked. Francine held her breath.
“Something of this quality, perhaps ten million. And that may just be the opening bid,” Hammersmith said with a wide grin.
A few months later, Jim and Francine Henderson were seated in a large room at Christie’s auction house in New York. Next to them was the elderly couple from the yard sale, Gerald and Jean Wright. Jay Hammersmith was conferring with some members of Christie’s staff. The room buzzed with excitement. Gerald leaned over so Jim and Francine could hear him. “Jeanie and I really appreciate this. Most people would have kept mum about the painting.”
“Yes. I can’t tell you what this means to us,” Jean added. Over the last few months, the two couples had become close friends.
Francine squeezed Jean’s hand. “It was the right thing to do.”
Hammersmith stepped off the stage and joined them. “I say, isn’t this most exciting?”
A hush came over the room as a nattily dressed man stepped to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please. What you have before you is the last splendid work by Phillpi Kneno. Shall we start the bidding at twenty million? A man directly behind Jim raised his hand. Jim couldn’t believe people had that kind of money to spend on a painting. “Very good, sir. We have twenty million. Do I hear thirty? Yes, from the lady on my right.” And on it went. The bidding stalled at 40, then climbed to 50. The winning bid was $55 million. Francine wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
Jay Hammersmith turned to Jim and Francine. “Congratulations, my friends, you are millionaires.”
“We,” Francine said, grasping Jean’s hand.
You see, after they recovered from Jay Hammersmith’s visit, Jim and Francine had a discussion. Selling the painting would provide enough money for them and their children and their grandchildren to live comfortably all their lives.
Two days later, they visited the Wrights. Gerald and Jean couldn’t believe this couple would share their good fortune with them. Francine and Jim summed it up: “It’s the right thing to do.”
You would think Francine’s newfound wealth would cure her addiction to yard sales. It didn’t. She did, however, become more discriminating with her buys. Oh, and Jim accompanies her. He’s especially interested in artwork.




Storm Warning

Allan Miller set the lantern on the ground. Glancing back at the house, he saw the light wink on in his parents’ bedroom. Having left two days ago, Allan’s father would be in St. Louis by now. If he was able to buy the bull he wanted, it would greatly improve the herd.
Last night Allan tried unsuccessfully to convince his mother to sleep in. “Mother,” he argued, “I am twenty years old and more than capable of doing the milking. You should get some rest while Dad’s gone.”
“Yes, dear,” Norma Miller said. “I know you can handle the milking. You’ve done it before. But I wake up at the same time every morning, summer or winter.” Allan knew there was no way he could convince her to stay in bed,so he gave up.
He opened the double doors to the barn. The air inside already stiffening. He held the lantern up to the thermometer. “Already eighty-five,” he said out loud. There was no one to hear him but the chickens pecking around the barnyard. He had a notion to milk the cows outside. That would never do. His father left him in charge, and he would do the work right.
A black shape ran out of the darkness. Allan reached down and ruffled the dog’s ears. “Hey, sleepyhead. I’m glad to see you decided to join me this morning.” Allan knew his mother was up. Shep always slept at the foot of his bed. He was still there this morning when Allan left the house. His mother had to have let the dog out.
“C’mon, boy, let’s round up the cows.” As was the case nearly every morning, rounding them up wasn’t necessary. All but one already stood at the gate, and that last one was close behind. Allan opened the gate. The cattle ambled into the barn, each one heading to its own stall, and started munching the hay Allan piled into the manger the night before.
Between the rhythmic sound of milk squirting into the bucket and his head resting on the cow’s side, Allan almost fell asleep. The Guernsey shifted, making him sit up. In her younger days, the cow would have kicked over the bucket. These days she had settled down she let Allan milk her most of the time without trouble.
Allan emptied the bucket into a 10-gallon milk can. By the time he finished with all 10 cows, two cans were full and a third half-way. The sun was just peeking over the horizon. Allan flexed his fingers. Normally he and his father each milked half the herd. Milking all of them himself this morning made Allan’s hands sore.
Shep’s bark told Allan he had finished just in time. In the early morning light, he saw the Jensen brothers’ dairy wagon rumbling up the road. Peter Jensen pulled into the barn lot and stopped beside the cans Allan had just carried from the barn.
“How you doin’, Allan? You’re not gonna do any hayin’ today, are you?” Pete asked as he swung down from the seat. The two men each grasped a can by its handles and heaved it into the wagon bed.
“Yeah, got to. Gets this hot, it’s gonna storm,” Allan said with a grunt as he helped Pete lift the other two.
“I don’t envy you. It’s gonna be hot enough to fry your skin if you’re out in the sun. How’s Sally Ann?”
Allan smiled. “She’s fine. I plan on seeing her tonight lessin’ I’m too tired.”
“You propose to her yet?”
“Not yet. Soon maybe,” Allan answered, blushing slightly.
“If I was you, I wouldn’t wait too long. Somebody else will snatch her up,” Pete warned, grinning broadly. He climbed back onto the wagon seat. “Best decision I ever made was gettin’ married. You take care, hear, and don’t stay out in the sun too long.” He slapped the reins against the wagon horses’ backs.
“Yep, I’ll do that. Good seein’ you, Pete.” He stepped back and waved at the departing wagon.
Aware of the size of her son’s appetite, Norma Miller had three eggs, four sausage patties, biscuits and flour gravy ready when Allan came in. Shep took his position under the table at Allan’s feet. After giving thanks for the food and asking the Lord to keep his father safe, Allan dug in.
“You’re not going to do any haying today, are you?” Norma asked.
“I ‘bout have to, Mother. I promised Dad,” Allan said between bites.
“I know, Allan, but as hot as it’s going to be today, your father wouldn’t expect you to work in the sun.”
“There was no dew last night,” Allan said, sneaking Shep a piece of biscuit. “You know what Dad always says, ‘When dew is on the grass, rain will never come to pass, when grass is dry at morning light, look for rain before the night.’”
His mother laughed. “He got that from your grandfather.”
“I’m gonna get as much done as I can before it gets too hot.”
Norma began to clear the table. “All right, well, stop every once in a while, and get yourself a drink.”
“I will,” Allan assured her as he headed out the door.
In the field, Shep sat on the wagon’s seat watching his master pitch sweet smelling clover hay into the bed. The horses, well trained by Allan’s father, lumbered down the field at a steady pace. As soon as the wagon bed was full, Allan drove it to the barn, unloaded and went back for more.
By 10 o’clock, Allan had four loads in, three to go. Pulling the team to a stop under the trees, he took a long pull on the water jug. Noticing Shep panting, Allan reached beneath the seat and brought out a pan, filled it and set it on the ground. Lowering his muzzle, Shep lapped at the warm water. Reaching down to pet the dog, Allan said, “After a while we’ll stop by the creek.”
Looking at the sky, Allan thought of waiting until evening when it was cooler to finish the haying. It was clear, no clouds, no sign of rain. But he knew days like this could quickly give rise to rain out of the west.
Struggling in the stifling air, Allan worked another two loads, then drove the wagon under the trees by the creek. While the horses dipped their muzzles into the water, Allan stripped off his clothes. He and Shep dived in. The dog paddled around, grinning. Allan’s sunburned back felt as if steam was coming off it. Though far from cool, the water nevertheless was comforting. Climbing out of the water, he dressed, his pants and shirt becoming damp in the process.
One more load from this field. The west field uncut, so it wouldn’t hurt to leave it. Glancing at the shadows, Allan estimated the time to be around 11. He had time to load the wagon, pull it up to the barn loft window, and unhitch the team before dinner. He would unload the hay afterward.
Norma checked the clothes on the line. Dry already. Shading her eyes, she searched the south field. She could see Allan just beyond the woods pitching hay into the wagon. She knew he was right. The hay needed to be brought in before it rained.
Allan had always been a good son, but strong willed. When he set his mind to do something, it was as good as done. When he was 12, two incidents changed his life. He accepted Christ as his savior, and he decided to be a farmer. He had always been obedient, but after he was saved, he went out of his way to make sure he did his chores right. Norma glanced at the sky. It was clear; there was no wind. Still, there was something in the air.
After a light dinner, Allan unloaded the wagon, then stretched out under the trees in the front yard for a nap. As he lay on the cool grass, Pete’s words came back to him. As members of the same church, he had known Sally Ann Gibson since childhood. Her father farmed the land just down the road. Allan and Sally Ann attended the one-room schoolhouse just beyond Gibson’s spread. Even as children, the two spoke about the day they would marry.
At the age of 14, Allan used the savings doing chores earned him to buy his first cow. Over the last six years, he accumulated 20 more. With the buying and selling of livestock, his bank account grew. He had his eye on a piece of property five miles from his parents’ farm. With what Allan had in the bank, he could make a nice down payment.
He made a decision. Tonight, he would ask Sally Ann to marry him. They could set the date for the summer of next year. That would give him time to secure a proper home for her. His mind made up, he pushed himself up and went to tell his mother he’d be digging out the spring. With the weather so dry, the water level had dropped.
For the next hour, Allan dug out mud from the mouth of the spring. As he worked, his heart soared, dropped and soared again. What if Sally Ann turned him down? If she said yes, how many children would they have? He smiled as he thought about a son who he could teach about God and nature and farming. In his mind’s eye, Allan saw the boy sitting on a log watching his daddy dig out the spring. Leaning on the shovel, he visualized Sally Ann walking down the aisle of their church on her father’s arm. He saw her brown eyes shining, her auburn hair caressing her shoulders, her trim figure enrobed in the white wedding gown her mother wore as a bride. Allan smiled. Yes, tonight was the night.
Several years ago, one of the cows became bogged down in the mud at the spring. Allan, his parents, and several neighbors worked into the night to free her. They finally got her out, but she died the next day. Soon after, they built a fence around the spring. It protected the cattle but made the work difficult.
Allan dug a channel under the fence, clearing the way for the water to run into a small pool. Hearing shuffling, he straightened up. The cows were watching him. Several of them were drinking from the trickle of water. Allan walked to where Shep was resting on his haunches and sat down beside him. “Go on, get you a drink,” he told the cattle. As if they understood, the rest of the cows gathered around the waterhole.
His work finished; Allan headed back to the house. His sweaty clothes clung to him. Good thing his mother did the wash this morning. He’d have to bathe and put-on fresh clothes before visiting Sally Ann.
His mother was in the kitchen patching a pair of his father’s work pants. She looked up at Allan as he entered. “You look wrung out,” she said, laying the pants aside.
“Yeah, I’m pretty well worn out,” Allan said, plunking down in the chair opposite her. “I still got the milking to do, too.”
Norma filled a glass with water from the kitchen pump and handed it to him. Thinking he looked as though he had something on his mind, she asked, “What is it, son?”
“Mother, I’ve decided. I’m going to ask Sally Ann to marry me,” Allan said, a smile playing across his lips.
Sitting down next to him, Norma took both his hands in hers. “She’s a lovely girl, Allan. I’m sure you’ll both be very happy.” Norma was silent for a moment, then suddenly she jumped up, startling Allan. “All right! We have a wedding to plan! It’ll be in the church, of course. I’ll make myself a new dress for the occasion. When is the date?”
Allan chuckled. “Slow down, Mother. I haven’t even asked her yet. She might say no.”
His mother stared at him as though he had lost his head.” What do you mean? Of course, she’ll say yes! Why wouldn’t she? You two have known each other all your lives.”
“Well, sure, we’ve always been friends. But you know being husband and wife is different, isn’t it?”
Norma went on speaking as if she hadn’t heard. “I remember the first time Martha and Herb brought Sally Ann to church. I think she was barely two months old. And you were only a few months. She was the cutest little thing. Later that week Martha came for a visit and we gave you both a bath, in the same tub.”
“Mother, please,” Allan said, his face reddening.
“Oh, posh, you were just little babies.” Norma smiled at the memory. “Have you thought about a date?”
“If she agrees to it, next June.” Allan said, standing to his feet. “Oh, and I’m thinking about buying the Henson place.”
“Well, it’s good land, but the house and barn aren’t worth much,” Norma said.
“If I start on it this year, I can have it ready for us by then.”
“Us. I hope that means you and Sally Ann and my grandchildren.”
“I hope so too.” Allan glanced out at the lengthening shadows. “Think I’ll do the milking now and put the cans in the springhouse. Come on, Shep, let’s go get the cows.” Norma watched him walk to the barn with the dog leaping along beside him. Memories played in her mind: Allan as a baby, then a child playing with his toys, now a young man setting out to establish a home of his own. The house would seem empty without him. Then she smiled. Grandchildren! What a blessing from the Lord!
After the milking Allan brought the big galvanized tub out to the backyard, placed it under the clothesline, hung a sheet for privacy and filled the tub. After scrubbing the sweat and grime from his body, he dried off and dressed in clean clothes he’d brought from the house. Then he dumped out the tub, hung it back in the shed and said goodnight to his mother.
Walking down the road, Allan thought about how blessed he was. His parents raised him to believe in God. He would do the same with his children. A worm of worry gnawed at his mind, though. What if Sally Ann said no? What would he do then? He couldn’t imagine her being someone else’s wife and having to see her at church every Sunday with children not his own. “No,” he said out loud. Surely she would not turn him down.
Coming within sight of the Gibson farm, Allan spotted Herbert Gibson bringing in the cows for milking. Allan hurried to catch up with him. “You want me to help you with the milking, Mr. Gibson?” Allan offered, stepping carefully through the barn lot.
At the sound of Allan’s voice, Herbert turned and smiled. “Well, now, look at you all spiffed up. You get that hay up today?”
“Yes sir, it’s all in the barn. Well, what’s cut anyway.” Allan shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “I have a question to ask you, sir.” He started to sweat, and it had nothing to do with the heat.
Herbert Gibson raised his hand, palm up. “Tell you what,” he said, “you stay here while I stanchion these cows in their stalls and I’ll be right back.” Swallowing the lump in his throat, Allan nodded. While Herbert was gone, he looked around. It was easy to see that Gibson took pride in his farm. The barn, sturdy and substantial, painted earlier that summer. The two-storehouses gleamed white in the evening sun. White board fence surrounded the barn lot.
Gibson emerged from the barn. “Now, my boy, what did you want to speak to me about?”
Allan suddenly became tongue-tied. He had known Herbert and Martha Gibson all his life, yet he was at a loss as to how to ask this man to accept him as his son-in-law. Herbert stood waiting, his mind returning to the day he was in the same predicament.
“I want to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage,” Allan blurted, his face flushing.
Herbert Gibson beamed. “Son, you have my blessing. I can’t think of a finer young man to marry my daughter.” He held out his hand. Allan grasped it and shook it vigorously.
“I’ve got to go home and tell Mother,” Allan said, turning in the direction of his home.
“Allan, aren’t you forgetting something?” Gibson said, smiling.
“What’s that, sir?”
Herbert chuckled. “Don’t you think it would be wise to propose to Sally Ann first?”
“Oh, of course. Sure, sure. Sorry.” Allan sputtered. Spinning on his heel, he saw his intended exit the house. He took a step toward her and stepped right in the middle of a pile of cow manure. Hobbling on the side of his boot while attempting to look dignified, Allan made his way out of the barn lot. Sally Ann put a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. Allan wiped his boot on the grass. That would have to do until he could wash it. If they invited in him, he’d shuck his boots and enter with just his stocking feet.
Stepping gingerly to where Sally Ann stood by the fence, Allan asked her, “You think that’s funny, Miss Giggle Box?”
She put on her pouty face. “You laughed at me when I fell in the mud, remember?”
Allan reached for her hand. “I was fourteen and trying to teach you how to fish.”
“Did you come for supper?”
“Sally Ann, I want to talk to you. Can we go for a walk down by the pond?”
“Yes. Let me tell Mother.” Sally Ann hurried back to the kitchen where her mother was preparing the evening meal. Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Martha smiled at her daughter, this near woman who to Martha would always be a little girl. She had been watching through the kitchen window as Allan spoke to her husband and then to Sally Ann.
“Mother, Allan asked me to go for a walk. I’m so excited. I think he’s going to ask me to marry him.”
“Oh, how wonderful, I’m so happy for you, sweetheart. Allan is a fine young man,” Martha said, enfolding her daughter in her arms.
Allan was waiting at the gate, still wiping his boot across the grass. Embarrassment was evident on his face. Amused, Sally Ann giggled as she approached. “Allan, how many times have you stepped in a cow pile?”
“This is one time I really wish I hadn’t.”
“So, it’s happened before.”
“It has. But when a fella’s about to ask his sweetheart to marry him, he wants everything to be…” Allan stopped and looked apprehensively at her.
“I accept.”
“What? What do you mean, you accept?” Allan said, totally flustered.
“I will marry you.”
“You will?”
“Of course! I’ve been waiting for a whole year for you to ask me.”
“A year?”
“Remember last year at the church picnic when you gave me that little box with this in it?” she asked as she fingered the gold locket hanging from a delicate chain around her neck.
“Sure. I remember how excited you were until you opened it. I thought you didn’t like… Wait, you were thinking it was a ring, weren’t you?”
“It’s a beautiful necklace. But, yes, I was hoping for a ring,” Sally Ann answered with a whimsical smile.
“Let me do this proper, then.” Taking a ring from his pocket, he took Sally Ann’s left hand in his right and kneeled in the cow manure he had just wiped off his boot. Watching from the barn, Herbert couldn’t hold it in any longer; he roared with laughter. Realizing what he had done, Allan decided not to let his humiliation ruin the moment. “Sally Ann Gibson, you are my life. I love you. I want to spend every waking minute with you. Having you sleep beside me every night will be the sweetest thing I’ve ever known. Will you marry me?”
“Yes! Oh yes. I love you, too, Allan.” Allan stood to his feet and took his bride-to-be in his arms.
“Son, that was the best proposal under the worst circumstance,” Herbert yelled from the barn lot.
Sally Ann blushed. Allan smiled. Nothing could dampen his happiness. At the pump, he washed off his boot and the spot on his pants. Sally Ann hurried to the house to tell her mother the exciting news.
Martha Gibson met her future son-in-law at the door. Hugging him enthusiastically, she said, “Welcome to the family, Allan. We’d love you to stay for supper.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gibson. Does Mr. Gibson need help with the milking? I’d be glad to do it.”
“Oh, no, tonight you’re all mine. Besides, I think it’s best that you stay out of the barn lot for the rest of the evening. Allan grinned sheepishly. “You young people go on,” Martha said. “I’ll call you when supper’s ready.”
For the next half hour, Allan and Sally Ann sat on the front porch swing discussing their wedding and future. Their elation turned to shock and terror when a sudden, explosive BOOM shook the house and scattered the spooked livestock in all directions. Allan and Sally Ann jumped to their feet.
Herbert came running from the barn lot. “We got a bad storm coming,” he shouted over the wind as he pointed at the sky. Dark green clouds roiled in the west, spewing lightning that split a tree in the woods down the middle. The wind picked up, whipping the clothes on the line. Martha ran out the back door and started pulling them down.
“Sure, came up sudden-like,” Herbert said. “I’ve got to get those cows in.”
“Sally Ann, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get home. Mother is there alone,” Allan said. He kissed her and started for the road.
“Please be careful,” Sally Ann called after him. “I don’t want to become a widow before I’m even married.”
“Allan, take my riding horse. He’s fast,” Herbert said, hurrying toward the barn with Allan right behind him. “Just turn him loose when you get there. He’ll find his way home.” Running to the stall, Allan grabbed a bridle and quickly fitted it over the horse’s head. Jumping on, Allan rode bareback out of the barn lot.
“God speed, son. Be careful,” Herbert yelled over the roar of the wind. “We’ll be praying for you.”
“Thank you, sir!” Allan shouted. Kicking the horse in the sides, he brought him up to a gallop. Hunching over the animal’s neck, he turned his head to look up at the swirling clouds. A small funnel was beginning to form. “Oh Lord, please let Mom be in the cellar.” A mile down and one to go. Allan felt the horse quivering under him. “Come on, boy, you can make it.” He looked up again. The funnel cloud was growing bigger. It whipped and whirled like a snake in its death throes. Allan came within sight of his parents’ property. He thought of the farm just west of them. The Russell’s were an elderly couple who let out their land for sharecropping. Their farm adjoined the Millers’ land on the west. Allan asked the Lord to watch over them.
The tornado hit the ground with a roar. It bounced once, twice, then barreled along the turf like a freight train. There was an ear-splitting crash; a brown cloud of debris rose in the air. Allan watched in horror as the Russell’s house lifted off its foundation. Their barn exploded. Suddenly the air around was filled with chunks of wood, roofing and dust and dirt. The funnel cloud rushed at him, picking up more debris and flinging it like shrapnel.
Allan thundered into his parent’s yard. The horse was snorting and foaming at the mouth. Tying the reins over its neck, Allan jumped off and slapped it on the rump. Its eyes wide with fright, the horse took off at a gallop in the direction of the Gibson’s’ farm.
Allan raced to the house, shouting for his mother. No answer. Though fearful, Allan felt certain that at the first sign of the storm she would have taken the dog and gone to the storm cellar. He would not endanger her by opening the cellar door. Running to the deep, narrow ditch at the side of the road, Allan jumped in, lay flat, covering his head with his hands. He dared not look up. Hunks of wood and roofing rained down on him; a sliver of wood pierced his shoulder. Hail pounded him. He lay still and thought of Sally Ann. Would she be a widow before she was a wife? A two by four cracked him in the head, knocking him out.
Allan must be dreaming. Sally Ann’s face floated above him. Was she crying? He wanted to comfort her. He lifted his arm to touch her cheek. So tired. His arm fell to his side. So tired. He would close his eyes for just a few seconds.
Allan opened his eyes. Light flooded his bedroom. His smiling father stood over him.“Welcome back, son. I’m glad to see you’re awake.” Allan’s mother dabbed his forehead with a cool, damp cloth.
Allan felt something wet on his fingers. He looked down to see Shep with his forelegs on the bed, trying to lick his face. Lifting his hand, Allan stroked the dog’s head. His vision blurred, he struggled to focus on his father. “Dad? I thought you were in St. Louis. Mom, are you all right? The Russells?”
Allan tried to sit up. His father gently pushed him back down. “Don’t try to get up, son. The doc says bed rest, so you gotta stay put. The Russells are fine. Their house and all the outbuildings are gone, but they were in the cellar. Your mother and I are okay. We’ve got some damage to the house and barn roofs, but nothing that can’t be fixed in a few hours. What’s important right now is you.”
“What about Mr. Gibson’s horse?”
His father laughed. “A little cut on his flank and scared to death, but he’ll be all right.”
That afternoon Allan’s sight began to clear. He persuaded his parents to let him rest under the trees in the front yard. He wanted to help with the storm damage repairs, but his father wouldn’t hear of it. He laid back on the chaise and listened to the St. Louis bull bellowing in the corral. At three, Sally Ann came to spend time with him. They held hands, thanked the Lord for His protection through the storm. They again picked up their discussion about their wedding and future together.
Five Years Later
All morning Norma scurried around cleaning, getting a whole day’s work done in a few hours. After the storm, the Russells sold their farm to Allan. With the help of his father and Herbert Gibson, he rebuilt the house and barn on their original foundations. With the construction finished, Allan and Sally Ann married. Today they were coming to visit with their new baby, Lacey, just one month old.
Hearing the creak of the wagon, Allan’s parents rushed out to the porch. Perched on the wagon seat with the baby in her lap, Sally Ann raised a hand in greeting. Kneeling in the wagon bed, Allan Jr. waved to his grandparents. Reining the horses to a stop beside the porch, a beaming Allan climbed down to help his wife and son step down. Tears came to Norma’s eyes as looked lovingly at the young family. In her heart she knew that no matter what came their way, Allan and Sally Ann could weather the storms of life




Through Gates of Fire

“But why did I have to go through it?” My wife asks, pouring herself another cup of coffee. Her third cup this morning. She seemed to be drinking more of the dark liquid since she came home from the rehab.
Only six short months ago, we were in a battle to get her out of Central specialty Hospital to save her life. Recovering from open heart surgery, the case manager at Rudders hospital coerced us into sending her to Central. We wanted to send her to Hope rehab close to our home.
“Oh, she is too sick to go there.” The case manager for the hospital said. “They can’t take care of here there.” We found out later that was a blatant lie. She received a kickback of a thousand for every patient she referred to Central. Hope rehab could have easily cared for her.
Short story: Central specialty Hospital committed Medicare fraud and almost killed my wife. After the first week they just left her lay with minimal care, she became sicker and sicker going downhill. Yet they contained to bill Medicare for services not preformed
One Friday after visiting her, I was on the interstate when they called back to the rehab for a conference with the doctor nurse practitioner and an intern. They wanted to pull the plug on my wife’s ventilator. The nurse stated she would die in five minutes. Burying their crime and clearing the bed for another victim.
I spend one of the worst weekends of my life believing my wife would be dead and buried by the end of the next week. After an agonizing two days, I told them no we’ll not do that.
The nurse practitioner said “You’re making a mistake. Central saw my wife as a liability and me as a troublemaker. If she died, they would rid themselves of both of us. Because of their neglect, my wife had developed pneumonia. Because of their lack of care, her condition worsened Left untreated, it was a certainty, she would die. Yet Central specialty Hospital continued to bill Medicare for services they never performed for her or the other patients. It became critical to get out of there or they would kill her.
That next Friday during a meeting with the doctor, the nurse practitioner and caseworker, I went off the rails. No other way to say it. I demanded they release her. It became a shouting match. In the end, I was asked to leave.
On the phone the day before, the nursing supervisor had warned she would die in the ambulance on the way to Hope rehab.
That night doing research, I learned Central specialty Hospital crop. settled a case in 2016 Medicare fraud with the government. Central paid a record 300,000,000. Then late last year they settled with the government for another 40,000,000.
Armed with information and a belief they were at it again, I confronted the case manager and threated to call the FBI. I must admit she took it better than I thought she would. She blustered away, saying this conversation is over.
It was all a bluff that afternoon they folded. They discharged my wife the next day. True to my word, when I knew my wife was safe, the next morning I called the FBI. Unknown to me, the place was already on their radar. My call just gave them more fuel.
My wife spent three weeks in Hope rehab repairing the damage Central caused. She came home to a jubilant welcome two months ago. An early riser some mornings I just set by her side of the bed watching her sleep. Feeling my eyes on her, she would wake and smile at me. That smile brightened my day more than the sun.
“I don’t know.” I said. Answering her question was difficult. “Maybe it was to bring them down.”
” I wished The Lord had used someone else.” She said taking another sip of coffee. “They almost killed me.”
” I know. I’m sorry I didn’t get you out of there sooner.”
Finishing our breakfast, we took a walk down by the koi pond. The pond consists of an acre, with a flower garden on the south side. I fed the fish, then set down on the bench beside her. An array of flowers surrounded us. we watched the fish eat. The baby fish too small to fit the food in their mouths pushed the nuggets around with their noses.
Hearing a buzzing, I turned my head, saw a hummingbird. drawing nectar from a pink rose. It always surprises me how the sound of their wings sounded like a bumblebee. We set on the bench enjoying the beautiful spring day. Confined to hospital and the two rehabs, my wife now soaked up the sunshine like a sponge.
Returning to the house, my wife mixed the ingredients for a German chocolate cake. Working on a story I went to the office to finish it. Down the hill and crossed the stream to the north, a herd of deer meandered through the trees. I opened the windows to the south, watching two woodpeckers and a bluebird pecking at the feeder. Seated at my desk. With some difficulty, I pulled myself into the tale. If I could lose myself in the story, so would my readers. After about two hours, I closed up and returned to the house to spend the remainder of the day with my wife. She cut a large slice of cake for me and a smaller one for herself.
Later in the week, I was working in my office again when my cellphone rang. I had just finished a shootout scene and was coming back to reality. I don’t normally answer the phone. When I’m writing I let the characters carry me in the action and stay there until the passage is finished. Maybe my mind was foggy anyway, I grabbed it.
“Dan Carson. “I said briskly into the phone. I found the best way to answer the phone is direct. If it’s a wrong number the caller will apologize and if not, we can get right down to business. Telemarketers and robocalls really don’t make it past first two words.
“Mr. Carson, this is Robert Holster I’m a prosecutor with the department of justice. The reason I’m calling is your complaint came a crossed my desk.”
I set up straighter. “Yes, Mr. Holster, what can I do for you? I was told the FBI doesn’t investigate such crimes.”
“Technically, that’s true. However, the FBI Department of Justice and Health and Human services have a joint task force which does.”.
“So, the FBI does investigate Medicare fraud?” I said smiling.
He laughed. “Yes, they just don’t advertise it.” He then said, “I wanted you to know your phone call I guess you could say got the ball rolling.”
” That’s great. How long before we see results?”
“That is the purpose of this call.” He said, “watch the national news. Your friendly staff from Central specialty Hospital will be front and center tonight. The doctor and nurse practitioner, the caseworker and several others in administration were arrested this afternoon.” Mr. Holster said.
“What a shame” I said, meaning it.
“Not the type of reaction I expected.” Holster said. “I thought you would be happy.”
” Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Holster. I’m grateful the FBI took action, and I’m also relieved the patients will not be suffering from these people. It’s just I can’t understand why they would jeopardize their license to defraud the government.”
” I can’t answer that I can tell you if they are convicted the doctor nurse and case manager will never be issued another license. Would you be willing to testify if this comes to trail?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you. I’ll be in touch. Goodbye, “
“Goodbye and please thank your task force for me.”
“I will do that. You have a good evening.”
I went to tell my wife the good news. I found her weeding the lily bed. I stood back and watched her work. This woman the love of my life. The one I fought for never thinking I would win now tended her flower beds enjoying the sun. Her gloves covered hands plucked weeds, laying them in a pile.
“Hi.”
Startled, she looked up. “I thought you were writing?” She said smiling. She got to her feet, rubbing her back.
“I was. I just got a call from the FBI. “I told her what Holster said.
“Will the doctor lose his license?” She asks.
“Most likely.”
“Will the corporation back him up?” She asks sadly.
“They may provide him with a lawyer. He’ll urge him to plead guilty. But no, they will throw him to the wolves.”
“So, he sold himself out. His reputation is gone and all for a few dollars.” She shook her head. “How about some iced tea?”
” Sounds great.” I said, taking her hand. We walked to the picnic table where she kept a sun tea pitcher while she worked.
That evening we watched the CBS news. They did a short promo at the beginning, showing the outside of Central specialty Hospital rehab. My wife shuttered when it flashed on the screen. I squeezed her hand. We didn’t have long to wait. The FBI descended on the rehab like a SWAT team. A few minutes later the doctor case worker, the nurse practitioner, and several others we didn’t know were marched out of the building in handcuffs.
A media crew also stopped the CEO of Central specialty Hospital on the street outside corporate offices in Chicago. Shouting no comment, he hurried to his limo waiting at the curb. Two burly security officers from Central ask the news people to leave. They did, then set up down the street.
Central specialty Hospital released a statement the next day stating they were cleaning house. As I had told the doctor and his staff Central turned their corporate back on them. Everyone arrested would lose their license. After years of medical school and practicing medicine, the doctor would be fortunate to find a job digging ditches. A task he would no doubt learn very well in prison.
However, things were about to change. Two months before the corporate bigwigs visited the rehab where my wife had been housed. The doctor secretly recorded the meeting. During which he raised concerns about the fraud taking place at their location. On the recording the CEO Richard Nash could clearly be heard saying. “Look, doctor, you’re here to make money, not care for patients. We don’t service people we may keep records but each one of us is aware those records are false. Besides, old people are forgetful. If someone dies, we bury them and plow ahead. If you don’t think you can do that”
The doctor was heard on the recording asking. “But what if we get caught forging patient’s records?”
” In 16 we paid 300,000,000 this another 40,000,000 for Medicare fraud. That just the cost of doing business.” Nash said he then laughed. “Just throw some money to the government and like the old people they forget.”
Two days later Richard Nash was arrested at his office in Chicago. The charge? Five counts of manslaughter. Ten had died from neglect, but five were solid cases.
Nash however had an ace up his sleeve. It seemed the good doctor wasn’t the only one to record communication with Richard Nash. The corporate fired Nash distancing themselves from hoping not to get hit with the mud being thrown at him. To save himself, Nash in turn, had recorded the board meeting with the directors.
It became a game of who could squeal the loudest. In the end, five doctors lost their licenses to practice medicine. Indeed, anyone in authority who worked at Butler was painted with the same brush.
“You sure stirred up a hornet’s nest. My wife said kissing me” And saved my life.”
” I told them I was going to call the FBI. And I always keep my word.” I said.
“I’m so glad you do.” She said taking my hand we crossed the footbridge to see how the roses were doing.
Author’s note:
During the proofing of this book my dear wife want home to be with The Lord. How I miss her and wish this story was true.




