Sarah Flanigan - Poetry Simply Put

I remember rain. Lots of rain. Endless rain. It was good for reading books, baking cookies, watching movies and napping.

Tapping at my window, while I slept, it proved that I held some small piece of real estate in the world. A minute corner with my name on it. I could let go of it and dream for a while. Knowing it would be there when I returned.

A piece of gray. Mist and vapor, blurry views and shivers. I pulled my robe around me tighter, as though that would keep out the chill. But the chill came from inside, from some deep and dark place that never warmed, that never calmed. If only the sun would show itself, I would feel safe.

I picked this place for its beauty and remoteness. Because it was surrounded by woods and wild flowers - celebrated by squirrels and skunks and badgers and birds. I could walk for hours without ever seeing another soul. I could let the dog out to adventure without worrying about cars and traffic, cruel neighbor children or anything more serious than his being skunked.

But the rain didn’t stop - and how it soaked through to the core and left its chill to invade every living thing. The trees bent like gumby dolls trying to embrace it. The sky filled with it and liquified the ground beneath its relentless assault. Pots caught the drips as they wept from the rafters. The damp spread like varicose veins throughout my little farmhouse and ensnared it in its web of wet, dreary gray.

Turning up the thermostat only made the damp warm and steamy. I put poker to the fire and the flames spurted and sputtered. I needed more firewood - my last log had been sacrificed to the fire.

Mulroy, my golden retriever, followed anxiously as I pulled on rubber boots and threw my slicker over my robe. I sighed. I didn’t want to go out there. The bruised sky, angered and violent, dared anyone to defy her.

“Come on, boy.” I opened the door and cursed the sheets of water separating me from my wood. My source of warmth and solace. It was nestled in the shed, under a bright blue tarp and probably dryer than I was. An easy walk on a cool evening. A mere fifty feet from where I stood. But I could barely make out its shape through the vaporous curtain that the air had become.

I put a leash on Mulroy, hoping he would lead me to the shed rather than drag me through the mud. Perhaps I should have reconsidered. Should have listened to the nag in my head. But I shook off my doubts and plunged ahead with Mulroy. I would be soaked by the time I returned, but I would have in my possession the holy grail of lonely, rainy nights in the country. Wood. The source of all warmth and safety. The embers of life.

Delighted, my dear Mulroy galloped like a randy pony in the middle of it all. Puddles and mud flew into oblivion in every direction beneath our stomp and jump. I tugged on his leash to rein him in and help me to the shed, but Mulroy was too joyous an animal to ignore the adventure.

Several slips and mud successfully oozed into my boots and we made it to the shed. It was colder and damper in the shed than the house and I worried it was all for naught. The wood would smoke and refuse to catch but I was there and so was it - the choice had been made.

I had no flashlight or lantern, just the thinnest fingers of grey light through the open door. I threw back the tarp to get at my treasure and a plump rat leapt out and we shrieked at each other. Mulroy barked and took chase after the varmint as the leash slid through my wet and frozen fingers. “Damn it! Mulroy!” I peered through the open doorway and saw nothing but the sheets of water that pummeled the earth. “Where are you? Mulroy!” A distant bark, my only answer.

“Fine!” I gathered the driest logs into my carrier. “If he wants to get soaked to the bone in order to chase a damned rat, then fine!” I was mad at myself for being there. I should have just let the heater do its job, as poorly as it did, at least I wouldn’t be soaked and shivering and trying to figure out how to carry more wood than I was able to the house. Without getting it wet. “You’re out of your mind, Georgia. Just forget it and go back to the house.”

But my stubborn streak wouldn’t hear of it. No, I went for wood and I would return with wood. Period. I spied the wheel barrel behind the many rakes and tools I was convinced I needed once, but languished in the shed without notice. An annoying reminder that I’d never organized as I’d resolved to do countless times. Moving the tools only succeeded in wedging me between the wall and the stacks of everything else I had crammed into the shed. With a grunt, I wrenched the wheel barrel free. Thunk, went the wood. “That should do it.” I was proud of myself for my ingenuity. Soon, the fire would be blazing and I’d be reading my trashy novel and eating popcorn. I could taste the buttery, salty crunch in my mouth with the thought of it.

There wasn’t enough room to turn around with the heavy load, I would need to back out. I tugged with one hand and pushed open the door with the other. Easy does it. Ignore the thunder of the rain, just keep moving . . .

I heard a creak or a crack - was it Mulroy, back to help? And everything was falling down and the sound, oh the sound was so painful, so loud . . . crashing all around me and on top of me. And everything went black.

***

I opened my eyes but could not see. My brain told my arm to move but it could not. It was cold and wet and I could not move, could not feel anything except a weight . . . a pressure. “Mulroy,” I called with all of my voice but it was a hoarse whisper. The rain crawled over me and tortured with icy hands. And the world went black again. And I felt the overwhelming urge to let go. To join the blackness that surrounded me and dive in. Like a warm, cottony embrace that whispered of comfort and safety. My eyes popped open - and the heat of fear surged through me. I was not going to die in a shed, on a rainy afternoon, alone and helpless.

“Open your eyes, Georgia,” I told myself. I looked around, willing my vision to adjust to the shades of black and grey. I tried to see my arms and legs, to connect with them and get them to help me. Ah . . . my left hand wiggled. “Good. Now, where are you? ” I talked to myself as though a drill sergeant to a recruit. My vision slowly adjusted. And I could see some light above me - the source of the cold wet - part of the roof had collapsed and I was buried beneath it. Though not all of me, my left side was wedged beneath the wheel barrel, which was probably the only thing that kept me from being crushed. The door was behind my head and closed - I would have to inch back toward the door to try to escape. I took the deepest breath I could and willed my body backwards. “Ah!” The pain. Blinding. White.

My ears strained for Mulroy’s bark or whimper. “Mulroy,” I croaked. Rain, drumming on everything it hit. Another deep breath and push back. Stars this time and a shock seared through my body. “Again!” I commanded myself. I was not going to die beneath a collapsed shed in the rain. I would not stand for it. If I could only wrench my left arm free. Pull. Pain. Tug. More pain. Scream my head off, let the pain out and tug some more. Tears of fear and frustration raced down my face and joined the rain. I tried again and the blackness came.

From a distant place I heard him. A whimper, a cry, scratching at the door. “Mulroy? Here boy.” The bark came then, loud and welcomed. “Here boy, come to mama,” I egged him on. “Here boy,” I said again and again, sending him into a frenzy of need to get to me. He barked, scratched, whined. I heard his big snout taking in the scent of me, his mistress, his safety. Big paws thwapping at the door, nosing at the door, trying to get in. “Here boy,” I kept calling. “Come here. Here, Mulroy, here!”

And then I felt it, his nose on my face, his slobbering tongue licking my hair, my eyes, my cheeks. “Good boy,” I wept. “Good, good boy!” I had to get my arm free. I had to find the leash. I had to! “Ahhhh!” I screamed and it was free. My breath, shallow rushed in and out of my lungs. My heart pounded louder than the rain. Slow it down, had to slow it down. Focus!

“Good boy, Mulroy,” I reached for his snout and he nuzzled my hand. “Good boy,” I murmured. My fingers crawled down his neck for the collar and found it. They held fast, fearful of letting go - but I needed the leash. Where was it? My fingers were so numb I barely knew what the clutched. “Good boy,” I said to soothe myself, “good boy.” Slowly, I loosened my grip on the collar, tentatively seeking the leash, the strong leather leash that would be my lifeline. Metal, cold and brilliant made contact with my fingers, the connection to the leash and life itself. Yes, I had it! I pulled hard and Mulroy backed up - little. It would work. It might work. It had to work. “Back, Mulroy, back!” My beautiful boy obeyed and I started to move back with him. “Good boy! Good boy!”

He pulled and he pulled. My arm shrieked with pain but I concentrated only on being pulled free from the pile of wood and rain that trapped me. An inch at a time, the pressure lifted, my right arm free I reached over my head to join my left and held on during the white light of agony that surged. “Back, Mulroy, back,” I said endlessly. My boy always obeying, struggling but relentless. He would not leave me. He would die with me if he had to because he would not leave me. And with the final tug, I was free of the wreckage and I lie there, crying and laughing and unable to move.

Crash. The shed took its final leap and collapsed. A pile of sodden wood and tin that could no longer fight the rain. But could Mulroy, wet and shivering pull me the rest of the way home? A mere fifty feet that seemed impossibly far. I had to roll over on my stomach and crawl. If I could crawl and Mulroy could pull, we might make it. We might get home.

The sky opened up again and poured down on us. Lightening crackled and thunder boomed as though the earth would break open up wide. The pain was lost in the fear and I rolled. “Back, Mulroy,” I screamed in the roar. “Back!” He pulled and I crawled and the mud threatened to eat us both and swallow up what was left of us. “Back, boy, back!” And the blackness came again.

“Georgia?” the voice was soft and melodic. My eyes fluttered open and I felt the warmth of the sun soak into me. My heart soared and the fear fell away. “Georgia?”

I could not see for the sunshine in my eyes. “Who’s there?” My eyes could not see.

“Stay with me,” the voice cooed.

“Where am I?”

“Stay with me and you will be happy,” the voice came again - but different.

“Who are you? Where are you? I can’t see . . . ”

“You must stay with me,” the voice lost its benevolence. “Stay with me!”

My eyes opened to the gray and rain. So cold and afraid. Mulroy and I lie on the porch. He nestled against me to share his body heat. The rain thundered on the roof of the porch but did not pour down on us. We were home. Almost. I lie still and tried to feel my body. Was it a broken, useless heap or could I move? I couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel anything but the cold and wet and numb that had been mine for . . . how long? How long had I been trapped? How long had it taken us to get here?

Deep breath, get up on all fours. Collapse to the floor. Another deep breath and will myself to my knees. “Here boy,” I whispered and he came to me, crying and cold. I could lean on him and he would let me. My hand found the doorknob and turned and we crawled inside. We were home. We were safe.

 (The following story is a joint effort by Sarah Flanigan and Jess Em. We hope you enjoy it.)

The mean summer sun burned a hole in the sky and glared down at me. Mocking and relentless. Grimacing, I turned the key in the ignition and heaved a breath of surrender.The journey to Monday morning dread had begun and I navigated the streets on autopilot.

