Jesus, Big Tony, and Me

"Hold on," I shouted, flipping the shower curtain aside. My foot slipped on the tub and I bashed my leg. "Goddamn!" I looked at my knee expecting to see a large black and blue mark. Nothing, but it hurt like hell so I rubbed it with my hand. "Coming," I hollered, wrapping a white terry towel around my middle and tracking wet footprints on my glistening hardwood.

"Who is it?" I stuck my wet eye to the peephole.

"Jesus."

What? I rubbed at my eye. Jesus? The only Jesus I knew played baseball and pronounced his name 'Hay-soos.'

"Who?"

"Jesus Christ."

My eye cleared. I saw this big fat guy with hairy arms and a dirty white smock.

"Show me your face." My body started to tingle. I thought of the Holy Ghost.

He turned. He had a bushy, stringy beard.

"All right," I said, "Who are you?"

He reached into a fold of his smock and extracted a wallet. "Here's my driver's license." He pulled out a blue plastic card and held it toward the peephole.

The picture was of a younger, thinner man, but there was a resemblance.

"It's not a good picture," He said. "They never are."

"How come Jesus Christ needs a driver's license?"

"I don't. You asked for ID—I thought I'd show you something familiar."

"How about a birth certificate?"

"Clever."

He pulled out a card that looked like Amex or VISA Gold. "This one's hard to read. I'll shove it under your door."

I looked down. A corner stuck through.

"Pull from your side. It seems stuck."

I bent down. "Hey, wait a minute, if you're really Jesus Christ, why did you have to shove it under the door? Couldn't you like poof it through?"

"Poof it?"

"Like magic, you know, POOF!"

"I suppose so. I never thought of that."

The card started to glow. I jumped back. The card skittered back into the hallway. "Holy shit," I yelled.

"What happened.?"

"There's some weird shit going on."

"It's a small miracle. You sounded like you wanted to see something Copperfieldian."

I stuck my eye back to the peephole. "The trouble I'm having man is that you don't look like Jesus."

"What did you think I'd look like?"

"Well, you know, all white and stuff."

"I'm wearing a white top. Isn't that good enough?"

"I thought you'd be shiny."

"Shiny?"

"Glowy, you know—a glowy halo."

"I don't think 'glowy' is a word."

"Hey, I let Copperfieldian pass, you should let glowy pass."

"I'm heir to Him. I'm allowed to make up words. You're not."

"Well, you don't look like the pictures I've seen."

"Book or film?"

"Both. I have read the Bible you know, and I saw The Ten Commandments and some TV specials, like at Easter."

"Yes, I know."

"Do you really know everything, like do you spy on everyone, even in their bedrooms?"

"We don't think of it as spying."

"So you know about…uh…that girl last night?"

"Yes, I do, and that's why I'm here. Please open the door so we can talk."

I figured if I didn't, he'd just pop through so I opened the door. He stepped in. I smelled an odor like the camel I'd ridden once when I visited Egypt, and his white smock was even dirtier than I first noticed.

"You're staring."

"I'm having trouble getting past your appearance. I mean look at your smock. It's filthy."

"It's a robe."

"Robe, schmobe, it…isn't fresh smelling." I thought better of telling him He smelled like a camel, you know, just in case He really was the Big J.

"You know, I've traveled a great distance, and I'm sorry my appearance doesn't measure up to your standards, but right now, I need to use your bathroom, real baa-aad."

"I don't think so. Nowhere in the Bible does it say you ever used the bathroom."

"You ever see people using bathrooms in movies?"

"Lots: urinals, stinky toilets, even Nicole Kidman in Eyes Wide Shut."

"OK, bad example—we didn't have toilets back then—everyone went behind the bushes."

"Good thing they didn't pick that burning bush thing."

"That's not funny. Now show me the way before it's too late, if you get my drift."

I nodded down the hall. He took off running as fast as a fat man in sandals could run, slammed the door, and locked it. I didn't want to listen, but the door was paper thin. He peed in the middle of the bowl, noisy, just like me. After a moment, He flushed and the door immediately opened.

"You didn't wash your hands."

"I'm not an employee."

"Now who's being funny?"

I stared at his feet. "Who wears socks with sandals anymore?"

"Is that all?"

"Frankly no. You look more like Sam, my butcher."

"Because he wears socks with his sandals?"

"Because you're both fat."

"I'm not sure I like the word 'fat.'"

"Why, didn't your Father invent it?"

"Oh, He invented it all right. He invented all words—well, except the ones your President makes up. It's just that my Father didn't intend that 'fat' be used to describe people, particularly me."

Bright lightning zigzagged across the sky and hit the ground. I looked out the window in time to see my apple tree explode. A clap of thunder shook the house. I dove into the closet.

He laughed.

I stuck my head out. A baked apple smell filled the air. "Does He do that whenever anyone calls you fat?"

"No, He does that to let us know it's going to rain. Sorry about the tree—His aim isn't what it used to be."

I stepped out of the closet, went to the open window, and looked up at the darkening sky, roiling gray and purple. "This isn't going to be one of those ark things is it, cubits and all that hammering?"

"No, just a little rain to freshen the air. Take a whiff. Doesn't that smell fantastic?"

I inhaled a deep breath through my nose. "Not bad," I said. A few golf-ball sized hail stones rocketed down and left knuckle dents in the roof of my brand new car. "OK, OK, fantastic, it smells fantastic."

A rainbow arced across the sky. The dents in my car popped out.

"Jesus Christ!"

"Yes?"

"I mean, Goddamn that was great. How'd you do that?"

It got dark again.

"Oh shit, sorry. I meant to say 'goldang.' How about 'shit,' is 'shit' allowed?"

"It doesn't violate a commandment, though it should be used to describe the act, like in taking a shit, or the thing, like a piece of shit. I don't think He likes to hear it as an expression of disgust."

"How come you don't know for sure?"

"I'm sort of like an apprentice, a beginner. In fact, some think I'm not qualified to run the Division, that the only reason I'm There is because I'm the Boss's son."

He looked sad. "Say, would you like to sit?" I motioned to my new sofa.

"Nice sofa."

"I got it at IKEA for four-hundred bucks. Bloomies had one for nine-hundred, but by the time my friends spill beer all over it, who'll know?"

"Give the money you saved to a church or some worthwhile charity."

"Jesus Christ, maybe you really are Jesus Christ."

"You say my name a lot."

"I didn't mean to offend." I sank in the wicker chair that sat kitty-corner to the sofa, being extra careful not to flash my privates. I mean, can you imagine: if He saw my main motor parts, well kiss the erections goodbye. I'd have to hire Bob Dole full time.

"You didn't offend me. People who try to dictate what others believe offend me. Why is it so hard to understand that if my Father made a bunch of different trees and flowers and birds and stuff so people could pick the ones they like, that He wouldn't make a bunch of different religions?"

"Hmmm, I never thought of it that way."

He wiped his brow. "Sorry for the sermon. Do you have any filtered water?"