Sand Castles

“What are you doing?”
“Building a sand castle.”
“Why?”
“Because I want too.”
“But you know the sea will take it.”
“Yes, but I’ll have it for a little while.”
“And then it will be gone.”
“No, it won’t.”
“Yes, it will, it’ll go back into the sand of the beach.”
“I know that.”
“Then how can you say it’ll still be here?”
“Because it will in the sand, just like all the sand castles ever made on this beach.”
“But you can’t see them.”
“No, but they’re there. Just like all the sand castles for a hundred or a thousand years.”
“So, your making history?”
“Yes.”
“Can I help?”
“Sure.”




The Sweet Smell of Freedom

Each of the three agreed the escape was to be planned to the greatest perfection. No slip-ups. If they didn’t succeed this time, there would be no other chance. They were standing just outside the main office. The words.
Wilshire convalescent center
Where there’s a will there’s a way
Written in impressive letters above the information desk, the words three inches high and made of pewter.
“Wilshire.” Roy grunted, looking at the letters. “Should be will sure. Will sure to take your money. Look what they gave me for Christmas.” He held up a toothbrush, a bar of soap and a small bottle of deodorant.
“Yeah, only thing stinks is being stuck in this place.” Nick said. “Like to ditch it”
“We’d freeze out there tonight.” Oliver said. The three looked out the window at the falling snow. “Sure, is pretty, my Jenny. She loved the snow. Used to make ice cream out of the Christmas snow.” In his mind he saw his wife laughing, carrying in a tub of snow.
“It’d be better than that stuff they fed us tonight.” Roy said.
They shuffled into the dayroom. Some called it the activity room, but the only activity in the home was at the other end of the hall. They could hear the female singer bellowing out, ‘How much is that doggy in the window.’
“She acts like we’re five years old.” Nick said.
“We wouldn’t get five feet. Even if we made it through the door the alarm would sound and the cops would have a silver alert out fore you could say Jack Robbins.” Nick said. He set down heavily on the couch. His face sagged.
“Gentlemen you need a plan.” Oliver said. “If you had a plan, we could blow this joint and they would never find us.”
“That easy for you to say.” Roy said, “You’re a rehady. Next week you finish rehab and your gone.”
“True, but back to what?” Oliver said
“Maybe so, but this ain’t no way to live just setting around til you kil over.” Roy said.
“Look,” Oliver said. “You ran in marathons at one time, right Roy?”
“Yeah, 30 years ago. Now I’m lucky to make it to the dining room’ fore they close down.” Roy said, his expression sarcastic.
“And Nick, you worked construction?”
” So?” Nick said, his gaze intent.
“Roy, how long did you train for a race?” Oliver said.
“Started months in advance. Every day morning and evenings before a big race.” Roy said, a faraway look in his eyes. “But like I said, that was a long time ago.”
“Nick, did you do other activities after you got off work?” Oliver asks.
“Sure, sometimes me and my son played ball.” Nick said, tears misting his eyes. “Course that was before he died.”
“Sorry didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.” Oliver said. Patting the other man on the back.
“No, no, they’re good memories. Just hard.” Nick shook his head. “You know, he was only 19 when the cancer got him. Betty cried and cried, her heart breaking right in two.”
“So, what’s your point?” Roy said. “We could stand here all night long reminiscing.”
“My point is you need to have a goal and work hard to active that goal.” Oliver said.
“Well, that sounds good, but like I said we’d freeze to death if’n the cops didn’t get us first.” Nick said. Hearing the front door open and close, their attention was drawn to the white minivan setting at the curb. Wearing a red suit carrying a cap and fake beard, the director on Willshire climbed in on the passenger side. He said something to his wife, who was driving. The van entered the traffic and disappeared into the night.
“Not if it’s June.” Oliver said smiling.
Nick and Roy just stared at Oliver, their mouths hanging open. Finally, Roy said. “Are you saying what I think your saying.”
Oliver just grinned, not saying a word.
Roy and Nick smiled.
“If you boys are serious, here is what we’re going to do….” Oliver said
Nick interrupted him. “You bet we’re serious.”
“Me too.” Roy chimed in.
“Ok I got me a plan.” Oliver said. “Why is it most inmates from a prison or nursing home get caught?”
“I don’t know bout them but for me it’d be because I can’t move fast enough.”
“I’d not get past the parking lot.” Roy said.
“Most sliver alerts escapes are caught because they stay in the same area of the facility.” Oliver said. “Prison or nursing home resident their usually back in 24 hours, 48 at the most.
“Is that it?” Nick said.
“And they don’t have a plan.” Oliver slapped his hand on the table with such force he made the disks on the checkerboard dance. Roy and Nick looked on with admiration. If they tried that, they would break their hand.
“If you’re going to leave here, you gonna have to have a plan. Roy, you trained for your marathons and Nick, how long did it take you to learn the construction trade?”
“Quite a while, maybe a year.” Nick said, rubbing his chin.
“So, you’re saying we got to plan our escape?” Roy said.
“Exactly.” Oliver said, beaming. Grabbing a performance sheet off the desk, he laid out a plan. “We have to learn the code. You know it changes day by day.”
Nick raised his hand like grade school child. “I can do that and disable the cameras too.”
“How do know how to disable the cameras. Isn’t it computerized or something?” Roy said.
Nick held up his phone. “I can do it from here. I looked over nurse Shirly’s shoulder when she didn’t think I was looking.” He grinned.
“What about the staff can’t knock them in the head, wish I could through.” Roy said thoughtfully.
“Don’t have too. You know how many sleeping pills float around this place.” Oliver said smiling.
“I’d guess bout a million.” Nick said.
“I get it so we swipe a few here and there and wham the time comes their all asleep.” Roy said.
“Bingo.” Oliver said. “Now look, I got an old pickup I been working on for ages. Got all the parts, just need to put it together.”
“So, we get outa here where we going?” Nick asks.
“Anywhere you went to my friend.” Oliver said, grinning. “Anywhere you want.”
“Say you wouldn’t be funnin’ us, would you?” Roy said.
“Yeah,” Nick said. “That sure would be mean.”
” Look fellas, I got nothing. They foreclosed on my home. The place I’m living is rented. I got two vehicles, an old car and my pickup.
“But I can’t walk without this. “Roy said, patting his walker.
“And I ain’t much better.” Nick said.
“I got a plan, you guys. And if you’ll do like I say in six months, you’ll walk better than you have in years.” Oliver said.
They all set down at one of the tables as Oliver lay out his plan.
The sun rose bright and clear on December 25, the reflection on a blanket of snow enough to hurt elderly eyes. That is if the residents of Willshire convalescent center were up. Oliver’s purposed to over the next few months check on Roy and Nick’s progress.
Roy and Nick roomed together. Roy peeked out their door, checking the hallway. He turned to Nick.
“All quite even the mice are asleep.” He said to his friend. For the next ten minutes they walked the room. When they passed each other, they slapped high fives giggling like schoolchildren.
“I haven’t felt this excited in years.” Nick said.
“Me too. But we got to be careful.” Roy said. “If they find out what we’re planning, we’ll be here for the rest of our lives,”
“Yeah, we don’t want that to happen.” Nick said. Within five minutes, both were exhausted. They lay down for a nap and woke later that morning at 10. At a lunch of chicken salad sandwiches, the three men gathered at the table by the window overlooking the bird feeders.
“So, how’d how the first workout go?” Oliver said, taking a sip of his iced tea. He grimaced. “I got to get outa here, I ain’t had no sugar in months. Nothing but Sweet ‘N Low.”
“I haven’t been this wore out since I ran in Boston.” Roy said.
“End of my first week in construction, I slept twelve hours.” Nick said, “This was worse.”
Oliver grinned. “Wanta quit?
” No” Roy shouted, then lowered his head then looked around. Some women at the nearest table looked their way, then resumed their chatter.
“Keep your voice down.” Nick said, leaning over toward Roy.
“You boys ok?”
All three looked up to see nurse StillWell staring down at them.
“We was just discussing the world series.” Oliver said smiling.
“He means the ones in the past.” Nick said, his face fleshing.
“I’ll bring your meds around in a little while” She said wheeling around and headed back to where the women had congregated in the corner.
“You gotta be careful guys.” Oliver said, looking around. “They find out what we’re planning, they’ll put the cobs on it so quick it’ll make your head spin.”
The other two nodded. Within a few minutes, one by one, they wandered out of the activity room.
Over the next week and a half, they played more checkers than all time they had been residents of Willshire.
As they moved the disk around the board, they planned their escape: Nick couldn’t resist one morning massing up the camera in the dining room. They lost 10 minutes of boring footage of old people eating their breakfast. By the time maintenance arrived, the camera was functioning properly.
On the third of January, Nick had his bag packed and had called a taxi. Roy and Nick stood at the front door to see their old friend off.
“You guys keep working out but don’t let nobody see you.” Oliver said quietly.
They shook hands and said their goodbyes. Roy and Nick returned to their room dreaming of freedom.
Two weeks later, with no visits from Olivier, Roy said.” Well, that was a fiasco.” Laying on his bed reading a magazine, Nick said.” What? Did you say something?”
“Oliver, he sure played a trick on us.” Roy said bitterly. “I’m sore from head to foot.”
Nick swung around until he set on the edge of the bed, looking at his friend.
“For one thing, there are six inches of snow on the ground and more coming tonight.” He pointed a bony finger at Roy. “It’s only been two weeks. If we want to blow this place and keep from getting caught, we’ve got to think long term.”
“I know, I know I’m just sore.” Roy grumbled.
“Yeah, I know. I’m just sore too, but you got to admit. Your appetite is better and you sleep through the night.” Nick said.
“Your right, Say I ever tell you about the time I was training for Boston marathon.” Roy said, smiling at the memory.
“Yes, about a million times.” Nick said. Laying back down. “But tell me again, maybe I’ll listen this time.”
“Well, you see, I was running down by the river when I got this great idea. I took off my shoes and socks and ran in the river. Put a pull on the calves of my legs”
Nick set back up. “Did you win?” He asks.
“Naw came in 37th.” Roy said.
Nick’s mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding me? 37th?”
“You don’t have to rub it in.” Roy said, his eyes downcast. “I did my best.”
“Do you know how many enter the Boston marathon?”
” Nope” Roy said.
Punching in a few keys on his iPhone, Nick held it up, face out. “30,000 people, 30,000 people.”
” Wasn’t that many. Maybe 20,000.” Roy said.
“So, you beat out19,963 and your gripping about a little pain.” Nick said. “What do you think your old coach would say?”
Roy thought for a second. “Shut up and run.”
“Welcome to your new coach, shut up and take a nap.” Nick said, laying back down.
“Sounds like a great idea. Roy said, backing up until he felt the edge of the bed. Laying down, he stretched out. Soon Roy and Nick were asleep.
The next morning the sun came out to a brilliant blue sky. By 10AM the sidewalks and the street in front of the nursing home steamed. Roy was the first to see him.
Oliver came sashaying up the sidewalk to the main door, twirling his cane. Soon all three huddled over a checkerboard in the activity room.
Oliver chuckled when Roy told him how sore his legs were. “See what did I tell you.” Nick said, “Told you he would laugh at you.”
“Sorry Roy, I’m laughing with you, not at you.” Oliver said
“Sounded like you was laughing at me.” Roy said. “See, I ain’t laughing.” He gritted his teeth. As he did, his dentures almost fell out. Nick and Oliver chuckled.
“OK, guys, let’s get down to business.” Oliver said he lay out the checkerboard like it was the nursing home. For the next half hour, they pretended to play the game of checkers. Oliver expertly moved the disks around the board, indicating where the night staff would be at any given time during the night.
By the end of the month of January, they had a solid plan. Laying in their room one Sunday afternoon, Roy said. “Hey Nick, you asleep?”
“Nope, just laying here going over some things in my mind.”
“Yeah, me too. Think it’ll work?”
“Well, we have to take in the possibilities. Whenever we built a house or building of any kind, we always calculated what could go wrong and what would delay us from meeting the deadline. Rain mostly.”
” So what could go wrong?” Roy asks, propping himself up on his right elbow.
“If someone is awake, staff or resident we’er done. If a cop happens to come by, we’re done.” Nick said, “They’ll put us so far back in this place we’ll never see the sun.”
Roy’s expression fell. He said. “Or if that case worker comes around.”
“Not likely at 2 AM. Heard she’s going on vacation in June, New Mexico, or somewhere out west.” Nick said.
“Like to send her on a cruise and then pray the boat sinks.” Roy said.
“Oh, come on Roy, she’s not that bad… She’s worse.” Nick said.
Clinical distant unfeeling were the terms used for the caseworker in charge of Wilshire. When she said sorry for your loss, she did it in a way that seemed like she had tasted a rotten apple. Seeing her enter the home, even the staff cringed. She slipped from room to room, spreading misery like a dark cloud.
“I think they give her a commission on us. She loses one, they cut her salary.” Roy said.
“Yeah, hate to be her husband.” Nick said.
“Or her kid.” Roy agreed.
Over the next few months Oliver visited once a week. Each time he gave them updates on his truck and the repairs. Bent low over the checkerboard, he told them of searching the internet for places in the everglades.
In April he had great news. “I’m negotiating with this college kid. He inherited a place way back in the Everglades. Seems his grandfather died and left it to him.” Later that month he informed them he took his savings, sold his car and brought the place.
Outside the nursing home, winter turned slowly to spring. With the appearance of the flowers and green leaves, Nick and Roy’s spirits soared.
Roy and Nick worked out in their room until they could walk without assistance of a walker or cane. Yet in the presence of staff or residents, they used both. Several times over the months, Roy requested sleeping pills. Some he used, most he stored in a plastic bag taped underneath his underwear drawer. On the 25th of May, Oliver visited for the last time.
Leaning over the checkerboard, he whispered. “Ready?”
” Ready as I’ll ever be.” Roy said.
“Yeah, let’s do it.” Nick whispered.
Standing to his feet, Oliver shouted. “You two are a bunch of cheats. I’m not playing checkers with you two ever again.” Turning, he stomped in the direction of the outside door. Once there, he waited impatiently for the attendant to enter the code.
“Stop, don’t go. Roy’ll put it back.” Nick pleaded. “Won’t you, Roy?”
“Good riddance.” Roy called at Oliver’s retreating back., “Get out and stay out.”
Without a backward glance, Oliver strove through the door and down the street.
Nick struggled to his feet.
“What are you doing. You just ran off my only friend.” He said waving his cane in the air.
“Only friend? What da you think I am?” Roy yelled, struggling to his feet.
Leaning into Roy’s face, Nick said. “A pompous old windbag that cheats at checkers.”
Two male attendees rushed into the activity room.
Leaning heavily on his cane, Nick shuffled past them out the room and down the hall.
“You ain’t no Saint Nick.” Roy called after him. Nick waved his left hand in the air. Roy followed him on his walker. He looked at the two men attendants.
“Just a little spat. Bout wore me out through.” He smiled at them. “I’m going down and take a nap.”
At his and Nick’s room, he bumped the door open with his walker. Once inside, he pushed it closed.
“Well, what’d ‘you think?” Nick whispered. His feet moved, dancing a jig.
Before Roy could answer, there was a knock at the door. Nick grabbed his cane as it opened.
“You boys OK?” Nurse Shirly said.
“We’re fine. I think we lost our checker player.” Roy said.
“Everything ok then?” She said looking at Nick.
“Yes, thanks. We’re good.” Nick said.
“Ok, have a good nap.” She said closing the door.
When she was gone, Nick finished his jig. Roy set up in bed.
“You gotta be careful.” Roy said.” They find out we can move, they’ll lock us down.”
” Yeah, I know I’m just excited to be leaving this place.” Nick said.
“Me too.” Roy said. “I’m going to take a nap.”
” So am I. “Nick said, crawling onto the bed. They slept until dinner.
They set their plan for June 3th at 3 AM. However, something went Array. Jane Lagan an insomniac for the first time since she came to Wilshire didn’t drink her nightly dose of warm milk. Fortunately, Nick discovered the problem before they dispensed the sleeping pills.
He made a frantic call to Oliver at midnight, and they delayed the plan. Nick and Roy wanted to try the next night. Oliver persuaded them to wait until the next Sunday morning.
“I know you guys are anxious to leave, but there are less staff on the weekend.” Oliver said. “Sunday is still Sunday people tend to see it as kin to a holiday.” So, they waited.
1:45 the next Sunday morning Nick disabled the cameras. With only one nurse and one attendant, it was a simple matter to sip the sleeping pills in their drinks. At 2 AM on a Sunday morning, a nursing home resembles a ghost town. Jane was back on her milk and all was quiet. The only sound the snoring of the residents.
Leaving their walker and cane behind, Roy and Nick tiptoed to the front door. Having learned the code for that day, Nick reached for the keypad. His hand trembled. Tears moistened his eyes. This was it, their chance for freedom. They’re one and only chance for freedom.
Beside him, Roy panicked. What if Nick forgot the code or didn’t know it at all? He opened his mouth, then closed it as Nick punched in the code. and opened the door. A squill made both men jump. Nick quickly hit another button the alarm went silent.
“Forgot that one,” he whispered. They waited for a few seconds. No movement. A black pickup came up the street. As per their arrangement, Oliver had left the tailgate down on the bed. He had covered the top with a blue canvas. Oliver pulled up to the curb in front of the nursing home. Roy and Nick clambered onto the bed.
Nick held the tailgate closed with his right hand and braced himself with his left. Oliver accelerated down the street. “We made it.” Nick said.
In the darkened pickup bed, Roy grinned.
Using the flashlight Oliver provided, Roy and Nick found the disguises Oliver had placed there for them.
Nick grabbed one, threw it down and picked up the other one.
Roy opened the bag Nick had thrown down. He almost cried when he looked inside.
“A woman you made me a woman?” He said holding up the long blond wig.
“I ain’t dating you.” Nick said laughing.
“Trade with me.” Roy pleaded. “You’d make a good looking woman.”
“Nope, not on your life. I’m not putting on no dress.” Nick said, grinning.
Grumbling, Roy pulled off the nursing home clothing and donned the dress and wig. A few blocks further Oliver pulled in an alley behind a deserted school. He came around to the back of the pickup. Roy and Nick set on the open tailgate for a few minutes to catch their breath. When Oliver saw Roy in the dress, he broke out laughing.
“Would you like to ride in the cab, madam?” Oliver said, almost bowing.
“Grrrrrrr.” Roy said stomping to the passenger door of the truck.
“You gotta to admit he makes a good-looking woman, ugly man but good-looking woman.” Nick said.
Nick and Oliver shared a laugh. Oliver had five five-gallon cans of gas stored in the pickup’s bed. He also packed a cooler with 20 sandwiches and 10 bottles of water.
By sunup they were on I24 just entering Tennessee. Nick and Roy, too excited to sleep, watched the sunrise on the first day of their newfound freedom. They ate greedily and drink sparingly. Oliver warned them he was not stopping until they were several states away from the nursing home.
Fifty mile out of Nashville, Oliver took a side road off the interstate. He pulled the truck to the side of a gravel road by a stand of tree.
” Ok guys, we got five minutes ten at the most then we’re back on the road. “Oliver said. “That place has got to be humming by now.” All three hurried into the woods. In seven minutes, they were back in the pickup.
Oliver was wrong. The silver alert never went out until 10:15 AM. When the boys didn’t show up for a late breakfast, they searched the home. The night staff were called in. For some inexplainable reason the surveillance cameras crashed from 1:30 until 2:20 AM. The residents swore they heard nothing and saw nothing unusual doing the night. Questioned separately, the nurse and attendant didn’t mention of their nap after midnight. Each one thought its cause lay in their daily activities.
The silver alert lasted two weeks, to be replaced by more news worthy difficulties.
In May Oliver had scouted the route south. Just off the interstate in Georgia, he found an abandoned fishing cabin on a lake. Tuckered out, the three hid the truck in the woods a quarter mile away. Feeling justified, they jimmied the door.
Oliver insisted Roy and Nick take the bed. Exhausted, they slept soundly, nevertheless they were up and ready to go by daybreak. About mid-day Roy and Nick took a nap in the truck. They woke at 3 PM when Oliver crossed the Florida state line.
Roy and Nick cheered, pumping their fist in the air. Oliver just grinned. Nick rolled the window down.
“Snell that?” He said smiling. “That’s the sweet smell of freedom.”
“Oh, yeah.” Roy said, grinning.
“You got it, guys.” Oliver said rolling down the driver’s window all the way.
The wind ruffling their hair, they drove on to their new life.
Searching Google, Oliver found a cabin way back in the Everglades. A young college age boy inherited it from his grandfather. He needed the money more than the cabin. Oliver paid him 2’000.00 cash for the deed. Upon walking in the door, he wondered if he had been taken.
The place had not been lived in for over five years. The roof had holes in it; the floor littered with droppings from racoons and birds. The screen door came off in Oliver’s hand.
They looked at the interior of the cabin in dismay. “I’m sleeping outside.” Roy said, turning around. Nick put a hand on Roy’s arm. “It ain’t to bad.” He said.
“Bad. I’ve seen better chicken coops.” Roy said.
“Well, what did you expect for two thousand?” Oliver said. “Look, I saw a shed out back. There has to be a broom around here somewhere.”
The three of them trudged around back of the cabin.
The door to the shed was unlocked but stuck. Putting his weight into, Oliver jerked it open. A brown furry creature darted past Nick and between Roy’s legs. Roy screamed and danced around.
Nick and Oliver doubled over laughing.
“Wh… what was that.’ “Roy gasp, his hand on his chest.
Nick grinned at him. “That my friend was a Florida squirrel.”
“I’m glad I could give you some entertainment. “Roy said, wiping his brow with his shirtsleeve. Nick and Oliver grinned.
Inside the shed they found a broom new screen door and enough shingles to fix cabin and shed’s roofs. Along the back wall were several gallons of paint. They spent the next few days cleaning and fixing the cabin inside and out. With their home clean and orderly, they painted the four rooms and the bathroom. By the end of the third week they were done and so was the cabin.
Stretching out under a tree, they fell asleep. Suddenly Roy woke up.
“He shook Nick and Oliver. “It’s starting to rain.” Clambering to their feet, they stumbled onto the porch. Just then the clouds let loose. Opening the screen door and looking inside, Oliver said, “We have a leak.”
Coming up beside him Nick said. “Only one?”
Roy looked inside. He raised a hand and returned to the porch. “Oh, that’s Nick’s side.”
” Is not you fixed that corner. “
” Is not you worked on the left side.” The bickering went on for a serveral minutes. Oliver just grinned. Going into the kitchen, he opened two cans of beef stew. The boys would be hungry tonight.
A week later, with the cabin clean and the roof repaired, Roy, Nick and Oliver stood on the shore of a small lake a hundred yards from the cabin. Lines in the water fishing for breakfast. They watched the sun rise to a golden hue. A brilliant blue sky promised another wonderful summer day.
Roy broached the subject on all their minds. “Say you think they’ve given up on that sliver alert?”
“I don’t know about that, but what I do know is I’m glad I traded my sliver for gold.” Nick said. Roy and Oliver nodded in agreement.
Back at Wilshire the escape of Roy and Nick became a Legend. Some say they made it most say they didn’t. but now you know the truth.