The weekend was never long enough, nor the work week short enough. Dread was my only friend and confidant there and it whispered in my ear, “Turn back. Go home.” I turned the music up louder. I still heard my dread whimper and whine but pretended to sing along.

My office building loomed over the tiny, surrounding shops and mimicked an architectural flip off. Or maybe it was just my attitude that colored it that way. Nothing like going to a job where you are feared and hated to get the bitter taste of resentment going and the stomach acid brewing.

The slowest elevator in the world is in my building, like the largely old world neighborhood in which it resides, it lumbers and groans with each effort to move forward.

Odd. An empty lobby at 8:58 a.m. A first. I glanced toward the street, through the open door, was there any traffic? “Dah-ding!” the elevator announced, and I moved inside like the good soldier. Each floor announced with a smaller, less significant ding. Top floor, end of the line. The doors opened like a pair of ancient elephants parting company.

The empty hallway smelled of grit and old ashtrays and people who were anti-deodorant. I reached for my keys but the door was already open. No doubt, one of my employees was trying to prove something or angling for a pay raise.

I pushed the door wide, my hand flat against the cool surface. “Morning,” I murmured but there was no one there. I ambled further into the belly of the beast. The staff kitchen was surely atwitter with discussions of dates, diets and bad television shows.

But in my approach, I heard no voices, smelled no coffee, felt no energy. “Why are all the lights off back here?” I groused when my knee hit the door jamb. A flick of the wrist and there was light but nothing else.

“Damned cleaning crew,” I muttered, realizing they’d left the door open. I checked the safe and the cash drawer but everything was as I’d left it the night before.

Urgent and shrill the phone rang and jolted me into the corner of my desk. “Crap!” I dove for the phone. “Good morning, Dr. Black’s office, may I help you?” The screech of a fax scratched at my eardrums and I slammed the phone down.

Where the hell was everybody? Why was it so quiet? I could almost believe I was the only person in the building.

Shrugging it off, I started a pot of coffee and poured a cup when it finished brewing. Astounded by my luck, I found some real half and half and watched the swirls it made in the hot, aromatic brew.

9:15 a.m. Still, no one had arrived. No one had called. Where were they? I turned on the radio while I prepared for the onslaught of patients that would pour through the door any minute. Helen Reddy sang, You and Me Against the World. Irony, I love it. I sang along while I executed the mundane chores of turning off voice mail, checking for messages - none? Printing off the appointments for the day.

Whoosh, the door opened. “Finally,” I said, craning my neck through the cashier’s window. “I was beginning to think . . . ” My words were sucked into a vacuum. No one there. Just an open door. I went through the adjoining door to the waiting room and crossed to the door to close it but felt compelled to look out into the hallway. No one. I stepped out. All the other doors were open but the offices were empty. The creepy-crawly feeling that hurried up my spine put my feet in motion and I retreated into the office. I locked the door behind me. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

“Stop it. Just call them. They are all late and that’s all that’s going on.” I lectured myself as I fumbled through my Rolodex for phone numbers. First I dialed the doctor. A recording said the number was disconnected. I dialed again. Same recording.

My chest tightened and I pushed down the panic that was trying to snake its way up my throat. “Calm down, will you?” I told myself. I dialed the next number. And the next. And the next. All of them were disconnected. What are the odds that every number I had written down was wrong? I dialed information. What else could I do? Oh come on, that number was disconnected too?

I gave up on the phone and regarded it suspiciously. “Am I being punked?” I looked around, smiling. “Okay, you can all come out now. Very funny. Come on! I’m onto you, no point in keeping up the charade.” I smiled and grinned. Of course, I was on Candid Camera or something. They were playing a joke on me and were watching all of it from a video van on the street.

I poured myself another cup of coffee and went back to my desk. They’d wander in shortly, thinking they had done something funny. “Screw them,” I said and turned on my computer. I clicked on my email but nothing came up. Strange. No email, again? “Servers must be down.” I clicked on my homepage, again nothing came up. Not even an error page. Nothing. As though there was no Internet.

I eyed the clock - 10 a.m., still no one. Still, the utter quiet. I’d had enough. I didn’t know what was going on but I was leaving. Maybe it was a holiday or they’d gone to a party without me but I was damned if I was going to sit there all day by myself. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. My hand closed on the doorknob but it wouldn’t turn. Thud, went my heart. Oh right, I’d locked it. I released the deadbolt. Still, the handle wouldn’t turn. “What the hell?” I twisted at the knob, banged my fists on the door. “Hey, let me out! Hey, is anybody out there? Hello? Hey!”

But no one was and now I was trapped inside. My brain buzzed. I was suddenly hot and felt sweat trickle down my back and under my arms. My pulse raised and panic nagged at my insides. I made myself breathe. The door was just stuck or something. There was no diabolical plot in play. I let out a breath, counted to ten and tried the door again, but slowly. It turned. I pulled it open. No one there. No one in the hallway. I locked the door behind me and headed for the stairs.

As I descended each flight of stairs, I tried to rationalize everything. Where the hell could they all be? Why was no one in the building? Why hadn’t I seen one person since my arrival?

I reached the parking level to the staff lot and pushed through the door. The lot was empty. Empty! There really wasn’t anyone there but me. I had to duck under the barricade at the driveway to get through because, surprise, that wasn’t working either. I felt relieved that I’d parked on the street. I don’t know why I decided to, I just did. Lucky for me, I thought.

I walked and it was just me and the birds. There was not one car on the road. Not one. Not one person on the street but me. The panic started screaming in my head again, and it was screaming for me to run. Run!

My feet flew and I was at my car panting and looking around as though the boogie man would jump out and snatch me away to the dark planet. I unlocked the door and got inside, turned the ignition and pulled away. The streets were like the building, eerily empty. As though all the life had been sucked out of the area. Every light I hit was green. There was no traffic. For twenty minutes I drove, apparently the only car in the entire city, traveling.

Finally, I pulled into my drive. I was home and my panic fell away. I knew if I just could get inside the house, all the nonsense would disappear. I got out of the car on rubbery legs. The key turned the lock and I opened the door. Cool air rushed at me from the dark cavern within.

“Sparky?” I called my dog. She hadn’t come running to the door to welcome me. I walked into the livingroom. I whistled. “Here, girl!” I went to the patio door and looked out to the yard. Empty. Just green grass and the Mimosa tree, swaying in the hot breeze.

There was no point in looking further. The house was empty, even I didn’t seem to occupy the space. I was alone. I was completely alone. In my house. Maybe in the world. What cruel trick was God playing on me?

Breathe. In, out, in out. Bring air into my body, think, breathe out. Don’t panic. Think. That is what I told myself. It worked for a moment. Try the home phone, try my cell phone, turn on the television - see if anything works.

No phone, no cell. A vortex of empty sound buzzed across the phone lines. The silence screamed. This couldn’t be real. Unless . . . it was them.

I went into the kitchen for a glass of water, and I heard it - the light tapping at the back door. Incessantly tap, tap, tap, tap, tap-rhythmically, never stopping, tapping lightly in tune with the breeze. But there was no breeze. The air was thick beyond anything I had ever known. No life, no wind, no sound. What happened to all the sound? Nothing except the tapping at the back door.

I knew what it was. I’d heard it only once before, in a time and place that still haunted my dreams, my worst nightmares. The tapping meant they had come. They found me, they knew me, and they were waiting.

I went out the back door, pulled down the line spliced between the roofing tiles, and disconnected it from the lintel at the back door. They would know, soon. But it didn’t matter anymore.

Panic skittered up my spine, my fingers shaking; I went into my bedroom and pulled up the floorboard, for inside was the small box I knew they wanted. The box! If I destroyed the box, the air would come back. The people would come back. Everything would be okay again, nothing lost. “Remember - if this comes into the wrong hands all is lost. There are many who would destroy that which we protect for what is inside this small rectangular container. Never, never let it go to them.”

Fire, air. Together they would eradicate the life inside the box. The life that was destroying the very essence of everything. They wanted it, for it would give them the power. I had to let the others know, but didn’t know how. Except - if I died, they’d know why.

Fire, air. Pure air. I needed pure air. I could make fire, but pure air, without the taint of exhaust and pollutants, no residue. I had a plant, a small umbrella tree, but it would work.

Voices -outside my house, my little home where I felt safe. Where I should have been safe. Sweat beaded on my back, my heart pounded so hard I was sure they could hear it. How did they find me? Were there any others still alive? Time stopped in this farce, this fevered moment in which I questioned my sanity, my being. I heard the voices. And I knew they had come for me.

I took the box, and the matches to the plant, and hurried to strike the match and set the box aflame. I heard them, the voices coming louder and louder from inside the box, and outside the house, and I knew they were close - too close. I had to stop them, destroy it, before they destroyed all.

As the air sucked into the fire, it grew hotter and hotter, crackling away the edges of the box, the plant, the table, and the curtains. The flames licked up the walls of my house, and I knew I should leave, run, but it was my debt to see the box destroyed. To make sure it died - completely destroyed. I felt the fire growing hotter, larger, coming closer, and I had won. As the smoke thickened, my eyes blurred, I lay down to my last moments on earth, and savored my victory over them. And I heard them scream. I had won. The darkness closed around me and, I smiled. The box was destroyed.

I slipped into the blackness.

copyright Sarah Flanigan & Jess Em 2007

 

Was it a shadow that glanced my peripheral vision or something real? My head made an automatic turn in that direction but nothing was there. I shrugged, yet another symptom of being on edge, too much stress.

I squinted against the bright sun and let its warmth soak into my bones. An easy day of doing nothing. Wandering. Looking into windows at things I could never afford to buy I felt a calm settle in. I needed this - a respite from the noise and clutter in my mind. A vacation from me.

With bold invisibility I moved with the crowd. Touching no one, no one touching me. A relief to be a stranger among strangers. A joy to offer no revelation of what lie inside. I listened to my sandals meeting the pavement, each step measured and regular. My shoulders relaxed, my mind turned off and my eyes searched and coveted without notice.

Again, the shadow danced out of reach of my perception. What was it? Who was it? I stopped and listened. My senses dialed up a notch, trying to lasso that elusive perception. A color, dark, moved slightly to my right. I fumbled in my bag and pulled out my cell phone. With flair, I pretended to dial and chat with an imaginary friend. “What are you doing?” I said to the no one there. My eyes darted covertly, scanning for a face or a clue. “Really?” I continued. “Uh, huh, uh huh . . . ” I saw what I was feeling. The embodiment of the shadow. It was she. Again.