"Will bottled be OK? Or I could go outside and get a rock. Didn't you get water from a rock?"

"My Father did, if you can believe that?"

"Of course, I mean, it is in the Bible."

He smiled. I took him the bottle of water. He studied the label.

"They sure have a lot of strange names for water," He said, and unscrewed the top.

"You're a lefty?"

"Ambidextrous."

"Of course."

He took a sip and said, "Aaah, that's good," and then He burped.

An awkward silence hung between us.

"What's wrong?"

"I dunno, I guess I thought you'd say 'excuse me.'"

"Why should I? I don't say excuse me when I take a breath. I don't say excuse me when I blink my eye. I don't say excuse me when I scratch an itch."

"Hey, don't get me wrong. Personally, I'm with you, but do me a favor?"

"Sure, I guess I owe you one."

"When you're around my mother, please say excuse me."

"That's it?"

"Yeah, otherwise I'll never hear the end of it."

"Boy do I know that scene. You should hear what my Old Man says about some of my friends, and let me tell you, He gives a whole new meaning to 'never hearing the end of it.'"

He put the water bottle down then and leaned forward, elbow on knee, chin on hand, His eyes burned into mine.

I tensed. Maybe this was the big one: the Second Coming. Goose bumps covered my skin. All my sins, well at least the recent ones, coursed through my mind. How many were there? Not that many, unless He counted swearing and pre-marital sex. I hadn't killed anyone or committed adultery, except in the adultery department I guess He'd consider me an accessory since that fling with my neighbor's wife, which probably meant I'd also get a 'coveting' demerit even though I hadn't coveted. I mean, she came on to me big time. Sure, I was willing but I hadn't started it. More goose bumps. I shivered. I'm on my way to hell!

"I need to talk to you about Mary Magdalena Ricardi."

I shifted uneasily. "Who?"

"The young lady you were with last night."

"She told me her name was Mary Richards, like the TV show. That's how I remember."

He scowled. "Her real name is Mary Magdalena Ricardi."

"Now hold on--she told me she was twenty-two and single."

He looked about ready to start whaling on my body that was downright fragile compared to his big, fat hands.

"Hey, wait a minute, she's not…"

"Not what?"

"I mean, in the Good Book there was this woman Mary Magdalene—"

He threw his head back and laughed. It wasn't a pleasant laugh. Then He looked at me with cold, ice-blue eyes, and I was afraid…probably like the shepherds felt the night they saw the Angel of The Lord and were sore afraid, though I'd never managed to find our what sore in that context meant. I'd always assumed it meant afraid until it hurt.

"Here's the deal," He said, folding his hands together under his chin. I thought of doing the same, but it didn't look like a prayer was about to commence. "Her father doesn't want harm to come to Mary."

"You mean your Father."

"No, I mean her father."

"I'm confused."

"Maria Magdalena Ricardi is the only daughter of Big Tony Ricardi."

A chill moved into every one of my bones and every square inch of my skin. I felt like vomiting.

"You ever hear of Big Tony?"

Everyone alive and a lot of dead people knew of Big Tony, the killing machine. I felt my head nod.

Big Tony talked to me this morning. He told me anyone who makes his little girl unhappy will loose his balls. He prayed that wouldn't happen to you."

Sweat beaded on my brow. I squeezed my legs together.

"Now if you call Maria and take her out again, she will be very happy. In fact, she will be so happy she will tell Big Tony, and Big Tony will be happy, and you can stop worrying about your testicles."

"I will. I'll call her before noon, right after you leave."

"I'll know if you don't."

An hour ago I had trouble remembering her face. Now, the face of the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen floated into my mind.

"No, I will, I promise, but tell me one thing: How come you're fronting for a guy like Big Tony? He doesn't seem to be the kind of person I thought you'd be running errands for."

"Judge not, lest ye be judged."

He had an answer for everything.

"Big Tony wanted to come along, but I told him I would handle it this one time. He drained the last of the water and stood. "You know what Big Tony said?"

I shook my head.

"He said there better not be a next time."

I felt an urgent need to pee. He stuck out his hand. Bravely, I stuck out mine. His hand was big and rough and he squeezed so hard I felt bones crunch.

"Jesus Christ," I said. "That hurt."

"I know," He said, and then He was gone, not 'poof gone' but out the door gone, like a human.

I shuffled to the window and looked out at the street just as He walked out the front door of the building and started down the sidewalk. He looked up and smiled, and then stepped into the back seat of a black stretch limo with New Jersey plates that said BIG TONY. I peed on the floor.

THE END

Tex

The wind freshened. I smelled the coming rain. To the west, thunderclouds began to pile up. The crops needed rain, but always the fear was hail, big hail that would smash and beat the crops into the ground.

Wind whistled down the wide, rutted road that served as the town’s main street. A cloud of dust whirled in the air, clattering tiny specs of dirt and rock against the large windows of the weathered store fronts that lined the street. I closed my eyes and tucked my head under my arm. My sweater sleeve made a good air filter and protected my face. The ESSO service station sat a few feet ahead to my left. I felt my way along until I reached the alcove next to the two gas pumps.

Safely out of the wind, I lowered my arm and squinted across the street. That’s when I saw him. Like a creature from the mists he appeared, statue-like and staring straight ahead, sitting on the single front step leading to the Post Office.

A faded, green half-ton rattled up the street and pulled into the service station. It was my friend, Cuddow—real name Norbert but mostly we used nicknames—dropping off his father’s 1939 Fargo for some motor work. Cuddow was sixteen, three years older than me, but he treated me equal.

“Jeez, ju see that?” I asked, stepping from the alcove.

“What?” Cuddow slammed the front door of the half-ton. It didn’t close. He slammed it again. It closed.

“That scary old fart across the street; didn’t even blink when that giant cloud of dust blew past, sat here like nuthin happened..”

Cuddow glanced over his shoulder. “Who, old Tex? He eats that stuff for breakfast.”

“Who the hell is old Tex?”

Up until now all the critical things in life such as kissing girls, drinking booze, flipping through girlie magazines in the back shed, and smoking everything from corn silk in homemade pipes to cigarettes stolen from his old man’s stash, I had learned from Cuddow. Old Tex hadn’t been one of them. That was about to change. Cuddow peered down through his thick glasses with their reddish brown plastic frames about the same color as the million freckles splattered across his face. I sucked in a deep breath of anticipation.

“Tex isn’t his real name, you know.”

“Whaddya mean?” Something in the way he said it made my heart skip a beat. This was going to be big.

“They call him Tex because he used to be a Texas Ranger.”

“Bullshit!”

He looked at me real hurt like. “I mean, you’re kidding me, ain’t cha?”

“Go ask Tin Chin.”

Tin Chin, otherwise known as William McAllister, owned McAllister’s Grocery and Dry Goods store, one of the two stores in town. Because his chin receded just below the mouth and ran into his neck, we’d started off calling him Thin Chin. Somewhere along the way it ended up being Tin Chin.