The Face of God

Joebya searched the sky, but all he saw was the full moon and a few stars. There was no hint of the glow from just a half hour ago. His father and brothers left him behind with his grandfather to care for this small flock of sheep.
“Why couldn’t I go with them.” He said sadly, tears pricking his eyes.
“They will return soon with good news.” His grandfather said. Hobbling over to his blanket, he set down heavily. “Be patience my son.” And so Joebya went to check on the sheep.
He thought of years past when he was left behind. Each year he begged his father to accompany him and his older brothers to Bethlehem. And each time his father said the same thing. “When you are 10 years, you may go.”
Year after year, he watched from the front of his home until the hill covered the sheep and their headers. Last week he turned 10 years. At the small gathering of his friends, his father said, smiling. “This year you may go.” His heart leaped in his chest. This year he would have a man’s job of helping to herd the temple sheep all the way to Bethlehem.
Just this very morning his mother kissed him and with tears in her eyes told him to be a good boy and obey his father. He smiled, assuring her he would. When they drove the small flock of sheep down the street of his village, his chest swelled. His friends stood by the doors of their homes watching him, envying him. A man herding his sheep. A few of them lifted a hand in greeting, but he didn’t respond. He had the important job of keeping the stragglers up with the rest of the flock. Each lamb selected for sacrifice, their perfection, just as The Lord required. None must be lost.
Mile after mile they traveled. When the sun was halfway across the sky, his father called a halt. Seated on a rock, Joebya took off his sandals and rubbed his feet. “Here this will help.” Belu, his older brother, said, handing the boy a stick of goat grease. “I remember my first time; I thought my feet would fall off.”
“Thanks.” Joebya said, and the goat’s grease did help some.
The only one permitted to ride their small donkey was his grandfather. Joebya liked his grandfather. He told stories of the days when he was young. Of his own journeys to Bethlehem with his father. At times when grandfather dozed on the donkey, Joebya led the animal with one hand while holding the elderly man upright with the other.
His father had selected a place with a quiet stream where the lambs might drink. Joebya filled their skin bottles with water while his brothers spread the fish and bread on blankets. After an hour of rest, they resumed their journey.
In the afternoon, as they walked along, Joebya became so weary he thought of climbing up behind his grandfather and riding the donkey. However, the small creature had enough of a burden without him adding to it.
Finally, they arrived at the pasture just to the north of Bethlehem. A small green hill with a gentle stream at the bottom. After they settled the sheep, Joebya’s father took the donkey and went to speak to the priest. An hour later, he came back to camp in a jubilant mood. This year the temple could use all the lambs.
Seated on the side of the hill, Joebya watched the crowds. The village filled with those there for the counting of the tax. Tomorrow they would drive the sheep to a holding pen on the side of the temple. As dusk fell, they gathered around the fire. Joebya, his father and brothers, listened as his grandfather told of other trips of bringing the sheep to the temple. His stomach full, his sore muscles relaxing, the small boy lay on the ground listening. He had heard his grandfather tell the same stories a hundred times, yet each time they seemed new. His brother Paual pushed up to go check on the sheep.
Joebya’s eyes became heavy. He must have drifted off. Suddenly his eyes flew open, terror gripped his heart. His father, grandfather and his two brothers were on their knees. A man unlike any Joebya ever saw hovered over the earth. His body a rainbow of colors. The man stood in a circle of light brighter than the noonday sun. His jeweled robe flowed around him. He spoke, his voice like many waters.
“Fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you, Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger.”
A strange peace swept through Joebya. The glow dissolved into an army of men. Joebya gasped, each one clothed like a king more splendid than any human royalty. They covered the sky from horizon to horizon. The glow came from their bodies. Their robes like the first angel coated in jewels. At their waist, golden swords gleamed with encrusted jewels. As one, their voices shook the earth with the praises of God. Joebya had heard the singers in the temple. Their voices sounded amazing. Alone, he tried to sing like them and failed. To him, his voice sounded squeaky. These angels sounded more magnificent than anything he had heard in his young life.
The sky darkened. Was it a dream? After a minute, his father spoke quietly. “We must go and see this thing the angel spoke of.”
“Yes, go. The boy and I will stay here and watch the sheep.” His grandfather said. Joebya’s heart plummeted. He hated to sound like a child. Tears came to his eyes.
“I want to go with you.” He said, his voice cracking. His father laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Your grandfather is too old to care for the sheep by himself.”
A few minutes later, his father and brothers hurried in the direction of the small village In a few seconds they disappeared in the night. A great sadness gripping him, Joebya turned away from his grandfather to hide the tears coursing down his cheeks. “I… I’m… going to check the sheep on the south side.” He said. His grandfather just nodded. The elderly man’s mind filled with the words he had heard from his youth about the messiah. He was glad the boy was gone; he bowed his head, thanking The Lord that God’s promise was fulfilled in his lifetime. “Now I can go home and die in peace.” He said quietly.
On the other side of the flock, Joebya wept. True, he had seen other babies. Saw them bathed, diapered and fed. However, this one was different. This was God’s son, the promised one. He dried his tears and went to put more wood on the flames before they died out.
In sorrow, Joebya curled up by the fire. He dared not sleep. Shortly he heard his grandfather’s soft snore. Pulling himself up, he walked around the flock. He heard the growling of the brown bear before he saw it. The predator lumbered in the direction of a small lamb. Spittle dripped from the bear’s mouth. His hands shaking, Joebya reached for the slingshot he carried in his belt. Panicking he felt around his waist, he chanced a look down. His slingshot must have dropped out of his waistband by the fire. The bear came closer. He meant to have the lamb, and the only thing that prevented this was a small boy.
Joebya wanted to run away. Yet he couldn’t. All the people back in his village would laugh at him, calling him a coward. Yet the biggest deterrent to his flight was the look of disappointment he would see on his father’s face. Trembling, he searched for a weapon. Anything with which to defend himself and the sheep. However, all he saw were rocks and dirt. Frantically he snatched up a rock and threw it at the animal, missing him by inches. It was enough to momentarily stop the bear. Picking up more stones, he threw them as fast as he could. Some sailed past the creature, but a few struck its hide, causing it to roar. Gathering himself, the bear prepared to charge. A stone bounced off the bear’s nose. Stopping, it shook its head. Two more soared over Joebya’s shoulder, both striking the bear’s nose. It stood for a few seconds shaking its head. Then turning the bear, ran back into the night.
Joebya breathed a sigh of relief. Behind him, his grandfather spoke. “Here you dropped this.” He said, handing the boy his slingshot. Joebya’s face reddened. He stared at the ground, ashamed. A man must be prepared for battle. “By the way, that was the bravest thing I ever saw.” His grandfather said. Joebya lifted his head.
“Really?” He said, tears misting his eyes.
“Really.” His grandfather said. “King David would be proud to have you care for his sheep. Come my son, let’s go back to the fire, the bear will not bother the sheep any more tonight.” The boy smiled at the elderly man. Laying his hand on Joebya’s shoulder, the old man and the boy walked back to camp.
“Where have you two been?” His father asks as they approached the campfire. Joebya noticed his father and brothers’ faces seemed to glow.
“Your son, my grandson, just fought off a bear.” His grandfather said proudly.
“By himself?” Paulal asks. Smiling, he patted his little brother on the back.
“He didn’t look like he needed any help from me.” His grandfather said.
“Build up the fire we have exciting news.” His father said. “Not you.” He said as Joebya started into the dark to gather sticks. “You have done enough labor for the night. Here,” His father handed his son a shiny red apple. The boy knew his father was saving his apple to eat in the morning. Joebya had eaten his apple an hour after leaving home that morning.
Settled around the fire, his father said. “We have found the Messiah just as the angel said.”
“What is He like, tell us everything?” His grandfather said.
“He is the most beautiful baby you ever saw.” His father said, his eyes closed, remembering. “Though He is an infant, when He looks at you you feel the most joy, peace and happiness you ever felt in your entire life. It is as if the world melts away and you and He are alone.”
“And it is as the angel said? He is in a stable?” Joebya asked, daring to speak. His father laughed.” Yes, my son, a king born in a stable.” He hugged Joebya.
Later, curled in his blanket by the fire, Joebya couldn’t sleep. He longed to see this baby, this king. The one the priest always spoke of. He opened his eyes. Belu watching the sheep was the only one awake, and he was on the other side of the flock. The rest curled in their blankets slept. He waited until Belu’s watch was replaced by Paulal. Within a few minutes, Belu was asleep.
The small cluster of houses and businesses lay in the moonlight at the foot of the hill. Joebya thought about The Messiah. How wonderful to look upon the saviour. In the distance, he could see the glow of lamplight from the inn. There must be a party going on. He remembered the priest reading from Isaiah about a woman who never knew a man giving birth to a saviour.
Now Joebya was an obedient son. However, the pull to see this special baby overwhelmed his thoughts. It really wasn’t that far, he reasoned. Just down the hill and into the edge of the small village. Pushing off his blanket, Joebya set up. Fluffing it up so he wouldn’t be missed, he stepped carefully away from the camp. Glancing at the moon, he judged it to be an hour before touching the western horizon. He would just sneak up to the edge of the cave, see this child of God, and hurry back to his place by the fire. He would be back before they knew he was gone.
Staying in the shadows, he came to the wall of the inn. From inside, men shouted as they did when filled with wine. The windows glowed with many lamps. Music and drunken singing drifted out to the young boy.
Suddenly the door opened and two men stumbled out. Joebya sunk back against the wall of a house, crossed the narrow street from the inn. The two men argued, their voices rising. A knife glinted in the moonlight. The one holding the knife thrust it in the others middle. The one struck, winced, and crumbled to the ground. The man standing stared at his fallen companion. Then turning, he stumbled down the street away from the inn.
Terrified, Joebya’s heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to run back to the safety of his father, brothers and grandfather. His father had warned him of the dangers of drink. He stood frozen to the spot. How foolish he was to come here. He wished for daylight, but it was hours away. He remembered to breathe deeply. Calming down, he listened closely and thought he heard a groan.
Edging forward, he looked into the man’s face. His eyes closed. Surely, he was dead. The boy knelt down. The man’s clothing spoke of wealth. He must be a rich merchant. The man’s eyes opened, he looked into the frightened boy’s face.
“Help me.” He said, his words slurred. Joebya wasn’t sure if it was the wound or alcohol, which made the man’s words to sound like that.
Joebya fearfully looked around for someone, anyone to help. He saw no one. He could not leave this man alone. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder. There had been no one there seconds before. Instead of alarming him, a sense of peace and comfort flowed through the young boy’s heart. He looked up into the kind face of a man bending over them.
Clothed like a beggar yet with a muscular body, the man said, “Let’s bring him around to the back of the inn.” Too astounded to speak, Joebya nodded his head. The beggar picked up the wounded man as if he weighed no more than a feather. Smiling at Joebya he said, “It will be alright.” Somehow, the boy knew the man’s words were true.
Walking around the corner of the inn, they came within sight of the stable. Suddenly a bright beam of light shot from within the cave. It covered the wounded man and instantly disappeared. The beggar also vanished. On his feet now, the merchant ran his hands over his stomach. The man’s clothing showed no hint of blood. Without a word, he spun on his heel and ran into the night.
Left alone, the boy looked around. tranquility governed his heart. A glow came from the mouth of the cave. His feet seeming to move on their own, he approached the opening. He peeked around the edge of the rock wall. A horse and three donkeys lay in one corner. In the long manger lay a man and a woman with a small bundle between them.
The only light came from a lamp carefully placed away from the straw.
Raising her head, the woman smiled at Joebya. Lifting her hand, she motioned him forward. Quietly, the young boy stepped up to the manger. Lying between the two adults was a tiny baby wrapped in strips of cloth.
“This is The Christ?” Joebya said whispering.
“Yes.” The woman said softly. She pulled back the cloth so the boy could see the baby. The child opened his eyes and looked full into Joebya’s face. Waving a tiny hand in the air, the baby grasped the boy’s finger. An overwhelming sense of joy, happiness and peace flowed through Joebya’s body. The boy’s eyes widened in astonishment.
“Did you feel it? It is the touch of God.” Mary said. The baby let go of Joebya’s hand. Joebya nodded. “Now you must go back quickly. Your father will be searching for you.”
“Thank you.” Joebya said to mother and baby. Softly, he backed out of the stable. Once outside, he turned and ran back up the hill to the flock.
His father, grandfather and two brothers were awake and scattered across the hillside.
“Where have you…” His father began harshly. Then, as the others gathered around, he said more gently. “You went to see the Messiah?”
“Yes father, I looked into the face of God.” Joebya said.
“As have I, my son, as have I.” His father said. Smiling, he laid his hand on his son’s shoulder.




Gone Fishing

He walked down the road; his bare feet stirring up dust. His eyes drawn to fields. Beans wilted corn blades curled up. Creek almost down to a trickle. Well, was down to just a few feet. His daddy said this was the longest they went without rain since 36.
“That was one dry summer. “He said looking up as if the answer to their problem was written on the white ceiling of the kitchen. White because his mother washed it two times a year, once in the spring and again in the fall.
“It was dry in 42,” His mother said. “Had to watch the wash fire les it git away. Walburns did and it bout burn their house.”
“Yup, you best be careful with them fire. Or we won’t have a place left.” His daddy said.
Dry or not, he had hoed the soybeans all morning. Like to burnt up with the sun blazing on his back. Lest it wasn’t like the spring. His mother rubbed Bacon grease on his sunburn. Done that every spring until his skin tanned.
He grinned down at the dog trotting beside him. Molly had spent the morning under the shade of a sycamore. When he first started out, the leaves of the beans were a little damp with dew. The dog followed him through the first few rows. As they came to the fence at the end of the field, she deserted him in favor of the cool shadow of the tree.
Three times during the morning she went down to the stream that ran past the field at the bottom of the hill. There water formed a small pool only a few inches crossed, but enough for a thirsty dog.
“Plenty of water in the Blue Hole, he told the dog. Molly just wagged her tail. Maybe I’ll do some skinny dippin’ that is if’n they ain’t nobody round.”
As if she understood, Molly danced around in front of the boy. Until the squirrel jumped out of the brush just ahead of them.
Molly and the squirrel saw each other in the same instant. With a joyful bark, the dog gave chase. The squirrel for his part didn’t seem worried. Letting the dog come within a few feet, the squirrel scampered up a tree. Rearing on the trunk of the oak, Molly looking up barked. on a limb overhanging the path, the squirrel chattered away, scolding the dog.
Watching the exchange, the boy laughed. Passing under the oak, he said. “Come on, girl, there‘ll be more squirrels ahead.” With one last look at the squirrel, the dog ran after the boy.
He chose a spot under the shade of a large willow, its branches extended over the pool. The water there would be at least ten foot deep. The pool caused by the whirling of the river in flood season. Setting down the sweet pea can, he selected a long meaty earthworm. it wiggled, not wanting to be pierced by the hook.
“Don’t blame you, wormy, but I gotta have bait or they don’t bite and your it.” He said apologetically. The dog sniffed the worm and turned up her nose. The boy laughed. “Bet we don’t smell any better to him.” Molly backed off and lay down, her eyes on the boy. Having accomplished the task of baiting the hook, the boy picked a place where the sunlight filleted through the willow leaves.
Tossing the line into the water, he plopped down and leaned back into the trunk of the willow. One eye on the bobber, he opened the dinner pail his mother sent with him.
As he reached for the sandwich, his mother’s words come back to him. “Now mind you wash your hands fore you eat this sandwich.” She said.” I know your gonna handle them worms fore you eat.”
He could have just told her he washed his hands, but he wasn’t that kind of boy. Smelling the food, Molly got to her feet. “I gotta wash my hands.” He said to the dog closing the pail. Wedging the pole in a snake hole, he knelt at the edge of the water.
Dipping his hands in the pool, he took his eyes off the cane pole. “I guess mom will be proud of seeing I wash…” The pole bent alarmingly, shooting out of the snake hole.
Trailed crossed the grass. Molly leaped to her feet, barking and following the pole. The boy made a wild drive for it as it past him. Missing, he dove into the water. Grasping the fishing pole, he held it in one hand and swam with the other. The catfish surfaced; its head as big as the boy’s. Franticly, it made for the bottom of the pool. A strong swimmer, the boy was no match for the fish. Sputtering, he held on, reluctant to lose the catfish but more importantly his fishing rod.
The fish headed for the deeper parts of the river. The boy had to let go: if he held on, he would drown. He felt a tug on the back of his overalls. He looked behind him. Molly, her face filled with determination, swam backward, her feet churning through the water. Slowly, inch by inch, they made their way to the surface. Finally, the boy felt the sand under his bare feet. He coughed, spitting out water. Satisfied her master was safe, Molly set down by his side. Digging in his heels, the boy fought the fish. After several minutes, the catfish tiring allowed the boy to pull it in.
Exhausted, he starched out his toe at the fish’s tail. The head of the catfish measured halfway up the boy’s chest. He grinned at the dog. “You saved my life… and the fish. He said, “how we gonna get him home?”
Molly smiled. Shaking her coat, she showered the boy with droplets of water. He sputtered. “Just what I didn’t need another bath.”
Taking off his belt, he looped it around the catfish’s tail. Pole over one shoulder, belt over the other, he started for home. Stopping and starting it took him five tries to make it to the farm. Where he could, he dragged the fish through the grass. Reaching the house, he set down on the well curb.
“What in the world do we have here?” His daddy said walking up from the barn lot. Taking off his work gloves, he knelt and ran his hand over the fish’s scales.
“Fish.” The boy said, breathing heavy.
“And what a fish. You catch this?”
“Me and Molly.” The boy said. His daddy took off the belt and handed it to his son.
“Oh, my.” His mother said, coming out the door to the kitchen. “That’s the biggest fish I ever saw. What are we going to do with it?”
“We’re gonna clean it then I’ll pack some in the icehouse. We’ll eat the rest.” His father said, grinning.
“I’ll have to cut it in small pieces.” His mother said, “Might have to use two frying pans.”
“We best get at it, come on son you too Molly since you helped catch it you can help clean it.”
They hung the fish from the barn door. Before they started, his daddy measured it.
“Four feet two inches. Wowe that’s some fish.”
By the time they finished cleaning the fish, the boy was exhausted. Still, he managed to eat three heaping plates of catfish.
His parents were finishing their coffee when they heard a pounding on the house’s tin roof. Going to the open door, they watched the rain soaking the fields.
“Guess there won’t be no work in the beans tomorrow if this ra…” The boy was sound asleep, his head resting beside his plate. Molly, her chin resting on the boy’s knee, looked up at them.
“I think I’ll put our little fisherman to bed.” He said picking up his son he carried him to his bedroom. Undressing the boy, he tucked him in. From the doorway, his mother watched. “Think he’ll go fishin’ tomorrow.” She asks.
“Probably.” His father said, closing the door. Molly jumped on the bed and snuggled up to the boy. Later that night, the boy woke to the drumming of rain on the roof. Smiling, he patted the dog and went back to sleep.




Murder?

The rock struck the back of the child’s head. He cried out in pain and frustration. Digging his fingers into the thick hair of his scalp, he searched for the wound. They came away red with blood. Warm liquid trickled down, forming a small pool at the base of his neck.
The kick in the seat of his pants sent him sprawling. He recovered quickly skittering away to avoid the next kick.
Regaining his feet, the ten-year-old boy frowned at the man towering over him. Reaching back, he rubbed the spot where the boot landed. His rump hurt worse than his head. Tears threatened to push their way out. He forced them back. He would not cry- he could not cry. He was strong. This was only his second day of training to be a man.
Yesterday, the man threw the stones at him. A few grazed his back and legs. “Warnings”, his stepfather called them.
As he crawled under the strand of electric fence, he hurled more sharp stones his way. The ones he threw this morning hit his left leg, and then his right. They hurt, but not like the one to his head. They would leave bruises, but not blood. He rose up to soon hitting the strand of fence. Blue fire arced, striking him between the shoulder blades. He cried out in pain.
“Boy, you ‘bout as dumb as they come,” the man said.
The sun behind his new step father gave his six-three structure a god-like appearance.
“I might as well throw you to the hogs and start over.”
The words cut worse than the stones or the fence. The threat terrified the child. He glanced to his left at the hog pen. The man, the only father he had ever known, often threw dead chickens, opossums, and coons to the hogs.
Time after time, the boy watched in horror as the pigs’ tusks tore these carcasses apart. It seemed to him that the hogs glared at him as they ate the dead meat, sizing him up for their next meal.
“Now you get out of my sight before I feed you to that sow over there,” he said, pointing to a huge white hog. He came after the boy, raising his foot for another kick. His size 12 boot missed the child’s buttocks. The boy scrambled to his feet before his stepfather landed the blow that would be more painful than the last kick.
Racing around the barn, the child ran down the incline to the river. If possible, the words made him run faster.
At the top of the hill, he tripped over a root, losing his footing. He tumbled over logs, and through briars and puddles, he came to rest at the edge of the river.
He lay there for a few seconds; he regained his breath.
Setting up, the boy took measure of himself. Reaching up, he touched his face. The cuts from the briars weren’t too deep. A few bruises, mostly from the rocks thrown at him. And torn clothing, covered in mud. All were recoverable. But not his heart. The bruising there would last a lifetime.
He felt tears coursing down his cheeks. Angry, he slammed his fist into his face, bloodying his nose. “Not supposed to cry. Quit being a baby. Be a man,” he said, repeating his stepfather’s words.
His nose bled, the blood mixing with the salty tears.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would show him. Tomorrow, he would endure the ritual. Tomorrow, he would prove he was worthy to be called a man.
After washing in the river, he crept up the hill; making sure to keep the rickety barn between him and the man. He kept it that way all the way to the house. The smell of the hogs still fresh in his nostrils terrified him.
The stench seemed to become stronger with each step. Would his mother actually allow his step father to feed him to the hogs?
Despite his washing, mud still clung to him. He dug his toes into the warm dust. It felt good, a little comfort in his world of dread.
He thought of stripping, but at his age he knew better than to walk around nude. Not that it would make much difference. The overalls were second hand from the poor box at church; his mother had patched them, but it didn’t help much. Tumbling down the hill had torn more holes in the cloth. So, he held the bottom part together as best he could.
Stepping up onto the porch, he avoided the boards that creaked.
Carefully, he sneaked up to the screen door. Not seeing his mother, he breathed a sigh of relief. The spring on the screen door squeaked. Squeezing through, he slowly made his way across the living room.
“What do you think you’re a doin’?” Her voice made his blood freeze. His mother stood at the door to the kitchen, hands on her hips. Her face flashed. “Get them muddy feet off my clean floor.”
“Yes ‘em,” he whispered past the lump in his throat.
He backtracked on wobbly legs, trying to place his bare feet in the grimy prints. His mother reached out a hand and grabbed the out-of-sight mop.
“Go, just go!” She shouted. Bringing the mop into view, she waved it at him.
She never whipped the boy. That was his father’s job. But when bathed him, she saw the evidence on the boy’s skin. She steeled herself, believing it was good for the child. She had married the man only a year ago. Not the first mistake she’d ever made. But perhaps the deadliest.
She sighed, mopping up the tracks.
The boy stayed outside the rest of the day, going back to the river. Stripping, he bathed, washing the blood from his head and face. His stomach growled. He ate berries and roots to silence it.
In the evening, the smell of ham frying drew him to the house. Stepping gingerly onto the back porch, he peeked through the open door to the kitchen. His mother and stepfather set at the table. A big platter of steaming ham set between them His mother looked up, frowning.
“There you are. Been prowling them woods all day. You hungry?” she asked.
“Yes, Mama,” he said, nodding his head.
“Well then, you best get them chores done ‘fore you eat,” the man said, not looking up as he cut into a thick piece of meat. The sight made the boy’s mouth water.
“You heard your father. Now go on, get them chickens fed and watered.” His mom made a shooing motion with her hand.
A bit of rebellion rose up in him. As soon as he said the words, he knew he was in for a beating.
“He ain’t my father!” he shouted, his hands clenched into fists, and his teeth biting off each word. “He be just an interloper.”
Whirling on his heels, he ran for the barn.
“Boy, you get back here and git what’s comin’ to you!”
He glanced behind him. His stepfather stood on the back porch, his razor strap dangling from his right hand. He had been waiting for the boy, the piece of leather lying across his lap.
From the barn, the child watched through a crack until the man returned to the table and resumed eating.
After a few minutes, his conscience got the better of him. It was his responsibility to care for the hens. Feeding them and gathering the eggs.
Shoving the piece of tin off the barrel of chicken feed, he filled the galvanized bucket half way. Setting the bucket on the straw fling floor, he replaced the makeshift lid on the barrel.
The one time he had forgotten and left the lid off, coons got in the feed. His stepfather had used the razor strap that day. The bruises took two weeks to heal.
Keeping his eyes on the house, he walked to the chicken pen.
Carefully, he opened the gate. He blocked the rooster and hens with his feet and legs less they slip by and escape. He scattered the feed in the small troughs, then went to the pump. Filling the bucket with water, he returned to the chicken yard. After rinsing out the bowl, he poured in the water until it overflowed.
Satisfied the hens were taken care of for the night; he closed the gate and hung the bucket on a nearby post to dry.
He felt the sharp, stinging pain on his upper thigh before he saw him. He cried out, more in surprise than agony.
“Lean against that fence boy,” his stepfather commanded, holding the strap in his right hand while running it through his left. Like a snake striking, he grabbed the boy by the back of the neck, holding him firmly as he pushed the child’s face into the wire of the chicken pen.
The boy struggled to escape. The man’s grip was too strong. He resigned himself to the whipping. The boy waited. He didn’t have to wait long. He knew pain was inevitable.
Rising the strap, the man brought it down hard, striking his target.
By the fifth blow, the boy had stopped struggling. His backside was almost numb, he endured five more. A total of ten of the worst strips he had received so far in his young life. His mother, watching from the kitchen window, covered her mouth with her hand. She cringed. She felt as if each blow was sticking her body. Surely the boy didn’t deserve that brutal of a beating.
Her husband let go of the child, shoving him in the direction of the house. As the boy came through the door to the kitchen, she raised her apron and wiped her eyes.
She took his plate from the oven where she had kept it warm. She set it before him, noticing he shifted in his chair, his eyes dry. She wanted to say something to comfort her son. But what could she say? Her fingers touched the bruise where the man pushed her into the wall last night. No, she dared not say anything against this man.
3 years later
The bed shook. The boy groaned in his sleep. He kicked the bed again.
“Get up Boy, time to go huntin’.” His stepfather staggered to the doorway to the bedroom.
The boy sat up in bed.
The only thing he hated worse than hunting was his stepfather.
Drunk at five in the morning. What else was new? If the conservation officer caught them, the man would blame the boy.
Today. It ended today.
He could go to prison, but it couldn’t be worse than this.
The beating he received at the chicken pen three years before had paled in comparison to other battering he’ endured. But at 13, he was almost as tall as his stepfather.
He groaned, hating to leave his bed. It was inviable, but he would try to delay leaving as long as he dared. The beating he received yesterday made his bones ache. The thumping his mother took when she tried to intervene was almost as bad.
The blue sky mocked him. The already-warm sun threatened him. He had prayed for rain, or at least a cloudy day.
During training, he could only have one mouthful of water an hour. Yesterday, he had violated that rule, resulting in a severe beating.
His stepfather put down the pint of corn liquor when the boy came into the kitchen.
“You made me late,” the man mumbled. “Shoulda been in the woods an hour ago.”
The boy didn’t respond. His hands shook.
He hated killing. He hated hunting. The only friends he had were the animals in the forest. He loved watching the animals play. He dreaded the thought of taking a mother from her young.
His stepfather demanded he go hunting, but when it came time for the killing shot, the boy always froze. They walked through the north pasture and into the corpse of woods. He lagged further and further behind.
His face a mask of rage, his stepfather turned around. “You get up here boy or I’ll beat you worse than I did yesterday.” He grinned a wicked smile. “When I get done with you, I’ll take out your sunaneguns on your mother.” The boy quickened his pace until he was ahead of the man.
As they entered a clearing, they saw them. A doe with her fawn. The fawn appeared to be only a couple of months old.
“Shoot her, Boy,” his stepfather demanded. The man stood several feet back.
The boy raised the rifle, then lowered it. He couldn’t bring himself to kill such a beautiful creature.
As he lowered his rifle, a shot behind startled him. The doe crumbled to the ground.
“Boy, you ‘bout as worthless as nothin’.” The man said harshly.
Walking by the boy, his stepfather struck him in the jaw. The boy fell backwards into the weeds, his rifle clattering to the ground.
“You ain’t even got the safety off that gun,” the man said, laughing he landed a kick in the boy’s side.
It was then that the boy knew he was going to kill the man. If he let him live, he and his mother would never be safe. The man would eventually kill both of them. Tears flowed down his cheeks. The doe’s, feet kicked in her death throes. Beside the deer, her fawn bleated. On spindly legs, it sniffed of its dying mother. The tiny deer nosed her side as if trying to wake her.
Heartlessly, the man knelt and stuck a knife in the animal’s throat. As the doe bled out, the man reached for his rifle. Aiming it at the fawn, he said, “We gonna have us some tender deer meat tonight.”
Leaping off the ground, the boy ran at the man, kicking the gun away. The rifle discharged, the bullet passing harmlessly over the little deer’s back and smacking into a tree. The animal jumped at the sound of the shot. It looked around bewildered, reluctant to leave its mother’s side. The boy snatched up the man’s gun.
“Boy, you give me that rifle!” He said savagely
Rising to his feet, the man glared at the boy.
With tears dripping off his chin, the boy said. “You aint never gonna hurt us again.” The man spread out his hands. His face pale, he said, “Now boy, you know I only do it for your own good.” His lips lifted in a sickly smile. He took a step toward the boy. “We’ll leave the fawn alone. If’n that’s what you want.” He took another step. The boy backed up… The man lunged for the gun. The boy pulled the trigger, shooting his stepfather in the heart. Collapsing with a groan the man looked at him stupidly, He blinked his eyes rapidly shuttled then lay still.
Strangely, all the boy felt was a sense of relief. No regret, unless it was that he hadn’t killed his stepfather before he shot the deer.
He laid the man’s rifle on the ground, pointing at the man. Whistling, he shouldered his own rifle. Then, with the fawn following, he set off to tell his mother the man was dead.