I ended my imaginary call and put my cell back in my bag. My mind ticked. What should I do? Confront her? How uncomfortable that would be. Ignore her? Didn’t seem possible. Pretend to be happy to have run into her? I wasn’t sure I was that good an actress. So . . . I walked. Hoping she would give up. Hoping she would find fresh prey on the street thronging with countless opportunities for an obsession.

I stopped at a juice bar and bought a smoothie. She stopped at the newsstand next door. I chatted with the kid at the counter so long he probably feared I was hitting on him. Eventually, I had to move on. I had to keep traveling as though unaware. If I stopped too long, I would give a tacit invitation to her to bump into me. Grant her permission to invade my privacy again. Damn her!

The sun was hot but I felt a shiver. What did she want? Why did she want it? How had I become the object of her obsession? We’d met casually, through mutual friends. At first, I thought we could be friends. She seemed bright, witty, intelligent. We even had lunch a couple of times, took in a movie, had drinks and complained about the men in and out of our lives. Normal getting to know you type of stuff. I didn’t think twice about it. Until . . .

Three o’clock in the morning and my phone jolted me out of a dead sleep. “Hello?” a mixture of apprehension and annoyance.

“Kath?”

“Yeah,” I sat up only vaguely recognizing the voice.

“It’s me, Janny.”

Annoyance won. Why was she calling me at this hour? “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, really. I just couldn’t sleep.” I heard her smoking, exhaling deeply and sensed a nervous ramble.

“Janny, it’s late.”

“I know,” she gushed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called but I can’t sleep. I need to talk . . . ”

I gave in, though I knew I shouldn’t have. It was a bad precedent to set. Soon, late night calls became the norm. I could have unplugged my phone and in fact did, but the cell would ring anyway. I couldn’t completely disconnect, I had family and friends who I wanted to be able to reach me if they needed. I started screening my calls.

After many unreturned calls, she started showing up at my house. Knocking on the door at all hours. Leaving gifts on my doorstep. Pathetic messages on my answering machine. “I thought we were friends,” she’d say, her voice cracking as though on the verge. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing was really wrong. It wasn’t as though I thought she could hurt me or threaten me really. But I just didn’t want to be around her. But that was unavoidable. We had mutual friends - I saw her at parties and gatherings where she would corner me and force feed me the details of her life. I started to notice strange things. She changed her hairstyle and it looked a lot like mine. She started to wear clothes from the same shops where I bought my clothes. Her mannerisms reminded me of me. It was like looking into a fun house mirror and seeing a distorted image of me.

While it was unnerving there wasn’t much, I could do about it. She wasn’t breaking the law or causing me harm - just creeping me out. I saw less of our mutual friends. I avoided places I knew she might turn up. I changed my phone number. For a while, things returned to normal. The calls stopped. I rarely saw her and thought the infatuation was over. A fluke. An unintended assumption of personality goaded by too much admiration?

But now, here she was again. Dogging me. Watching me. What did she want?

I knew if I didn’t do something, I’d be driven to extremes. To move or change jobs or worse. It was time. I had to confront her. I didn’t want to - I didn’t want to accuse her of what was obvious but could never be proved. I didn’t want to deal with the consequences, with friends choosing sides and the mess that would surely follow but she left me no choice.

I stepped into a doorway and waited. She started past and I stepped out in front of her.

“Kath!” she cried as though genuinely surprised. She gave me a hug and my skin crawled. “What are you doing here?”

I backed away from her reach. “The question is, what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why are you following me?” I asked and felt like a ridiculous, paranoid bitch.

She put her hand to her chest as though she would have a case of the vapors. “Following you? I’m not following you. I was just out window shopping. I had no idea you were here too.” Her eyes went large and mimicked hurt.

“Cut the crap,” I said. “We both know the truth. I want you to stop it. Just stop it. Leave me alone.”

She looked around as though the strangers that walked past were her audience. “Can you believe her?”

A couple of people gave a look.

“You want me to stop it? Stop what?” She looked at a man walking by, “she wants me to stop? Stop what?”

The man gave us both the eye and hurried past, looking back once or twice but never stopping.

“Stop trying to be me,” I said, my jaw clenched and pained.

She laughed a high-pitched shriek. “Be you? Why would I want to be you?” Her voice went higher and louder. “What’s so special about you?” She put her hands on her hips and glared.

“I don’t have any idea why you’d want to be me. I can’t think of one reason you’d want to be - but you do. You are. Stop it! Leave me alone!” I shook with anger and was done with it. All of it. I walked away.

She screamed after me. “You don’t walk away from me. You don’t accuse me of this and walk away! Do you hear me?”

I walked faster, harder, to get away. I felt a clutch in my chest and a burn in my lungs but made myself move faster. When I got in my car and locked the doors I felt safe. I let my head fall back against the headrest. I’d said it. It was over. Out in the open. I steeled myself for the onslaught of calls from concerned friends, who would no doubt want to patch things up between us. For the possibility of letting those friends go if it became too much. For the possibility of changing jobs and homes so I could make a clean and total break. I’d done it. There was no turning back.

***

I slept in fits and starts. I could find no comfort in my bed or the still night. Charlie, my cat, hid from me under the bed, growling and spitting any time I tried to coax him out. Finally, I gave up and just lied there. Sleep would come if I just let it and I counted the cracks in the ceiling.

“She won’t give up without a fight, you know,” said a voice in my head, though it sounded from across the room. I punched the pillow and turned on my side. “Are you ignoring me too?”

I felt the breath on the back of my neck. There was another human being in the room with me and I was both angry and terrified. “Who’s there?” I whispered.

“Why me, of course,” and like that he was eye to eye, nose to nose.

I screamed and flew out of bed. Where was the damned phone? “Help!” I ran to the bathroom and locked myself in.

When I turned away from the door, there he sat on the edge of the tub, smiling. My heart thumped but he was really just a little man. A very little man, his feet barely touched the floor and his bow tie was askew.

“Who are you?”

He smiled like a guppy fish. “Oh come now, you know who I am. Think hard. I’m sure it will come to you.”

If he weren’t so odd and harmless I would have jumped him, wrapped him in the shower curtain and called the police. But this strange little creature intrigued me and I knew it had to be a delusion so I decided to engage him instead. “Nope, I got nothing.”

He sighed like a little girl and shook his head. “I’m so disappointed. But fine. I’m your little voice.”

I knew it was my paranoia - not real, harmless. “Oh,” I winked, “I see. My little voice. Well, you certainly are little, aren’t you?” Why was I standing in the freezing bathroom in the middle of the night talking to an apparition wholly of my own making? “Are you here to offer me some advice? Or just to put me to sleep?”

He laughed as though truly amused but there was something a little mean in his eyes. Something that made me back up a step. Did I really have that vivid an imagination? If I reached out and touched him would there be something there?

The doorbell rang and I jumped and screamed again.

“Take it easy. It’s just her,” he said.

“Her?” My heart sped up. “Her, who?”

He pointed his gloved hand toward the door. Like a little puppet, I pulled open the door and went toward the livingroom.

The bell continued to buzz, as though the mystery visitor leaned on it. Short of reaching the door, it stopped. I did too. Like a cat, I froze in mid-stride. My head felt on fire and sweat dampened my hair.

I heard mumbles from the other side of the door, jangling, keys and scraping. Whoever was out there was trying to get inside. “Who . . . ”

“I told you, it’s her,” he hissed in my ear. How did he get beside me without notice?

“Who?” I mouthed to him.

“The one who wants to be you.”

I shook my head. It couldn’t be. I couldn’t believe it could be her. But then, who else could it be? Gingerly I engaged the door chain. I didn’t really think they could get through the deadbolt but it wouldn’t hurt to be cautious. In the back of my mind I kept telling myself it was a weird and twisted dream and I would wake from it soon. Kept telling myself to wake up.

The deadbolt slid from its slot and the door eased open - just a crack, because the chain prevented entry. I gasped.

“I told you, I told you, I told you,” little man laughed and danced.

“Kathy, it’s Janny. Open the door.”

“You have to kill her,” he whispered, this time in my other ear. How did he get up on my shoulder? Why couldn’t I feel the weight of him there?

“Go away,” I said and put my weight against the door to close it.

She was strong and pushed back, I couldn’t manage to get the door shut and the chain was threatening to break. Little man squealed and shrieked. “Hurry, hurry, hurry. Kill her now, kill her now!”

“Janny, stop this now! I’m calling the police. Go home. Leave me alone!” I tried to sound angry and authoritative but could barely get the words out. “Do you hear me? Stop this!” I shoved hard against the door but it made no difference.

“We need to talk. I need to talk to you. Just let me in. I’m not going anywhere until we talk.” She shoved hard back and nearly knocked me to the floor.

My brain buzzed - the phone was too far away, little man wouldn’t help since he was just my imagination, the cat hid under the bed. My eyes scanned, looking for anything that would give me leverage and there was nothing. I was exhausted and I knew I couldn’t keep up the tug of war for too much longer. I knew I would lose at this game, she was clearly stronger than I was. Determined to drive me insane. Or?

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Just to talk,” she said.

Little man laughed and shook his head. “Don’t believe her.”

“Talk about what?”

“About what?” she whined. “About that fit you pitched today. I need to set you straight.”

I had to keep her talking. I had to get her to become more involved in her thoughts that trying to break down the door. I could feel she’d let up a little, just a notch . . . if I could just keep her talking.

“Why can’t we talk on the phone? Tomorrow?”

She laughed that mental patient laugh of hers. “Like you’ll even pick up the phone if you know it’s me. I’m not stupid you know, I’m not falling for that trick. No, we’re going to straighten this out tonight! Now!”

“Fine,” I said, “talk!”

She pushed again at the door. “I want in. Let me in!”

I gave up. I was damned if I were going to play this game. I walked away from the door. If she was determined to get in, I wasn’t going to stop her. Let her push all she wanted. Let her break the chain. I walked to the phone and picked up the handset. The minute I dialed 911 the chain went flying and the door banged open.

Little man shrieked and hid behind me. He trembled and hissed. “She’s in now. She’s in. She’s going to kill you. Why didn’t you kill her when you had the chance? Why?”