“No, I believe ya. But, Jesus, man, a Texas Ranger, in this shit hole?”

We started walking toward Tin Chin’s place.

“You know why he’s here?”

I shook my head no. A minute ago I didn’t even know who Tex was, but I knew it wasn’t really a question; it was Cuddow’s way of feeding me a bit at a time, keeping the suspense going.

“He’s huntin’ the bastard that raped his daughter. Word is he’s gunna kill the son-of-a-bitch.” Cuddow sounded John Wayne.

“Tex is Irene Richey’s father?”

No one in town was supposed to know about the rape, but there weren’t many secrets in small towns.

Cuddow nodded. We pushed through Tin Chin’s front door.

“Boys.” Tin Chin greeted us. No one else was in the store.

“Hello, Mr. McAllister,” Cuddow said.

“Hello,” I said. I didn’t look square at Tin Chine because I didn’t like him much. Once, when I was ten, he’d chased one of my friends and me out of his store with a broom.

“You see my new car?”

“That yours?” Cuddow asked in a suck up of sort of way. Cuddow worked part-time for Tin Chin so he had to suck up. “The new Studebaker? Nice.”

“Just got her. Picked her up from LO this morning. Commander; biggest one there is.”

L.O. was the local dealer; a lot of people, my old man included, thought he was a crook. If that were true, in my opinion, L.O. and Tin Chin deserved each other. Tin Chin was a blow hard. That’s another reason I didn’t like him much. Besides, we weren’t there to find out about his dumb car.

“’52?” Cuddow asked.

Tin Chin recoiled like he’d been slapped. “You kiddin’ me? She’s a ‘53 all the way.”

“Wow,” Cuddow said. Who cares, I thought.

“Wanna go for a ride?”

“Can’t right now. Maybe tomorrow.”

Maybe never, I thought.

“Actually, we wanted to ask you a question about old Tex.”

Tin Chin looked askance. I figured he was pissed because we wouldn’t go for a ride in his new Stupid Baker. “Whaddya want to know?” He twirled a piece of store string between his fingers. His phony smile had disappeared. He seemed cautious.

“You know Hal Poole? He tried to tell us old Tex used to be a Texas Ranger; he said that’s why everyone calls him Tex.”

Tin Chin broke the string. “That Poole’s a no good son-of-a-bitch half-breed. You boys have no business hanging around with his kind.”

“Well, we weren’t actually with him,” Cuddow said. “We were at the hotel when he staggered out of the bar; we overheard him talkin’ to someone else is all.”

I looked down to see if I was knee-deep in all the bullshit Cuddow was flinging around.

“Well, he used to be a Texas Ranger,” Tin Chin said, stroking his non-existent chin and staring out through the big window at the front of his store. “For nearly forty years, as I understand it. Hung up his badge in ’35 and moved to a ranch over there in Montana outside one of them big cities, Billings maybe. I never heard his real name.”

“What’s he doing up here?” Cuddow gave me a wink that Tin Chin couldn’t see.

For some reason Tin Chin looked squarely at me and said, “Not real sure. Lots of rumors circo…circo…uh, goin around.”

Tin Chin couldn’t say certain words. I guessed circulating was one of them. And I could tell he knew about old Tex, but wasn’t going to tell us because he figured I was too young to hear about rape. That’s why he’d looked at me: To figure out if I was old enough. Don’t matter you old blowhard cuz I know anyway.

Tin Chin returned his gaze to the window; Cuddow and I also. Tex continued to sit and stare.

“He’s like that for hours,” Tin Chin said. “Crazy old bastard.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Cuddow said, though I suspected he didn’t agree. I suspected he thought of Tex as a real live Western hero, like John Wayne or Tom Mix.

A customer came in and asked about some binder twine. Cuddow and I took advantage of the distraction to beat it the hell out of Tin Chin’s store. I turned to the right. Cuddow started across the street toward old Tex.

“Where the hell ya goin?”

“C’mon,” he said.

He was more than half-way across the street by the time I caught up.

“Are you nuts?”

Cuddow kept walking right up until he was a foot in front of old Tex.

“Mr. Walker,” Cuddow said by way of greeting.

How’d he know his name and how come it wasn’t Richey, same as his daughter’s?

Old Tex looked up. “Norbert,” he said, flicking two fingers from the brim of his genuine cowboy hat.

I was still mostly standing behind Cuddow, who stepped aside and said, “This here’s my friend, Stubbs.”

“Stubbs,” Tex said, again touching two fingers to his genuine cowboy hat.

“Blmadkfjlakmdl,” I muttered, my eyes frozen to his weather-scarred face, or rather the part of it that was missing. His nose. He had a copper nose tied to his head with a piece of string.

Tex turned his attention back to Cuddow, apparently convinced I was retarded. The sun glanced off Tex’s copper nose and hit me in the eyes. I squinted and lowered my head. That’s when I saw the leather thong around his calf. Then his duster fell open as he reached in and pulled out a tobacco plug. That’s when I saw the holster strapped to his leg and the pearl handle of his six-shooter. A tingling ran up and down my spine. I tried to look away, but my eyes were frozen on his hip.

Another gust of wind chose that precise moment to hit and forced me to shield my face and close my eyes. As I stood waiting for it to blow past, my right arm went strangely numb as though it sensed old Tex on the move. He didn’t brush against me; I don’t know what it was, more like something cool, maybe like a ghost, and I got a weird metallic taste in my mouth. I tried to peek but all I could see was a cloud of brown, even Cuddow had temporarily disappeared.

Then, right behind me, a single gunshot sounded. I whipped around, about to pee my pants. The cloud of dust began to dissipate. The guy lying in the street had shit himself and blood darkened the right shoulder of his white tee. He cried out as he struggled to get free, but was handcuffed to the bumper of the Postmaster’s Ford pickup.

From a distance, a siren’s wail blew in on the wind. Cab Barker, the postmaster stuck his head out of the post office door. “You boys don’t want to be here when the State Troopers arrive,” he said. “Besides, I’m sure you didn’t see anything?”

“No,” we both said, and high-tailed it in the opposite direction from the sound of the approaching siren. We didn’t need a kick in the ass to know we weren’t wanted.

The sky grew a purple black, lighting flashed followed by an enormous crash of thunder, and the rain came down in buckets. We ducked into Frenchy’s, a crappy coffee shop on the corner where we could see the cops, but they couldn’t see us.

“Where the hell did old Tex go?” I wanted to know. “And why didn’t you tell me about his friggin’ nose and six-shooter? All I seen was his copper nose and big friggin six-shooter.”

Cuddow looked at me like I’d never seen him look before. “I don’t believe we seen old Tex today,” he said, gripping my shoulder hard.

It started to hurt. I tried to pull away.

“In fact,” he added, “I don’t believe we seen old Tex, ever.”

The screen door at the back of Frenchy’s slammed in the wind. I turned to look. Though dark as night, I caught a glimpse of a shadow moving through the sheeting rain. As the shadow reached the thick growth of trees across the alley, a bolt of lightning struck nearby, momentarily turning night to day. The shadow had a copper nose.