Death Revisited

“So, what’s the prognosis, doc? Should I get my affairs in order?” I smiled at Ken McGovern. I counted him as a friend, a fellow believer and respected him as a physician. I became acquainted with the doctor several years before when he and his wife joined our small congregation of believers.
That first Sunday to say it overjoyed us to have a doctor visit our services would be an understatement. It shocked us when two Sundays later he and his wife Barb came forward to join. Over the years, we found him and his wife to be a great asset to our church. If we had a cleanup day and if their schedule allowed, they would be there. Many times, we could see Ken cleaning the bathrooms. Not a pleasant task in a church with a herd of little boys. He never complained. At carry ins, Barb always provided something delicious. A few of the congregation ask Ken for medical advice. He gave them his best opinion.
I never did, it made me uncomfortable. It was like asking a tradesman to work on your house for free.
Beside I hadn’t been to a doctor in years. I was so healthy one insurance carrier refused to give me life insurance. Their reason? Because I had no personal physician.
Then a few weeks ago, my leg began hurting. Not just a little twinge. But the kind of gut-wrenching pain that feels like your leg is coming off. I took aspirin, Advil, Benadryl. Nothing touched it. We tried hot; we tried cold. At its height, I couldn’t sleep. I could barely walk, not only that, but I was losing weight. At this rate, sometimes as a pound a day. I was going in three months I would weigh less than a hundred pounds.
At my wife’s urging, I made an appointment with the doc. And just as I feared after his exam, he ordered a battery of tests. When I ask how long it takes for the results, he said a couple of days. That was Monday it was now 2 PM on a Friday afternoon. Ken sighed and set down facing me. He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“Oh, come on doc, it’s not like I’m dying.” I said. His hesitation and expression sent cold chills up and down my spine. “What is it, a pinched nerve, a torn ligament?”
“Yes, I’m afraid you are.” He said in a voice small and quite gentle, as if he were speaking to a frightened child. “You have Osteosarcoma a rare form of bone cancer. A fast-moving kind. It had to be fast moving to catch you.” I knew what he meant. Around church, they knew me as the man on the move. Always doing something, never setting still.
At that moment, I wondered how many others over the years had set in this very chair as he delivered as it were their death sentence. I jumped up and began pacing. His eyes followed me. I tried to wrap my mind around his words. A hundred no a thousand thoughts raced through my brain. What of my wife? Who would take care of her? Would the income from my books be enough to sustain her? Over the last 10 Years, I had written several. Would my writing leave a legacy as I had hoped? In other words, years after my death would anyone know I existed.
I labored to steady my voice. I was a Christian, after all. I knew where I was going. The apostle Paul said, ‘to be absent from the body is to be present with The Lord.’
“Could there be a mistake?” I said ending my pacing leaning forward gripping the back of the guest chair. Hoping against hope Ken would break out in a smile and say he was just joking.
“No, that’s the reason we didn’t have the results earlier in the week. I ask the lab to run the test again. When they come back with the same prognosis, I requested several other doctors look at them.” He looked at me, his expression reminding of a sad bulldog.
Losing strength, I came around the chair and fell into it. All right, if that’s the way it was, I always said when it came time for me to die, I would hit death hard. I wanted to make an impact heard around the world.
But in truth, I didn’t feel like hitting death hard. I felt like a frightened child whose teddy bear someone has just ripped from his arms and tore apart before his very eyes. I felt cold, empty, alone.
“How long do I have?” I ask, my voice seeming to come from another person.
“With treatment twelve months.” Doc said grasping his hands together laying them on the desk. I suddenly hated those hands. Those gifted hands, which healed so many. But could do nothing for me.
“And without treatment?”
“Six at the most seven months.”
“” So, what I endure the sickness, lose my hair and spend countless hours in the clinic?”
“That’s about it. Look, I’m not going to sugarcoat it. You have a few months to finish your life’s work. “
If I liked it or not, Ken was a straight shooter. More than that, he was right. I rose to my feet “Thanks, doc. Thanks for telling me the truth.” I shook his hand and turned to leave.
“You’re going to tell your wife, right?” Ken said. I turned back, facing him.
“Yes, eventually. It’s going to take some time to absorb this.”
“Don’t wait too long. She needs to know so she can prepare”
I nodded.
The next thing I knew, I was in my car setting in the parking lot outside Ken’s office. How long would I be mobile? And how long would I feel like working before the pain drove everything out of my mind?
I stared out the windshield. The sun shone, turning to hot. For all others, it was a beautiful day in mid-June. A day when they looked forward and made plans for the future. I had no future, only sickness and death.
A woman with a little child walked by my car she smiled speaking quietly to her son. A jogger ran past on the sidewalk, a SUV drove up to the door of the clinic, a woman got out and spoke to the male driver. As she entered the doctor’s office, he drove away.
I watched all this in amazement. They didn’t know I was dying. If they knew, would they care? A few months from now, I would be just another name in the obituary column. A name in the newspaper used to wash windows. To catch the droppings of a parakeet. Soon too soon, like that newspaper, I would be gone. Never to be remembered.
My cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID. My wife. I didn’t answer. The news I bore required I tell her of my impending death face to face. Not that I relished it, but the Love of Life deserved my being there to hold her.
I decided to call my editor at the publishing company. Now you might ask, and rightly, so why I would share the news of my demise with Julia Hammond before I did my wife. Blue Swan Media had recently signed me to a three-book contract. After 25 years of writing, Blue Swan had taken a chance on me. They had one book to be published this month and two more to come out before Christmas. All written by me and edited by their team.
Right now, we were in the midst of promotion and as soon as the book hit the shelves book signings. As a matter of fact, I had a podcast interview scheduled for 8 PM tonight.
Julia answered on the first ring. I had spoken to her earlier in the day, informing her about my doctor’s appointment. She listened quietly as I gave her the news. There was a catch in her voice as she questioned me about my plans for my short future. Julia was not just my editor, but also our friend. As we spoke, she promised me the publishing company planned to republish the other novels I had written. She also urged me to tell my wife as soon as I arrived home. The last thing a wife wanted was to learn of her husband’s forthcoming death from an outside source.
On the drive home, I faced a dilemma. How do you tell your wife of over 42 years you’re dying? It’s not something you bring up over a romantic meal. Do I play soft music do I hold her hands and look into her eyes? Do I get down on one knee as I did when I ask her to spend the rest of her life with me? I thought of our wedding day, how beautiful she was coming down the aisle. No, this would be one of the most difficult conversations we ever had.
As it turned out, I didn’t need to tell her. When I parked the car in the driveway, she walked over from where she had been dead heading a rosebush. As soon as she saw my expression, she knew. Tears trickled from her eyes, flowing down her cheeks. She didn’t wipe them away. Why brother more would take their place. She came into the circle of my arms just as she had in other times of sorrow.
Leading her by the hand, we walked up on the porch. Setting her down on the old garden bench I had refurbished, I looked her in the eyes and told her. There was no easy way the words came hard.
Her face paled, she sobbed. Letting go of my hand, she hugged me. Her arms wrapped around me so tight they almost hurt.
“Th… their… wrong.” She said. “They… they have to be. I… I can’t give you up.” If possible, her weeping increased. I let her cry, just holding her. Over her back, several butterflies flitted around the butterfly bush. The phrase came to me… life goes on. With or without me, butterflies would populate the earth. The sun would still rises and set.
Finally, she stopped weeping she looked at me. “We will beat this thing. I’m sure Ken has been wrong before.”
“I’m sure he has honey.” I said knowing he wasn’t I opened the door to our home. “Let wait a month and then I’ll ask him to run the test again.”
“And during that month we’ll pray.” She pointed her finger at me. “And ask everybody else to pray that you’ll be healed.”
And she did. Going as far as to include notes with the bills. Yet she never mentioned bone cancer. She would write ‘please ‘pray for my husband he’s been sick, but he’s getting better’. I would like to say she was right. The truth is, however, every morning I felt worse. Each day I found it harder and harder to get out of bed.
My publisher was great bringing out the book two weeks later arranging book signings close to home. They set them for only an hour, aware of my declining strength.
After a few failed attempts, Ken gave up on trying to talk me into getting treatments. He asks about assigning hospice I refused.
I swore Julia and the rest of the team at Blue Swan to secretly. I would not have people buying my book out of sympathy. I did interviews and signings. It took me longer to get around and the pain was sometimes so bad I wanted to howl. All in all, the book climbed steadily in sales.
By the third week, my wife had had enough. We went back to the hospital for another battery of tests. The results were the same, with the exception the cancer was spreading.
I worked feverishly on the new book. Yet even if I hurried, it would still be a race to see if I could finish the manuscript before death took me. Each day I emailed the results of that day’s work to Julia. In this manner, she kept up on the editing and emailed me suggestions for the corrections. Each morning, I did rewrite before I started on the day’s work. We were racing to a deadly goal.
I also arranged with her if I died in the middle of the process, another author would stand by to finish the book. Besides my daily writing, I listed detailed instructions on the novel’s direction. I had never followed outlines, yet I wrote one for this manuscript. One way or the other, I or another author would complete this book.
As I’m sure happens to others facing death, I thought of what was most important in my life. Houses, cars, fame faded into the background. A large bank account seemed insignificant. What was crucial was relationships. How much time had I spent with my wife? The good and not so good times. Had we really been married 42 years? It seemed just the other day I ask her to marry me. Was there enough time left to store up more memoirs? Enough for the rest of her life. What would she remember of me? What about my friend’s neighbors’ readers? Would they remember a kind, gentle man? And the question all authors ask will my books out live me.? A hundred years from now would what I wrote today influence another’s life. This was my hope and prayer.
By the second month, I was losing strength. I weighed 20 pounds less and could barely get out of bed. Each night my body pained me so much sleep was fitful. So, when sleep eluded me, I worked. Sometime at two or 3 o’clock in the morning, I was at my computer hammering out the next chapter.
Ken prescribed pain pills, their effect became less and less. He talked about morphine. I said no, my mind must remain clear not just for the novel but for my wife. At times the pain was so mind blowing, I would press my hands to my mouth and scream.
If there was any good coming out of the situation, it was the editing method Julia and I set up.
The novel was three quarters done and with my detailed instructions if death took me it would be no problem for the ghostwriter to finish. So, I worked steadily toward my death.
My wife and I have always been close. Over the years, we developed a rare relationship. Now, if it were possible, we spent more time together. We were like newlyweds getting to know each other all over again.
On my good days, we might go out to a restaurant or walk in the mall or park. On bad days, she held my hand as I tried to sleep during the day. I wanted to shield her eyes each time I stepped on the scales. I was now down to 150. At my last appointment, Ken told me my time was close, maybe a month or two at the most. If possible, I accelerated my writing. I pushed myself past a thousand words a day. I spoke to Julia daily. By the third week of September, Julia and I agreed we were within 50 pages of the book’s competition.
The first day of October I sent her the final page. The book now completed. I collapsed in bed. It was now time for me to die. I weighted 140. In August, I began using one cane now I used two but still I found it difficult to walk. Each step was agonizing. We went for drives my wife behind the wheel. I loved the fall of the year. The color of the leaves, the crisp feel of the wind. We stopped at farm markets. I stayed in the car while she looked over the apples, pumpkins and other merchandise. Returning home exhausted, I tried to sleep and was unable too because of the pain.
My last year’s novel began a steady climb on Amazon. By the end of October, they listed it in the top 100. One day in mid-November, Julia called. Excitedly she told us we were flirting around 30 to 35 in ranking and still climbing. I tried to generate some enthusiasm.
This is what I had worked on for years, but now it seemed irrelevant. It would mean a good income for my wife, and for this, I was grateful. However, over the last few months I came to realize the most imperative part of life is relationships.
A saving bond with The Lord Jesus Christ, then my wife, family friends and readers. In the past when I finished a book and sometimes before, I planned the next one. Not now. Now I lay back and waited to die I was down to 134 so knew it wouldn’t be long. I went for a week, barely getting out of bed except to eat or go to the bathroom. And then only a few bites until the nausea took over.
Then one morning I woke up and knew the end was near. The pain had lessened and for the first time in weeks; I was hungry. It may sound strange, but I had heard of people actually rallying in their last hours.
When my wife asks if I felt like eating breakfast, I surprised her by saying yes. That morning I devoured three eggs, two strips of bacon and a slice of toast.
After breakfast I went back to bed and slept the morning away. The rest of the day passed with me eating lunch, then dinner and sleeping. Feeling stronger the next morning, I dragged out the scales. I stepped on it with tribulation and found to my delight I had gained three pounds. I dressed something I hadn’t done all week and took a walk. The morning frost had passed, and the sun shone brightly in a dazzling blue sky. A gentle breeze blew from the south, flitting the colored leaves. I walked down by the pond and watched the fish; I felt more alive than I had in months.
The rest of the week past in much the same manner. With each passing day, I felt stronger; I eat more and slept less. It became a daily routine after breakfast I brought the scales in from the bathroom. Placing it on the kitchen floor, my wife and I held hands and prayed. The third or maybe it was the fourth day our prayer changed from asking God to heal me to thank Him for doing so. I continued to gain weight and by the end of the week my weight was approaching 150 pounds. It sounds unbelievable, but I had gained 15 pounds in one week.
Friday morning, I went to the office. Firing up the computer, I brought up a new file. My titles come to me before the rest of the book. Sometimes I keep it and other times I change the name. This morning the name came quickly, Death Revisited. I began to type the words flowing out of my fingertips. This book would be different. For the last few months, I had lived this story. Saturday was another jubilant day according to the scale I had gained another 3 pounds.
On Sunday morning, I woke at 6AM. After personal devotions, I shaved, showered and set down to write. Something else I thought I would never do again. When my wife woke at 7:30, I surprised her by being dressed for church. True, my suit still hung on me, but I was filling into it.
The scales that morning read, 152.
At church everyone, even the children, greeted me.
Coming up to me, Ken held my hands in his. He looked me up and down with the eyes of a professional. He smiled.
“Come see me at my office tomorrow morning.” He said. Not trusting my voice, I nodded. His expression said the same that occurred to my wife and I last week. God had taken me down to the point of death and given me back my life.
The next morning, he ordered a cat scan and blood work. All the tests showed there was no cancer throughout my entire body. What my wife believed on that deadly day in June when I received the first diagnosis had come true. God had healed me. Returning home, my wife and I called Julia with the good news. She rejoiced with us, knowing God had answered our prayers. A few weeks later, in typical fashion, she and I planned my next book I surprised her with the news I had completed the first chapter. My current one climbed to the 10th spot on Amazon, dropped and rose to number three. It stayed in the top 100 for several months.
Some might say cancer changed my life. They would be wrong. God changed my life by allowing me to have cancer. Today I see life more clearly. Today my life is more focused on what is important. Money, houses, fame fade away. What is important is our relationships with The Lord Jesus Christ, our family and friends.
Author’s Note
During the period of writing this story, something happened to my left leg. The cramping become so severe I couldn’t sleep or rest in any way shape or form, so I wrote. Portions of this book were penned then. Sometimes at 2 or 3 in the morning. Several months before, a friend had died of Osteosarcoma. A form of bone cancer. After about two months, God healed me. However, I never forgot the terrifying feeling he must have experienced.




To Catch Myself

Could I tell you when I became a killer? A murderer? I’m not sure if anyone can pinpoint the hour the second the minute or even the year. However, I can.
Even as a small child, I was fascinated with the transition from life to death. My mother said as a toddler when we walked down the sidewalk, I would run in front of her and step on ants. She laughed and said she was proud of me for protecting her, but even at that age I knew better. I would smash their little bodies, then stand back and watch as they writhed in death. At eight, I became the chief fly killer in our home. I hunted them down even to the point of leaving the door open, hoping more would come in. Sometimes at night I would roam the house flyswatter in hand while the rest slept. At the age of 10 I stole a hunting knife with a serrated blade from my father's fishing equipment. I duct taped it to the underneath of my bed. Just knowing it was there giving me comfort.
In summer I might sneak out of my bedroom at 2 or 3 o’clock in the morning. I crept through the house with the knife gripped in my sweaty hand. Approaching the open door of my parents’ bedroom, I watched them sleeping, wondering what it would be like to kill them. After several minutes, I tiptoed back to my bed to dream of being an orphan.
It is typical according to all law enforcement material for serial killers to kill small animals. Dog cats and other pets and work then up to humans. I never did that. Dogs and cats were safe around me. I practiced instead on possums, raccoons and squirrels.
Also, to be a bed wetter. I was dry from the day I was potty trained. Typical serial killers are psychopaths this allows them to murder without concern for legal, moral, or social consequences. Not true of me. I knew from my first time of taking the life of another human being of the penalty. If caught jail, prison or death loomed in my future. So, I did the thing I hoped would insure I never be imprisoned. I planned to become a law enforcement officer. I would enforce the law by day and destroy it by night. It made me giddy just the thought of investigating my own murders.
From kindergarten through grade school, I just knew I enjoyed killing. My grandmother died from a fall when I was 91/2-and no I didn’t have anything to do with it–my mother couldn’t drag me away from her coffin. My parents and others thought it was sorrow. It was something else. Was this the end of Gram? Standing on tiptoes, I touched her arm. I drew my hand back from the cold flesh. I remembered her telling me of a place called heaven. One time I ask her to see it, this land she said she was going to. She smiled and said it was a long way off, far beyond the moon. I went outside that night right after she said this and looked up at the sky. All I saw was the stars and moon. I reasoned I couldn’t see heaven because it was dark, so I waited until the next morning. Unfortunately, it was cloudy, but later that afternoon the sky cleared. The sun came out bright and hot. I searched the sky, but all I saw was a few lingering clouds and a jet leaving a vapor trail. However, even if I couldn’t see heaven, I believed my grandmother and liked being around her. I was happy when I visited with her. Each time she made me butter and sugar sandwiches. Then one day she died. They said from a fell on the cellar steps. Just like that, she was gone. Where did she go? Did she go to this place she called heaven? Was it a good place, like she said it was? Or was she just dead, lifeless, unconscious? One thing I did know, the happy times at her house had ended.
My grandfather tolerant of me before became surly. My parents said it was because he missed my grandmother. But as I became older, I suspected there was more to it. Gramps was known to take a nip or two behind the barn.
Sometimes he didn’t stop at one or two drinks. Now he guzzled until he was falling down drunk. And when drunk he became meaner, if that was possible. I suspected he had killed no murdered my grandmother. So as a 10-year-old kid, I began my own investigation. They said Gram died from a fall in the cellar, that she slipped on a rotten potato on the steps. The injury was to the side of her head, just behind her right ear. I knew the steps in the old cellar were made of concrete and the wound on her skull were inconsistent with a fall. One afternoon when I couldn’t get out of visiting the farm, I mashed a rotten potato on the step and tried to reenact the accident. It wouldn’t work. I fell several times. A small woman she was 18 inches taller than I was so I calculated her size and adjusted my fells. My grandfather at times used a cane. In checking it I found several drops of blood on the tip.
I concluded my grandfather had murdered her. As I lay there on the cellar step thinking about this, I heard the voice of her killer. “What are you doing down there, boy?” Grump said, his voice harsh. He leaned over the propped open door; his face flushed. His eyes gave it away. They say serial killers have no feelings, but at that minute looking into the eyes of my grandmother’s murderer fear caused me to stammer. “No…nothing, just playing.” I said, scrambling out of the cellar. I had thought he was in the south pasture. Apparently, I was wrong.
“You stay outta there.” He said slamming the door. At that second, I knew how he had killed my grandmother. Stopping, I turned and faced him. I’m not sure what I planned to do. He was over six foot tall. Muscular, though not as much as when he was younger. His face transformed into a mask of rage. “Get out of here.” He screamed at me. In his right hand, he held the murder weapon. Raising it, he waved that murderous cane at me. I ran I hitchhiked and walked the ten miles back to my home. Grumps called my mother and said I cussed him out for no good reason just because he told me to wash up for dinner. In addition to being yelled at by my parents, they grounded me for two weeks. I didn’t care. I knew Grump had killed Gram. Maybe not intentionally, but she was dead, nevertheless.
That night as I lay in bed at the age of ten, actually ten and a half, I potted the murder of my grandfather. Staring at the ceiling, I ran one and another scenario through my mind. I rejected each one. My grandfather was much bigger. He wouldn’t fall for the same trick my grandmother had. At that age, I had no access to guns. Even if I did, I would be very clumsy. I would be fortunate if he didn’t kill me.
Several times that summer he asks if I was coming for a visit. I developed creative ways of refusing to be alone with the old man. Over the next three years, I can’t say I spent every waking minute planning how to kill my grandfather.
However, the subject was never far from my mind. Gramps now lived alone. His fault. You may be thinking I wanted to bring him to justice. To face a jury of his peers. No, I wanted to kill him.
I felt no love in my heart for the man. My only concern was how I could take his life without jeopardizing my own. I had no desire to spend the next several years in a juvenile facility. So, the dilemma was how could I kill him in such a way he would know I was his murderer without detection by the authorities. Another problem presented its self. How could I a 13 almost 14-year-old travel the ten miles between my parents’ home and that of my grandfather? I could bike the distance and most of the journey would be on back roads, the majority of them gravel. Yet it almost guaranteed me to meet someone. In addition, the round trip of twenty miles even at a hard pedaling would take well over two almost three hours.
The opportunity presented itself in the spring of my 14th year. My father president of our local farm co-op received an invitation to speak at the state meeting. A great honor. There would be thousands of other farmers, politicians and businessmen in attendance. The meeting being two months away gave me time to convince my parents I was at the age where a babysitter wasn’t a necessity. At first, they wanted me to accompany them. I knew if I came right out and said I wanted to stay home; it would arouse their suspicions. As I said before, I didn’t relish the idea of going to jail. I gave hints of the cattle needing to be looked after. My grandfather had according to my parents become more and more despondent. Also, he had learned the art of making wine. Now with his alcohol cheaper, he drank more. The result was most nights he was drunk.
The meeting was in Indianapolis on the third weekend of March. My parents left at three Friday afternoon. They would return sometime Monday. I had the entire weekend to work on my plan.
As we stood in the driveway, dad shook my hand. Mother made sure I had my cell phone. She hugged me and then held me at arm’s length. She commented on how I was growing into a man. For a fleeting second, I thought they had changed their minds and I would be coming with them. Instead, mom closed the car door and rolled down the window. She told me to call if something happened or if I had questions. I assured her I would.
Dad backed out of the drive, and they were on their way. Stepping to the edge of our country road, I waved at them until they were out of sight. There was a chilly wind out of the south with a promise of rising temperatures during the night.
My grandfather did very little writing. However, I had been able to procure a letter he wrote to my father about repairing his barn. Dad had cashed the accompanying check and thrown the letter away. I dug it out of the trash and hid it among some old papers in the attic. For the last six months I had copied his writing, making sure to loop my L’s and cross my T’s as he did.
I worked at it until it satisfied me, then I wrote his note confessing to my grandmother’s murder. I burnt the one and did another and another, setting a match to all of them. My parents might not question his suicide note. But it must pass the scrutiny of the authorities.
The thought of not leaving a note never crossed my mind. There must be no question he took his own life. I spend the evening preparing. I greased my bike. Took a hot bath and almost shaved, but settled on vigorously rubbing the washcloth over my body to remove any loose hairs. A horrifying thought stuck me. What if he wasn’t passed out in the house? Worse still, what if he was sober?
I took a call from my mother at 6 PM. they had arrived safely and checked into a downtown hotel. She gave me the room number and for the hundred times asks me about my plans for the night.
I told her I was going to make a bowl of popcorn and watch one of my favorite movies. We spoke for a few more minutes and then ended the call. Though I was nervous, there was an undercurrent of excitement. True animals had died by my hand, however; this would be my first human.
I opened a can of beef stew, heated it in the microwave and ate little. I paced the house, watching the clock. At nine, my mother called again. Expecting her call, I ran the movie until it halfway through and waited for the phone to ring. As my cell phone jingled, I answered. I could just imagine my mother smiling as I turned down the volume so I could hear her. She said the evening went well and dad was staring out the window at the lights of the city practicing his speech. We spoke even less than in evening and ended the call. It was time to go.
Clouds covered the moon, a light mist fell, coating everything. Walking my bike to the center of the road, I sighed. This was it. This is what I had planned for so long. Did I really want to go through with it? After tonight, there would be no going back. Pushing off I pedaled down the road setting the course for my own destruction. An hour later, I approached my grandfather’s farm. Amazingly, I encounted no one on the road. As I peddled, the fog became thicker. Approaching the fence line of my grandfather’s property, I saw ahead of me the steady glow of headlights. I swerved the bike off the road and into some bushes. A few scraped my face, leaving a scratch or two. Nothing major. The pickup past within five feet of me the driver I recognized as one of my grandfather’s neighbors. The elderly man set upright, staring straight ahead, totally unaware that a would-be murder stood in his field. After he passed, I waited about five minutes screwing up my courage.
At the farm, I leaned the bike against the far wall of the barn from the house. Crossed the empty barn lot and couched by the cellar where he killed my grandmother. Cautiously, I approached the backdoor. I stopped, hearing and seeing nothing out of the ordinary I entered my grandfather’s home. Unknown to my family, I oiled the door hinges on our last visit. The kitchen door opened easily with no squeaking. I smelled the booze as soon as I entered the house. Standing stock still, I listened. I could hear his deep snore from the bedroom. I had studied the layout of the furniture, even to the point of drawing a diagram. In this way, I could move about without bumping into anything.
Cold sweat mixed with the rain trickling down the back of my neck. This was the most critical time if he woke and saw me, he would guess my purpose and kill me. There were no lights on in the house, yet I felt exposed.
I stepped through the open door to his bedroom and slid to the side with my back to the wall. I had debated with myself. I wanted him to know why he was dying, but knew I couldn’t take the chance. If he survived, I would spend several years incarcerated.
I settled for the method with the least risk. The smell of corn whisky on his breath was almost overpowering. Yet he was rumored to be a light sleeper. Moving an inch at a time, I approached the bed. His breathing and snoring remained unchanged. Slowly, I touched the north wall. Feeling along the rough plaster, I moved to the corner. There it was. He hadn’t moved the resting place of the old double-barrel shotgun in twenty-five years. Retrieving it took more time than I had allowed for the killing. Back at the bed, I gently pressed the barrel under my grandfather’s chin. I took his thumb and placed it on the trigger. He stirred, opening his eyes.
“Yo…you what are you doing h… here? He said starting to push up. His face a mask of rage.
“You killed my grandma.” I said, pressing the trigger. Suddenly the thought occurred to me. What if it’s not loaded? What if after all this time my grandfather felt a loaded shotgun in the house was not a good idea? The twin explosions shocked and surprised me. I had convinced myself the gun was empty. My grandfather’s face and the front part of his head disappeared. It covered the wall behind the bed in goo. I checked to make sure I didn’t get any on me. I smoothed out the suicide note, leaving it on the bedside table.
Retreating from the house, I retrieved my bike from behind the barn and peddled home. The fog was thicker now, coming in chunks. By this time, it was past midnight I could have been within four feet of a vehicle and never saw them or they me.
Back home, I put my bike away. Then going into the house, I striped down to my underwear and put pants, shirt and socks in the washer. After a long shower, I put on my pajamas and crawled into bed. I would like to tell you I had nightmares and trouble sleeping the truth is I had the best night’s sleep I had in a long time.
My parents arrived home on Monday morning at nine o’clock. My father an early riser didn’t relish the traffic in Indianapolis. They congratulated me on how well I had managed the farm while they were gone.
Later in the day, after receiving no answer to her phone calls, my mother went to check on her father. My father busy with the cattle didn’t go with her.
I could imagine her horror when she found him in bed just as I left him. I wanted to spare her the shock of seeing her father with his head blown off, but didn’t see any other solution. Sobbing uncontrollably, she called my father. The one thing I remember most about the day: how strange I felt walking into his bedroom and seeing him lying there knowing I had killed him. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.
The next week was fascinating. First, there was an investigation. With the note, and the method of death, they quickly concluded he had committed suicide. Then there was the funeral. Closed casket, of course. Then, because my mother was an only child, she inherited the farm. My parents hired a local man to maintain my grandfather’s farm and care for the livestock. The hired man, his wife, and two children moved into my grandfather’s home. They closed and locked the door to his bedroom where I had killed him. His bedroom became a place to store unused items.
Life went on for a few years until my grandfather’s death just became part of our family’s history. Gone but defiantly not forgotten. Turning seventeen, I wondered what it would be like to murder a complete stranger. Someone who I never met. Someone with no connection to me or my family.
After several months of searching, I picked a middle-aged man named Rudy Michaels. Rudy was a State Farm insurance agent. He worked alone out of an office in a small town in the next county. Rudy’s wife had passed from cancer the year before. And I’m sure because of her death he became withdrawn and suffered deep bouts of depression. Also, he lived in an old farmhouse on the outskirts of town about twenty miles away.
I had bought an elderly pickup the year before when I turned 16. I polished it to a high sheen and kept it clean on the inside. I dated farm girls; they didn’t seem to mind riding in a pickup.
For the next six months, I studied Rudy’s life and daily habits. I even set outside his office and followed him home one night. Of course, I kept several vehicles between us. A quarter of a mile from his home, I broke off. He lived on a gravel road and down a long lane.
Thanks to Google earth, I was able to see the outside of the house and surrounding area. I planned my attack for the 26 0f June. Once again, my parents would be gone on a mini vacation to the smoky mountains.
As the date came closer, I became more and more excited. This would differ totally from killing my grandfather. Ruby Michel might be a drinking man. However, I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t find anything about that on the internet. I discovered he was 46 enjoyed fishing and gardening.
One thing I knew, I must make it look like a burglary gone wrong. I would use a knife. No gun. Guns had bullets, and bullets would lead to the gun that fired it. Knifes not so much. Best to use one from the victim’s home this way. It looked unplanned.
As with my grandfather, I waited until I was sure my parents were at least two hundred miles away. Unlike the night I killed my grandfather I couldn’t wait until sunset. I left the truck in a field hidden by growing corn. Then, hiking through the gathering dusk, I came to his house.
Making myself comfortable, I waited in the surrounding woods. Just after sunset, a late model Chevy turned into the drive. The overhead garage door opened, and the car drove in. The door closed and lights came on in the house. I waited another 20 minutes then crept up to the kitchen window; I watched Rudy prepare a microwave meal. When the device dinged, he carried the small container to the table. Like a condemned man on death row, he ate his last meal.
Finishing, he threw the empty container away, picked up his can of soda. He turned the lights off in the kitchen and moved to the living room.
I tried the knob unlocked. I wore gloves to keep from leaving fingerprints. Wonderful, he was such a trusting individual. Opening the door, I slipped inside the house. From the other room I could hear the TV. Rudy was listening to the news. I smiled tomorrow Rudy Michaels would be the news and I would have gotten away with my second murder. How many could I commit in my lifetime? At this rate, maybe twenty or thirty by the time I was in my 70s. I had my whole life ahead of me, a lifetime of non-detection.
Right now, however, I must concentrate on the task at hand. Peeking into the living room, I saw Rudy seated in what must be his favorite easy chair. He faced away from me, watching the talking heads on the TV screen. The can of soda set on the table to his right, stepping back into the kitchen. I gently opened drawers until I found what I was looking for. A butcher knife with an 8-inch blade.
Moving back to the doorway leading to the living room, I thought I heard a sound. I almost laughed out loud. Rudy was snoring. This was going to be easier than I thought. One step at a time, I moved up behind this unsuspecting man. Two feet from his chair, I raised the knife, ready to strike. I paused, relishing the moment. I looked down at the top of Rudy’s head. I was about to take the life of my second victim. Tomorrow I would plan for the next. I was well on my way to my life as a serial killer.
I gasp something was wrong something was very wrong. The man setting in the chair wasn’t Rudy Michaels, nor was he asleep.
I stared down into the barrel of the biggest pistol I ever saw. At least it seemed so. I dropped the knife as if it were on fire. Police officers metallized from other rooms. Come to find out the man setting in the chair taking Michael’s place was the police chief of that city. They put me in handcuffs, read me my rights, then led me out the door. As we exited the house, Rudy Michaels came out of hiding.
“How, how did you catch me?” I said to the police chief and the man who should be dead.
“We didn’t. You caught yourself.” The chief said smiling. I’m sure glad you stopped him.” Ruby said.
“Several years ago, your mother was cleaning your room. Hidden away in one of your textbooks, she found a duplicate of your grandfather’s suicide note. It must have been one of the early versions the signature wasn’t very good.” The chief said.
“I thought I burned all of those when I faked his suicide.” I said the handcuffs were getting tight.
“Your mother started to suspect your grandfather didn’t kill himself. She didn’t want to believe her own son was a murderer.”
I began to weep. My dreams of a life of a spiral killer gone.
“She had no proof.” He went on. “She and your father decided they were wrong. Then a month or so ago your behavior changed. We have the zip drive you hid in that cut out place in The Shining. The transcript and your confession are being typed up as we speak.”
The police chief, the other officers, and Rudy Michaels laughed. I didn’t see any humor in it.