I put the phone to my ear, “come now, please come now,” and I let the phone drop to the floor.

Janny stood in the doorway, enraged. Her hair greasy with sweat, her eyes wild and cruel. “You!” she screamed. The full moon rushed through the open door behind her, forcing her shadow to touch and molest me. Her right arm, longer than her left, her teeth jagged and grinding. “You are going to pay!”

Fire shot from her hand and buzzed past me.

I dived for cover behind the sofa. The fire blazed every few seconds. My mind couldn’t take it in. I knew it wasn’t really fire. I knew none of this was really happening. I was a ghost in a dream feeling fear but knowing it was all pretend. Little man bit my knee and whimpered. “You bitch. You should have killed her. She’s going to kill us both. It’s all your fault.”

“Shut up, “I screamed at him.

She advanced. “Shut up? Shut up? I will not shut up! I’m going to shut you up for good. I’m going to shut your stupid, vile mouth up for good! Do you hear me?” More fire. More dizziness. Where were the cops? Where were the sirens? Why was I hiding from the crazy lady in my own house?

I hazarded a look around the side of the sofa. She was gone. It was silent. So quiet. Where had she gone? Why hadn’t I heard her? Where was little man? I looked around. I was alone in the dark. Trembling and sweating. Heaving for breath. The door was closed, locked, the chain engaged. The phone was in its cradle. Charlie stood at my feet and meowed. I stooped and picked him up and held him to me.” Oh Mr. Cat, we are losing are fucking minds. What the hell kind of dream was that?”

He meowed louder and I realized he was probably hungry, so I carried him into the kitchen. I flipped on the lights and grab a can of his favorite and dumped it in his dish. He jumped up to the counter and purred while he ate.

The doorbell rang. “What the. ?”

I went to the livingroom and stopped short of the door. “Who is it?”

“The police, ma’am.”

My mind whirred.

“What can I do for you?” I asked but didn’t move.

“We’re responding to a 911 call. Woman in distress.”

“Sorry, it was a mistake. I made a mistake.” I said from my spot in the middle of the livingroom. I knew I shouldn’t move. I knew it would be bad if I moved an inch.

“Could you please open the door ma’am,” the police officer said from the other side of the door. “We have to make sure you’re okay. Open the door ma’am. Open the door now.”

My feet were lead, it seemed to take hours to get to the door. I released the deadbolt but kept the chain in place. My hand closed on the doorknob - it was slick with . . . something - sweat? I used my nightgown to wipe away the slick and turned the knob and pulled open the door a crack. “Yes, officer?” I smiled through the crack in the door.

“Can you let us in, ma’am?” he said, a pleasant looking fatherly type in a uniform.

“I’m afraid I’m not decent, officer. You see, I was sleeping . . . ”

He shined his flashlight in my eyes my hand flew up to shield them.

“Sleeping ma’am?”

“Yes, sleeping, “I said. “Could you please not shine that in my eyes, I can’t see.”

“What’s that on your hand, ma’am? What’s that stain on your hand? Are you hurt? Are you bleeding?” His face was a black shadow against the glare in my eyes.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just fine. I’m sorry, but I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have called. Can’t I just go back to sleep?” He lowered the flashlight and his face came back into view. Little man danced behind him and made ugly faces at me. My stomach knotted. “Really, I’m very tired. I didn’t mean to call you. I guess I just had a bad dream.”

He shook his head. I would have to let him in. I would have to tell him about my stupid dream and paranoia and have to see the snicker on his face that he would try to hide but could not.

I stopped fighting fate. “All right,” I said, “just let me put something on.” I reached into the closet and grabbed my raincoat and covered myself up then returned to him. I unchained the door and pulled it toward me but it wouldn’t budge. “Sorry, something seems wrong with the door. It won’t open. I don’t know what’s wrong . . . there must be something blocking it . . . ”

I looked down and saw Janny’s face staring up. A frozen scream on her face, shadows down the front of her shirt, her hands to her throat. A breath caught in my throat.

The last thing I remember was little man screaming, “KILLLER!”

Copyright 2007

 

He had no face for me. Just a pleading voice and a dirty shirt.

My automatic head shake made him scurry away and I went into the store. But it bothered me, the faceless man. I was shivering and dressed in a sweater, jeans and a jacket. He had only old chinos and flannel shirt.

 I tried to shop but his ‘non-face’ kept jumping in front of me. I decided I would find him when I was done and buy him something to eat. I didn’t want to give him money because I thought he would just buy alcohol with it. I couldn’t in good conscience contribute to that - but I could feed him.

I tapped my foot as I waited for the cashier to ring up my few purchases, trying to spy a glimpse of him outside. I didn’t see him - but I was sure he was still hanging around the Starbuck’s, waiting. He knew I was coming back.

Finally, purchases rung up and paid. Out the door. I still didn’t  see  him. I walked to Starbuck’s looked inside and out. No one. No faceless man there. I walked through the entire mini-mall looking for the red flannel shirt and beat up chinos.

The whind whipped at my face and my hands stung from the cold. Did the wind gust him away? Flying him back into the abyss for whence he came? How could one, faceless man disappear so quickly. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes.

He was gone. Leaving no trace of himself or his direction. Yet, I stood at the open door of my car and scanned a few more times, believing in some part of me that he would appear. He didn’t.

Reluctantly, I got into the car and turned the ignition. The heater blasting, the music soothing, the whine of the wind outside, rocking the car. I gave up hope of him and put the gear to drive the few blocks home. Mad at myself for not realizing that I should have looked at him. I should have gotten him a sandwich and a hot cup of coffee. Wondering how many faceless men were hungry that night because of head shakers like me.

copyright 2006

“Sarah, what are you doing for Christmas?” Ellen asked. Her red hair and freckled face reminded me of an elf.

“Christmas?” I muttered.

Ellen flashed a grin. “Yeah, Christmas, heard of it haven’t you? The fat, happy guy delivers sweets and trinkets, people sing carols, eat like pigs and charge too much on their credit cards?”

I nodded absently. “Sounds familiar.”

“So, what are you doing?” Ellen tugged on my hair.

“The usual. Midnight Mass. Dinner at Mom’s. Presents for Molly,” I said, bored.

“Such enthusiasm!” Ellen teased.

I shrugged. “Just another holiday, El. The only fun I get out of it comes from Molly. It makes her happy.”

Ellen’s sapphire eyes darkened to indigo. “What about you?”

“We’ve known each other since high school, right?” She nodded, making her curls bounce like little red slinkies. “Still, you ask, what about me and Christmas?”

Ellen grinned impishly. “A person can always change their mind.”

“Like you said, too much eating, too much spending, too much everything.”

Ellen’s pixie face puzzled. “I don’t get this about you, Sarah. You’re such a good person, how did you become so anti-Christmas?”

I turned back to my computer screen, hoping she’d give up trying to convert me. She was my friend and I loved her for trying but some things really are lost causes.

“I guess you’re not interested in helping us at the shelter this year, either?” Ellen looked hopeful.

I shook my head. “Dishing out free food to welfare cases? No thanks, my taxes do that all year round.”

Ellen jotted an address on a post-it, as she did every year, and stuck it to my computer screen. “If you change your mind, this is where I’ll be on Christmas morning.” Refusing to be scrooged, she danced back to her desk, whistling Jingle Bells.

Though I was tempted to throw it away, I put the post-it in my pocket.

The music and chatter of the office Christmas party interrupted my concentration. Frustrated, I stuffed it all in my briefcase. I picked up the egg nog, cookies and fruitcake that littered my desk and dropped them in the trash and made for the door. Mr. Bush, my boss, blocked me at the exit. “Holiday, Sarah,” he smiled.

“But . . . ”

“It comes but once a year.” He opened my briefcase, emptied it of my work and gave it back to me. “It’ll keep,” he said. “Go home, relax and have a Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bush,” I smiled. His expression cued me. “Oh, and Merry Christmas to you, too.”

*

When I got home, I made lunch for my munchkin. Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, Molly’s favorite. The back door slammed, announcing her arrival. “Mommy!” She always sounded so happy to see me that it melted my heart every time.

I grinned at my angel, rosy-faced from the cold. Golden strands of hair fell into her eyes, refusing the captivity of the barrettes I’d placed that morning.

She threw her arms around my legs. “Mommy, Mommy, I’m so excited!”

I stroked her plump cheek. “Why Pumpkin, what’s happened?”

“I got a new friend. He’s so nice. Can he eat lunch with us? We have lots of food, can he have some too?”

I pushed the hair out of her eyes. “Sure. Where is he?” I looked around.

Her eyes wandered to a spot on the ceiling. “Outside.”

“Outside?” I said surprised. “Tell him to come inside before he freezes his nose off.” I pulled another place setting from the cupboard.

“You’re sure it’s okay?” Molly had a funny look.

I stopped setting the table. “Molly, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said and shot out the back door.

As I ladled the soup into bowls, I heard the back door open and close again. The rush of icy air cheered me and made me giggle. “Okay kids,” I said, my back still turned, “sit down and eat it while it’s hot.”

“Looks mighty good,” a man said.

Startled, I turned toward that baritone and stifled a gasp when I saw my daughter’s new friend. “Molly, who is this?”

Molly sat and made her friend sit at the table with her. “This is Nick, Mommy.”

His clothes were torn and dirty and from his body odor it was apparent he hadn’t bathed recently.

“He’s a nice person. You don’t have to have new clothes to be a nice person, right?”

Nick grinned and I was surprised to see he had a beautiful smile. He stuck out his big, calloused hand. “How do you do, ma’am? Thank you for your invite to lunch. Appreciate it.”

Pretty good manners for a bum, I thought. Molly was so happy about her new pal that I went along. They ate like prize fighters and laughed and talked like dear, old friends. I drank my coffee in silence perplexed by the rapport between them.

After lunch, I started the dishes. “Go wash up, honey.” Molly obeyed without protest - another first. When she was out of earshot, I seized the opportunity to interrogate Nick.

“How exactly did you and Molly meet?” I asked.

Nick beamed another smile. “She was waiting on her bus one day and I was collecting bottles right near the stop and she smiled a sweet little smile…” His deep blue eyes sparkled but my glare vanquished that light.

He shook his head. “No,it ain’t what you think. I’d never do nothing to little children that would hurt them. I think they are the most precious things. Had some myself, once . . .” he disappeared into his own world for a minute.