“No,” I said, looking straight at Cuddow, “I ain’t never seen him, that’s for sure.”

Mrs. Green's Blue Hat

Mrs. Green wore a blue hat the day she died. I always thought that funny. Not that she died, but that she wore a blue hat. Of course when I saw her that morning, I didn’t know that by day’s end she’d be dead. I don’t suppose anyone knew, not even Mrs. Green.

If she had I doubt she’d have tucked into the wide black band of her hat such a bright yellow flower. Its stem was so long that it bent toward the ground, but it looked happy riding up there atop her head nonetheless.

“That’s an awfully pretty flower you have there this morning, Mrs. Green,” I said.

“Why thank you young man. It’s a black-eyed Susan you know. I grow them in my garden.”

She clutched her gnarled hands around the top of her gnarled cane and gazed off at the endless blue horizon for a moment. I suspected she was remembering her daughter, Susan, who had died in an automobile accident. None of us had ever or since experienced a worse tragedy. Seven high-school kids, none older than seventeen. It had happened a long time ago, but in our tiny town it seemed only yesterday. Mrs. Green had planted a yard full of black-eyed Susans every year since.

“You’re Hattie’s boy ain’t you?” she asked, her eyes coming back to me.

“Why yes ma’am,” I said.

“Well, you tell her I said hello.” She tugged for a moment at the belt of her green print dress as though it had started to pinch. “She still crocheting those fancy doilies? Tell her I like the ones with the red centers, the ones that look like rose petals.”

“I’ll be sure to mention that.”

“I give them for Christmas presents to my…” She paused and studied her watch for a moment and rubbed at her eyes.

“Yes, I’ll be sure to tell her,” I said. “She’ll be pleased.” I didn’t have the heart to remind her that my mother had been dead for over ten years, but I suppose even if I had, it would have been the same thing again the next morning, so it didn’t much matter. Of course, I didn’t know then that by day’s end, Mrs. Green would be dead.

“Would you have time for a glass of iced tea?” I asked. “It’s getting quite hot out her in the sun.”

She shifted her weight from one leg to the other and back again. “Well, yes, that might be nice, and I suppose I have the time.” She glanced up the sidewalk as though eyeing a destination that had to be reached by an established deadline. “As long as I get to the post office by noon. They close from twelve to one you know.” She shook her head slowly and munched on nothing a couple of times. “Most inconvenient, hmmm, most inconvenient. Didn’t used to when Mike was postmaster, you know, but this new fellow, well he seems to take it pretty easy if you ask me.”

I opened the gate and took her arm. “You have plenty of time, Mrs. Green. I’ll make sure you’re on your way long before noon.”

“I don’t move as fast as I used to,” she said. “It’s these damn shoes, I tell you.” She banged the rubber tip of her cane against her black, rubber-soled shoes.

“They’re quite handsome looking,” I said.

She eyed me as though I might be daft. “They look awful. No shape, but old Doc Timmins says I’m not to wear my Nike’s any more.” She glanced around as if making sure no one was in earshot and whispered, “But I wear them around the house and in the yard.”

“Do you mind if I leave my hat on?” Mrs. Green asked as we took a seat on the screened front porch. “I got a pin stuck in to hold it and it’s a real trouble with my old hands to put it back without a big mirror.”

“Not at all—it’s a very pretty hat.”

“Women used to wear hats all the time you know, everywhere they went, but not today. Hardly ever see a hat anymore, even in church. Such a shame.”

I nodded agreement.

“Nice and cool up here,” Mrs. Green said, waving her hand in front of her face like a fan. “I remember when your daddy planted them two Oak trees.”

The porch was shaded by the two giant Oaks that my father had planted over sixty years ago, the year he and mother married. For the moment, Mrs. Green seemed to remember that my mother and father had passed away, interred in the town cemetery, same as Mr. Green and Susan. My wife and I always put flowers next to all of their headstones whenever we visited. Susan had been our friend in high school. We were in the car right behind hers the night of the accident.

And Mr. Green had been a life-long family friend. The only thing I didn’t like was that his brown marble headstone already had Mrs. Green’s name and date of birth; only thing missing was a year after the dash. That always spooked me out.

Marta, the young girl from Canada that was staying with us for the summer, brought out a pitcher of iced tea and a basket of fresh short-bread cookies.

“My, those smell delicious,” Mrs. Green said. “You make them?”

“Not me,” Marta laughed. “I don’t know how. They’re from the bakery”

“This your girl?” Mrs. Green asked.

“This is Marta. She’s from Calgary, up in Canada.”

Mrs. Green turned her body and squinted up at Marta through her wire-rimmed sunglasses that she moved up and down on her nose once or twice as she tried to focus on Marta.

“Sure are a pretty young thing,” she said, seeming to mostly be eyeing Marta’s short-short cutoffs and white shirt tied around her bare middle. “What’re you doing way down here?”

Marta seemed about to explain that Northern Michigan wasn’t ‘way down’ but said, “I’m trying to get into Interlochen…the summer arts camp.”

“I know all about Interlochen, dear. You’ll like it there, but watch out for the boys. Young people today have different ideas about sex than they used to back in my time. Pretty thing like you in them short shorts…well you be careful, that’s what I say.” She banged her cane between her feet as if adding an exclamation point.

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be sure to be careful.” Marta filled Mrs. Green’s glass and then mine. She put the pitcher of iced tea, already filmed with condensate, on the side table next to me and passed the basket of cookies to Mrs. Green. “Ma’am,” she said.

Mrs. Green set her cane to one side, closed her eyes, and breathed in their wonderful aroma. “Well, I’d better have one since you say you made them fresh this morning, but just one, mind you. Have to watch my figure you know.” After poking at several, she plucked one cookie from the basket, tugged again at the belt on her dress, and smiled up at Marta.

“Yes, ma’am,” Marta smiled back, “You and me both.”

I was glad Marta didn’t remind Mrs. Green about the bakery. “You’re both too skinny,” I said, popping one cookie into my mouth and taking another to have at the ready. Marta set the basket down next to me and slipped back into the air conditioned house. She, like my daughter who was staying with Marta’s mother in Calgary to check out the University there, didn’t like sweat.

Mrs. Green chewed for awhile, like she’d forgotten her teeth.

“You doing OK, there?” I asked.

“Where’s that pretty wife of yours?” she asked, giving me a fishy look. I believed she was still worried about Marta’s short shorts.

“She’s down at the book sale at the church. Reverend Walker asked if she could take over from Mrs. Walker this morning. I believe Mrs. Walker had to go to the hospital.”

“Not sick, I hope.”

“No, one of the parishioners took ill last night and Reverend Walker had a meeting in Grand Rapids so he asked Mrs. Walker to minister in his absence.”

“She’s ordained, you know. Presbyterian though, not like us, but she’s a good woman just the same. Yes she is that all right.”