Alone

Beyond the cracked sidewalk, and the telephone pole with layers of flyers in a rainbow of colors, and the patch of dry brown grass stood a ten-foot-high concrete block wall. Its side caked with dozens of coats of paint. There was a small shrine at the foot of it. Burnt out candles, dead flowers, and a few soggy teddy bears. One word of graffiti filled the wall, red letters on a gold background: Rejoice!
How soon we forget, thought Harry Holcombe. He remembered the little girl playing on her front lawn just down the street. A sweet little thing with dark brown hair and even darker eyes, she smiled at everything and everyone. Little five-year-old Lezzy Dalton, so trusting. That’s what made it so easy for him to take her.
He found her in the evening. She came out to the yard to play a few minutes before her bath and bed. Her mother distracted washing the dinner dishes. Neighbors watching the evening news. A slight knock to the back of the head and she went right to sleep. Such a little thing, she hardly weighed 45 pounds. He concealed her in the old garage at the abandoned house only two blocks from her home.
He established his alibi come then came back to where he had hidden her. He waited until after sunset and before the moon rose; he moved her. He had to tap her behind the right ear two more times. Carefully, he restrained himself. He wanted her to suffer. She must not die too soon. In the hidden basement room, he bathed her face. Waking, she cried for her mother. It made no difference her mother didn’t come.
He kept her alive for two days, hiding her in the secret room. In their small town, her abduction became the news. The only news. Her parents appeared on TV pleading for her captor to return their precious little girl, tears spilling down their cheeks. The local print shop printed flyers for free. Dozens of people disturbed them throughout the city and surrounding countryside. Unknowingly the searchers come within 50 feet of her. In the secret room, he had her arms and legs bound to the old wooden chair. The strips of duct tape covering her mouth making her screams mere whimpers. He left her there personally, checking the doors and windows of the house where he hid her. He rejoined the searchers, said there was nothing but mice in the abandoned building. Three days after she disappeared, they found her setting propped with her back to the block wall. Her killer had painted Rejoice in gold on the wall behind her. Flyers with her smiling face scattered on the ground around and under her dead body.
Police checked the neighborhood No one seemed to know anything. The place where they found her was an old burned grocery store. Once an A&P, now just a shell. The city had the site slated for demotion in a few weeks. That is, as soon as the city engineer completed the paperwork. Harry did a double take when he saw her. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought someone had discarded a life-size doll.
Several flyers with her smiling stared up at him. Among the flyers, they discovered a page torn from a spiral notebook. Stitched on it a detailed drawing of her home. Measurements for doors and windows in fated ink. Several of the neighbors identified the drawing as Frank Liston’s. Hugging herself, one elderly woman said. “Yes, that looks like Frank’s drawing. He did one like that for me.” She hurried in the next room and returned a minute later, handing them a page from a spiral notebook. The drawing similar to the one they carried in a plastic evidence bag. Silently Harry compared the two pieces of paper. It was clear the drawing was by the same hand.
The investigation didn’t take long, just a few questions, and they had their man. He had worked for the family, installing new windows and a back door. As chief of the small police department, Harry accompanied detective Benson to the handyman’s home. Out of prison for a few years, Frank Liston tried to hide his past. The judge, a tottering old gentleman, agreed to sign the warrant with almost no questions. Handing it back to Harry, he said. “Now go get him.” Harry smiled and thanked the judge telling him he intended to do just that.
They met in the chief’s office to plan their strategy. There were several ways to arrest Frank. Being a small department, they relied on the S.W.A.T. team from the state police. The chief favored just going to Frank’s home for a friendly chat. Confront him with the evidence and make the arrest. In the end, they just knocked on his front door. Opening it, he invited them in.
“You did time in Kansas, didn’t you Frank.” Harry said setting at the rickety kitchen table. Detective Rick Kenton on the opposite side of the table moved his hand to his waist. Two cups of steaming coffee, one in either hand Frank stopped in mid-stride. His hand shook a few drops of the hot liquid spilled on the cracked linoleum floor. Not that it mattered: the floor faded green linoleum the brown stain would be an improvement.
Frank set the mugs down. They landed with a clank, some coffee spilling over onto the yellow Formica surface of the table. He turned back to the counter, his hands still shaking he unrolled a few sheets of the roll of paper towels and wiped off the spilled coffee. He didn’t bother with the floor. Detective Kenton just glared at him. Best to keep quiet and let a suspect hang themselves.
Frank backed up until the counter stuck him in the small of the back. He gripped the edge of the sink Harry was sure it was to steady his hands. “Th… that was a long time ago.” He cleared his throat. He could see where this was going. Sweat popped up on n his forehead. “My X-Wife wouldn’t let me see my daughter. They let me out.” The chief opened the file, laying it on the table face up. A photo of Frank 10 Years Younger stared up at them.
“Says here.” Detective Kenton said, pointing to the report. “You took her from her bed at night. Bout three o’clock in the mornin’ she didn’t even wake up until you was a mile down the road.”
“That the way it was with the Dalton girl?” The chief said smiling, his teeth shining.” She was about the same age as your daughter was when you took her.”
“You can’t pin this on me. I didn’t do anything.” Frank pushed off the counter. He ran to the back door. “Both men pulled their weapons. “One more step and I will blow a hole in you so big you can drive a truck through.” The chief said. Frank stopped and turned his hands in the air. Tears streamed down his pale face. “Cuff him Rick and read this animal his rights.”
“Gladly.” Holstering his Glock, Kenton jerked Liston’s hands down and snapped the handcuffs on each wrist. The chief stuck his face inches from the weeping suspect. “If I had my way, I’d shoot you and lay you along that wall where we found that little girl.” “Bu… but I didn’t do anything.” Frank blubbered “Sure, I put in the Daltons windows and back door.” Kenton began to read Frank his rights.
Frank rested in an isolation cell at the county lockup spending his days weeping or trying to sleep. Even his court-appointed lawyer was furious with him. He asked the judge to excuse him sighting too many other cases. “Nice try Mr. Bowden but you got him and with you he will stay.” And so, he did that is until the trial.
This time when the man came into her bedroom, she fled. Fully clothed, she threw off the covers and jumped out the window before he could stop her. Running, she hid behind the brushes in the neighbor’s lawn. He looked for her in his own yard, shining the flashlight in the most likely places. Was this the sixth or seventh foster home she couldn’t remember?
She would have cried if it did any good. 5 years ago, her mother died from drugs. She never knew her father. She waited until the man gave up and went back inside his house. How long could he cover it up? He would spin a tale of her running away with him, the hero. That night she slept in a sewer, waking every few minutes to listen. Toward morning, she moved from there. Did she hear footsteps or was it just her imagination? On the afternoon of the second day, she discovered the abandoned house.
That’s where the pizza boy found her in the garage attached to the house. The teenage boys through it fun to order a pizza and have it delivered to the dilapidated structure. It took him fifteen minutes and the smell of the pizza to win over the twelve-year-old girl. He coached her into his car. She hadn’t eaten in three days. She nearly ran when he shifted in gear. He stashed her in his parent’s garage. They were out of town and wouldn’t return until next week.
He gave her a chilled bottled water and assured her it was alright. From a house down the street came the low tones of a neighbor singing and playing “hey Jude’ on the piano.
“You want some more?” He asked handing her another bottle. She nodded. “I gotta call my boss.” She reached out her trembling hands. He made sure she had a good grip on it. He thought he saw a hint of a smile. Strange what a little kindness will do to a person? True, he needed to call his boss, but first he called 911.
The chief of police was the first to arrive. He spoke gently to her. His voice low as he would speak to a frightened animal. She shied away from him, boring back in the corner of the garage behind the freezer the pizza boy’s parents used for meats. Rick stood outside to stop her in case she ran. This was the break Harry had been searching for. The girl a child of 12 had run away from a foster home a day before the abduction.
The prosecutor was going nuts with the trial just a few days away, they had no witnesses and no physical evidence. Instead of the interrogation room, Harry brought her into his office. After assuring her she wouldn’t have to return to the foster child system, she remembered things his way. Harry smiled cops were allowed to lie in an interrogation. The same pizza boy that found her delivered a hot cheese pizza, her favorite to the chief’s office. She wolfed it down along with gulps of ice-cold coke.
Between bites he asks her was she near the house about 3 AM on the day in question. She thought about it. This man had been kind to her. She wanted to please him. “I might have been.” The days run together when you were homeless. Did she see a figure around the house? She nodded her head. She was halfway through the pizza and showed no signs of slowing down. Against police protocol, he showed her Frank’s picture and only Frank’s photo. The one with him holding the number to his chest.
“That’s him.” She said quietly, her mouth filled with the last few bites of the pizza, cheese coating her lips. The first good meal she had in months. She looked at Harry for approval. He smiled at her. Shyly, her lips cured up in a pale smile. He called the prosecutor, telling him they had a witness who placed Frank at the scene of the crime. He took her to the local Wal-Mart, buying her clothing then to his home.
He lived alone in a nice little house on Vine Street. A postage stamp lawn in front, less in back. A neighborhood with small cottage type homes mostly occupied with elderly people. He settled her in the back bedroom. Leaving his computer for her to use, he moved the file cabinet to the living room.
“Now you’re welcome to everything in the house but you best stay away from this it has some pictures little girls don’t need in their minds.” He said patting the cabinet. He smiled at her. It seemed everything went down a little easier with kindness. She smiled that sly, brief smile that curved her lips. The look that would drive men wild in a few years.
Harry would have enrolled her in school but the trial would be over before summer vacation and besides, she would be dead by then. He took her to McDonald's, movies, to the park. Harry groomed her as a witness for the prosecution. She quickly became the granddaughter he never had or would have.
Her trust in him grew, as he knew it would. They watched TV together, played board games. He made subtle hints about the case. They seemed to go right over her head.
He cleared it with social services for her to stay with him. Of course, they have frowned on it a larger town or if the head of CPS wasn’t a police officer. Besides, he was the chief, and a man past 60.
By the time the trial came around, she was ready. Yes, she saw him break into the house through the screen on the little girl’s bedroom. How could she recognize him in the dark, moonless night? By the streetlamp. The light fell crossed his face. How far away was she? Six feet.
The defense attempted to confuse her. Failing, he took up another tactic. Too late, he acted friendly. She didn’t believe him. Harry had prepared her for this. After less than five hours, the trial ended. The jury only deliberated thirty-five minutes’
Standing to his feet, Frank trembled at the hard expression of the foreman. At the word guilty, he dropped to his chair, weeping. Grasping him under the arms, two burly deputies lifted him to his feet and hauled him away.
So that was the end of that equation. Frank was gone, tucked away in a cell in the state prison. And according to the judge, he would be there for the rest of his life.
Life went on, at least it would for a while. The girl settled down into a summer routine. Waking after Harry left for work, fixing herself breakfast of one egg toast and a glass of orange juice. Later in the morning, she went to the park.
Most days she met Harry for lunch. Then she visited the library in the afternoon. She had no close friends. She trusted no one but him.
Frank became a distant memory. Evenings, she and Harry watched TV. Harry knew it would have to end. He laid the groundwork, dropping hints at the station. He would tell her he couldn’t meet her for lunch, then complain that she didn’t show up. He shook his head, saying she was behaving oddly.
“You know her birthday is coming up in a couple of months. She’ll be a teenager then,” He said time and time again.
Their life could have continued that way for the entire summer if she had not found his trophies. Just a small box shoved all the way back in his closet. A few hair ribbons, a necklace and some cheap rings. Twenty pieces in all. One from each one of Harry’s kills. Over 30 years of memorabilia. That beautiful summer morning. July the 4th had just passed. She got the bright idea to clean his room. It would a great surprise to come home and find his bedroom all spick and span.
At first, she didn’t open the box thinking it might contain private stuff, however after a few minutes’ curiosity got the best of her. It was light shoe box still she tripped over a pair of old shoes; it slipping from her hands to spill on the carpet. She intended to lay it on the bed while she cleaned the closet.
Feeling guilty, she gathered up the ribbons several of them seemed to have rust stains. Then she saw the necklace. Dropping the blooded hair ribbons, she shrieked. She remembered the photo of Lezzy Dalton from the media reports and flyers. They had found the body, but not the necklace. She had. Blood also spotted the other pieces of jewelry. She thought of calling the police. No good he was the police. With trembling fingers, she counted the remnants of the dead girls. Twenty he had killed 20 little girls.
Shaking, she replaced the contents in the box and shoved back into the corner. She couldn’t know Harry had set the box an inch from the back and side walls. He measured the distance to know if someone had moved it. She set it flush against both walls.
Indecision rode her. What should she do she looked at the clock he would be home in a few hours? She couldn’t go to her friends. All of them who seemed so mature before now were mere children. He was going to kill her; she was sure of it. She alone knew his secret. The beatings she received from her foster parents were light compared to what this man, this stranger, this killer of little children planned to do to her.
With an hour to go before he was due home, she decided to kill him. She had never considered taking someone’s life. The very thought made her ill. Watching the clock, she ran to the kitchen. Opening the drawer under the sink, she selected a large butcher knife. He would shoot her before she got close to him with it. She turned the blade around in her hand. She put it back in the drawer, slamming it shut. Tears streamed down her cheeks, tears of betrayal, tears of disappointment. When she first came there, she hadn’t trusted him. She would lock her bedroom at night. He never touched her in the way her foster fathers had. Over the last few months, she grew to love him. At least as much as her crippled physic was capable of loving.
Now she must kill the only one she had ever loved or be murdered by him. She searched the house. Harry kept the guns locked in the gun safe. He carried the key on his key ring. They came in pairs. In case you lost one, they gave you two of them. She turned the house inside out through drawers, looking under furniture, even checking the pockets of his clothes.
In his room, she heard the door to the garage open. Outright bawling, she ran to her room. If she pretended to be sick, maybe she could buy her some time. He came in the kitchen door calling for her. She leaped into bed. Pulling the covers to her neck, she weakly called out, “In here.”
He came in, his eyes searching, resting on the lumps at the bottom of the bed. She swallowed hard. She had forgotten to remove her shoes. He felt her forehead. She didn’t have to pretend her cheeks flushed; she trembled as if she had a chill. If he tried to kill her, could she outrun him? But he was between her and the door.
“You just rest I’ll fix dinner.” He said, his eyes on the lumps of her feet.
As soon as he left, she leaped out of bed. Tip toeing to the door, she opened it a crack. A crossed the hall he set on his bed. What she saw horrified her. In his hands, he held the box. As she watched, he opened it and looked inside. He glanced at her room. She drew back from the doorway. The window was her only means of escape. If she went down the hallway, he would surely catch her. Quietly as she could, she raised the window. He had tacked the screen to the sill. She must tear it loose. Running to her dresser, she snatched up her nail file. Back at the window, she forced the file between the screen and the wall of the house.
She wiggled it back and forth. The tack moved not enough, but a little. She heard a sound behind her. “Well, it lasted longer than I thought it would.” She whirled around. Harry stood in the open doorway, his pistol in his hand, pointing at her heart. “I guess it was inevitable you would find my box of memos.”
“I… I don’t know w… what they are.” She said, sweat forming under her arms. She trembled, her eyes darting, looking for an escape. The only way out of the room other than the window was through him.
He smiled, his lips curling, growing grotesque. She felt faint, then a thought occurred to her. He would not shoot her. Even if the neighbors didn’t hear and come to investigate, how would he explain his shooting a 12-year-old girl to his fellow officers.
None of the girls this monster had killed died from bullet wounds. Gathering strength, she didn’t know she possessed she approached him. She didn’t have to fake panicking. If she failed, he would kill her. His body filled the door to the hallway. Her only way out was through him.
“P… please… I… I won’t say anything.” She said, her entire body shaking. Seven feet, five feet, three feet.
“You got that right, missy.” He said laughing, sounding to her ears like the chucking of a demon. She moved to the left. If she managed to make it by him, would he take a chance and shoot her? She remembered the night they shared a bowl of popcorn, laughing at some silly movie. Something happened in her heart. In one of the foster homes, a boy named Alex showed her a move he used when fighting. She never tried it, but she remembered how he did it. He said it worked every time. Harry shoved her. She fell to the floor. As she did, she swept her legs in a circle. The calves of her legs caught him at his heels. Off guard, Harry stumbled backward, striking his head on the doorpost. He fell to the floor unconscious.
Something was wrong. He woke to a terrible pain in the back of his head. His hands and feet bound with sheets.
“I tried to make you as comfortable as possible.” She said clenching a pillow to her chest.
“Untie me.” He said he rolled to the frame of the door. “You can’t do this to me I’m the chief of police. I demand you untie me.”
Her tears had dried up. Her eyes hard as bits of granite. For one of the few times in his life, Harry was frightened. “You’re a killer.” She said dryly. “If I let you go, you’ll keep on killing.”
“No, I swear I’ve killed my last little girl.” He felt tears prickling the corners of his eyes. Moving his right hand slowly, he inched to his side and felt his empty holster.
“Your gun is on the dresser. I’ll replace it after your dead.” She straddled him, her legs pinning his arms.
“Please, please you don’t have to do this.” He fought, kicking with his feet. She lowered the pillow. The light disappeared he screamed the sound muffled by the thick padding. She was stronger than he expected. This was not right after all; she was just a little girl. He pushed up an inch, then two he drew in a deep breath. He was winning. It was a matter of willpower both wanted to live and for all his promises; if Harry got loose, he would kill her. She wouldn’t die easy, he would gladly make this girl suffer. Much more than all the other little girls had suffered. And after she was dead, he would kill again and again. She put her entire weight on the pillow, but despite her efforts, Harry was winning.
He gave an extra hard shove just a little more and… Harry’s chest exploded. A searing hot pain tore through him like a bullet. Silently, he screamed. He could not breathe. ’Not now she’ll kill me for sure, not now.’ If she had not bound his arms, he would have clutched his chest. The strength flowed out of him like water. She jammed the pillow over his face, cutting off his breathing. One minute, two her arms ached. Still, she held it over his mouth for five full minutes.
Removing the pillow, she put her ear to his chest, nothing she placed her fingers at his neck. His flesh was beginning to cool. She dared not wait too long. Untying him, she checked for bruises. Satisfied, she made herself cry. Bawling, she called 911.
“Oh, please hurry I think daddy has had a heart attack.” She told the 911 operator. She almost choking on the word daddy. She forced herself to say it.
They were there in minutes. After they took him away, a female detective gently questioned her. Again, she forced herself to weep. The tears were real when she thought how close she came to death. She shivered. The woman put a hand on her arm, concluding the interview.
The funeral was a joke several officers spoke of the chief’s good heart. She wanted to laugh, but faked sorrow. They ask her if she wanted to say something. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she silently shook her head. What could she say about the man who tried to murder her?
At the cemetery, they gave him a full 21-gun salute. She wished the rifles had real bullets, and they were shooting at his casket. She had nightmares about him coming back to life.
That afternoon, following the funeral, she went to live at a new foster home. They seemed nice enough, but she knew better. She was aware of the sick glances of her new foster father.
That night, after the lights were out, he came to her bed. Now she knew why the couple only took one child at a time. The next night after he left her bedroom, she set the house on fire with the couple in it. She set the fire using a bare electrical cord and some oily rags from the kitchen. She stared at the blaze just outside their room. They woke screaming, pounding on the bedroom door. She had locked it, putting the key on the chest in the hallway before she set the fire.
Then, standing on the front lawn, she watched the house go up in flames. In the distance, she heard sirens. She murmured. “Thank you, Harry, for teaching me how to kill.” Clutching the box of Harry’s trophies, she walked back into the burning house. As the fire consumed her, the thought struck her: she had never felt so alone.




Repro

Logan James Yocum hated his job as the repo man for Tucson Motors. He felt bad taking people’s only form of transportation. He hated repos the sneaking around at night he felt like a car thief. Yet for every vehicle he retrieved he earned a good income plus bonuses and Logan needed the money.
It was love at first sight. As soon as he saw the wrecker on Tucson’s lot, he knew he had to have it. Fire engine red with white trim. Only ten years old. The inside almost made him swoon. Real leather with a CB radio a police scanner and the coolest of all a switch that turned the truck into a Christmas tree. Well not a real tree but all the lights blazing reminded him a Christmas celebration. Harry could just envision the name of his business painted in gold letters on the doors.
Yocum Towing
Our business to make you happy
Logan detailed vehicles for Tucson and had more ambition than money. He prided himself on the speed he turned out a vehicle. But with the wrecker he took his time. After detailing the wrecker, he took a short break. Setting at the table drinking his soda he dreamed of driving down the interstate on his way to help a stranded motorist. It was night and all his lights were blazing. He would be the hero coming to their rescue. Finishing his coke, he came out of the shop and stopped dead still. Gary Hass one of salesman was showing off the truck. His truck. Logan almost cried when the guy drove off the lot with Hess bouncing along in the passenger seat. When they returned Logan was half heartily detailing a black Toyota.
As they climbed out of the truck Logan edged closer. “You’re asking too much.” He heard the man say.
“You gotta admit it’s a fine truck.” Gary said. “Well worth the price.”
“For a couple thousand more I can buy one a year newer.” The man said.
They moved away in the direction of the showroom their voices fading. An hour later the dealership closed. Logan didn’t sleep much that night. Each time he closed his eyes he saw the truck. Around 3 AM he drifted off his dream turned quickly into a nightmare. He was driving the wreaker westbound on I75 passing awe-stricken drivers all the lights on the truck blazing. Out of nowhere a man appeared running alongside the truck. Suddenly Logan was standing beside the interstate watching the man drive off with his truck.
Later that morning he waited outside Scott Tucson’s office. “Why aren’t you out back detailing?” Scott asks frowning.
Logan swallowed. “I… I wanted to talk to you about the wrecker.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Scott demanded.
“No… nothing I want to buy it.”
“You. It’d take more than you got to buy that truck.” Scott said turning he unlocked the door to his office.
“I have the money for a down payment.” Logan said pulling a wad of bills out of his pocket.
Now Scott had many loves in his life. His wife his daughter his dealership but his greatest love was money, in selling the truck to Logan he saw an opportunity to make more and solve a problem at the same time.
His repo man had quit because of Scott’s deceptive practice. No other towing service would work for him. He cut their invoices short paying what he pleased. As often as he thought he could get away with it Scott sold the same vehicle several times. If you missed or even delayed a payment by as much as two weeks Scott reprocessed your car. He then assigned it to Logan to cleanup and sold it again keeping your down payment and any payment you made up to that point. Some cars had been sold as much as five times.
“Tell you what.” Scott said scamming in his mind. “You keep up you’re detailing while you build your business and I throw some repro work for you.”
“Really, you mean it.” Logan said grinning foolishly.
“Sure, we’ll help each other out.” Scott said smiling. “Come on in and we’ll fill out the paperwork.”
Logan reasoned if people paid their bills, he wouldn’t have to take their cars. Sometimes he heard they couldn’t keep up because of medical expenses. And one time he heard of an old guy that died because he couldn’t get to the emergency room. The man lived alone, and Harry had repoed his car the week before. That time he almost quit. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the old guy pleading with him not to take his car. From then on, Logan did his repoing at night.
Repoing wasn’t Logan’s only source of income. He hauled wracks to the junkyard. Cars parked in loading zones and those broke down on the highway. People were always happy to see him when they had mechanical failures. He carried cold drinks with him in the summer and gave them to his customers for free. A tender-hearted man, Logan tried to make a bad experience better.
One afternoon in June, Scott Tucson called. Logan just finished hauling a 2005 Jeep into Petersons body shop. The owner had tried to ford a swollen creek with it. Halfway a cross the rushing stream picked up the jeep and slammed it into a tree. The man’s wife and kids screamed so loud the poor guy would have trouble hearing for a week. Relaxing in his truck with an ice-cold soda and the local rock station on high, Logan barely heard this cellphone rang.
As soon as he heard Scott’s voice, he cringed.
“Logan old pal, I got a job for you. You up to repoing a car?” Scott said in his smoother than oil voice. When Scott spoke like that it was going to be a bad one. Logan swallowed his pride. He needed the money and Scott for all his bad equities would pay some.
“Sure- yeah, I guess so. What ye got in mind?
“Lady came in a few weeks ago. Frisky old gal. Paid cash for the down payment. She’s late on her monthly payment.” What Scott didn’t say was the payment was only two days late. Also, he had a buyer for the car that would pay him five hundred more than what he received from the Maude Knight. With this and Maude’s down payment, it would a good payday. Scott had been hauled into court two times for this behavior and venerated both times. Of course, it helped the judge was his brother-in-law. One of his salesmen told Scott there were rumors Maude protected her property with a 12.ga. He didn’t feel it necessary to inform Logan of this fact. “You just slip in there tonight after she’s asleep and hook her up. Just drop the car in the usual place on the south edge of the lot. “
After receiving the required information, Logan finished his coke. He set back thinking about the old woman. He had done this before. If he was quiet, he could locate the car backup do a quick hook up and with any luck have it down the road before she knew what was happening. With his pen light, the only light and the only sound the clinking of the chains. Once he was out of sight, he could stop and hook it up properly.
Logan went to bed nervous. He set the alarm for 2AM and forgot to hit the button. He couldn’t get comfortable. He tossed and turned trying one position then another. Finally, he fell into a troubled sleep. Something woke him. He turned his head and stared at the clock. 4AM. Jumping out of bed, he threw on his clothes. Even if he hurried, it would be five before he reached the Knight place. Good thing he lived alone. No wife, no kids to wake up and start complaining.
He found the farm on the first try. Located way back almost to the river on a network of gravel roads. A ramshackle house and falling down barn. He recognized the car from Scott’s description. Setting on the north of the barn, between it and the house. In the half light of dawn, he could see the windows of the house were open. He had worked on the motor of the wrecker to make it quieter. There were of course limitations. The engine hummed as he backed up to the car. So far, so good. No movement in the house, no lights. He stored the chains in cloth bags to minimize the clinking. He crawled under the front bumper and hooked the chains he would stop down the road and fasten it properly. Pulling himself out, he stood to his feet and breathed a sigh of relief. 200 feet and he was home free. The explosion almost gave him a heart attack. Buckshot buzzed by, his ear bouncing off the boom of the wrecker. Logan almost peed his pants. Dropping to the ground, he peeked under his truck. Maude stood just outside her back door, her legs spread wearing her nightgown. In her hands was highly polished shotgun. Her gray hair array she pumped in another shell. Logan scurried to the front of the wrecker. The next shot took out the back glass. Logan had a pistol in the glove compartment. It wasn’t loaded and Logan had never shot it.
“Steal my car will you, you burger. Try it and I’ll fill your britches full of lead.” She let loose with another round, the pellets ricocheting off the top of the cab, taking out the driver’s side mirror. Logan was not a praying man. When he was ten, he attended the local Baptist church’s vacation Bible school. Their teaching didn’t stick, and he never went back. Logan prayed now. “Oh Lord, help me.” He wasn’t sure if God heard him, but Maude did.
“You better pray you sucker. I’m gonna put so many holes in ye you’ll look like swiss cheese.” She screamed. She let loose with a laugh Logan was sure came from the depths of hell.
“That aint no woman that’s a demon.” Logan murmured to himself. Maude fired again knocking off more paint. One pellet found its way into the lobe of Logan’s ear. He screamed and grabbed the side of his head.
“Got ye. Now you stay right there. I’m out of bullets, but I got some more right here in the kitchen.”
Logan had no intention of waiting. This woman meant to kill him. Charging around the truck, he jerked open the driver’s side door. Jumping up behind the wheel, he jammed the idling truck in gear. Maude came out the back door, shoving fresh loads in her shotgun. “Oh, Lord, here she comes again.” Logan said, tearing up. Blood streamed down his face, dripping on his shoulder. He slammed the pedal to the floor. The truck whined. Logan hit the gravel road, doing 20 and climbing. He stood on the gas pedal. Behind him, the car whipped around like a drunken man. It took out her mailbox. The box flew like a missile almost hitting a sleeping cow. That started the stampede. Stopped by the fence, the cattle stared at the retreating wrecker. With the impact to the mailbox , one of the chains came loose. Maude ran into the road. She leveled the shotgun. Pellets bounced off the car.
With only one chain holding it, the car followed the wrecker catty cornered. If he had met another car, Logan was sure he would have wiped them out. Five miles down the road, he pulled to a stop.
He climbed down from the cab breathing heavy as if he had run all the way from Maude’s place. His hands shook like had the palsy. It took him several minutes to calm down setting in the grass at the side of the road.
Finally, when his breathing had returned to normal, and he bandaged his ear the best he could, he checked the rest of his body for holes. Finding none other than the one in his ear, he crawled under the car and reattached the dragging chain. While under there, he heard something coming. Blinded by the rising sun, he didn’t recognize the person on the tractor. Squinting, he shuttled. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Steering her tractor with one hand and waving the shotgun in the air with the other , Maude topped the small rise a quarter of a mile down the road. The John Deere was in high gear and coming fast. Logan scrambled out from under the car. Seeing her query, Maude leveled the 12.Ga. Pellets kicked up dust five feet back of the car. They bounced off the ground and hit Logan in the rear end. This time he did pee his pants.
Not that Logan noticed. He screamed he danced but most of all he dashed to the door of the wrecker. Standing to her feet, Maude fired a second time. The recoil of the shotgun almost knocked her backward off the tractor. The buckshot sailed by the left side of the truck, causing no harm. Logan, his heart pumping 90 miles an hour. His breathing shallow, jumped into the driver’s seat and jammed the gearshift into low. The truck creeped forward. He shifted in the seat to ease the pain.
“Come on, come on.” Logan muttered, tears streaming down his cheeks. His rear end hurt his ear hurt. He was convinced this she devil mean to kill him. The truck gathered speed. Not fast enough the front tires of the tractor hit the rear bumper of the car, almost flipping the John Deere. The front tires of the tractor rode up on to the trunk, crushing it. Maude screamed out in laughter. To Logan, it sounded like the screech of a banshee.
Somehow, Maude was able even with the bouncing of the John Deere to get off a shot. The pellets tore a hole in the dash on the passenger side of the truck. Logan screamed like a frightened little girl. He jammed the gearshift into second then third pulling away from his tormentor.
He glanced in the rearview mirror: the tractor had come to a stop at the side of the road. Maude stood waving the shotgun in one hand, shaking the fist of her other hand at the departing wrecker.
“I’ get you Logan Yocum if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get you.” She shouted, her voice floating over the roar of the motor. Rivulets of sweat ran down Logan’s back. He knew this old demon woman meant every word.
Dragging the battered car through the streets, Logan dropped in the far corner of the back lot. He knew Scott would go looking for it first thing. The man would have a fit. He didn’t care. At home, he parked the wrecker in the driveway. Walking around it, he inspected the damage. Maude sure did a number on the truck. His ear would heal, his rear end still stung, but the truck was another matter. If he turned it in to his insurance, his rates would go through the roof.
He thought of covering the back window he looked at the sky. It didn’t look like rain. In the house he threw the keys on the dresser and fell into bed fully clothed. He woke to a roar out in the street. He had visions of Maude ramming the John Deere into his truck. And when she finished with it, then she would start on the house. He could just see himself running down the street with that old woman on her tractor in hot pursuit. Dread almost stopping his heart, he pushed up on his elbows and listened. With trepidation, he stepped to the window. Not finding his weekly contribution, the garbage truck moved on down the block. So, caught up, he forgot this was garbage day. By this time, they came next week, the bags would be filled with worms. He thought of running after them but didn’t have the energy. He dropped back in bed.
He woke an hour later to the ringing of his cell phone. He cringed when he saw the caller ID.
He hit the button. Holding it his ear with two fingers as if it had a disease, he said. “Hello.”
This was the last word he spoke for a full two minutes. During which Scott cursed using every word Logan heard before and some he didn’t know the meaning of. He finished with, “And so what do you expect me to do with this piece of junk?”
Logan had a thought of telling Scott to place it on his front lawn and plant flowers in it. He didn’t if he had Scott would have come through the phone at him.
“She shot at me.” Was all he could think to say.
“Oh, grow up she shoots at everybody.” Scott said.
“You didn’t tell me that. She shot up my truck. Its gonna cost over three thousand to fix it.” Logan said, thinking of how nice the wrecker looked yesterday after its bath. He felt like crying.
“Well, don’t expect me to fix it. I got my own problems repairing this car. You’re lucky I don’t bill you for the damage.”
What about my fee?” Logan whined, sounding like a kid who just dropped his ice cream cone on the ground.
“We’ll use that to help pay from the damages on the car.” The phone clicked to silence. Logan had a fleeing thought of suing Scott. The case would of course be heard before his brother-in-law. His body aching, Harry lumbered through the kitchen and out the back door. He walked around the wrecker, surveying the damage. Paint was clipped in a dozen places. The boom had taken a full blast. The back glass shattered, hanging by a few dangling pieces, the rearview mirror on the driver’s side blown apart a large hole in the dash. The wrecker still functioned, but its beauty mired. He drove it down to Petersons. Tom Peterson inspected the truck with a clipboard in his hand.
He whistled. “Let me guess, you had a run in with Maude Knight.” Logan stared at Tom.
Tom laughed. “You’re not the first. Years ago, fellow down at the bank tried to foreclose on her. They sent letter after letter with no response. He went out there one night. She came out the back while he was knocking on the front. Had that pump-action shotgun, blew out every window in his car. Mercedes, I think it was. Anyway, when she finished with the car, she came looking for him. By that time, he was a half mile down the road and moving fast.”
“What about the guy’s car?” Logan wanted to know.
“Found it in the parking lot of the bank the next day.” Tom said laughing. “Guy checked it over. Get in drove off and hasn’t been seen since. And wouldn’t you know it check for the full amount she owed showed up at the bank same day.”
“Why don’t the law do anything about her. “Logan asks, sipping a cold coke from his cooler. Tom leaned close. “Could be because of his brother-in-law. Scott doesn’t want the law looking to close at his business”
“Oh yeah. So he sends me out to Maud, knowing the law won’t do anything?”
“That’s the reason Scott got you to go out there. Maud is a terror.”
“Well, from now on he can pick up his own cars.” Logan said. “Let me know when it’s ready.”
“Yup will do.” Tom said.
A few days later, Logan picked up the wrecker. In his driveway he walked around looking at it. For the life of him, he couldn’t see where Maud’s buckshot hit. Tom and his crew and did a wonderful job of repairing the truck.
Logan only had one call to pick up a disabled car carrying it to a repair shop. He checked the engine for damage, something he should have done before, and found none.
He charged his cellphone and waited for it to ring.
That night after watching TV Logan become bored with the mind-numbing programming. He went to bed.
The call came at 12:28 AM. Shaking off a sound sleep; he answered groggily. “” Yocum Towing.”
“Mr. Yocum, this is Chief Barnhart with the Fairview fire department. We have a situation on highway 67. A car is hanging over the cliff we have it anchored with the fire truck but we can’t pull it up and I’m afraid it may not hold.”
“I’ll be right there.” Logan said, throwing on his clothes. “Where is it located?”
Three mil…” he went away “See if you can put another chain on the other side.” The chief came back on the line. “Three miles out of Fairview. Please hurry Mr. Yocum, we may not be able to hold her much longer.”
Running out to the truck, Logan fired up the engine. Jammed it in gear and backed out of the driveway. A state police car whipped around in front of him. Sticking his arm out the window, the officer gestured Logan to follow. They passed the city limits sign doing 80; the troop cranked it up to 85. Together they flew through the night.
Within minutes, they came upon the scene. Another police car and ambulance and two fire trucks bathed the area with flashings red and blue lights.
A blue and gray Cadillac hung treacherously over the edge of a precipice. A man in a white helmet motioned to Logan as he backed up beside the fire truck.
“Glad you’re here. We have got it stabilized, but we were afraid to pull it up in case the hill gives way. “
“We need to anchor the cable to the frame.” Logan shouted over the roar of the engines.
“We can do that. Mike, see if you can attach Mr. Youm’s cable.” Chief Barnhart said.
The man named Mike grabbed the hook in his gloved hand. Then attaching a rope to a harness, he wore he scrambled down the cliff. Logan lowered the footers to keep the truck from slipping.
“Thought we were going to lose them.” Barnhart said.
“Them?” Logan said, straightening up.
“Yeah, man wife and two kids. Been there for hours. Hadn’t been for the trooper over there, we might not a found them til daylight.”
Mike climbed back up the hill. “Ok, I think we’re ready.” He said. Logan pushed the lever to bring the car back from the point of death. The car caught on a rock then jarred loose he slowed the winch down to a crawl. Logan heard a woman scream and kids crying. It wasn’t until the Cadillac set in the middle of the highway Logan recognized Scott’s car. On solid ground, the family exited the Cadillac and walked to the ambulance.
At the hospital Scott and his family checked out ok. All they suffered was a little bruising from the seatbelts. Logan towed the car to Scott’s lot. The body shop buffed out the scratches. Logan received a check from Scott’s insurance company and a card thanking him from Mrs. Scott for saving their lives.
Logan still does towing no repos. His reputation is growing as an honest man who knows his business. One afternoon he met Maud Knight at the local Kroger. She said she was sorry for shooting at him. He accepted her apology, and they became friends. Not close friends, but friends nevertheless.
They said his falling asleep at the Wheel and almost dying changed Scott. Maybe. But I’m not buying a used car from that man. Would you?