I don’t know why, but I believed him. I nodded. “She smiled at you and?”

The sparkle returned and he continued his story. “She asks me, what’s you doing looking for bottles? So I says, I’m thinking if I can get enough I can get a hot dog down at the Seven Eleven. So, she gives me her cheese sandwich and apple that she didn’t eat for lunch.” He grinned at me, “you sure do have a sweet, little girl.”

“Yes, I have,” I agreed, avoiding the persuasion of his charm.

“Next day I saw her again and we chatted a minute or two. Before you know it, seemed like we was seeing each other all the time.” His big grin receded as my suspicion returned. “I don’t sit on the bench with her or nothing. I just stand back a ways and we chat. Then I go on my way and she waves goodbye from the bus and I wave back.”

“Did you tell her, Nick?” Molly appeared in the doorway.

My heart skipped a beat. “Tell me what?”

Molly joined us at the table. “Bobby Miller tried to steal my lunch box. He pulled my hair so I’d let go.”

“Just kids being kids,” Nick interjected.

“It hurt!” Molly insisted. “I almost cried, but Nick came and chased him away.” She beamed at him as if he were an angel. “He saved me, Mommy.”

I realized that Molly saw him as nothing less than a saint. “Thank you, Nick for coming to my Molly’s rescue.”

Nick stood up and bowed. I was struck by the grace of a man so large. “My pleasure, ma’am.” He pulled on his shabby coat and moved to the door. “Thanks for the eats.”

He looked pitiful in the rags he wore. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Don’t leave just yet.”

I went into the hall closet and pulled out the goodwill bag. I found my brother’s old overcoat, a pair of trousers and a shirt that would fit Nick. I brought them back to the kitchen. “Maybe you’d like these.”

Nick flushed and bowed his head. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Molly glowed. “See Nick, now you won’t be cold!”

He smiled. “Yes, little Molly, you’re right.”

“Molly, it’s time for you to clean your room,” I said.

The light in her eyes went down a notch but she nodded. She blew Nick a kiss. He pretended to catch it and put it in his pocket.

When she was out of the room, I put a twenty in his hand. “Maybe you could go to the Y and get a shower and a good night’s sleep,” I said, surprised by my own charity.

He tried to give it back but I insisted. “No, really. It would make Molly happy.”

“Bless you,” he mumbled and he was out the door.

*

The next morning, a scraping sound outside my window awakened me. I peered out the bedroom window.

Molly decked out in her red snowsuit and Nick in his new clothes, shoveled the front walk. Dread did a little dance in my stomach. “Just like a stray cat,” I mumbled, “once you feed them, they’re yours . . . ”

I threw on some clothes and went outside. “Hi Mommy,” Molly chirped.

“Morning,” I said to Nick. “What brings you here?”

“I seen your walk needed shoveling,” Nick said as he kept at it. “Thought if somebody didn’t get to it pretty soon, you or Molly might slip and fall.”

I moved a few steps closer. “That’s very kind, but it’s not necessary. My brother usually helps us with these things.”

“Mommy, can Nick have some coffee?” Molly asked.

Nick caught my frown. “Now, Molly, we don’t want to bother your Mama. She’s got better things to do than make coffee for an old man.”

Molly disagreed, “but you’re our friend! Isn’t he, Mommy?”

I nodded and smiled. I went inside and made coffee, pancakes, bacon and juice.

Molly was oblivious to my skepticism and Nick’s embarrassment. She chatted happily as we ate, but Nick knew I wasn’t happy about his presence.

After breakfast, he insisted on doing the dishes. Molly pulled a chair to the sink and helped him. I don’t know which was more shocking that I had a bum doing my dishes or that my daughter was happily doing chores. The effect he had on her was magical.

“Thank you,” I said, “it was very sweet of you to come by and help us.”

“That bottom step on your back porch is a little loose,” he said. “Where do you keep your hammer and nails?”

Molly ran to the tool drawer and pulled it open. “Right here,” she pointed.

Nick took out the tools he needed and headed for the back door.

“No, thank you, but,” I stammered, “you don’t . . .”

They were out the door and hammering away before I could stop them. When he was done and Molly was out of earshot, I’d ask him to leave.

With Molly distracted, I grabbed to opportunity to wrap presents. I lost track of time until I heard scraping and dragging coming from the garage. “Oh jeez, now what are they doing?” I yanked open the garage door. Nick, huffed and puffed, as he swept, dragged and stacked, his favorite helper, Molly, right beside him.

“Look Mommy, we’re cleaning the garage,” Molly sang.

I smiled and nodded. “What would you two like for lunch?” I asked.

So went the day. Every time I thought I could persuade Nick to leave, he found another chore to do. Each time he did a chore, I felt obliged to feed him.

By the time we ate dinner, the dishes were done and Molly was in the bath, it was nearly seven o’clock. I found Nick in the garage sweeping up the last of the dust. “Nick? Can we talk for a minute?”

He smiled. “Yes, Ma’am. At your service.”

“About all this help you’re giving us . . . ” I noticed the garage. I’d never seen it so clean and organized.

“You know, ma’am, a lot of people think I’m a bum. I can’t blame them. I got no home, don’t own anything . . .” His eyes were bright as Christmas lights, his shaggy hair sparkled like spun silver and I felt a sudden kindred connection to him. “But I ain’t a bum. I always try to return every kindness with a kindness. I don’t want to live off other folks. I want to earn my keep just like anybody.”

I forgot what I wanted to say.

“Sometimes, you just have a run of bad luck. But it don’t mean you aren’t trying to get back on your feet.” He smiled shyly. “Maybe you know what I’m saying?”

I nodded. “Maybe I do.”

He finished sweeping and leaned the broom against the wall. “It’s late and I best be getting on. Thanks for your hospitality. Tell little Molly I said, good night.” He pulled the garage door open and exposed the night, blanketed in white glitter. All of Nick’s shoveling a memory.

The cold air raised gooseflesh on my arms. “Where will you go?” I sounded like Molly.

“Shelter down the road. If I’m there before eight, I get a cot.” He patted my arm. “Ain’t nothing to worry about. I’m old and I lived a long time but I get by.”

I wanted to take him back into the house where it was warm and safe. Give him hot chocolate and cookies and offer him the guest room for the night. Maybe for as long as he needed it. I wanted to keep him from leaving, but I didn’t. Instead, I smiled and said, “Good night, Nick.”

“Night, ma’am.” He paused and smiled. “I’m glad we got the chance to talk.”

“So am I.”

I watched him as he trudged through the snow, bent against the night wind.

*

The next morning, I woke up at dawn. I had so much energy I couldn’t stay in bed. Molly snuggled in her bed and didn’t stir when I looked in on her.

Before I knew it, I had my cookbook opened to the cookie section and I was starting a batch of Christmas cookies. Mixing up the gooey batter, I developed a plan. I’d bake cookies all morning. Molly would wake up to the smell of Christmas and she’d light up like our tree. When Nick arrived, we’d have breakfast and then we’d go to the park and ice skate. A perfect plan for a perfect day. It was Christmas-time after all, and we would enjoy it! Maybe I wasn’t really anti-Christmas.

I hummed a tune as I baked. When I realized it was a Christmas carol I laughed out loud.

“Mommy?” Molly’s sleepy voice interrupted my fantasy.

I grinned. “Good morning, my peanut-butter cookie!”

Molly giggled and skipped into the kitchen. “Morning, my Gingerbread Mommy.” She laughed. “What are you doing?”

“Making cookies!” I said and put a batch in the oven.

Molly’s eyes widened. “You are?” She dragged a chair over, got up on it and looked for herself. “You are!” She hugged me tight.

We made batches and batches of cookies. Flour and cookie dough clung to our hair and our faces but we didn’t care. “When is Nick coming?”

“I don’t know.” She looked at the clock and frowned. “Maybe he’s not.”

My smile faded. “Of course he’s coming. He’s your best friend, isn’t he? Of course he’s coming.”

A knock sounded at the back door. Molly squealed, jumped down from her perch and opened the door.

“Come on in,” I said over my shoulder, “coffee’s on.”

“What’s got you in such a mood?” my brother, Michael asked.

I looked at him as if he were the dog catcher and I was a cornered stray. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Thought I’d come shovel you out. It snowed all night, sis. Haven’t you looked outside?”

“No,” I said.

“Why didn’t you pull the car in last night?” Michael griped. “It’s going to be a pain digging it out.”

“I cleaned the garage,” I said absently, “forgot the car.”

“Mommy,is Nick okay?” Molly cried. “Is he buried in the snow too?”

I picked her up and hugged her. “No, honey, I’m sure Nick is safe.”

“Who’s Nick?” Michael helped himself to coffee and a cookie.

“We better get dressed and grab a shovel,” I said.

We dug the car out and cleared the drive, though Michael did most of the work. I noticed a snowman on my front lawn as if it had just appeared. Not just a snowman, but an ice sculpture, with detailing so intricate I expected him to awake and introduce himself. He wore the clothes I’d given Nick and sported a cigar in his mouth.

“Mommy,” Molly cooed, “it’s Frosty!” She trudged through the snow to it and hugged it. “I love you, Frosty.”

I spied an envelope pinned to its overcoat. Inside was a Christmas card from Nick. He’d enclosed a twenty-dollar bill and scrawled a note. “Thanks for sharing a few moments of your precious life with a grateful, old man. Merry Christmas. Nick.”

“Who’s it from? What does it say?” Molly hopped up and down.

“It’s from Nick. It says, Merry Christmas.”

“Where is he?” Molly asked.

“I don’t know. He doesn’t say.”

Molly touched the sleeve of the snowman’s overcoat. “Is this Nick? Did he get all frozen last night when it snowed?”

Michael tramped across the yard to us. “Who’s Nick?”

“How bad are the roads?” I asked him.

*

“How many shelters?” Michael complained.

“Just a couple more,” I said, peering out the window. I looked for anybody standing in doorways or by heater grates in the sidewalks. The streets were deserted.

“What’s with you?” he asked. “Molly brings home a bum . . . ”

“He’s not a bum.” “He’s our friend,” Molly explained. “Isn’t he, Mommy?”

“That’s right, honey.”

“Okay, a friend. Who mooches a few meals for doing some work? Then he gives you back the clothes and the money?”

“Uh huh.”