We sat for another moment. Mrs. Green drained her iced tea, gripped her cane, and hoisted herself up. I walked her to the gate and watched as she made her way up the sidewalk toward the post office. I watched until she vanished into the heat waves, like a desert mirage.

I went back to the porch. Marta had come out to take in the tea and cookies. We heard the screeching tires and ran to the corner. Mrs. Green’s blue hat with the yellow Black-eyed Susan lay in the gutter. Mrs. Green died that day, and Marta and I held each other and cried.

Country Kids

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Have you ever had an eye pop open? My eye opened, though I need to tell you it didn’t pop open, it kind of blinked open. First of all, my eyes never popped open, especially in the cold dark of early morning, and it was my weak left eye—so blinking open was good. I tried my right eye, but you can forget about that; the sandman had sprinkled all his magic powder there, sealing it shut behind a thick coating of mucus.

I lay there a moment, staring at the ceiling, Outside our one small window, the cold winter’s moon shone brightly, filling the bedroom with frightening shadows. I began to hear noises, scary night noises that made me scrunch down and pull the covers up to the tip of my nose. I held my breath—maybe my good right eye being sealed shut was a good thing.

My left eye dared move, a little at first then back and forth, checking into each dark corner and when it discovered nothing lurking there, it crept down the nearest wall to the Big Ben alarm clock sitting atop the night stand. I blinked, twice, and then twice more, harder, struggling mightily to focus on the luminous hands and dial. What time did it say? Was it 4:30 or 5:30? Oh if only my good right eye would open. My brother and I had things to do, exciting things, things that had to be done before our parents woke up, or all would be lost.

I turned and looked at the lump next to me. There lay my older brother. He was seven; I was five, but we were the same size so people thought we were the same age until they discovered he was book learnt. He knew stuff, all kinds of stuff. I envied him for that. I couldn't wait to start school so I could get book learnt. All I knew how to do was tie my shoes.

I poked him. He snorted a sleepy snort. I jabbed my elbow into his back. A groan. I didn’t blame him. It was cold. Maybe forty below. I didn’t know how cold forty below was, but whenever adults said forty below, they always shivered so it sounded like a real cold number. Maybe he’d frozen. We didn't have a furnace, only a wood and coal burning pot belly that didn’t get stoked until the old man got out of bed, and since it was Saturday, his one day to sleep in, the stove would sit cold and lonely for another good while. He slept in some on Sunday too, but not as long because he liked to make the house cozy while mother and my brother and me got ready for church. He never went, but he always gave us a nickel for the collection plate.

Our home was tiny: two bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen. Each fall, about the end of September, the old man put hay bails around the outside of the house, about two feet up the walls. That stopped the unforgiving winter wind from swooping under the house and up through the floor. Then extra sets of windows, we called them storm windows, were installed, secured in their openings with wing nuts. The windows never seemed to fit even though they were marked with exotic code like WWB, which I subsequently discovered stood for West Window Bedroom. How clever, I thought, but I must tell you that despite their exotic markings, it was the old man's profanity—the richest in the land—that got them finally installed.
The point in telling you all of this is that we were well insulated, and once the pot belly got fired up, it didn't take long for the house to get toasty warm, and when mother—we never called her the old lady, either mom or mother—swung the big kitchen stove into action, the sounds of the tea kettle whistling and the aroma of eggs and toast and bacon and oatmeal made it seem all the warmer. But that came later; right now it was just really, really cold.

I poked my brother again, and he snorted again. OK, I thought, if that’s how you want to play. From the coziness of the goose down comforter, I stretched an arm out to reach my clothes. They had seemed a lot closer when I went to bed. Now, they were juuuussssstttttt out of reach. Finally, by putting my left hand on the frosty floor and stretching my right arm as far as I could without exposing too much of my top and making sure I didn’t fall out of bed, a horrible fate, I managed to snare my sweater and socks, and then my pants, heavy serge plus fours that laced and tied below the knee. We called them breeks, but, of importance at the moment was their icy cold leather knee patches. I pressed them against my brothers back. He sat bolt upright and let out a yelp. Then I did what any loving brother would do: I punched him and hissed, "Shut up. Don't wake the old man."

He was a good natured beast, gregarious, outgoing, and friend to everyone. He didn’t hit back. I knew he wouldn’t. But he didn’t look awake enough so I gave him a quick shove and he spilled out onto the bare linoleum. We didn’t have carpet; I guess because we were poor, but this isn't a story about being poor. Most of the people we knew were poor. No really rich people lived in our village so no one really thought much about being poor. But back to the linoleum: when it got cold, it was like ice. My brother let out another yell as he landed, not from pain, but from the shock of his warm exposed skin meeting the linoleum’s early morning rime. Even his unexposed skin wasn’t well protected by his flannel pajamas worn to see-through thin.

I don’t know if the old man heard his first yelp. I knew he heard the second because he yelled, "Settle down you guys. Don't make me come in there."

He always said that, and he only said it once. 'Coming in there' meant a whack on the rear end with a slipper. Sometimes both of us got it, but usually the one he thought the main troublemaker of the moment. "Stop it.", I said, loudly enough for the old man to hear, sneakily pushing the blame onto my brother.

My brother grabbed the jumbled heap that was his clothes and darted back to the warmth of the bed. We lay still for a moment, waiting, listening for the thud of footsteps marching to our room. Silence. We breathed a sigh of relief; there would be no whacks on this morning. Good. We had things to do. We were eager to start the adventure we had carefully plotted the night before.

Casting aside our pajamas, we pulled on our now warm clothes, threw back the bedding, and ventured forth, shivering with excitement and the cold. We tiptoed to the kitchen where our snow suits, his blue, mine red, and mittens hung on peg boards above our boots. After a lot of twisting and turning and grunting, we were ready to face the great outdoors.

Looking like two miniature Michelin men, we waddled outside. Our breath escaped in endless puffs as we swung our bodies first one way and then the other, taking stock of our pre-dawn surroundings. Our battle-scarred old yellow tom cat stuck his head around the corner of the house. He wasn’t pretty: one ear gone, one eye battered shut, but Mother loved that cat; he was a great mouser. He meowed. It wasn’t a cute meow, like you hear on TV; it was a scratchy yowl, like you might have heard from a saber toothed tiger back in dinosaur days. We ignored him. He disappeared.

We looked over our shoulders, fearful the old man might have heard us, fearful he would come roaring out to put a stop to our adventure. All remained quiet.

"We made it." my brother whispered.

“Yeah,” I whispered back.

The old man had probably heard us, but in a small prairie village, miles from the nearest town or city, surrounded by land as far as the eye could see, danger and trouble lacked serious potential. Besides, with my brother and me out of the house, his undisturbed Saturday morning sleep could be extended. We had a younger brother who slept in their bedroom. Maybe he kept them awake, but I really can't recall him having much of a presence for the first ten or so years of his life. Then he got bigger and tougher, and his presence became a lot clearer.