Regret

There it was again. Surely, Sophia’s mind was playing tricks on her. Living alone could do that to you. Hearing sounds in the middle of the night. She didn’t believe in spooks. When Sophia was small, her mother would set up with her until she fell asleep. At ten, her mother took her through the house, letting her look in every nook and cranny. Returning to her bedroom, she declared Sophia to be a big girl. She explained the noises she heard were just the old house. Her mother smiled, turned off the lamp told Sophia goodnight. Leaving, she shut the door. Without the light from the hallway the only illumination came from her Barbie doll night light.
That night Sophia spent the next 10 minutes staring into the shadows. Finally, she got up and turned on the overhead light. Climbing back in bed, she covered up her head with the pillow. She closed her eyes, tried to think pleasant thoughts.
She woke to a light rain falling. The overhead light was off. During the night, her mother had checked on her. Finding Sophia sleeping, she had turned off the light and placed her head on the pillow. Quietly, her mother laid out her clothes. Rising, Sophia dressed and went down to breakfast. Turning from the stove, her mother smiled at her.
“How did you sleep?” She asks dishing two eggs into a plate. She set it on the table in front of the young girl.
“Fine.” Sophia said smiling.
“No monsters?” her mother said, returning her smile.
“No monsters.” Sophia said. That morning, though it continued to rain, it seemed as if the sun had broken through the thick gray clouds.
Now at 2:10 AM she thought of that morning over 60 years ago. There it was again, a faint sound from the living room, as if someone was shuffling crossed the carpet. Sophia reached for her cellphone. Then, opening the drawer on her bedside table, she groped the interior. Founding it under some magazines, her hand griped her father’s old Smith & Wesson.38revolver. She kept it loaded and moved it to a lock box when the grandchildren came to visit. She hit the wrong buttons two times. With the cellphone in her left hand and the pistol in her right, she lifted the phone to her ear.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Someone’s in my house.” She whispered into the phone, her voice trembling.
“What is your address ma’am?”
“505 Mockingbird Lane. Oh, please hurry, I hear him on the stairs.” She whispered, hoping the intruder didn’t hear.
“The police are on their way. Can you lock your door between you and the intruder?” The dispatcher said calmly.
“I don’t know.” She said weeping now crouching down on the far side of the bed from the door. She raised her head. “I hear him in the hallway outside my bedroom”
“Can you get to somewhere safe without endangering yourself?”
“I don’t know I don’t think so.” She said shaking. In the light from the window, she saw the doorknob turning. She propped the pistol on the bed to steady it.
“He’s coming into my bedroom.” She whispered, sobbing. Faintly she heard what might be a siren. Slowly, the door to her bedroom opened. She was never sure of what happened next. She couldn’t remember if she pulled the trigger or if her shaking caused the gun to go off. Perhaps some primal instinct for survival took over. All she knew was one second the shadowy figure filled the doorway. The next, he stumbled backward with a hole in his chest. The smoky haze of gun smoke hovered over the bed.
“Oh,oh oh,no,no,no. I just shot him, I just shot him.” She sobbed. “I think I killed him; I think I killed him.” She tried to stand but collapsed on the bed. She threw the pistol. It slid a crossed the bedcovers and dropped to the floor at the foot of her bed.
She must have fainted, for the next thing she knew a paramedic knelt over her. As she raised her head, she saw another tending to the figure on the floor. She struggled to speak. Her mouth dry, she couldn’t make the words come out.
The paramedic hands on her shoulder tried to hold her down. Despite his pressure, she set up.
“Easy, you’ve had quite a shock.” He said gently.
“ho… how is he?” She choked out. Police officers milled around careful were they stepped.
They stopped, looked at each other. One with sergeant emblems on his collar said simply. “He’s gone.”
“Oh, no.” She broke into sobs. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I just want to scare him. To have him to leave me alone.”
They tried to console her. A detective named Brown helped her to stand. Holding her up, he guided her around the body.
“Please, I want to see his face.” She said looking down at the intruder. Brown nodded to one officer. The man peeled back the ski mask. Her hand flew to cover her mouth.
“Oh, no Danny why, why?” She cried.
“Do you know this individual?” Brown asks.
“Yes.” She said, feeling faint. “Hi… his name is Danny Marshall. He mows my lawn. His family lives just down the road.” She raised a shaky hand and with a trembling finger pointed south. “Oh, my oh his poor mother.”
Brown led her down the stairs and to the kitchen. Seated at the table, she gave the detective a full statement. She told him of waking to hear a scrapping sound from the living room to the gun going off.
Timidly, she asks. “Will they charge me with murder?” Brown smiled for the first time that night. This gentle, white-haired woman reminded him of his own grandmother.
“Just a minute, ma’am.” He walked to the foot of the stairs. “Johnson, bring that evidence you bagged off the subject.” He returned to the kitchen holding a clear plastic evidence bag. Resting on the inside was a large hunting knife.
He laid the bag on the table. Horrified, she pushed her chair back. “Do you recognize this knife?” He said watching her closely. Confused, she looked at this policeman, this officer of the law.
Shaking her head, she said slowly.” No, did he have that on him?” she said with tears forming in her moist eyes.
“Yes, he had it in his right hand.” Brown said, holding it up. “See the places on the blade that appear to be rust?”
Adjusting her glasses, she peered at the knife.
“Yes.” She said attentively.
“Well, unless I miss my guess, these are blood stains,” He said.
“I don’t understand did he cut himself?” She said settling back in her chair.
“Two nights ago, someone broke into an elderly woman’s home on Carrey Street. Burglarized the home and murdered her.”
Her hand covered her mouth. “And to answer your question. No, we will not be arresting you. Possibly giving you a medal but arresting you no.” Brown said. “Is there someone you can call?”
“My… my daughter Stella.” She said, her voice shaking. “She’s a schoolteacher. Teaches first grade.”
“We’re going to be here a while. Can you stay with her for the next day or so?” Brown asks.
“I’m sure I can. But it’s three in the morning,” She said, glancing at the kitchen clock.
“Well, we have your statement and you can’t stay here.” Brown said, standing to his feet.
Picking up her cellphone, Olivia punched in her daughter’s number. Trembling, it took two tries to get the right number.
Stella answered on the second ring. “Mom, what’s wrong?” Her daughter’s voice came through the phone with a wail.
“Oh, Stella honey, I…” She couldn’t go on. Breaking down in quiet sobs, she handed the phone to Brown.
“Mom, mom are you alright?” Stella’s shrieked.
“Ma’am this is detective Peter Brown your mother is fine. There was a break-in at her home.” Brown said, his voice calm. He could have been instructing how to bake a cake. “We believe it best if she doesn’t stay here tonight. Would it be possible for her to stay with you?”
“What of my mother? Is she alright?” Stella said, her voice rising. “Is she hurt?”
“She’s shaken up otherwise she’s ok.” Brown said softly. He was used to dealing with agitated people and learned the best way to deescalate the situation was to speak quietly.
“Yes, of course she can stay with us. I’ll be right there.” Stella said. Fully awake, she was already moving.
“Please drive safely. We will stay here until you arrive.” Brown said.
“What’s wrong? Is your mother all right?” Her husband Luke said setting up in bed.
“Someone broke into mom’s house. Stella said, struggling into her blouse. “Moms ok, but the police are there.”
Stella threw on her clothes. “Should I go with you?” Luke said, pushing back the covers.
“No, you stay here with the girls. I’m going to go get mother. She can sleep in the guest room.” Stella said. “I’ll go check on the girls.” Luke said He kissed his wife. “Please be careful, dear. Love You”
“I will. Love you.” Stella said, hurrying out the door.
Stella backed out of the driveway, repeating to herself. “Moms ok moms ok moms ok.” Impatiently she pulled up to the stoplight on 5th and main, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel. As soon as the light turned green, she sped away. A mile down the street her foot seemed to have a mind of its own, pressing the accelerator as the odometer climbed. “Slow down Stella, it will do your mother no good to get stopped for speeding.”
She forced herself to drive at a steady speed. Twenty minutes later, she turned into mother’s street. She gasps. At least five police cars clogged the road. Yellow tape lined her mother’s lawn, a crowd of ten people Several Stella recognized as her mother’s neighbors stood staring at the activity. Leaving her car in the street, she dashed for the house.
“Can I help you.” the officer said on the other side of the tape. Shakily Stella reached into her purse and dug out her driver’s license. She held it out. “This is my mother’s house.” She said trying to calm her nervousness. “A Detective Brown called me.”
“Just a minute, please.” The officer said he spoke into a mic attached to his shoulder. A minute later a man in a gray suit walked up. He lifted the tape for Stella. “I’m Detective Brown “He said. Ducting under the tape, Stella straightened and shook his hand.
“All this for a beak in?” She said indicting the police cars. It was then she saw the coroner’s van. Her knees buckled. Tears came to her eyes. “M… my mother…”
“Your mother is fine. Come with me, I’ll take you to her.” He led her to the front porch. Seeing her daughter, Sophia rose from the swing. The women fell into each other’s arms.
After a few seconds, Sophia said, her voice trembling. “I killed him. I didn’t intend to I just wanted to scare him to have him leave me alone.”
“Who mother who did you kill?” Stella asks.
“Danny. The boy who mows my grass.”
Detective Brown stepped up. “Our investigation is not concluded, however; we know he broke the glass on the door to the kitchen and had a large knife.”
Stella grasps. “Are you saying detective he intended to kill my mother?”
“We cannot see into another person’s mind, but yes, it looks that way.” Brown smiled a sad smile. “If your mother hadn’t shot him, there would have been another outcome.”
They drew their attention to two men pushing a gurney out the front door and down the steps to the porch. On top of the gurney rested the black plastic bag containing the remains of Danny Morris.
Sophia felt her legs go out from under her. Stella and Brown helped her back to the old swing hanging from the ceiling of the porch.
“Growing up, Danny was a wild boy.” Stella said. “There was a time mother forbid me to play with him.”
“I remember that. He got in trouble for stealing from Walmart.” Sophia said. “His mother blamed their security.”
“He said he was going to pay for the game. We all knew it was a lie. He didn’t have any money. “
Brown had seen it all before. A parent who refused to correct their child. Setting themselves up for heartache and the child for a miserable life. He stood up.
“I’ll call you later this morning after we finish here.” Sophia took Brown’s hands in her own. “Thank you. I couldn’t have made it through this without you.”
The Detective smiled kindly at her. “Please try to get some sleep. I’ll call you when we finish.”
However, sleep seemed impossible. Each time she closed her eyes, Danny invalided her thoughts. Danny as a small boy throwing a tantrum kicked out of school for fighting sent to the juvenile center. He had showed up on her doorstep this spring, begging to mow her lawn. He said he had changed. Sophia didn’t believe him but thought he deserved a chance the odor coming from his body almost made her gag. She gave him the job, hoping against hope he had changed. She soon realized she had been wrong. Some weeks he showed up, others he didn’t. And when he mowed, he left big patches around the bushes. She should have fired him but felt sorry for his mother.
Each year when she canned vegetables from the garden, she took several jars to Danny’s mom.
Sunlight streamed through the window. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table 7:35. Had she slept? She didn’t think so. She heard two tiny voices whispering. A rarity, a real treat for the girls. Their grandmother, their favorite person in the entire world, right here in their own house. Grandma always told the best stories. She made bedtime so pleasant. They would fall asleep and dream of the adventures their grandmother had as a little girl.
“Do you think she’s sick?” 6-year-old Ashley asks. Sophia smiled her grandchildren always brought such joy to her heart.
“I don’t know.” Seven-year-old Bethany said her whisper loud enough their mother heard her in the next room. She came up behind the two little girls.
“Now girls, what did I tell you about letting your grandmother sleep?” she said in a horse whisper
“To not disturb her.” Ashley and Bethany said in unison. Both girls hung their heads.
“It’s alright, Stella. I’m up.” Sophia said, swinging her feet over the side of the bed; wrapping the robe around her.
The girl’s faces brightened. They looked at their mother. Stella smiled. “Ok, you two go on. But remember, you have to get ready for school.”
“Oh, mom do we have to go today? Grandma is here?” Bethany said.
“Yes, you do, but I have an idea she will still be here when you get home.”
The girls raced into the room and jumped on the bed.
For the next few minutes, Sophia forgot about Danny Morris and the deviation of his death and his intent to murder her. After hugging their grandmother, the girls set quietly while she told them of waking up on spring mornings like this and hearing her mother singing in the farmhouse’s kitchen.
“And then my father would come in from milking.” She said with a dreamy expression. “When I heard him coming, I would jump out of bed and run to the door to the kitchen.”
“What did you see, grandma?” Bethany asks, knowing the answer, having heard her grandmother tell the story many times.
“In his socking feet, having left his work boots by the back door, he kissed my mother.”
“Then what grandma?” Ashley asks, snuggling up to her grandmother. “Then what.” She too knew the answer but wanted to hear it again.
“Then… then.” She said looking from one eager face to another. “He kissed her again and again. Then they danced all over the kitchen.” Both girls giggled.
“Ok you two, you need to hurry you daddy is dropping you at school this morning.” Stella said. The girls scrambled off the bed and ran out of the room. Stella held out the cordless phone to her mother. “Detective Brown.” She said simply.
Sophia took the phone, holding it to her ear as if it were a deadly snake.
“He… hello Detective Brown.”
“Good morning I’m sorry to call so early but I’m going off duty and wanted to let you know we finished our investigation.” Brown said, his voice sounding groggy. It had been a long night. “You’re free to go back to your house any time.”
“Thank you, but I’m not sure I can live there again.”
“Yes, I understand just give it some time.” Brown said he had heard this before from other crime victims. “Just stay at your daughter for now and enjoy your grandchildren.”
“How is his mother?” She asks, thinking of Mrs. Marshall receiving the divesting news of her son’s death.
Brown thought about it for a few seconds. “Resolved.” Was the only word he could come up with. “She knew it would happen someday.”
“She just didn’t know I would be the one to take his life.” Sophia said sorrowfully.
“Don’t beat yourself up the evidence bears out, what we believed.” Brown said. “If you had not stopped him, I would be looking for your murderer.”
“Thank you, Detective. And thank you for all you’ve done.” She said ending the call.
Handing the phone back to her daughter, she said. “They finished their investigation. I can go home any time.”
Luke appeared behind his wife. “Not until I have your house cleaned and we replace the carpet in the upstairs hallway.” He said. “You know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”
“Thank you, Luke, you’re a good son-in-law.
Later that evening Stella and Luke looked at Sophia in astonishment. Luke stood frozen, the cup of coffee halfway to his lips. Stella’s mouth dropped open.
When she recovered, she said. “You want to do what?”
“I spoke to Ben Easter and I’m going to pay for Danny’s funeral.”
Sophia said. She took a deep breath. “And I going to attend the service for him.”
“Mother, you can’t be serious.” Stella said.
“You don’t know how his mother will react.” Luke said.
“Yes, your right. But it’s something I must do.” She said, swallowing the lump in her throat.
Seeing there was no changing her mother’s mind Stella said. “Then we’re going with you.”
“That’s right and I’m going to speak to Detective Brown.” Luke said. “He may want to be there.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Sophia said.
“Nevertheless, I’m going to call him.” Luke said finishing his coffee.
Sophia looked in the mirror. This was the third outfit she tried on this morning. What do you wear to the funeral of the boy you killed?
Stella and Luke waited downstairs in the living room. Sophia sighed it would have to do. She settled on a dark suit jacket with a matching skirt. Hurrying down stairs she joined them.
Easter’s funeral home was on a quiet street on the outskirts of town. With the exception of a few motorcycles and two automobiles, the parking lot was empty.
As they approached the door to the funeral home, a huge man in jeans, a cut off shirt and tattoos blocked their way. He flexed his muscles. “What are you doing here? He growled. Sophia stepped forward. With more strength than she felt, she said. “I came for Danny’s funeral. “
Luke stepped in front of Sophia, wedging his body in between her and the biker. “You ain’t welcome here. None of you. Hadn’t been for you Danny be alive.”
“Yes, and I would be dead.” Sophia said, stepping to the left of her son-in-law facing the tattooed man.
“Like I said, you ani’t welcome here. “He raised a fist.
“Back off Benny unless you want to spend the night in jail.” Brown said coming out the door to the funeral home. For a few seconds the man held his ground. Then, glancing behind him, he moved to the side.
“Just sayin’.” He said more to himself to than the others. Brown held the door to the funeral home open.
“Thank you” she said. Sophia glanced at the man called Denny.
“Were they close friends?” She asks the Detective.
“Yes, they went everywhere together. Danny and Denny.” Brown said he watched through the door glass. The big man seemed to be fiddling with his motorcycle. “We’re now looking to see if he was involved in any Danny’s crimes.” He paused. “He may even have been waiting outside your home the night Danny died.”
“Oh, my.” Sophia said, pressing her hand to her chest.
Hearing voices, Mrs. Marshall came down the hallway. The funeral home director and two members of his staff looked up from their task in the office.
Her eyes red, her face drawn, Tricia Marshall stopped and looked at her son’s killer. Brown, not sure of Mrs. Marshall’s reaction, thought of stepping between the two women but didn’t. He would see how this played out. Hesitantly, the two women approached each other.
“I’m so, so sorry.” Sophia said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to kill him I just wanted to scare him to have him leave me alone.”
“No, no, it me that should apologize to you.” Mrs. Marshall said gripping both of Olivia’s hands in hers. “I knew he was going bad. Last year he started running with that biker gang. I tried to tell him they were nothing but trouble. Too little, too late. He kept getting more and more wild.”
Sophia squeezed Tricia Marshall’s hands. She didn’t know what to say. What could she say that would change the fact that she had killed this woman’s son?
‘’The gun just went off. I don’t remember pulling the trigger. Tricia Marshall held open her arms. After a few seconds, she released Sophia. “If hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else. Come, let me show you how handsome they made him look.” Together they walked down the hallway and into the room where Danny’s casket rested. Brown, Luke, and Stella waited in the hallway to give the women privately.
True to his word, Luke had not just the carpet where Danny died replaced, but all the upstairs carpet. He also paid for a thorough cleaning of the entire house.
That summer Sophia and Tricia Marshall Worked the garden and each other’s yard. Planting flowers and sharing glasses of iced tea.
Once a week they took a bouquet to Danny’s grave. While there, they spoke of their regret. One for raising him without correction and the other for taking his life. However, their regret never affected their friendship.




A Dog’s Life

I knew it was going to happen. I tried to act like my brothers and sisters. To jump to play to lick the offered fingers to wag my tail. Mother looked on with pride and sorrow. At night while we slept, she whispered how proud she was of us. She would be sad to see us go, but knew it was the way of the world. We were descendant to leave her warm to become companions. To guard our human friends with our lives if necessity. To provide warmth on chilly nights, comfort in times of sorrow and to love at all times. To just be there.
We were all asleep when the first ones came. A face appeared over our box, then another and another. Suddenly waking, I backed into the farthest corner, barking. My almost tiny yelps awakened the others. However, their reaction differed from mine as they crowded closer to the humans falling over each other, their tail beating the air. The girl picked up my sister, the one with the black and white face. My mother never named us she said that our human friends would pick the perfect name.
The girl squealed and petted my sister. “This one daddy. I want this one, I’ll call her Rosy.”
“Alright dear, if you’re sure.” The man said he handed my mother’s human friend some green paper.
“Oh yes daddy she’s perfect.”
And so, they went away carrying Rosy. I hung my head I had missed my chance to be picked. The others milled around excitedly, talking among themselves. I curled up in the corner, too miserable to join in the banter.
The next time I determined to be like the others. But invariably each time I did something wrong. Once I was so nervous, I became ill and vomited. Another time a boy picked me up, and I peed on his hand. He almost dropped me, putting me back into the box. His mother handed him a tissue to wipe off his fingers.
Later, my mother came to me. “Don’t feel bad you will find your human friend.”
“When mother, when will I find my friend?” I ask I wanted to cry it seemed they always passed me over.
“You’ll know when the time is right.” She said licking my face.
So, it went until I was the only one left. All my brothers and sisters had found their human friends.
Time went on until it was just my mother and me. She nuzzled me, licking away my tears. Yet I wasn’t comforted I must find my destiny.
For several weeks, I mopped around for days, barely eating. I had no appetite for food. Our human friend commented to his wife. “Number two is off his feed.” He called us puppies numbers in order of our birth. Out of the box, I wondered about the house I had learned to go to the bathroom outside long ago. My mother’s human friend put the box away until the next time they would need it.
I now slept with my mother snuggling up to her side. My feet seemed to be too big, I was constantly falling over them.
Time passed at six months I was too old to be a puppy, too young to be a proper dog. I spent most of my days alone. My mother, having better things to do than chaperone me.
In the backyard one day, I saw something tiny and white float to the ground. Soon the sky filled with them. I stuck out my tongue. It felt cool, refreshing. I couldn’t explain why, but I suddenly felt very happy. No reason for it, I couldn’t explain it. I ran in circles. I chased my tail. Not a very productive enterprise. Watching from the porch, my mother smiled.
“It’s called snow.” She called out. “Soon our human friends will decorate their houses with lights, a tree, and other things.”
More fell until it was difficult to see the house. “Come on in, son.” my mother called. “There will be a fire in the fireplace tonight.” She turned to the door. I followed her, thinking of stretching out and just letting the heat penetrate my body. I mounted the steps to the porch, then stopped. Something was wrong. I could sense it. My mother felt it too. She stopped, looked at me and said. “Go” That was all I needed leaping off the porch, shot around the corner and raced down the street.
That’s when I saw them. A little girl, her feet braced against a dark van. A man in black clothing had his hands on her back, trying to shove her inside the van. “No, please leave me alone. I want to go home.” She sobbed, “I want my mommy.” The man grabbed her around the waist and lifted her off the ground. Tearing her hands from the door, he flung her inside.
Distracted, he never saw me coming. I ran off the sidewalk, my claws digging in into the earth, giving me more speed. True, I had not gained full weight. However, I had the element of surprise on my side. A steely determination came over me. I must save this little girl or die trying,
Fifty feet behind me, my mother ran on the sidewalk, her nails clicking on the concrete. The man grasped the handle of the door to slide it closed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw me. His face paled, his eyes widened he shrieked. I launched myself at him, going for his throat, finding his arm I dug in my teeth. He fell backward against the van, shaking me, I held on. My mother coming up bit him in the thigh. He screamed again, falling. On the ground now, he tried to crawl away. We surrounded him. A deep throaty growl came from my chest.
Freed, the girl leaped from the van and ran to a nearby house. She pounded on the door. A few seconds later, an elderly man opened it. By this time, the man lay on the curb with his back to the van. He was weeping and bleeding from a dozen bites. He stated to crawl away I stepped into his path; my teeth bared growling. The man shrunk back.
“Help… help he tried to kidnap me.” The little girl said, her voice quivering.
A woman appeared behind the elderly man she held out her arms hugging the girl. “Come in honey your safe now.” The woman said. The kidnaper crawled under the van. My mother grabbed one ankle I the other we braced our feet dragging him out. He screamed again, louder this time. The elderly man came out of the house holding a gun. He pointed it at the man.
“Help me I didn’t do anything wrong they attack me for no reason.” Tears ran down the man’s unshaven cheeks. “Please let me go.”
“Don’t you move.” The elderly man said. My mother and I backed up a few feet, growling. The kidnapper pushed himself off the ground. I lunged at him, barking. He settled back down beside the van. Sires approached, screaming so loud they hurt my ears. Two police cars turned the corner into the street. They skidded to a stop, blocking the van from the front and rear. Leaping from the vehicles, the officers drew their weapons. The elderly man lowered his gun. Seeing the officers had the situation well in hand, my mother and I backed into the yard and lay down in the increasing snow.
“We’ll take it from here, sir” One of the officers said to the elderly man. Both police officers lifted the would-be kidnapper to his feet. My mother and I watched the man for any sudden moves.
“Thank you.” The elderly man said, his pistol now pointing at the ground. “Little girl’s in the house said he tried to kidnap her.” He pointed to his home with the hand not holding the gun.
The officers shoved the man against the van. After patting him down, they handcuffed him. He twisted his head to look at us.
“They hurt me.” He said, his voice a whine.
“Tell you what we’ll take you to the emergency room before we book you into the jail.” The other officer said, smirking.
The woman emerged from the house holding the girl by the hand.
“He tried to steal me.” The girl said pointing at her would be kidnapper.
“We’ve been looking for him.” One officer said. They put the limping man in the back of one police car. Leaving him there, the two officers came over to talk to the humans. One said. “You’ve got some brave dogs there.” He reached down and patted me and my mother. I smiled at him. Weeping, the little girl hugged my neck. I licked her tears away. My mother smiled at me. I was home.
That was last December. I found out later the little girl’s name was Kimie, and she was eight years old. As for me, I just turned one. I now live with Kimie and her family. They have a cat named Chester. Chester and I are friends. Kimie became my human friend. I walk her to and from school each day. In the evenings, we play ball. I love that. I sleep at the foot of Kimie’s bed and greet her every morning with a kiss. I’m home. It’s a good life.