“He’s out of your life . . . and now you want to find him?”

“I want to make sure he’s all right,” I explained.

“Why? What’s it to you?” Michael was confused.

“He’s old. He hasn’t any family or friends or a home.” I strained to see through the wall of white.

“I know, but why do you care?” Michael asked.

I looked at my big brother. “I don’t know. I just do.”

Though we met many misplaced, sad people, we didn’t find Nick.

The weather worsened, though I pretended not to notice. Michael’s teeth chattered loudly. “I just came over to do my brotherly good deed. To shovel my sister and her kid out of the snow . . .”

I got the hint. “Okay, just take us to the police station so we can file a report. Then we’ll go home. Promise.”

“What’s gotten into you, sis?”

“Christmas,” I whispered.

*

“Don’t know his last name?” the officer asked sarcastically.

“Nick, just Nick,” I repeated.

After he finished typing the report and I signed it, he said, “You know we ain’t going to find him, don’t you?”

Molly’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“I know you’re going to try, right?” I shifted my gaze to Molly.

The cop softened, “Ah, yes Ma’am, we’re going to try.”

Michael hustled us toward the exit. A young officer stopped us before we got to the door. “Don’t let Stefanski get you down, ma’am. He’s pulling a double and chewing everybody out.”

I appreciated his kindness. “Thank you.”

“I’ll keep an eye out. I hear anything about your friend, I’ll give you a call.” He winked at Molly and went on his way.

Once we got home, Michael made it clear he wouldn’t take us out again.

I made an early dinner since none of us had eaten all day.

Michael gobbled so quickly, I doubt he even chewed. Molly played with her food. I nibbled a gingerbread man I’d made that morning. His cheerful face mocked me. I deserved it. If I hadn’t been so, what had Ellen called it, anti-Christmas, Nick wouldn’t have disappeared.

“We’ll see you tomorrow for Midnight Mass?” Michael asked. I didn’t answer him. “Sarah?”

“Yes, all right,” I nodded.

He gave me a bear hug. “Don’t worry so much.”

I couldn’t remember the last time Michael had hugged me and my face said as much.

He let go and laughed like a little kid. “Let’s not get all mushy.” He pulled on his gloves and hat and was out the door.

I tucked Molly in. “Time to go to sleep, Muffin. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.” I pulled the comforter up to her chin.

“Why did Nick leave?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Is he coming back?” Molly asked.

“I don’t know that either.”

“I’m worried for him. Do you think he’s cold?”

“Why don’t you say a prayer for him?” I suggested. “Ask God to keep him safe and warm.”

She nodded, unable to keep her eyes open any longer.

I fell asleep on the sofa, watching Christmas in Connecticut. I woke to find Molly braiding my hair. “Hi, Mommy.”

I sat up. “What are you doing?”

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

I smiled. “I know, Muffin. Are you excited?”

She shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Santa’s coming tonight!” I sounded like one of Molly’s friends. Or Ellen.

Molly shook her head, “But I won’t get what I want.”

I tickled her. “Oh yes, you will. You’re the best little girl in the world. Santa will give you anything you want.”

Hope rushed into her face. “Do you think so? Will he bring Nick back?”

My smile disappeared.

Molly frowned. “I thought so.”

We devoted the rest of the day to last minute details. I had food to prepare for the family feast. Molly had parties to attend though I had to force her. “What if Nick . . . ?” she kept asking.

“I’ll come and get you. We’ll come and get you. I promise,” I kept responding.

She marched off like a soldier to war.

Despite the decorations and our dazzling tree, the house felt cold and empty. Every time the phone rang my heart leapt, only to fall when it wasn’t news about Nick.

A fund raiser for a local shelter called to solicit a donation, which I was happy to make. She was as surprised as I was by my response.

“You want to give us how much?” she asked.

“A hundred dollars? Will that help?” I looked at my check register and saw I could afford more. “How about two hundred?”

“Yes! Thank you!” I thought she’d leap through the phone.

“All right then,” I said. “Do you want to send someone by for the check?” Silence. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

“Wrong? No. It’s just that I’ve called you every year for the last five years,” she explained. “You never gave us anything. Last year, you hung up on me before I even finished. I almost didn’t call you.”

“I’m glad you did. I’ve had a change of heart.”

*

When Molly got home, exhausted from her parties, I put her down for a nap. I was tired too and fell asleep on the sofa. I probably would have slept until Christmas morning if the phone hadn’t rung.

“Yes?” I mumbled.

“Ms. Wayne? This is Officer Morgan. It’s about your friend, the homeless man?”

I was suddenly wide awake. “You found Nick?”

“Maybe. I don’t know . . . he’s in the hospital . . .”

My heart ached. “Where is he?”

*

On the way to the hospital, Molly cried. “Is he really sick?”

“I don’t know, honey,” I didn’t want her to get her hopes up too high. “We don’t know if it is Nick but we have to be brave girls. We can’t cry. Okay?”

She wiped away her tears. “Okay, Mommy, I’m brave.”

I had to convince the head nurse to let me take Molly in. She melted when Molly batted her baby blues and told her it was all she wanted for Christmas.

We entered the room hand in hand. “Nick,” I whispered.

He turned his head. My heart soared and fell in an instant. It wasn’t Nick. Just a poor, old fellow, sick and alone on Christmas Eve.

“It’s not Nick,” Molly cried.

“I’m sorry, Molly.” my own tears welled up.

We turned away but the man called us back.

“No. Don’t go. Don’t go.”

We felt bad for him. Where was his family? “I’m sorry . . . we didn’t mean to . . . ”

“Josie,” he whispered, “you came.”

“No,” I said, “you don’t understand . . . ”

“Is that Tracey there with you? Tracey, give your grandpa a hug.”

Molly looked at me.

I whispered in her ear. “He’s sick and he thinks we’re his family.”

Molly knew just what to do. She climbed onto the man’s bed and hugged him and kissed his forehead. “I love you, Grandpa.”

The ailing man’s face filled with life as tears rolled down his cheeks. “Tracey, Tracey, Tracey,” he cooed. “Grandpa loves you too.”

I took his hand and held it until he drifted back to sleep.

On our way home Molly said, “How come that man didn’t know who we were?”

“Because he was sick and confused and lonely.”

“Does he feel better now?” Molly looked hopeful.

“Yes angel, I think he does.”

*

That night, we snuggled on the sofa. “Molly, you know there are many lonely people in the world? Like the man we saw tonight?”

Molly’s azure eyes darkened. “Yes.”

“That for some people, Christmas is a really sad time?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“This Christmas, I think maybe we should help some of those people. What do you think?”

She considered it for a moment. “Yes, we should. Do we have enough food to feed all of them?”

“There’s a shelter that Ellen goes to every year. Like the places we went with Uncle Mike. We could go there and help. People send money and food then cook it all up and feed people who have no place to go for Christmas.”

“Who do we feed?” Molly asked.

“Anybody who’s hungry and comes inside.” I hugged her.

“What about Gramma and Grandpa and Uncle Mike and Aunt Suzie? Are they coming too?”

“We can ask them,” I said. “If they don’t want to, it’s okay because you shouldn’t do things for people unless you really want to.”

*

Midnight mass was breathtaking. The choir and the lights at St. Pat’s were always magnificent to me, but this night they held a special magic. It filled me with the soul of Christmas.

Afterwards, Mom chattered on about the feast we would stuff ourselves with and how Molly would be in Heaven when she saw what Santa had brought her.

“Mom . . . there’s been a change in plans.”

“A change?” she blinked.

“Molly and I are going to the 6th Street shelter to help.”

Mom was speechless for a moment. Then she chortled. “Good one, Sarah. You got me for a minute.”

“I’m not joking, Mom.” She stopped laughing. “Ellen has been begging me for years to help and I think it’s about time I did.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Mom said. “I’m just surprised.”

“I am too. But, I’ve realized that Christmas isn’t just about me anymore. I don’t want Molly growing up to think it’s all about her, either. It’s supposed to be about peace and goodwill and reaching out to other people.”

“I know that, dear. I just didn’t know that you did.” She searched my face with a mother’s eyes. “Something’s changed you.”

“More like someone,” I said.

Mom hugged me like she’d been waiting my whole life to hear me say those words. “Merry Christmas, honey.”

On Christmas morning, Molly and I sprang out of bed. We ran for the tree and seized our presents. We raced to rip off festive wrappings and squealed with each discovery. I hadn’t had so much fun on Christmas morning since I was Molly’s age. We made a mess and didn’t bother cleaning it up. The shredded paper and ribbons made the room look so happy. We had cookies and chocolate milk for breakfast.

On the drive to Mom’s Molly asked, “Do you think Nick is at that shelter place?” Her face glowed at the thought.

“No, I don’t think he is there.” I smiled.

“Then why are we going?” Molly asked.

I pulled the car over to the curb. “Because there are many Nicks and I have a feeling we’ll meet several of them today.”

“I never met anybody named Nick, before,” Molly said.

“No, I don’t mean their names are Nick. I mean people like Nick. Down on their luck but trying to get back on their feet.”

Molly laughed. “Mommy, you sound just like him!”

I laughed too and pulled away from the curb.

*

Suzie, my sister, pouted. “Why do you have to go down there, Sarah? Are you trying to ruin our Christmas?”

“No Suzie, I’m trying to make our Christmas better. Me and Molly. I’m sorry you don’t understand.” I hugged her.

“I don’t understand.” She tried not to hug me back but couldn’t help herself.

“Suzie, leave your sister alone,” Dad said. “If she wants to help some old folks at Christmas, that’s her business. Don’t criticize her.” I smiled at Dad; he would always be my first and best knight. He winked at me. “Some of us grew up in the Depression. Some of us understand.”

*

The streets were quiet. Our feet crunched across the snow and our breaths fogged around our heads like halos. Molly held my hand tightly and looked up at me. “I think I’m a little scared.”

“Me too,” I said and pulled the door open.

The smell of turkey, stuffing and sweet potatoes filled my nostrils. “It smells like Gramma’s!” Molly laughed.

Our jitters disappeared and we waltzed into the mission like we were home. It was clean and as festive as drugstore decorations could make it. Tables and chairs were set up in long rows. Three women assembled a cafeteria style serving line. They debated how to best situate the food, guessing how many people would come, versus how many they could feed. What struck me about them was that they were ordinary women, probably with little of their own and here they were, worrying about other people.