Through the fresh snow, our tracks zigzagged from the back porch to the outhouse. We didn’t have indoor plumbing so the outhouse was always the first stop. A thunder mug resided under the bed, but that was for emergencies. “Real men use the outhouse,” the old man always said. In fact, those might have been our first words after we were born. Real men use the outhouse. Yeah, real men use the outhouse. Let me tell you about the outhouse, any outhouse: number one was OK, but it was hard to not pee on the seat when you were a kid. In the winter, pee freezes; number two wasn’t fun.

We departed the outhouse, stopped to make snow angels, then hurried on. We had to cross our enormous yard with its big vegetable garden now covered in snow as was the large flower garden and the two big lawns. Several sheds, one for coal, one for the old man's special stuff, a tool shed and an empty chicken coop sat along one side next to the alley and south of the outhouse. We had chickens once, one of the old man's make-money schemes that didn't. It didn't even pay for the chicken wire, but it made a great club-house so we were glad he got into chickens and especially glad he got out of chickens. Though had he made stacks of money at it, we would have liked that more.

After the snow angels, we waded to the old man's special stuff place. We weren't supposed to go in there, but we always did because he attended every auction sale in the country and bought other peoples' junk for twenty-five cents a box so there was always something to capture our interest.

We poked around for a bit, but we knew we mustn’t dawdle, though we must have picked up a carpenters level and hack-saw and carted them out because they were found in the spring about ten feet from the door, badly rusted and ruined. I guess we dropped them along the way, I can’t remember, but I do remember the old man writing a few new chapters to the book of profanity when he plucked his precious tools from the spring mud, a look of great loss on his face.

My brother charged ahead, down along the row of willow trees to the Caragana hedge, its gnarled, wiry branches menacing without their green summer coat. We edged through a small opening. My heart began to beat faster. The vastness of the snow-blanketed prairie lay before us. Our plan was swinging into action. There would be no stopping us now.

Then my brother made a sharp right turn and trudged toward the old chicken coop. This wasn't in our plan.

“What are you doing?” I asked. Clubhouse or not, I didn’t want any part of that scary old place in the dark.

“Just c’mon,” he said.

I stood there, uncertain. My nose trickled. I licked my upper lip. It tasted salty. He pulled back a section of the chicken wire, now hanging loosely from one of its posts, and started forward. I waited, fearful of what he might do next. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew the worst hobgoblin in the world lurked inside, hiding there in the dark, waiting for kids, waiting for breakfast. I got ready to high tail it. He pushed at the door.

“Don’t open that door,” I said. “Are you crazy?”

He kicked it with his foot. It creaked open a bit. Then he just kind of stood there. Frightening shadows that groaned and moaned began to appear everywhere and I smelled the must of old chicken feathers, or maybe it was the smell of the hobgoblin. I took a few steps back.

"Let's not go in right now", he said. "Maybe on our way back."

Whew! I was proud of my brother. He was book learnt. He knew things. I started breathing again. He led the way. We left the property and headed for our final destination, but now I started breathing really fast; a major obstacle, one far scarier than the chicken coop, stood directly in our path.

The town skating rink, its dilapidated, weather beaten old shack standing eerily alone against a backdrop of endless blue-white snow. The rickety old boards weaving 'round the ice surface were banked by shoveled snow piled high around the edges.

He led the way to a gradual incline that gave us easy access to the ice. “We could use the gates,” he said, “but that’s no fun.” I was afraid. This was way out of bounds. We weren’t supposed to be here, but he knew about this stuff.

Soon, we were running and sliding across the ice, spraying the fluffy new snow as we skidded to and fro, trying to avoid make believe opponents. He was Syl Apps of the Toronto Maple Leafs. I was a nameless Chicago Black Hawk. My brother knew Toronto was in Canada where hockey was invented; his heroes played for a Canadian team. I couldn’t imagine Chicago not being in Canada, and it sounded like a tougher team: BLACK HAWKS!

After awhile, my brother declared victory, parading around with an imaginary trophy, The Stanley Cup he called it, held high over his head. He asked if I wanted to hold it. Eagerly, I took it from his outstretched hands and hoisted it over my head, and the fans roared even louder.

Then he decided it was time to leave what he kept referring to as Maple Leaf Gardens. I looked at him. I couldn’t imagine hockey being played in a garden, but if one as smart as he said it could be, then it was true. He was book learnt. He was the smartest kid in the whole world.

We shuffled to the end of the skating rink farthest from our home. I had never been past the skating rink before. There was nothing beyond except open, flat land that my brother called the prairies. He said they ran all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. I knew the nearest city was a long ways away, sixty miles I heard the old man say; I wondered if the Atlantic Ocean was as far.

He boosted me over the boards and onto the top of the snow bank then I waited while he struggled and got himself up. There we both stood, like two little cattle barons staring out over the vast expanse of prairie that lay before us, prairie that ran all the way to the Atlantic Ocean.

I sucked in such a great gulp of air I thought I’d choke. A quarter mile away, looming up through the graying of a new day struggling to be born, stood our objective. I was really scared. The chicken coop with its horrible hobgoblin and the forbidden skating rink were nothing in comparison. My brother heard me gasp.

"Scared?"

I turned to look at him, trying to keep my feet from heading for home. "Nah. You?"

"Nah, let's go."

We slid down the embankment and started across the open prairie, wading through snow up to our knees and, in many places, up to our waists. It was slow going but my brother led the way so he got the worst of it. Adrenaline shot through my body like electricity. I had to go to the bathroom really bad, but the excitement was too great; our progress couldn't be stopped. On we marched, closer and closer. I wet my pants. I didn't care. This was the greatest adventure ever.

Then a voice called. My heart began to sink. I tried to not turn and look, but my body seemed out of my control. Oh, no! Just as I feared. It was the old man. He’d walked down to the skating rink and waved at us across the field. "C'mon boys, time for breakfast.”

I glanced at my brother. Old man or not, I knew we would keep going; we were too close to quit now.



"Coming!" he hollered.

Coming?…Coming? He's giving up? I felt crushed, destroyed. Tears came to my eyes.

"Don't worry,” he said. “We'll come back. Next time no one will stop us. We'll start earlier. It'll be even more exciting."

I wiped at my eyes. Yeah, more exciting, we could do it again tomorrow. My brother was smart. He was book learnt. He knew stuff.

“Coming!" I hollered.

Jeremiah’s Rose

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The breeze blew cool upon my face, and I paused to inhale the silence that moved among the late day shadows, to smell the sweetness of the clover from the nearby field. Spiky blades of grass poked at my bare legs and tickled my wrists as I lay next to the rich earth. My fingers clutched at the moist, black soil until they ached, then I opened my hand and stared for a long while at the clump that sat there, thinking of the time I shared with him, thinking of the incessant joy of our wonderful years together, feeling the never ending ache of our time apart. I sat another moment with my thoughts wondering if I should voice anything at all, but I had things to say, and I wanted to say them aloud, I wanted my words to take up space like so many tiny air ships. Maybe that would make them last longer than mere puffs that blow away in two seconds, maybe that would make them fill the space of empty time.