The Road Ahead

Bruce remembered that night so many years ago. He had just brought the cows in for the evening milking. At fourteen, his tasks included herding the cows in then returning them to the pasture. He felt at ease, at peace with the world. He stood in the barn lot just outside the double doors. Inside the barn, there was the clank of the milk pail as his father finished the milking. His dog Pepper set at his feet, his tail slowly sweeping the ground.
Later, after supper and when Bruce’s chores were finished, he and the dog walked down the lane. His bare feet kicked up dust. A gentle breeze whispered from the south. He paused, looking around. It seemed as if time stood still.
In the west, the sun rode low in the sky, almost touching the tassels on the stalks of corn. Its waning light bathed the fields and pasture in a golden glow. Tomorrow would be another beautiful day.
Bruce stood still, listening it was as if God was speaking directly at him. He looked around, half expecting to see the heavens’ part and the glory of The Lord shine through. All he saw were the fields of corn and soybeans. From a mile away, he heard the Goodwin’s dog barking. Just a typical night on the farm. Yet to Bruce this night was special. A time to remember to be alone with just his thoughts and The Lord.
Pepper followed Bruce through the woods down to the pond. Setting on the bank, he watched the full moon rise over the eastern horizon. On the other side of the water, two deer came out of the woods. Cautiously they stepped to the edge of the pond. At his side, Pepper whimpered and shivered. “Easy boy.” He said laying a hand on the dog’s flank. Lowering their noses, the deer drank deeply. The dog whimpered but set still. He longed to chase them but obeyed his master. Bruce smiled with or without a leash Pepper would obey. Finished drinking, the deer melted back into the woods.
Beside him Pepper, relaxed laying down the dog, rested his head on Bruce’s knee. Lying back, he looked at the moon. This was the same moon that Abraham saw each night. The one that Jesus saw during His life on earth. Of Couse, it was the same one he made.
For the next few minutes, he prayed, asking The Lord what he had for his life. Soon, too soon, he heard his mother calling him. It was time to get his bath and go to bed. Tomorrow, as he had since he was a baby, Bruce and his family would attend services at Pleasant Valley Church. A small congregation made up of mostly farmers and country people.
The teenage Sunday school class had dwindled over the last few years. It seemed the young people felt time spent at church wasted.
This fall he would start as a freshman at Bergman High. A school ten miles from home. Would his influence as a Christian make him stand out, could he become a part of the society without compromising his belief? Was he strong enough spiritually to resist the influences of the unsaved?
The next morning, he listened quietly to pastor Miller’s sermon on usefulness. Dan Miller had pastored the small congregation for the last 10 Years. They voted him in after his father died unexpectedly. His family owned the land next to the church and had donated the grounds for the church and cemetery a hundred years before. At 42 Dan had two teenage sons. Zack and Peter had heard all the jokes about preacher’s kids. In fact, most of the clean ones they repeated. The world seemed so filled with promise. Each day a new adventure.
His senior year he decided he would enter the ministry. It thrilled his parents. His father had two hired hands, both part-time. They worked mostly in the spring with planting and the fall harvesting. In the back of his mind, he had hoped his son would follow him eventually taken over the operation of the farm.
The Sunday morning before he left for college, he stood in the pulpit, his hands sweating. Pastor Dan had given him the morning service. Not to embarrass or test him, but to give him the opportunity to use the gift God had so miraculously given him.
He had studied for hours, then practiced in front of the mirror. Now, as he surveyed the congregation, he lost all thought. He felt like a drowning man. Swallowing the lump in his throat. These were his friends, his neighbors. They had watched him grow from a baby to a toddler to a young man. In the third row set Mrs. Kelly, she still taught the six- and seven-year-old Sunday school. His first day in her class, she hugged him and told him how glad she was to see him.
He started slow, hesitantly gained momentum. He watched the big clock in the back, careful not to go over. He came to the end of his sermon. Catching the eye of Pastor Dan, he turned the service back for him to close. After a hushed prayer, Dan opened the invitation. For a few minutes no one moved, then slowly they came until ten filled the alter.
He fought pride. His first full-blown sermon with such great results. No salvations, however, two rededications.
The first semester he soaked in the knowledge of his professors. Working in a nearby meat packing plant combined with studying left little time to sleep. By the middle of his second semester, he felt like a zombie.
He couldn’t keep going the way he was. He thought of dropping out for one semester. He barely passed his finals and packed for home. Maybe working on the farm with its fresh air and sunshine would invigorate him.
His mother insisted on preparing his favorite foods. His father let him sleep in the first week. Pepper refused to let him out of his sight. For two months, he pulled weeds out of soybeans-built fence and a hundred other tasks around the farm. He renewed old acquaintances and made new friends. Soon, to soon it was time to return to college. Secretly he dreaded it he dared not tell his parents or his pastor. He looked forward to it as a man headed for execution.
The first week wasn’t too bad, but by the end of the second week he was dragging. Monday with three weeks in he could barely get out of bed. He forced himself to attend Old Testament survey and didn’t remember a word the professor said.
At work, he could barely keep his eyes open. Johnson, always looking for a new customer, said. “Hey kid, you look like you could use a pick me up. You like vitamins?”
“Well, yeah, I guess.” He said hesitantly. “What kind are they?”
“The best. My uncle makes his own vitamins out of natural ingredients.” He smiled “Their guaranteed to give you a boost and you need one.”
“How much?” He asked, hoping Johnson wasn’t steering him wrong.
“Here, just take this bunch and see if they help. if they do great. If they don’t you haven’t lost anything.” He said handing him a sandwich bag with a dozen tiny reddish-orange pills in it.
“Their awful small.” He said examining the pills.
“Yeah, but their powerful.” He said. “Now put them away. If the other guys see them, they’ll want them and that’s all I got today.”
Returning to work, he tried one pill after dinner. He had a test in homiletic the next morning at eight. He knew the material and was confident he could pass that is if he could stay awake.
In the dorm room alone, he stared at the pills. He didn’t like taking anything he wasn’t sure of. But he needed to have something that would see him through the year. Going to the bathroom sink, he filled a glass with water. He shook out one then two. He reasoned if one was good, two would be better. The buzz started in ten minutes. He opened the textbook, scanned the pages and wrote gibberish. He stopped, looked at what he had written. The thought shot through his mind: this was brilliant. He felt wonderful he thought of taking more pills but didn’t want to waste these great vitamins. He felt strange, as if his head was too big for his body glancing at the clock, he saw it was past 1AM. His roommate had been asleep for hours. Had he noticed when he came in? Seems as if they had a conversation he couldn’t recall. Turning off the lamp, he lay down fully clothed. He tried to sleep, but all he could think about was the vitamins. Suddenly he felt as if he so hot he would burst into flames he stripped off his clothes. It helped some, but not much. Sweat poured from his body, soaking the sheets. At 4 AM he gave up and took two more pills.
His roommate found him in the bathroom weeping. Slick with sweat, he tried to help him to his feet. This made him angry he took a swing at him falling he hit his head on the sink opening a gash on his forehead.
He arrived at his eight o’clock class ten minutes late. A large bandage covered his forehead. The rest of the class already involved in the test.
The professor thinking, he had had an accident ask him about going to medical he refused and stumbled to his desk.
He scanned the test questions they were stupid. He wrote new questions and then answered them. A shadow fell crossed his desk he looked up. The professor’s kind face seemed to fill all the space between him and the ceiling of the room.
“The test ended twenty minutes ago. “The professor said, his voice sounding gargled. He looked around he and the teacher were alone in the room. Leaving the papers on his desk, he fled the classroom, then the building. He skipped breakfast he couldn’t stomach the thought of lunch.
The only reason he went to work that afternoon was to get more pills.
“Hey buddy boy, how was the vitamins?” His coworker said laughing.
“I need more I ran out.” He said, his forehead glistening with sweat.
“Sure, but this time its gonna cost you.”
“I don’t care I gotta have them.” He said, his eyes glittering.
Leaning in close, his coworker whispered. “Welcome to the world of drugs.”
Horrified, he stared at the laughing man. This man he worked with, the one he considered his friend, had deceived him.
Turning, he stumbled away. For the next hour, he fought the demons and himself. Determined to break this habit clawing at his soul. Within an hour, he was back.
“I need more pills.” he said, his hands shaking.
“Sure pal.” He said taking a baggy from his pocket he held it up. “How much you got?”
Bruce fumbled in his pocket, removing a wad of bills.
The man snatched them out of his hand and tossed the bag of pills at the boy. At the water cooler, he swallowed two. The buzz started in his stomach and spread throughout his body. They found him passed out on the floor, his machine running full blast.
The supervisor tried to reason with him. He became defensive, running from the factory. Thus, began a series of events that changed his life. He didn’t return to work until a few days later; only to learn he had lost his job. Skipping classes, he was brought before the board. They ask him to get help or leave school. He chose to leave. Too ashamed to tell his parent of his problem, he quit calling them. In Cincinnati, he traded his car for drugs. Homeless destitute, begging on the street. Nights, if he couldn’t get into a shelter, he shivered the night away. He snuck around until he found an alley where he wouldn’t be disturbed.
One night in early December, two men beat him up, stealing the few belongings he had left. He woke up in a clinic. Laying on a gurney, he wept the tears making inroads in the dirt on his face, his tears wetting the clean sheets.
After not hearing from him in a week, his parents contacted the college. Distraught, they called their pastor, who alerted the prayer chain. The next morning his father and mother traveled to the school. They spoke to their son’s professors and students. They expressed sorrow, but no one seemed to know where he went.
At the shoe factory, the supervisor, a kind man, took them into his office and told them what he had learned. The man who had given their son the drugs was now in jail for distribution. Their son always a good worker, and punctual. As a recovered addict, the supervisor realized the signs of one under the influence. He was sorry, didn’t know where their son could be. Before they left, he prayed with them. They thanked him and returned to their home, hoping their son would reach out to them. In the next month, they sent out flyers and made a phone call to every police agency and rescue mission in the Midwest.
The call came one evening just a week before Christmas from The City Mission in Cleveland, Ohio. Yes, he stayed there the previous night. There was a rumor he had been beaten up and was in Fairview Hospital.
Packing a few clothes, they drove through the night, arriving at just after six in the morning. The charge nurse led them to his room. She told them he was to be released later that day.
At first, as he thought, he was dreaming. So many times, in his nightmare, he saw their sad faces. At night when he lay on the cold ground shivering, he saw the faces of his mother and father. In echoing voices, they spoke of their and The Lord’s love for him, yet as he opened his eyes their faces dissolved into reality.
This time they didn’t disappear. Reaching up, he touched the tears on their faces. His fingers came away wet. Then he wept big sobs racking his body. They didn’t say anything, just wrapped him in their hugs.
Later that day, after his release from the hospital, he lay in the backseat of his father’s car as they drove out of the city. For the life of him, he could remember how he ended up in Cleveland. The last few weeks were a blur. Even with the heater off, his body poured sweat. When his mother mentioned stopping for lunch, his stomach cramped. Just the thought of food made him sick.
As they pulled into the driveway, pepper run up to the car. When he saw the boy, he ran in circles barking. Shakily, he opened the car door. Without waiting for him to exit the vehicle, the dog nudged himself in the opening and put his front feet in the boy’s lap.
The boy wept it generating into big hulking sobs. His parents stood in the yard waiting; aware the healing progress had begun. Pepper licked the boy’s face and arms. He whined, his tail beating the edge of the car door. When the dog backed off, they helped him into the house.
His father helped him take off his clothes and then put him into bed. He fell into a troubled sleep. The past few months filled his dreams. The nightmares causing him to shiver and shake one minute sweat the next.
As if it were real, he saw his parent’s car speeding down the interstate. A simi tanker blocked the road. Unable to stop, the car plowed into the truck. He felt the heat of explosion. He stared into the interior of the car, watching helplessly as his screaming mother and father burned to death. He screamed, sweat poured off his body as he set bolt upright in bed. His mother bathed his brow with a cool cloth.
His father stood behind her, a shadowy figure in the dark room.
“It’s alright your home.” His mother said, her voice soothing.
“We’re here.” His father said, his voice choking.
His mother held a glass of water to his lips.
“What time is it?” he croaked out. A crushing heaviness descended on him. Thoughts of suicide filled his mind. It seemed like a beautiful woman beckoning him to the other side.
“After midnight.” His father said. His mother soothed his brow. He felt something warm and wet on his fingers raising his hand he petted Pepper. The dog pushed his nose under the covers.
His hand on the dog’s head, he drifted back to sleep.
The next time he opened his eyes, sunlight streamed through the window. At the other end of the house, he heard the soft clink of pans. A soft, low voice singing.
“Rock of ages cleft for me let me hid myself in thee.” His mother’s sweet voice drifted to him.
Tears streamed down his face, wetting the pillow. His mind when back to the times in the past. One of the first things he remembered was lying in bed as a small child hearing his mother sing that same hymn. She appeared at the door to his bedroom.
“Good, you’re awake.” She said smiling. “Would you like some soup? Just something, light on your stomach.”
“No… no ma… maybe later.” He said hoping she would leave. “I… I couldn’t eat right now.”
“Ok just let me know.” She went back to the kitchen. He pushed his feet over the bedcovers. He felt as if strips of flesh were being ripped off his bones. He gritted his teeth, trying not to make a sound. His pants, shirt and coat lay in the room’s corner. All the pockets were empty. If the ones who beat him up left any drugs, his parents found them. For the next few minutes, he quietly tore through the drawers in the chest and dresser. Finding nothing, he rushed to the bathroom and locked the door. His hands shaking, he opened the medicine cabinet. Empty, not even a Band-Aid nothing. Angrily he slammed his fist into the sink, skinning his knuckles.
“They did it. They don’t trust me.” He caught a glance of himself in the mirror. A grunt pasty-faced young man stared back at him.
For the next few days, they never left him alone. Day and night, one of them was not too far away. His craving for the drug pecked on the fourth day. He was like a caged animal running from one room to the next, unable and unwilling to rest. He ate very little and slept in naps. At times he became angry with his parent but especially with the dog. Yet Pepper never left his side even when he yelled at him.
At the end of the second week, he woke like a man leaving a dark tunnel. It was a bright sunny morning just a few days before Christmas. He heard the clink of silverware and the mummer of conversation from the kitchen. Dressing quickly, he entered the kitchen. His parents and the pastor of a nearby church set at the table drinking coffee.
He expected condemnation from this elderly man of God. However, what he received was a smile and a warm, firm handshake.
“There you are. I thought I would come by and see if you were feeling better.” The pastor said, rising from his chair. “The church has been praying for you.”
“Ye… yes I… I’m feeling much better thank you.” The boy said, relieved. He had a deep respect for the pastor. His mother poured him a cup of coffee, adding sugar and cream the way he liked it.
“Your parents and I were discussing the play the children will put on Christmas Eve.” The pastor said. “Last year you did a wonderful job as narrator. Would you honor us by doing it again this year?”
The boy looked at him as if the pastor had grown horns.
“M..me..ah… no, I couldn’t. You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“Son.” the pastor said, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Do you believe God forgives?”
“Well, yeah, I guess so.”
“And do you believe he can save and use anyone?”
“Yes.” The boy said stronger this time.
“From the age of 16 until I was 41, I was a raging alcoholic.” He smiled. “I spent more time in jail than at home.”
The boy stared at the elderly man, his mouth hanging open.
“I spent 18 months in prison that was 25 years ago. God saved me, forgave me. Now how about it will you be our narrator?”
Tears coursing down his cheeks, the boy not trusting his voice, Bruce nodded.
“Good.” The pastor said. Reaching into his suit coat, he pulled out a shaft of pages. “I knew we could count on you Dress rehearsal is on the 23th I’ll see you then.”
That afternoon he tried to consternate. The words on the page keep swimming before his eyes.
Closing his eyes, he prayed. “Lord, if you want me to do this you will have to help me. I don’t have it within myself.” He read the page, tears coming to his eyes.
Two nights later, he peeked out from the baptismal room. People filled the sanctuary to overflowing with chairs set up in the back. He almost caved. After the children’s program, he nervously stepped out and walked to the pulpit. Wetting his lips, his fingers trembling, he lay the pages on the podium. He found in the next few minutes he didn’t need the sheets of paper. His voice modulating, he repeated the story of a poor prostitute crying out to The Lord asking Him to make her whiter than the snow that fell around her. Tears misting his eyes as he softly spoke of Christ, saving her and answering her prayer. He was not sure in the beginning of the story if he could read it with the feeling it deserved. By the end, with tears streaming down his face, he raised his voice in song.
Lord Jesus, I long to be perfectly whole;
I want Thee forever to live in my soul;
Break down every idol, cast out every foe,
Now wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
As the last stanza died away, there was silence throughout the auditorium. Then the room erupted with applause. Men and women wept. His words so real they were transported to the streets envisioning the poor woman knelling in the snow.
Now seventy-four years later, he stood in the same spot as he had as a fourteen-year-old boy. Soon his grandson would take over the farm. He thought back over the years of how The Lord had blessed him. Soon it would be time for him to join his mother, father and his wife of 63 years. With the passing of each loved one, heaven became sweeter. Turning, he hobbled back to the house where his children and grandchildren waited, preparing to celebrate his 88th birthday. Taking one last look over the hills and pasture, he thought of Pepper, how happy his dog would be to meet him on the streets of gold.




The Christmas Gift

Marianne paused, the flour in one hand, sugar in the other. Was three dozen enough? She smiled. The children loved her chocolate cream cookies. If she made another three dozen, she was sure to have an empty container by Monday.
How they loved her chocolate chip. Almost as much as her sugar cookies. She glanced at the clock, the one with the chirping birds. Had it been three Christmas ago when Andy gave it to her. Of course, he meant it as a joke. In November, she told him how she missed the songs of the birds.
“You know I can’t have the windows open during the winter.” She said watching her fathered friends flocking to the feeder outside her kitchen window.
“Well, at least you can see them.” Andy said sipping his coffee.
“Yes, it’s nice to see them.” She said watching a cardinal pecking at the birdseed in the small house feeder.
That Christmas morning after all the gifts were opened, and the children were playing with their new toys, he handed her a large package. Carefully unwrapping it, she stared at the clock and its circle of birds.
“It chimes with a different bird every hour” he said, smiling at her. She never grew tired of hearing that clock. Now she enjoyed her songbirds all winter long. Of course, the clock wasn’t all he gave for Christmas. She twirled her diamond ring. Inscribed on the inside band were the words ‘Andy & Marianne: I love you.’ 12 years and their love was just as fresh and wonderful as it was on their wedding day. If it could be better, the children enhanced it.
Two weeks ago, Andy and Paul strung Christmas Lights on the fir trees on the front lawn. Each night in the gathering dust, the lights automatically kicked on. The nativity scene outside the patio door gave a gentle look to the dormant flower garden. In the gathering dusk a light snow began felling.
“Alexa, play Christmas hymns.” She said lighting candles. A soft piano rendition of Silent Night resonated through the lower rooms.
Plugging in the Christmas tree,Marianne lowered the lights in the Livingroom. Standing at the front window, she watched the falling snow. Perfect. She loved this time of the year. The street lamps gave a cherry atmosphere. The only blite was the tumbled down shack crossed the street. She was about to turn away when she thought she saw a flash of light.
Could it be coming from that house? Surely not, who could live in that mess? The timer beeped. The cookies were ready. As she was setting them out to cool, the children and Andy came in from the garage in a rush.
Paul reached for one. “Ah ah ah not until after dinner.” Marianne said from her husband’s arms.
“Two.” Paul said grinning.
“Three.” Charlotte said.
“Four.” Paul countered.
“Ok you two you can have your cookies and your mom and I will have the German chocolate cake she baked this afternoon.”“ Cookies and cake.” Paul said, grinning.
Andy spread his hands in the air. “I can see it now, Wibble and Son attorneys at law.”
”And you’ll let Paul take care of negations of the difficult clients.” Marianne said smiling. “Ok you two wash up dinner in ten minutes.” The children ran out of the room and up the stairs.
After dinner, homework baths and bed, Marianne and Andy finally had some time together. As his wife smuggled into his arms Andy said. “The owner of the house on the corner showed up today.” Straightening up, Marianne stared at her husband. “I thought he was dead.” She shivered, cold chills racing up her back.
“That was the consensus.” Andy said. “We couldn’t find him, so we assumed he was deceased. He’s staying in the house tonight.”
“Andy, that old shack is a blite on the neighborhood.” Marianne said. “Just standing there it brings down the value of every house on the street.”
“I don’t even think the house has heat or electricity.” Andy said. He glanced out the front window at the building crossed the street. “It must be freezing over there.”
” Can’t we get him out?” Marianne said.
“And send him where honey?” Andy said.
“I don’t care maybe he could go to the mission.” Marianne said. “We would be doing him a favor. At least he would be warm and fed. Then the city could tear down that old eyesore.”
“Speaking of being fed, I could use another slice of that cake and a cup of coffee.” Andy said.
“I’ll join you, just don’t tell Paul.” Marianne said. She smiled. “I think he intends to have a piece for breakfast.”
“Better hide it before he wakes up tomorrow morning.” Andy said.
After the news, they made their way to bed.
In a deep sleep, Marianne thought she heard sirens. They were becoming louder. She set up in bed. The bedroom flickered with light. “What… what is it?” She said. Seconds later, red flashing lights bathed the front of the house. The siren increasingly loud died away. Andy hurriedly dressed. His shadow thrown against the far wall.
“The house on the corner is on fire.” Andy said buttoning his shirt he threw on his coat. “He must have been trying to keep warm.”
He ran from the room, his feet pounding down the stairs. “Oh, Andy, please be careful.” She called after him. Jumping from the bed, she pulled on her robe. She had just stepped to the window when the children appeared at the door of her bedroom. Flames shot fifty feet in the air. Despite the firefighter’s efforts, the house was gone. As she watched, the roof collapsed.
“What’s happening?” Paul ask his voice high almost breaking. Marianne knew he was struggling to keep it together.
“I’m scared.” Charlotte said. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She ran to her mother. Paul hesitated, wanting to act brave. Opening her arms, Marianne enfolded her daughter. Paul took a step into the bedroom, then went into his mother’s arms.
“It’s ok. We’re safe. The old shack on the corner is burning.” She said smoothing her children’s hair.
Paul snugged out of her arms, a horrified expression on his face. “B… but what about the man inside? Did he get out ok?” He said.
“How do you know there was anyone in the house?” Marianne asks.
“I saw an old man in a ragged coat go in there when I went to school yesterday morning.” For the first time, Marianne saw a bundle of what looked like rags laying in the lawn near the sidewalk. As she and the children watched, Andy knelt down next to the pile of clothing. Incredibly, the bundle moved. In the flashing light, she saw a hand appear. Andy grasps the hand he seemed to be praying. At that minute, an ambulance roared up the street.
It stopped beside the firetruck. Andy stepped back as two paramedics emerged from the ambulance.
Paul torn himself away from his mother’s arms. Dashing to the window, he grasps the sill.
“Is he going to die?” He asks, tears in his voice.
“No, Jesus won’t let him die will He mommy.” Charlotte said. “Can we pray for him?” Paul asks turning from the window.
“Of course. That’s a good idea.” Marianne said.
Paul bowed his head. “Lord help this old man. Don’t let him die. He may not have any family or a nice home like we do. Let him live and I’ll be his friend. Amen.”
The paramedics lifted the man onto a gurney and rolled him to the ambulance. A few minutes later they sped away, siren wailing into the night. The front door opened and closed Andy climbed the stairs. “I’m going to the hospital.” He said.
“He’s ok isn’t he daddy?” Paul asks. Looking up at his father.
“I think he’ll be alright He put on all the clothes he had trying to keep warm. He tore down some of a wall and burn the wood in the fireplace that’s what started the fire.” Andy said. “Funny thing, all that clothing protected him from being burned. They think he just breathed in some smoke.”
“The clothing and Jesus.” Charlotte said.
“Yes, your right princess, his clothing and Jesus.” Her father said.
“How long will you be gone?” Marianne asks.
“I’m not sure.” Andy said, “Go back to bed. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
He kissed Marianne and Charlotte. Paul drew back. “I’m too old for that daddy.” He said.
Andy smiled and held out his hand. Solemnly Paul shook it. “I’ll be praying for you” Paul said, making his voice deeper.
“Thank you.” Andy said.
After her husband left, Marianne took the children back to their rooms. She stayed with her daughter until she fell asleep. As she drifted off, Charlotte said. “He’ll be alright, won’t he mommy?” Resentment rose in Marianne’s heart. Why all this interest in this elderly man? After all, he was just a hobo. There were hundreds, maybe thousands crossed this country. “I’m sure he will.” She said offhandedly.
Returning to bed, she closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. With the fire out, the dark invaded the room. The streetlamps and nightlight down the hallway did little to dispel the darkness.
‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’ The Bible verse run through her mind.
‘But he is not my neighbor.’ The room was silent with no answering words. Getting up, she stepped to the window. In the glow of the street lamps, the pile of rubble seemed to mock her.
Again, she heard the words of The Lord ‘love thy neighbour as thyself.’
Marianne returned to bed, gathering her covers around her, closing her eyes. In her dreams, she ran from an army of homeless men. Her legs growing weary, she tripped and fell. Hands reached for her as she fought them off.
“Marianne, wake up your having a bad dream. Everything is ok.” she opened her eyes Andy held her in his arms.
“Are you alright?”
“I am now.” She glanced at the window. “What time is it?”
“A little after nine.” Andy said.
“Oh, your breakfast, your late for the office, I must hurry.” She said getting up. “This is Saturday, I’m not going to the office today.” Andy said gently still holding her in his arms. “Listen, we have a guest.”
“A guest? Oh, don’t tell you invited your mother and forgot to tell me again.” Marianne said, frowning.
“No, it’s not my mother. It’s… the man from crossed the street.” Andy said, his expression serious. She struggled out of his arms.
“Your joking, please tell me you’re joking.” Andy just looked at her. Lowering her voice, she said. “He’ll smell up the entire house.”
“He didn’t have any place to go.” Andy said.
“What about the mission? After breakfast, he can go there.” Marianne said.
Andy just shook his head. “They’re full. I checked with them last night.”
“He can’t stay here.”
“We have a guest room.” Andy said.
Tears misted Marianne’s eyes. Her beautiful guestroom was about to be destroyed by this homeless man. She felt sick to her stomach. She noticed the laughter of her children. Could he be dangerous? Was it safe to leave him alone with Charlotte and Paul?
“Go go go. I’ll be down in a minute.” She said making a sweeping motion with her hands.
“You sure?” Andy said.
“Yes, yes,” She said. Leaping out of bed, she began dressing. She wanted to add and protect our children, but didn’t.
Returning to the downstairs, she heard Andy say, “My wife will join us in a few minutes.”
A discernible mumbling, then Paul proclaimed. Loudly, “My mommy makes the best pancakes just wait; you’ll see.”
Marianne rushed down the stairs. She slid to a stop at the door to her immaculate, kitchen. Facing away from her seated in her chair was a long-haired, gray headed, craggy, bearded old man. The shirt and the pants he wore looked familiar. To her horror, she realized they were Andy’s. She gave them to him three years ago for his birthday. Well, nothing to do about them now. If he didn’t take them with him when he left, she would throw the pants and shirt away.
“You’re here.” Paul shouted he jumped up from his chair almost tipping it over. “Mommy met Oscar Porter.”
“His house burnt last night. Daddy said we’re going to help him out.” Charlotte said.
“Of course, he did.” Marianne said.
Porter struggled to rise. “Please don’t trouble yourself Mr. Porter.” Marianne said, forcing herself to smile. Perhaps he would be gone by noon. At least she hoped so.
“I always rise when a lady comes into a room.” Oscar said in a gravelly voice. It became apparent he spoke little.
“He did that when I come into the kitchen.” Charlotte said smiling.
“It’s an old southern tradition.” Andy said. He leaned against the counter, drinking his morning coffee.
“Yes, not much in use today, I’m afraid.” Porter said.
“I hope your hungry Mr. Porter. Saturday morning is pancake day in our house.” Marianne said. She looked for her skillet, not finding it.
“Your husband was kind enough to fry me several eggs and bacon.” Porter said. Then she knew why Andy was leaning against the counter. He was hiding her burnt skillet from her. He couldn’t cook anything without burning her utensils.
She almost turned around to go back upstairs. She could hide in her bedroom until Porter left.
The elderly man set back down heavily as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. Over the top of the old man’s head, she gave her husband an icy stare. He held out her pan to her. Sure enough, it was burnt.
Stepping to the sink, she grabbed her skillet from him. Turning on the water, she squirted dish soap on it and severely scrubbed the frypan.
She prepared pancakes for Oscar, Andy and the children. She had no appetite, nor did she intend to set at her neatly appointed table with this smelly hobo. He must have taken a shower, but it would take more than one scrubbing to remove the smelly odor from him. The light tinge of smoke surrounded him like a funeral shroud.
Breakfast was difficult with Oscar regaling to Charlotte and Paul tales of his life on the road. Even Andy seemed to be taken with the charm of the elderly man’s stories.
Finally, Marianne said. “There aren’t many places to bathe when your traipsing all over the county are there.” She gathered the dishes from the table and depositing them in the sink.
“Oh, you’d be surprised there is always a stream or river to wash up in.” Oscar laughed. “One time I took a bath in the ocean. Had to wait until about 2 o’clock in the morning when there wasn’t anybody on the beach for that one.”
“our mommy makes us take a bath every night.” Paul said, his arms folded on the table. Charlotte nodded. “And wash behind our ears too.” Marianne shot Paul a look. He took his arms off the table.
“That’s good.” Porter said. “A person can never have to many baths unless his skin gets all wrinkly.” The children laughed as if this was the funniest thing they ever heard. Andy smiled.
“Mr. Porter is going to the mall with us. Isn’t that great.” Paul said bounding to his feet.
“Daddy can loan you a coat. He has about a zillion of them.” Charlotte volunteered.
Andy just Shrugged his shoulders. Marianne felt trapped. She wanted to cry, but what good would that do? Not only did Porter invade her beautiful home and disturb her life. Now their family tradition of holiday shopping was in shambles.
Nothing to be done. After she put away the dishes, they piled in the car for their trip to the mall. It was all wrong. Oscar set in her place beside her husband. IN HER SEAT. Oscar wore the coat she gave her husband for Christmas five years before. She loved that coat.
At least one thing remained the same. Andy stopped at the entrance to the mall to let her and Charlotte out. Paul stayed with the men. After parking the car in the multilevel parking garage, Oscar Paul and Andy joined Marianne and Charlotte in center court.
What followed was an hour and a half of misery for Marianne. Even her favorite stores bought her no joy. Around them children laughed, running ahead of their parents to look at the toys. They passed the long line for Santa. In the center court, a flash mob sang the Hallelujah Chorus. Normally Marianne would have reveled in the concert, gripping her husband’s hand, letting the music wash over her. Not today, not now. She just wished for the day to be over.
The lunch she envisioned gone. Now it became a story hour for their children. It seemed there was nothing Oscar had not done or place he had not been. Paul became so excited he knocked over his open cup of soda. Marianne jumped back to avoid being splashed.
Returning home, Marianne complained of a headache and excused herself. Laying on her bed, she had a good cry. It was all wrong. They ruined her perfect weekend. Why did Oscar have to pick this time to come back to that old house? Why couldn’t he stay away until after Christmas? Why did he have to come back at all?
When Andy came up to check on her, she quietly unloaded on him. She kept her voice low but menacing. He set on the bed beside her, listening as she ranted. When she finally ran down, he stood up stepped to the foot of the bed and said. “What was I supposed to do, Marianne? One of these days you’ll have to realize Christmas is not about you and your perfect house. It’s about people. That’s why Christ came and that’s why we have Christmas.”
Before she could reply, he walked out of the bedroom and quietly closed the door, leaving her alone. She fumed. Who did he think he was? His tone was the same one he used when correcting the children. “I am not a child.” She said, her face buried in her pillow. “Let them prepare their own dinner.”
Resentment built in her heart. She closed her eyes, intending to rest for just a few minutes. In her troubled sleep homeless men invaded her beautiful house, making a shamble of every room. She ran after them. cleaning each room only to have it become a mess before her eyes. Exhausted, she threw herself down on the bed, weeping. “I can’t do it, Lord. I just can’t keep my house clean for you.”
She woke with Andy’s words echoing in her mind. “It’s about people. That’s why Christ came and that’s why we have Christmas.”
In the room’s darkness, she felt alone. Beside her, Andy breathed heavily. Pulling her robe around her, she stepped into the hallway and closed the door. In the lamp’s glow from the living room, she made her way down the stairs. She entered the kitchen before she realized Oscar set at the table. A cup of coffee and an old tattered Bible lay before him. Too late to turn around. She stepped to the coffeepot and poured herself a cup.
“Are you feeling better?” He said, his voice gravelly.
“Yes, thank you.” She didn’t want to set at the table with him. She leaned against the counter, sipping from her cup.
“Must be difficult having a stranger disrupt your family, especially at Christmas time.” He said. “Becky that was my wife used to decorate our home starting right after thanksgiving left it that way until New Year’s Day.” He said, staring out into the night. “I want to thank you.”
Was he mocking her? “Thank me for what.” Even to her, the words sounded hostile.
If he noticed, it didn’t show. “After Becky died, I kind of lost my anchor. We had been buying houses and renting them out for our retirement. The one crossed the street is the last one. I sold the others after her death. Life lost its luster. Being with your family today reminded me of the. Christmases with my wife and the love we shared.” He said tears misting his eves. “We never had children, but the children from our church were a great blessing to us.”
“Your church?” Marianne asks.
“Yes, I pastored a small church just outside of Saint Louis. When my Becky died, I became bitter against The Lord.” He got to his feet. Stepping to the sink, and he washed out his cup. “I want to thank you again for restoring my faith in The Lord and mankind. Goodnight.” ” Goodnight.” Marianne said distracted. A minute later she noticed he had left his Bible. She started to call out to him, but he was already up the stairs. Finishing her coffee, she set her cup in the sink. Hesitantly, she picked up his Bible, intending to put it somewhere safe. Her eyes fell on the passage he had been reading.
Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
The dam broke. Marianne wept. With her tears came healing. She fell to her knees, her head resting on the chair Oscar had just occupied. After a time of prayer and confession, Marianne returned to bed to a dreamless sleep. Up at 6:30, she again read the passage from last night. This time from her own Bible marking the verses. At 7:30, she woke the house frying ham and eggs.
“Oscar’s going to church with us this morning.” Paul said, beaming.
“Yes, he’s going to teach our Sunday School class.” Charlotte said.
“Woo youngster, I only said I have taught Sunday School.” Oscar said.
“I invited him.” Andy said looking at Marianne.
Turning from washing the breakfast dishes, Marianne smiled at Oscar. “Yes, please come with us. I’m sure Andy has a suit that will fit you perfectly.”
Andy smiled at her. She returned his smile.
While the children ran to get dressed for church, Marianne trimmed Oscar’s hair and beard. 45 minutes later they entered the sanctuary. Oscar looked like a handsome grandfather in Andy’s dark blue suit and red tie.
He laughed at the antics of the children during the Christmas play. He sang the hymns heartily, not needing a songbook. Afterward, at Marianne’s insistence, he joined them for lunch at her favorite restaurant.
Oscar stayed with the family until after Christmas. Christmas morning was spectacular Andy presented Oscar with a new suit and his own red tie and white shirt. Learning his shoe size, Marianne gave him two pairs of shoes, one pair black and the other brown. Paul and Charlotte gave him homemade gifts. Oscar cherished them as much as the gifts from Marianne and Andy.
In June the family received a wedding invitation. Now pastoring a church in the small village of Hazel Dell, Oscar met a wonderful Christian widow. The next Christmas, Oscar and Kathleen joined the family for Christmas. At Marianne’s invitation, of course.