“Excuse me,” I said.

The tall woman looked up and smiled. “Merry Christmas.”

Molly and I came across the room to her. “Merry Christmas. I’m Sarah and this is Molly. We came to help?”

The woman took my hand and shook it firmly. “I’m Vera.” She pointed to a petite woman, “this is Louise. And Mabel,” she nodded to a heavy set woman.

Vera grinned. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever done this before?”

“No,” I admitted, “I haven’t.”

“All right, then. That ways the kitchen, get yourself an apron and then get back here and we’ll figure out what to do with you,”

she winked.

I saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

Molly looked up at Vera. “Can I have an apron too?”

We all laughed. Vera knelt down and tweaked Molly’s nose. “Why, sweetie, you can have anything you want.”

Molly smiled and hugged Vera. “Oh, thank you!”

Soon, people drifted in, delighted by the smell of the feast to come. The room buzzed with excitement and simple joy. In an instant, it was like any other Christmas gathering I’d known. Smiling, happy people, anticipating a good meal and celebrating a day of peace and goodwill.

I was scooping mashed potatoes like a pro by the time Ellen sauntered in, donning a Santa hat and an elf’s grin.

“Am I dreaming or is this my dear friend, Sarah Wayne?” she grinned so wide, her face must have hurt.

“You aren’t dreaming any more than usual,” I teased.

Molly, perched on a milk crate, served peas. She waved to Ellen. “Merry Christmas, Ellen!”

Ellen was so overjoyed she could barely speak. “What are you doing here?”

“I was invited,” I said as I plopped potatoes on a little girl’s plate. “Merry Christmas, honey.”

Ellen came around the table and hugged me. “But what made you finally come here?”

I thought of Nick and smiled. “Change of heart.”

Ellen laughed. “Like a transplant or something?”

I checked my bucket. “We’re getting low on potatoes. If some people would quit gold-bricking and get to work, I’d have a fresh supply here.”

Ellen pinched me. “Bossy, bossy,bossy,” she said and went into the kitchen for my potatoes.

As I watched Ellen go into the kitchen I said a silent prayer to Nick and thanked him for giving Christmas back to me.

copyright 2006

 

David was a good man. And everything about him said kindness and caring.

“Fuck Christmas!” he muttered after passing the 50^th storefront display. “I fucking hate Christmas.”

The crunch of the snow underfoot serenaded him as he trudged along. His breath, a smoky fog led him to the train station. Thunk, went his book bag on the seat next to him. A little girl in a Christmas red coat, smiled at him and his heart softened. She reminded him of Emily at that age. He smiled back.

The little girl’s mother seared him with a look and pulled the girl along to another seat at the front of the car.

“For cripes sake,” he said to himself. “People are fricking paranoid.” He caught a glimpse of himself in the window and shut up. No wonder the little girl’s mother was worried. He looked like one scary dude.

He slumped in his seat and let his mind wander during the long ride home. He tried to do Christmas math in his head. If he didn’t pay this bill or went without new shoes and didn’t replace the bald tires on his truck he could get his wife something pretty. Not expensive or extravagant, like a pair of diamond earrings - too far out of his reach. Plus he had his girls too. Some books, a few CDs, maybe a little more. His head ached. From the beginning of time, it seemed to him, Christmas had always been a problem. A disappointment. Proof positive that he couldn’t do what he wanted for the three people in his life whom he loved more than anything. That he couldn’t shower them with anything their hearts desired stabbed at his heart daily.

The train slowed and signaled his stop was upon him. He rose, shouldered his book bag and shuffled to the exit. A split second before the doors opened he saw the little girl again, reflected in the glass. She smiled at him. And he thought he saw wings. Swoosh. The doors opened and the little girl was gone.

The two blocks home he took slowly, still thinking about what he would do for Christmas. He already worked all the overtime he could get - there just wasn’t any room to do more. He heaved a sigh and his breath fogged a cloud in the night air.

“David,” the voice came softly.

He stopped and looked around the empty street. Nothing there. No one there.

“You’re so damned tired now you’re hearing voices,” he scolded himself. The chill air made him shiver. He thrust his hands in his pockets and started walking again.

“David,” the voice came again - from nowhere, from everywhere.

“Who is that?”

He turned and there she was again, the little girl from the train. No longer in the red coat. No longer accompanied by her mother. But perched on the fountain in the square. She smiled again and warmth embraced David as though he stood at the edge of paradise.

“Who are you?”

“I am your heart,” she said in a voice that caressed his cheek.

He took a step closer. “Am I really seeing you? How did you get up there?” He reached out his arms afraid she would fall but she disappeared. “Where’d you go?”

No answer came, no children appeared. He went home.

Kathy was cooking in the kitchen and the smell of homemade soup made him realize he was famished. David slipped his arms around her waist. “Hi beautiful.” He nuzzled her neck. Her golden curls smelled of lemons.

“Ah, the warrior returns.” She giggled. “Hungry?”

Soon, he, Kathy, Emily and Susan sat around the table and it was all good. It was safe. It was home. It never stopped amazing him that he had such beautiful girls in his life. How blessed he was to have them. What he had ever done to deserve them he never knew. His heart ached again for all he couldn’t give them.

The girls chattered about school and boys and movies. They giggled and tugged on his beard when he tried to hug them. “Oh Dad.”

“What? You too big for your old dad to give you a hug?”

Rolling eyes, more giggles and they were off to their rooms and their teenage worlds.

He looked after them. “They are growing up too fast.”

Kathy smiled and shook her head. “We’re getting old too fast.” She cleared the table and filled the dishwasher.

“Want some help?”

She waved him off. “No, dear husband, I have it all under control. Go relax.”

He woke hours later, lying on the couch, television going. “Oh cripes.” He stumbled to bed - Kathy fast asleep - the house a silent cocoon.

***

“David…” The voice stirred his dreams into images of love and color. He nestled closer to Kathy, a smile on his face, a warmth spread through him.

“David, I am your heart…” the voice of the little angel girl came again. He opened his eyes and her face filled his field of vision. Her smile made him helplessly happy.

“Who are you, really? Why are you here?”

She took his hand and then they were flying. Above the rooftops, and traveled with the stars.

“It’s so beautiful,” he murmured. “Can I stay here forever?”

“Honey? Honey!”

David’s eyes opened and saw Kathy’s worried face.

“What?”

She let out a breath. “My God, I thought you were dead.” Tears sprang to her eyes and she pressed her cheek to his. “Are you okay? Are you sick?”

He held her tightly. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

She untangled herself from his arms and scrutinized him. She put her hand to his forehead. “You feel warm, I’m getting the thermometer.”

He sat up in bed. “I’m fine,” he insisted. In fact, he had never felt better. “It’s just a little warm in here.”

She paused.

“You know me, I’m like a furnace when I sleep. Come on, everything is fine.”

She nodded, though her eyes didn’t believe him. “Okay. Okay.” She pulled her robe around her. “Up and at em then, time for breakfast.”

His day was like a dream - lovely in muted color and feeling. Nothing, no one, bothered him. His step was quick and easy. Life seemed so good and yet nothing had changed. He still worked a ten hour day. He still had a long commute to work and home. The air was still frigid, the world still covered in snow. But the smile never once left his face.

On his walk to take the train home he lingered and looked in the shop windows. They dazzled him. All gold and silver, sparkle and light. The jewelry store drew him in. A place he would normally avoid and knew he had no right to even enter opened its arms to him.

“May I help you?” the saleslady asked.

“I want to get my wife something nice,” he said as though he had the budget to shop there.

“What did you have in mind?”

The next hour was spent looking at diamond earrings for Kathy and gold necklaces for the girls.

The cell phone buzzed in his pocket. “Hello?”

“David!” Kathy cried. “It’s Emily!”

The world crashed down around him. “What? What about Emily?”

Kathy cried, unable to speak.

“Where are you? What is happening?”

“Huntington Hospital,” she sobbed. “Come now!”

***

Kathy and Susan huddled in green, plastic chairs in the corridor. Their tear-stained faces white with worry stabbed at his chest. He ran to them. “What’s happened? Where is Emily?”

“We were just fooling around,” Susan weeped. “Throwing snow balls. Just playing, Daddy…”

David couldn’t breathe and the world felt so small.

“She didn’t see the car. She slipped and…”

***

David stood vigil over Emily’s bed. She looked so helpless and pale. Hooked up to machines like some freakish life-sized doll. Kathy and Susan slept in chairs unable to fight the exhaustion any longer.

“Why, why, why?” his mind screamed.

“There is no why,” the voice came again. And there she was, the little angel girl who appeared at will.

“Go away!” he screamed her. “Stop coming into my head!”

“You have to let her go.” She touched his hand.

“I do not! I won’t! You can’t make me!” He sobbed and clung to Emily’s hand. It was so cold. Why was it so cold?

“David…”

He put his hands to his ears. “No, I don’t hear you. I won’t hear you!”

He fought and fought hard but exhaustion captured him and he fell to fitful sleep. He fell down, down, down and could do nothing to stop it. Then she caught him and his landing was soft and sweet.

“Why do you catch me when I’m falling?” he asked.

She took his hand and led him down a corridor. It was so quiet, so still. “See this,” she said.

David was in the room where a little girl lie in a bed. Small, frail, barely breathing a breath. He shook his head. It couldn’t be. It was his little angel girl. Her father sat at her bedside, her hand to his cheek. He prayed in a whisper, he wept without sound. Her hand went limp.

“I don’t want to see this. I don’t. Don’t make me look,” David cried.

A light filled the room and a hand reached out to the little angel girl and she rose from her body to take the hand offered.

“I know what you’re trying to tell me. I know,” David screamed. “Why God, oh why?” His words echoed the little angel girl’s father.

She paused and looked back at them both. “I am your heart and shall never leave you.”

Blackness.

***

“Daddy? Daddy!”

David lifted his head at Emily’s bedside. He couldn’t believe his eyes - she was awake and making her funny face at him. “Is it you?”

She laughed like a little windchime. “Who else?” She tousled his hair.

He sat up. “But…the accident…you were…” He looked for Kathy or Susan but they were gone. “Where is your mom and Suz?”

“They went to the cafeteria. Don’t worry, they’ll be back.”

He couldn’t speak or stop the tears that ran down his face.