I was just thinking I wanted to talk to you and now I don’t know where to start. Maybe that time you said just you and me against the world; they aint never gonna find us here? You were five, I was six. We were digging that damn fort that almost killed us.For days, with shovels twice as tall as we, we dug and dug and dug, and every night at bath time my mother failed to understand why dirt filled my hair. I told her it came from the hill behind the school, the forbidden hill, and I begged her not to tell Daddy.

I hated lying, but you had sworn me to secrecy. Besides, if I hadn’t been with you, that’s where I would have been, on the forbidden hill, so it wasn’t really a lie. For several weeks, though, when I got to the part of my bedtime prayer that said, ‘If I should die before I wake,’ I inserted, ‘and please dear God, it wasn’t a real lie.’ Once a clap of thunder rattled the windows and made my bones tremble, and I feared God was about to strike me down.


On the private roadway a few feet to my left, a car crept past, respectful and silent. Though it may have been someone I knew, I didn’t turn to look for fear the sound of a human voice might sever the delicate thread winding through my mind, the thread connecting him to me. Soon all was again still, except for the chirping of a nearby robin and the urgent cawing of a faraway crow and the wail of a distant siren.


You remember the forbidden hill—I know I’ll never forget the day that giant yellow Caterpillar tractor clanked and putted down the dusty road past our house filling the air with the wonderful smells of diesel and grease and oil and dirt all mixed together. I ran to our fence and watched it turn onto the lot behind the school where the weeds were taller than you and I—taller than the fearful looking man with dark glasses and blue hard hat and big cigar that puffed as much smoke as the tractor.

By the end of the week, when the tractor and fearful man clanked and putted back up our road and out of my life forever, they left behind a magnificent hill. The next morning I raced to my bedroom window fearful it had been a dream, but that wonderful mountain of brown earth as tall as the school remained. I dressed in the wink of an owl’s eye and grabbed my gravel truck, the red one with dual wheels on the back, and started off to investigate. It was the most glorious place; it became my private place.

“I don’t want to hear of you playing on that dirt behind the school,” my father said a week after I started spending a large part of each day there. He sat in that overstuffed green chair and peered from behind his newspaper, his eyes big and round through his thick, wire-rimmed glasses. “Soon that deep hole will fill with water. Too dangerous, far too dangerous.” He puffed his Sherlock Holmes pipe, filling the air with clouds of smoke that smelled of sweet cherry wood. I loved that smell. Whenever I catch a whiff in the air, I turn, half expecting him to be there.

“Yes sir,” I said, as he disappeared behind his rattling newspaper. You won’t hear of it, I said to myself and snuck a peek at my mother, who seemed not to notice our exchange. Even if she had, I doubt she would have sold me out.

After that, I made sure to play on the side he couldn’t see from our house. I also made sure to play on the side that sloped away from the water, which had turned a dark brown and smelled like cow’s urine, but I knew it wasn’t.

That’s where you found me, remember? You came around the corner and stood there with your hands shoved deep down into the pockets of your overalls, the black ones with the ripped knees. You didn’t say anything, and, for the longest time, I pretended not to see you, but I have to confess, with your white hair shining in the sun, your head looked like a giant light bulb. Every once in a while I get out my photo albums and look at those old pictures of the two of us looking like ragamuffins, always grinning from ear to ear.

My eyes dampened. I crumbled a handful of dirt and let it sift through my fingers. Some landed on my sandal. I wriggled my toes, and the grittiness felt good. A frog croaked nearby as if readying his voice for a great aria, and the sparrows in the rows of silver maples began a lively discussion, probably their last of the day. I shielded my eyes against the sun. Its warmth would soon be gone.

Let me see, where did I leave off? Ah yes, the great dirt pile.

“Whatcha doing?” you finally asked.

“Nuthin,” I replied, being careful to not look at you, pretending to be more intent on driving my truck down the special roads I’d created, pretending to not care one iota that you were there.

“That your truck?”

“So what if it isn’t?”

“Just askin.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, and I made all the truck sounds I could think of, roaring a hundred different roars as I shifted up and down the hills, squealing and hissing the brakes, and blowing the air horn.

Then you said, “Bet you don’t even know what kind it is.”

“Do too.”

“What kind is it then?”

“Not telling.”

“Cuz you don’t know, that’s why.”

“What kind is it then if you’re so smart?”

“International Harvester; they’re not much good.”

“This one is,” I said. I felt like giving you such a punch.

I leaned back on my elbows and stretched my legs and back. Off in the distance, the houses of the little town looked like part of a miniature movie set, and the sailboats on the dark blue water of the lake beyond looked like tiny white flags. A sweet tasting spear of grass found its way to my mouth. I chewed the end and sucked the juices, then rolled it from one side of my mouth to the other. He’d taught me that. We used to see who could look like the toughest cowboy, squinting into the sun, chewing on our big piece of grass, spitting out the little bits that ended up in our mouths. I glanced over, wondering if he remembered, suspecting he did.


You hurt my feelings that day when you said my truck wasn’t any good. I think you knew you had because you didn’t say anything for a while after that; you just stood there with your hands still shoved into your overalls, and I stared at my truck, hating that you though it not much good. The next thing I knew though, you were standing less than a foot away.

“Your mother know you’re here?” I asked, trying to belittle you for belittling my truck.

You said, “Don’t matter if she do or don’t.”

“Dangerous place,” I said. “That stinky water ‘n’ all.”

“How come you’re here then?”

“I have permission.” I didn’t have permission, but I wasn’t about to tell you that.

“You gonna tell?” you said.

You had me on that one. You knew I wasn’t a tattletale. No kid in town was. Tattling was the worst crime.

“You wanna play?” I finally asked.

“I got somthin better to do.”

Again I wanted to punch you, but the next thing I knew we were digging that damn fort, and when we finished, we crawled inside and lit a fire. The next minute, we came charging out amid clouds of smoke, our eyes red and burning. We rolled on the ground, hacking and coughing, thinking we’d die.

“We can’t tell anyone,” you said, after we could breathe again.

“My mother’s going to smell smoke,” I said.

“Tell her you had a cigarette.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Pretend you’ve got a stomach ache. Tell her you’re sick. Promise you won’t do it again.”

“That what you’re gonna to do?”

“Uh-huh.”

I could tell the way you looked that you weren’t. I knew I wasn’t. Not in a million years.

I pushed a wayward tress from my eyes and looked up at the gold and purple streaks splashed across the western sky. Soon the sun would drop behind the mountains and I would have to go. A tear found its way to my cheek, and I brushed it with my finger. A tear for him; there would be more.


Then there was the day you drowned? Remember? Summer vacation after you’d finished grade three and I’d finished grade four? It wasn’t at the dirt pile though, it was at the canal. That silly dare thing the older boys had, the one that said if you swam across you became a member of their stupid non-sissy club. I pleaded with you not to do it.