A Walk in the Woods

He tapped the surface of the pool with the forefinger of his right hand. The ripples sent the water spiders scurrying for cover. He didn’t mean to hurt the tiny creatures. He wasn’t sure if they would bite. His mother warned him about the spiders called the black widow and what was the name of the other one… oh yeah, the brown recluse. He played with granddaddy longlegs, but they weren’t the same. At the side of the creek, he sunk his bare feet into the warm mud. The sun warmed the mud like the butter from his mother’s oven. Hearing the rattle, he froze. Sweat popped out his forehead and his shirtless chest. Wearing only his rolled-up jeans, he felt defenseless. Keeping his body still, he looked behind him. The Rattlesnake was coiled, ready to strike. He could just make out the brown and gold hexagon pattern. Hidden among the autumn leaves, its small black eyes regarded the child. Last Saturday his daddy killed a snake in the barn. This one was bigger. Too far to call for help. His mother kept the windows closed in the back of the house. She wouldn’t hear him. His father was mowing the back pasture. He had a fleeting thought. This could be the mother of the one killed last week seeking revenge. Did animals repay the one who killed their loved ones? He didn’t know. He stood stock still, fearing the strike of the snake. He heard it rattle again. The Rattlesnake was becoming impatient. He could almost feel the sharp fangs digging into his flesh. One wrong move and he would be dead. Would the children from the school come to his funeral? His mother weeping as she dressed him in his best suit. He pictured himself laying in a casket at the front of the church. What would the preacher say about him? He hoped he wouldn’t bring up about him slipping the frog down the back of Susy’s dress last Sunday. He told her he was really sorry but didn’t mean it. He smiled at the memory of her screaming and dancing around. It took their Sunday school teacher Miss Miloy several minutes to catch her. Then more time to calm Susy enough to extract the little frog. He had to apologize in front of the whole church for that one. That wasn’t fun. His eyes caught a movement upstream. A limb a little smaller than the size of his arm floated in his direction. His heart soared; the stick was headed his way. He watched it come. One eye on the snake, one eye on the limb. It hit the calf of his leg. Moving his hand down an inch at a time, he reached for the stick. Tensing he prepared to spring. This was it. His plan was to leap forward, putting as much distance between him and the Rattlesnake as possible. At the same time, swing the limb behind him. If he failed, he would die. He jumped. His feet stuck in the mud, holding him fast. Screaming, he tore them loose and fell face first into the middle of the creek. Relief flooded his body. He was alive. He raised the club, expecting the snake to follow him into the water. Amazingly, the rattler hadn’t moved. Now armed, he was ready for a fight. Cautiously he approached the snake. He brought the club back to his shoulder like a bat. As he did the Rattlesnake melted away. What he thought was the snake was just a bunch of gold and brown leaves; the eyes last season’s acorns. The sound of the rattles, just the wind blowing, stirring up leaves. Thoughts of his funeral flew from his mind. Laughing, he struck off down the creek. Now on to his original mission, finding a small frog for Susy’s lunch pail. As soon as the boy was gone the Rattlesnake in to the place where the boy had been. It too was hunting for frogs.




Robby and the rooster

Robby Stanton stared through the fence of the chicken pen. His eyes following the rooster. The road island red seemed almost as tall as he. Consisted small for his age seven-year-old Robby felt as if he would never grow. Last night at his insistence, his mother measured him and then again, this morning. Pushing his back to the kitchen wall, he stretched his body as far as he could without standing on his tiptoes.
“Three foot eight.” His mother said smiling at him. Robby’s face fell. He had hoped that he would have gained at least a quarter of an inch overnight. “Come eat your breakfast. It will make you feel better.” She placed a bowl of steaming oatmeal on the table in front of him.
“Isn’t oatmeal sopst to make you big and strong?” He asks, following her dutifully. He hadn’t grown a bit in the last six months. He was the smallest kid in his class, including the girls.
His mother patted him on the head. He hated it when she did that. It made him feel like a little kid. “Don’t worry” she said “it’ll happen.” He spooned a few bits of the oatmeal into his mouth. He ate it down to the last spoonful but as far as he could see it did him no good.
Finishing his breakfast, he walked out on the back porch and took the wire basket down from the nail. He stood back and looked at the nail. His father had pounded it into the 2×4 just at the right height for him to reach. At that minute, he hated that nail.
Wondering out behind the house, he swung the basket around his head. He could do that when it was empty. Slowly he made his way to the chicken pen to gather the eggs. This was one of the few tasks he could perform around the farm without help. Now he stood looking at the new rooster his father brought home yesterday afternoon. The sharp beak and claws terrified him. He doodled around hoping the rooster would move away from the gate. Instead, the fowl came closer. In truth, the rooster was curious about this small human. Robby stepped back as the fowl named Rascal came to the gate. The small boy stood gawking at the rooster. The foul’s red and black fathers gleamed like a warrior’s armor in the sunlight. Spotting a worm, the rooster dug at the ground. Its claws appeared to Robby to be as sharp as knifes. Sweat popped out on the boy’s forehead. He glanced at the house, hoping his mother didn’t see his hesitation.
Robby tried to be brave, but other things frightened him. Noises in the night caused him to shiver. Surprisingly thunderstorms comforted him. In them he pretended he could hear the voice of God. Each night after his mother tucked him in. After she left, he climbed out of bed to check under it and inspect the closet. Then there were the shadows and, in each one, he saw an intruder. To Robbie’s imagination there were murderers and pirates crawling all over his room. Many a night he pulled the covers up over his head and prayed for morning. His parents brought him a nightlight which helped greatly.
“Don’t you think you should go out there?” Robby’s mother said standing back from the kitchen window so her son wouldn’t see her. “Yeah, I suppose I should. You know he’s gonna have to buck up. That rooster just needs to know who’s boss.” Ernest Stanton Said.
“He’s one of the biggest roosters I ever saw.” His mother said, her heart going out to her son.
“Yup, he’s a big’en alright.” Ernest said putting on his hat.
“Be patient with him, dear.”
“Of course.” He said going out. Ernest tried to think back when he was Robby’s age. He smiled and almost laughed. He thought of the time the old white rooster set him to flight. He vaguely remembered tugging on his gumboots so he could gather the eggs. That day the old rooster came at him again really to run him out of the chicken yard as he had before. Instead of running, Ernest stood his ground. When the rooster charged him, he kicked the fowl in the head. The rooster stopped as if he had hit a brick wall, fell to the ground and began flopping around. Ernest’s heart rose to his throat sure he had killed the rooster. He saw his mother killing hens for Sunday dinner. They acted the same way before they died. After a few seconds, the rooster lay still. Tears coursed down Ernest’s cheeks. His parents would understand, but the chicken was the first thing he had killed. Gingerly he approached the dead bird. To the young boy it seemed the rooster’s eyes had already glazed over. His Sunday school teacher Mrs. Young’s lesson this last week was about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead would he do the same with a chicken. Ernest nudged the rooster with the toe of his boot. The boy spring back as the rooster jumped to his feet looked at the boy then turning, he wobbled back to the chicken house. That night Ernest told his father about the incident. His father laughed and said the boy had probably just stunned the bird. The offshoot was the rooster never bothered Ernest again. He thought of Robby. No with his size, the boy could barely walk in gumboots. They would come all the way up his thighs.
Robbie was still staring at the rooster when his father came up behind him. Ernest laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. Robbie jumped, convinced the bird had somehow reached through the fence and touched him. He dropped the wire basket he was holding. His father seemed not to notice.
“Come on, let’s get those eggs. I’ll give you a hand.” His father said, picking up the basket and opening the gate. Fearfully Robby hung back. Patiently, his father held the gate open. Finally, Robby stepped into the pen. Staying on the opposite side of his father, he watched the rooster with a wary eye. Walking into the chicken house, his father shooed the hens off the nest. Robby had learned the first time he gathered the eggs: if the hen didn’t want the nest disturbed, she would peck your hand. A peck from their beak was painful and could draw blood. The first time it happened, he ran back to the house screaming. His mother dubbed Mercurochrome on the back of his hand while comforting him in soothing tones. For the next few days, she went with him as he collected the eggs.
When he was young, Rascal fought to establish himself with the flock. In a short while, he became the top rooster in the barnyard. Under his feathers, he had the scars to prove his status Almost to the third year of his life, Rascal was now more interested in food than fighting.
To him, humans meant food and protection from varmints. He followed the boy and man, watching their every move. He didn’t see any chicken feed in the small wire basket the man carried, but that meant nothing. As far as Rascal was concerned humans could produce food out of thin air.
After collecting the eggs, Robby and his father started for the gate. Surely, they wouldn’t be leaving without scattering at least some shelled corn on the ground. Rascal ran at them. All Robby saw was a charging rooster he ran screaming through the gate his father held open. Ernest slammed it shut in the rooster’s face. Ashamed of his crowdedness, Robbie followed his father, his head hung low.
Inwardly his father smiled. Bravery would come in time however not today. He went to repair some equipment, leaving Robby to his other chores.
All day long Robby watched the rooster. Helping his mother beat the rugs sweeping the porch playing in the yard. Rascal was never far from his thoughts or if he could help it in his sight. Each time he looked at him, the rooster seemed bigger.
To Robby, Rascal was weird. Their old rooster Buster only crowed at sunrise. Rascal crowed any time he felt like it. His cries sent a sharp edge straight through the boy. He could have attributed that to Buster’s age. He was old when Robbie was born. Last week his father come in and said the old rooster was on his last legs. He saw him in the chicken pen, barely moving. Later in the evening, he watched his father pick up the rooster by his legs. Buster was already stiff.
They buried him out behind the barn. Ernest even set up a little cross with the rooster’s name on it. Buster never challenged Robbie he ignored the boy as he gathered eggs or any other activity, which required his presence in the chicken yard. Not so Rascal he watched every move the boy made. The rooster’s crowing unnerved Robby. At first, he heard the sound, as bragging. Then it seemed the tone changed to a challenge.
As he did his chores or played, it seemed Rascal’s eyes never left him. One time he dared step up to the fence, trying to conquer his fears. His fingers curled in the openings of the wire. He stared at him. Suddenly the rooster rushed the fence. Jumping back, the boy turned and ran for the house. Rascal unconcerned plucked up the worm he had seen at Robbie’s feet and gobbled it down.
Robbie’s fear went beyond the rooster to snakes and spiders. He barely used the outhouse for weeks last year after his father killed a big black snake hanging from the ceiling of the small building. Then he took his mother’s old umbrella and kept it extended all the time he was in the building’s confines. He stole glances around its edges, sure that there were multitudes of the reptiles hanging from the two by fours.
At night, his mother read stories to him from the old family Bible. He listened to the brave men and women challenging kings and others in authority. Daniel in the lion’s den. Elijah speaking to Ahab.
A week later, he woke in the middle of the night hearing a sound. Something was after the chickens. Leaping out of bed, he ran to his parent’s bedroom. His father set on the edge of the bed pulling on his boots. “Be careful, dear.” His mother said setting up in bed.
“Keep him in the house.” Ernest said, indicating Robby. He grabbed his flashlight and his rifle. Checking to make sure it was loaded, he hurried out of the house.
“Come with me.” his mother said. Together Robby and his mother watched from the back porch.
Ernest shined his light on the chicken yard. Rascal, his feathers bloody, stood blocking the door to the coop. Two coyotes faced him, one on either side. Each time one of them advanced, the rooster ran at the coyote screeching like a banshee. When the animal backed off, Rascal returned to guard the door.
Ernest turned on the flashlight, catching the coyotes in its beam. They turned their attention to this new threat. Their eyes bright with fear, they searched for a way to escape. One bounded to the top of the wire. Taking aim, Ernest sent a bullet through its brain. It fell to the ground outside the pen dead. The other one ran frantically along the fence, searching for a hole to escape. It took two bullets to end its life. The first crippled it, making it limp crazily.
Rascal staggered over to the dead coyote, pecked at it. Then turning, he took up position before the door to the chicken coop. He stood there a few seconds, then collapsed. The din of the hens calmed down. Protected and safe, they returned to sleep.
Leaning the rifle against the fence, Ernest entered the chicken yard. Tenderly he picked up the rooster and closing the gate carrying him to the house.
Hurrying into the other room, Robbie’s mother returned with a blanket and spread it on the floor. For the next few minutes Robbie watched his father and mother tenderly care for the wounded rooster.
“Is he dead? Robby asks, leaning over from his seated position.
“Just about.” His father said. He saw tears in his mother’s eyes.
“He sure fought them coyotes.” Robbie said, feeling ashamed of the way he treated Rascal.
Setting a bowl of warm water on the floor, his mother gently washed the rooster’s wounds.
“He sure did. Hadn’t been for him those coyotes would have killed all the hens.” His father said lifting a wing so his mother could wash under it.
“You go back to bed your father and I will care for Rascal.”
Tears pricked Robby’s eyes. “I’ll pray for him.” He said looking at the rooster. Lying on the floor, Rascal seemed smaller than before.
“That would be nice.” His mother said with a sad smile.
As the small boy left the room, Ernest said. “It’ll have to be The Lord that brings him through. He’s hurt pretty bad. Rascal showed no reaction when his mother poured Hydrogen Peroxide on his wounds.
In bed, Robby thought of Rascal and his bravery standing and protecting his hens against certain death. He knew the coyotes would have killed them. As sleep took him, he prayed for the rooster and himself to be as brave as Rascal. He wanted to stay awake but after a few minutes his eyes lids became heavy.
In his dream Robby heard something. A dozen, then hundreds and hundreds of coyotes attack the farm. Rascal grew to giant size, protecting not just the chicken coop but the house barn and all the livestock. Wounded and bloody, he fought them all. They retreated with him still standing guard ready for their next attack. He crowed, a weak sound coming from his wounded throat. Robby fought against sleep, opening his eyes. In the doorway to his bedroom. Stood the rooster. Rascal wobbled, almost going down. Staggering like a drunken man, he approached the bed. The boy felt no fear. He smiled at the rooster. His mother stood in the doorway.
“He turned the corner just after midnight.” She said smiling. “We’ll keep him in the house for the next few days until he becomes stronger.”
“That’ll give us time to become friends.” Robby said. Reaching out his right hand, he smoothed the feathers on the back of Rascal’s neck. The rooster closed his eyes, enjoying the attention.
In the next week, while Rascal recovered, Robby and the rooster became friends. For the first day or two, the Rascal did more sleeping than anything. On the third morning, Robby came into the kitchen struggling to carry the rooster. Turning around from the stove, his mother smiled. “I’m going to take him out on the back porch if you think that would be alright.” Robby said, shifting the weight of the rooster. Stepping to the door, his mother opened it for them.
“I think that would be just fine.” She said. “Do you need anything?”
“No, I’m going to feed him and get him some water.”
A few minutes later Ernest entered the kitchen. “Come look at this.” He said, indicating the boy on the porch. Together husband and wife watched as the rooster gently pecked chicken feed out of Robby’s hand.
This was the turning point in Robby’s life no longer was he afraid to enter the chicken yard. He slept at night, aware that God was watching over him.
Rascal lived a long-contented life. Many days Robby let him out. The rooster followed Robby around like a dog while the boy performed his chores or played in the shade on hot summer days.
Twelve years later, as Robby stood on the battlefield, he thought of Rascal. The rooster had died of old age. They buried him in a special place on the hill overlooking the farm.
Yet the lesson he taught a young boy of standing for what was right still resonated in Robby’s heart and would for generations to come.




Firefight

I was bleeding to death. My life flowed out of me, pooling on the floor at my feet. I reached for my 9 mm pistol, my fingers closing around the grip. It was time to kill these invaders. There was a problem. I had ejected the empty mag. Therein was the dilemma. I fumbled with the extra mag it fell from my fingers onto the pew.
The Torus held 12 shells. After which it became a useless hunk of metal. Foolishly, I had wasted shots. Easy shots. Panicking I fired to keep the two shooters distracted as they shot at the fleeing congregation. Now they were hiding behind the pews. All I succeed in doing was getting shot. I could have laid my pistol down. Given up and not made me a target. But that wasn’t in my nature. Maybe a fault. I never gave up. Within the unused mag lay 12 more opportunities to bring these madmen down. My colleague was down. Dead? I wasn’t sure. From what I could see, he’d taken two in the chest. Our pastor lay unmoving behind the pulpit. I thought I heard him groan. The two individuals turned in his direction.
As head of security for our small church, I was their last hope. Maybe their only hope. These shooters were bent on dying. However, before they did, each member of the church would feel their wrath. I glanced at the stained-glass windows. They glowed with red and blue flashing lights. They chose well. My partner and I were the only armed individuals in this church. They came at us from the back door. How I don’t know I checked ten minutes after the service began. If they had a key or not I wasn’t sure, they were here now and if I bled to death it would be wholesale slaughter. With every ounce of blood, I became weaker. It was now or never.
“Help me. “I said to my wife. Hunkered down five feet away, her face hidden in her arms, tears dripped from her wrist. She looked at me, her face creased with horror. Her expression said it all: we were going to die.
Gathering strength, she crawled over to me. With one hand bracing the floor, she gripped my right arm. I almost howled in agony. If I had any doubt, their bullet broke my arm before she erased it from my pain fogged mind. “No” I whispered fiercely. “Load my gun.”
She stared at me; her eyes wide. “Do it, please.” I whispered.
To my knowledge, my wife has never touched a gun, rifle or pistol, let alone loaded one. This would be a first. Her hands shaking, she pried the pistol from my bloody hand. Her fingers trembling, she griped the 12-shot mag. jamming it into the pistol. Turning tear-filled eyes on me, she whispered. “It won’t fit.”
“Other way “I said. She flipped it around and slid the mag home. She shoved it into my hand. “Jack it.”
She looked at me, puzzled. “Pull the top back. Put one in the chamber.” I said. She did. Now ready, I gripped the top of the pew in front of us and struggled to my feet. In the next few seconds, I would kill these men or they me. Both of them were facing the front of the church. As far as they were concerned, I was dead, or at least dying. The shorter oner aimed his pistol at our pastor. As he squeezed the trigger I fired. My bullet startled him. He jerked to the left, his bullet plowing into the floor inches from pastor’ head.
I missed, my bullet coming within inches. Yet it was enough for them to know I was still alive. The 9mm felt as if it weighted a hundred pounds. As one unit, they turned to me. They fired. How could they miss I was 25 feet away? The first bullet clipped my damaged right arm the second slammed into my left shoulder. By shear will I stayed on my feet but not for long I was going down. I could see the smaller one grinning through the ski mask. He walked up the aisle. I saw his plan as if he wrote it in blood. Frist to kill me, and my wife then the rest of the congregation.
I kept my eyes down on the Torus laying it on the top of the pew facing out to the isle. I pretended as if I didn’t have the strength to fight. Coming to the end of my pew, his grin widened. In a shooter’s stance, feet firmly planted on the floor, he raised his pistol for the killing shot. The gun kicked in my hand. The grin disappeared from his face along with several of his bottom teeth. He was dead before he hit the floor.
I went to my knees, bracing the pistol on the top of the pew. Taking aim, I hit the surviving gunman in the chest. The 9 mm wouldn’t penetrate his body armor, but it was enough to stop him temporarily. He fired his aim way off he took out the clock. My strength leaving me, I fired at the only unprotected part of him. His head. They say the 9 mm tore his face apart. I left the task of identification to the police. His head rocked back and forth as if he were nodding. He went down hard. It was clear he would not be getting back up.
As soon as the threat was gone, so was I. I set down on the pew and dropped the pistol. I didn’t have any choice. My blood covered hand would not hold the gun. Come to find out my colleague took one in the shoulder. The second bullet missed him entirely. He lay on the platform behind our pastor, waiting. When I began firing, he opened up. Thus, we caught the lone gunman in a crossfire. He didn’t have a chance. Knowing he must be stopped; we didn’t aim for his body. The 9 mms tore his skull apart. I had 10 bullets left in my mag, my colleague 11. 21 projectiles smashing into his head from both directions.
My colleague lay his Colt on the floor and raised his right hand over his head. The other hung at his side. His badge in the palm of his hand facing out. The glass exploded in the church’s front doors. S.W.A.T. had arrived. My wife ripped my badge off my belt and thrust it up over my slumped body. Surrounding the church, law enforcement bided their time to minimize loss of life. Hearing the multitude of shots, the State Police captain gave the order for S.W.A.T. to break down the doors and go in. They feared all they would find was dead bodies.
I eased down on the pew, staining it with my blood. Six members of the S.W.A.T. team charged down the center isle looking for someone to shoot. They checked the shooters. Both dead. After being assured by me and my colleague the shooters were alone, they herded the rest of the congregation unhurt but terrified into the parking lot.
The shooter’s bullet had wounded pastor in the forearm and the other member of my team in the shoulder. We were the only injuries. They lay me on the pew, stuffing bandages on my wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. My wife held my hand so tightly her grip hurt. No way would she let go until it became necessary.
“I love you.” I said with a weak smile. “Your safe.”
“I love you.” She moaned. Her face dissolved.
The next time I opened my eyes, sunlight flooded the room. Hearing beeping, I glanced at a large machine with a flashing red light. It settled down turning green but not before it woke my wife sleeping curled up in a chair by the window. Instantly she came to my side, smoothing my hair. Tears in her eyes, I tried to lift my hand and found I couldn’t. Leaning down, she kissed me on the forehead.
“They had to tie you down.” She said softly.
“Why?” I mumbled.
“You were still fighting the shooters.”
She untied me.
“Are you safe?” I said raising up.
She smiled. When we first met many years ago, her smile was the first thing I noticed. “Yes, you can go back to sleep.”
And so, I did, permanently.




Running With the Bull

Where was he? Cody kept near the fence. Not seeing the bull, he dared to creep to the grove of trees in the middle of the pasture. Maybe old Bubba was lying down in the shade of the big sycamore. Hot summer days like this, Cody liked to dip his bare feet in the cool water of the spring. His feet hot, dusty the water cooled them really good. He walked into the shallow end of the pool. Curling the sand under his toes, he wiggled them in the sand and closed his eyes.
He pulled up his britches so not to wet them. “If’n my daddy finds out, I’m in the pasture I’m in for a spankin’. He sees me wet he gonna know where I been.” He danced around, careful not to splash too high. “That old bulls over on the other side of the field lookin’ at them cows.” He hummed a tune he heard in church last Sunday. His eyes still closed, he pretended he was Peter walking on water. At the sound of breaking brush, he froze. Opening his eyes, he looked into the angry bloodshot eyes of the bull. His pulse pounded in his ears; his breath caught in his throat. He backed up out of the water.
“Hi Bubba how are you, nice day ain’t it. I ain’t supost to say ain’t but Miss Rule’s not here.” He felt grass under his feet. In the middle of the pool, the bull glared at the boy. “Miss Rule, she’s my schoolteacher.” Gathering a breath, Bubba snorted at the child.
Screaming, Cody whirled and ran. Bubba gave chase. The boy glanced behind and picked up speed, his heart about to beat out of his chest, his breath coming in spurts. Gaining on him, Bubba’s pounding hoofs thundered closer. Sweat flew off the boy.
One way or the other, this would be his last run. The fence seemed a mile away. The closer he came, the further it was. Over the ridge he came running flat out. A hundred yards to the fence. The door to the cabin flew open.
Women poured onto the porch. Death behind him and trouble in front. His rear end tingled, anticipating the spanking he would receive. That is, if he lived. ‘Thought she was gone’ he said to himself. He ran on his feet flying. He had an audience. His mother in the midst, of the women. One hand covered her mouth, the other on her chest, a look of horror on her face. The bull snorted he almost had his prey. Cody imagined he felt the hot breath of the longhorn. His right foot hit a throne bush. It hurt like blazes, slowing him down but not stopping him.
“Run boy, he’s right behind ye.” Mrs. Dalton shouted.
“You can make it. The fence‘ll stop ‘im” Old lady Boide called.
Others shouted words of encouragement.
His father came out of the barn with a pitchfork in his hand.
“I’m in trouble now.” Cody breathed. Five foot behind him Bubba gave a mighty lunge his left horn barely missing the child’s back by an inch. He bellowed in frustration.
Cody hit the fence, hands straight out and bolted over, rolling on the ground. Leaning his head over the top wire, the bull shook his horns and bellowed. Setting up on his rump, Cody grinned at the bull. His head held high; Bubba turned back in the direction of the spring. Inspecting his foot, Cody picked at the sticker.
A hand picked him up by the back of his shirt. Cal Pickens hold the boy. He turned him around until their eyes were level. “I done told you the next time you bother that bull, I was gonna wear you out.”
Cody grinned. “Bubba sure can run can’t he pa.”
“I brought that bull for breeding, not for chasing my son.”
“Cody Pickens, how many times have we told you to stay out of that pasture?” Kary Pickens said, her eyes moist.
“Know where the name Pickins came from now.” Mrs. Bolide said. “He sure was apicikn’ them up and laying them down.
The gathering of women tittered Kary Pickens looked like she was ready to cry. Picking up the tail of her apron, she dabbed her eyes.
“Suce us ladies, we got some business to take care of.” Cal said. He turned in the direction of the barn.
“Can’t we talk about this pa?” Cody said, twisting around. Putting his hand around his son’s waist, Cal carried him in the barn’s direction.
“We done talked about you staying out of that pasture. You didn’t listen.”
Cody’s mind searched for something to say that would change his father’s mind about the spanking. Suddenly he thought of something his grandfather said last Sunday in his sermon. He took a deep breath; surly God would hear if he shouted loud enough.
“Lord be merciful to me a sinner.” Cody yelled at the top of his lungs. It worked his father stopped in mid-stride. His face cracked. Behind him, the women roared in laughter. Kary tried to appear stern. Her mouth twitched. She put her hand over her mouth. A snorkel escaped. She gave in. Cal stared at them.
If it worked one time, he would give it another shot. Maybe if he added please? “Please, Lord be merciful to me a sinner”
It started at Cal’s eyes and ran to n the rest of his face. Setting his son on the ground he joined the others, slapping his knees and bending over he laughed until his sides hurt and tears came to his eyes. Relieved, Cody’s eyes roamed from his father and mother to the ladies. He grinned, believing the danger of a spanking past.
As quickly as it started, it was over. The women returned to their quilting bee, and Cal put his hand on Cody’s shoulder.
“Come on, son, let’s get this over with” With his other hand, he loosened his belt. Cody’s face fell.
“Bu… but I asked The Lord to help me. “
“Yes, and He’s agonna do it.” Tears leaked from Cody’s eyes.
A minute later, the women listened as Cal took five easy hits on Cody’s rear, each one accompanied by a squeal.
“That Cody, he’s a good boy. Why he go in the pasture when he knows the bull is there?” Mrs. Dalton said.
His mother smiled. “To cool his feet. The water in the spring bubbles out of the ground and dipping his feet cools his whole body.”
“I think between the bull and his daddy, his feet are the only thing that’s cool.” Old lady Boide said laughing.
The other ladies chuckled.
Rubbing his rear end, Cody set on the bench under the apple tree to the side of the cabin.
“Ain’t worth it.” He said out loud, “My feet may be cool, but my butt’s on fire.”



*****

Dear Reader
In the acknowledgments I said each book or story takes on a life of its own. Sometimes it is more difficult to write a short story than a novel. You must develop the story quickly. The thread of the tale must run true from beginning to end. The beginning must hold your attraction. The middle keep your interest and the end be satisfying. If one of these elements. is missing, the story fails.
I hope I have succeeded in this book and you enjoyed meeting the characters in each story
Darrell


Darrell Case is an award-winning Christian author. More Tales from My Back Porch is his twelfth book.
For more information about Darrell and his books, go to his website https://www.darrellcase.org
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