“I can make it,” you said, though I could tell from the look in your eyes that you were really scared.

“You’re crazy,” I said.

You gave me a funny look and said, “What do girls know about anything anyway?”

“I’m gonna tell,” I said, and started to walk away.

“Go ahead; see if I care”

Then I heard the splash and spun around, my heart lodged in my throat. There you were, in the fast moving water, your arms and legs churning like a windmill. I screamed. I started to cry. I could tell you weren’t going to make it. You’d started too close to the bridge and weren’t half way across when the strong current started to suck you under. I thought you were going to die. I thought you’re not even in grade four yet and you’re going to be dead.

Then Kenny waded in on the downstream side of the bridge. The water almost covered his nose by the time he grabbed your arm and started towing you to shore. The other kids jumped up and down on the bank hollering and yelling. I screamed some more.
When Kenny got you close, others jumped in and helped pull you onto the grassy bank. You flopped like a rag doll. Everyone thought you were dead. You looked dead. Eddie started pumping on your chest like he was possessed. The big girl that lived down the alley behind our house reached inside your mouth to make sure your throat wasn’t clogged with canal grass, and Eddie kept on pumping, up and down, up and down. C’mon Eddie, c’mon Eddie, everyone started to chant, and he pumped harder. I thought your chest would cave in.

Then you coughed up more water than I or anyone else knew you could hold. And grass and mud—that wasn’t pretty. “Ugh,” some of us said, and then you sat up and everyone started patting you and Kenny and Eddy on the back.

“What happened?” you wanted to know.

“You made it, kid,” Kenny said. “You’re one of us, now.”

A couple of older kids started to object because you hadn’t really made it, but Kenny was king.

“He made it,” Kenny said, and that was the end of all discussion. I was so proud, but that’s another thing I never told you.

Off in the distance, the lights of the town started to twinkle and the setting sun painted a wide orange stripe across the glassy surface of the darkening lake. A loon’s lonesome wail touched the silence and sent a shiver through my body. I wished he and I could have seen and felt this together. He would have loved every color, every sound, every aroma.

We never thought it odd that Kenny pulled you out—he was fearless, but no one would have picked Eddie, no one would have guessed that he knew anything at all about artificial respiration. Maybe his brush with death had something to do with it. I’ve often wondered if he ever got rid of the horrible burn scars on his hands and face or had his left ear replaced, the one the fire burnt off.

I’ll bet you didn’t know that Eddie runs a youth camp up in Alaska. He married that pretty girl with the deformed hand, the one who lived in the trailer park south of town, Skye I believe her name was. They fell in love in grade seven, and I don’t think they’ve been apart for a single moment since.

A puff of wind scooted past, momentarily rattling the leaves and rustling the taller grasses. The night turned cool. I pulled my sweater around my shoulders and wrapped my arms around my knees, holding my skirt more tightly to my bare legs. My nose wrinkled with the smell of a nearby skunk, and I glanced around cautiously, hoping I wasn’t within range.

I just got a good whiff of a nearby skunk. Remember Tommy Carter, the kid who lived with his rich mother in the big, old house in the apple orchard—Mary’s boyfriend. He got sprayed by a skunk the night of our hayride. Remember the hayride? You were in grade eight, I was in grade nine. God, I was so head over heels in love with you. My friends couldn’t understand why I dated a kid from grade eight when they were dating guys in high school. Most of them were having sex, and those that weren’t said they were. I told them I wasn’t ready.

Mary told me that sooner or later you would want sex, that sex was the only reason you went out with me. She was wrong, but I think we came close a couple of times. The hayride was the closest—Valentines Day. There must have been thirty of us, bundled to the eyes with heavy parkas and colorful scarves and wild and crazy toques. I remember yours, the blue one with yellow tassels. Two horses from our ranch, one black and one brown, bells jingling from their harnesses, pulled that rickety hay wagon that seemed about to tip at every turn.

We went skating on the big pond, the one behind the canal where you almost drowned. After that we roasted wieners and brewed hot chocolate in the big iron pot. Smores, remember the smores? I must have had ten, you too I think. So wonderfully messy and gooey. We kissed with a mouthful and our lips stuck, and then we kept them together long after the stickiness provided an excuse.

Everything was so perfect. I guess that’s why I thought we might have sex. It was when we were returning to town, nestled in the back, covered in the wonderful musty, dusty hay, arms around each other, kissing, telling each other how in love we were, how we always would be.

In one way I wanted to…to quell the volcanoes of passion erupting in the blood of my puberty. In another way I didn’t; I wanted to cling to my fair maiden’s dream of remaining chaste until my knight in shining armor swept me away in a whirlwind of endless love. I prayed often that you would be that knight, that you would soon come for me, but we were young, too young to commit to a time as long as forever.

Later that night, as I lay in my bed thinking about you, I made a promise that one day, the day I became certain that our love was meant to last for all time, I would give you a single red rose. I never told anyone for fear they would think it stupid—a girl giving a rose to a boy.

You moved away that spring, not to the next town, but three-hundred miles. I feared I would never see you again, and I was right. I never did. I wrote to you, once. You never responded. I phoned a couple of times and talked to your mother, but asked her not to say I’d called. You had moved on. Someone new had captured your heart. I cried a lot; there was nothing more I could do.

I stood and pressed my hands to the small of my back, wincing as the ache became a spasm. The refreshing scent of lake water wafted on the breeze, and I looked up to the darkening sky that busily hosted the arrival of countless stars. How many times had he and I lain on our backs, listening for the crackle of the aurora borealis and searching for and always finding our special constellation? Far too few. I felt his hand touch mine. Tears filled my eyes.

There’s our constellation. Remember our star, the center star from Orion’s belt of pearls? It was our favorite. You always said that one day you would give me a belt of pearls, and I want you to know that a little thing like dying doesn’t let you off the hook.

The dew-laden grass felt cool on my bare toes. The shepherd’s crook lamps lining the road and pathways blinked on, their greenish glow casting eerie shadows. I dropped to my knees. I brushed my eyes with the back of my hand.

Your mother told me why you didn’t want me to know. I was the only one, she said. She said you wanted me to remember what had been, the love we once had, not what you’d become. You’d never stopped loving me, she said. Why, oh why, in God’s name didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you let me come to you?

Tears streamed down my face. No amount of time would heal the emptiness that burdened my heart, but its pain would be salved by the ecstasy of a young love so perfect it had never died. I removed the single, red rose from its special wrap and twirled it between my fingers, wincing as its sharp prickles punctured my skin. I pressed it to my breasts, then held it to my nose and inhaled its delicate and mysterious aroma. Its full, rich petals glistened with my tears as I placed it on the black earth.

Goodbye sweet Jeremiah, my eternal love.

The world fell silent. I turned and trudged toward the car, daring a glance back. As if on cue, our special star beamed down and bathed Jeremiah’s rose in its golden light.

“I shall always love you,” I heard his voice say.

My footsteps became like air, and the music of the night embraced my heart.

THE END