Tears sprang to her eyes too. “I’m sorry Daddy. I’m so sorry I was so stupid. I’m sorry I scared you.”

He hugged her the best he could. “No baby, it’s okay - Daddy’s here. It’s all okay.”

And as he hugged his daughter and thanked God for not taking her from him he saw his little angel girl smiling at him. “I am your heart, I shall never leave you.” And she became the sunlight that spread in the room and glowed warm and gold.

“I am your heart too,” David murmured. “Always and forever.”

“I don’t remember you.” Those words made their mark deeply. I found myself at the edge of a cliff all the landmarks of my affection gone.

Memories, from my first sight of him, cooing and reaching out his arms to me to the hundreds of outtings he, his mother and I made over the years screamed and careened past me. I didn’t know what to say. I felt an odd expression on my face - one I had no control to change.

“Really?” I muttered and tried not to sound sad. He was a child after all. Just eight years old. The complexity of human emotion still a concept he sought to grasp.

“Yeah, really.” He said it simply with no crack in the door to wedge my foot in.

I smiled and patted his arm. “Well, that’s okay honey. I remember you.”

It had been a long time. Fours years. Not long in adult time but it was half of his life span. Children change so much so quickly. I told myself it was okay. Not to feel sad or disappointed. I told myself I was still happy to see him. But I wasn’t very convincing. It gave the day, one of celebration - not just for a holiday dedicated to blessings and thankfulness but of the reunion with Julie, my best friend a different color.

She had moved four years ago to Montanna. How it broke my heart. Though I understood her need to get out of a big city, she had a young child to raise on her own and didn’t want him to grow up around gangs, drugs, crime and everything else that is unhealthy for children growing up in big cities. We managed to stay in touch. To phone and write and send gifts at the appropriate occasions…but it wasn’t the same. There was void without her - without them.

Travis, her son, was as much a part of my life as Julie had been. We went everywhere together. Did everything together. We even discussed the idea that if anything ever happened to her (God forbid) that I would take Travis in a heartbeat. How could I not? He had captured my heart and love the moment I looked into his big green eyes.

The Thanksgiving reunion was not just with Julie but with Travis as well. Except it really wasn’t. Because he didn’t remember me. And I didn’t know how to respond to that. Did I just back off and talk to him as though we’d just met? Ask him about school and his hobbies? It did make sense though - his reaction when I hugged him. The blank look in his eyes. The rigidness of his body. The way children act when doting strangers pinch their cheeks and tell them how much they’ve grown. I suddenly felt like that whacky old aunt that nobody remembers and everybody cringes at their presence.

The evening went on. We played Trivial Pursuit - laughed at the same old jokes and one liners that old friends do. I caught him watching me a few times and I wondered what went on in his mind. Was he remembering? He warmed up a little. Told me about his favorite movie. Complained about his younger siblings who had come into being during the four years in Montanna. Talked about his Dad (the man Julie had married and whom I was yet to meet as well). And I think out of politeness said he thought I was starting to look familiar.

Until the evening came to an end and he discovered I was going back to the hotel room with them. “Where are you going to sleep?” he wanted to know. “Somewhere,” I shrugged sensing an upset in the near future. He didn’t take kindly to giving up a bed to himself and having to share a bed with his mom. No, that wasn’t going to do at all.

And so went the next two days. Little cracks and remarks, cold stares, pouting. Each time my heart broke a little bit more. I chided myself for being so childish. I was the adult. It was my job to take it in stride. I really wanted to, I really did - but I couldn’t quite get over the shock of it. Couldn’t quite accept that I was forgettable. Reason, logic did not work in this scenario.

The night before I left he got upset about a movie or something…it was a trivial thing. I teased him and said “don’t worry I’m leaving tomorrow.” “Yeah and none too soon, either,” he snapped.

That sent me over the edge. I went to the patio and cried. I mourned the loss of my friend Travis. I finally accepted that whatever had happened in the past didn’t matter. It might just have well not happened.

It’s an odd thing when a child forgets you - no matter how much you remember them. When they look at you as they would any stranger. When you want to hug someone who is wary of you. I cannot really describe it.

At the very end we got to know each other a little - in a clean slate sort of way. I rescued him and took him on a little errand while his mother wrangled with the two little ones. I think he decided he might like me.

When we said goodbye he almost looked sad. Maybe some memory was winding its way to his awareness. Maybe it doesn’t matter. He hugged me many times and said “I love you.”

And in the end maybe that’s all that matters.

Copyright 2006

 

“I am but a lonely hunter; searching true for what is mine. I do not desist in my quest because I cannot. Forward, I am impelled, not by desire but by fate. Not by yearning but instinct. Do you hear me? Does my voice reach the inner chambers of your mind?” Maggie looked up from her paperback and scanned the crowded bus with her eyes. No one looked in her direction or met her gaze, yet she was certain someone had spoken to her.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and exhaled deeply as if it would cool her off. She looked down at her chubby arms and protruding stomache with dismay. “It’s the weight,” she thought to herself. “If I weren’t so damned fat I wouldn’t sweat so much.”

The man next to her gave her a sidelong glance and moved further against the window and away from her.

Had she said the words out loud? Or was he as repulsed by her body as she was?

“I am a lonely hunter,” the voice said again.

She looked around sharply, certain this time someone was playing a cruel joke. As people had done all her life. Speaking when she wasn’t looking. Making derisive comments when they thought she couldn’t hear. But she did hear, all of them, every time they were uttered. But on this bus, there didn’t seem to be the least interest in her from anyone. She craned her neck to see and found herself staring into frosty grey eyes. “What are you looking at?” the teen-aged girl asked.

“I thought you said something to me,” Maggie mumbled.

“Why would I say anything to you? I don’t talk to fat pigs,” the girl snorted, causing the earring in her nose to nearly climb her nostril.

Maggie turned away, red-faced and fighting tears.

The bus driver called out her stop and she rose as gracefully as she could though she knew she looked like a pregnant cow and everyone was looking at the fat lady trying to keep her balance as the bus came to a halting stop.

Sweat popped out on her forehead and under her nose, beneath her blouse she could feel it running down her sides from her armpits.

With as much grace as she could muster, she waddled up the aisle to the exit, smiled briefly at the bus driver and got off the bus.

The sky was bright with afternoon sunshine and though she squinted against the light it raised her morale. She made the two-block walk home slow and easy. She smiled at the little children she passed, as they played and giggled. She stopped at a small flower shop and bought herself a bouquet of flowers. She was tempted to stop and get a quart of her favorite ice cream, but instead bought a big bag of fresh fruit. She told herself she would have a fruit salad for dinner and go for a walk afterward. Though she knew she would probably only go as far as the corner market and get the ice cream anyway.

“You are my fate, my destiny…” the voice resounded in her mind.

She shook her head, chasing the voice from her consciousness. She took out her keys and entered her apartment. It cheered her every time she saw it. She had decorated it herself and it was to her, the most beautiful place on Earth.

She turned on some music, went to the kitchen, took out a bowl, a knife and a cutting board and began to slice up her fruit for her salad.

She hummed along to the music and her heart was light for a moment.

“Maggie, do not reject me,” the voice whispered in her ear.

She startled on the sound, causing the apple she was slicing to slide off the cutting board onto the floor. She turned and saw she was alone.

“It must be the heat,” she told herself. “I need a shower. I’m hot and tired.”

She put her salad in the refrigerator to chill and went into the bathroom. She turned on the shower and stepped under the cool water. She closed her eyes and imagined herself, slim and beautiful, being washed slowly and sensually by her lover. His golden skin against hers, his hands caressing her with water and lather. She could smell him, feel his breath against her neck, his erection against her buttocks, she nearly swooned from the magic of the moment.

The water became suddenly cold, her eyes popped open and she found herself alone and shivering. She stepped carefully out of the shower, she was shaking so she was afraid she would slip and fall.

She towelled off, her back to the mirror, ashamed of her body of lax flesh and cellulite. “You are so beautiful,” the voice was like liquor reaching into her nervous system and soothing her. She pretended not to hear him, not feel his presence. She told herself it was the depression speaking, that she must get her mood elevator prescription renewed.

“Open your eyes,” the voice was right behind her, the breath warm and sweet. “Look into the mirror,” he coaxed her.

She gave in and turned, afraid but determined. She would look into the mirror, eyes opened wide and defy her ghosts. She stood upright, threw back her shoulders and dared the reflection to make her afraid. A gasp escaped her lips when she took in the reflection that looked back. She was thin, beautiful, sensual; she saw herself as she really was, inside.

But most shocking was that she was not alone; the man of her fantasies stood behind her, glorious in his nakedness. He smiled at her.

“Who are you?” she stammered.

“I am yours,” he responded his breath so near it seemed to come out of her.

“No,” she shook her head, “I’m imagining this. You aren’t real.”

“Then turn around, Maggie, and see that I am real,” he had a hypnotic effect on her.

She obeyed his command without thinking. He told the truth, he was still there, not just a reflection of the mirror or her mind. She reached out her hand and it met with flesh, young and sinewy, warm and carnal. “I can feel you,” she whimpered.

“And I can feel you,” he caressed her cheek. “We are not lost any more, we are found, we are, as we should be, one.”

She fell into his embrace and wept. “I have waited so long for you to come back,” she whispered. “Where have you been? Why have you waited so long to return to me?”

He did not speak. His lips sought hers, his fingertips caressed her back, found their way to her buttocks and thighs. You could think of nothing but giving herself over to his passion and control. “Yes,” she murmured as his lips moved down her body, and brought her to ecstacy. Better than her dreams, her fantasies, he answered her.

***

“All done here,” the M.E. said to the EMT.

The EMT nodded and zipped up the body bag. He paused and looked back to the M.E. “Hey Doc, what do you think killed her?”

The M.E. shrugged. “Heart attack?”

“But she died with a smile on her face.”

The M.E. scratched at his stubble. “Maybe she was so happy it stopped her heart.”

copyright 2006

 

She stared at the computer screen. It glared and burned holes in her eyes. On her desk were numerous reference books describing methods of murder, mayhem, body disposal and real-life accounts of atrocities most people are better off not knowing, but upon which she thrived. She was a mystery writer. Murder mysteries, of course. Samantha Smith.

Sam crushed out a cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and pondered whether one could really do damage with a dashboard cigarette lighter. Sam flirted with the idea while her killer paced and screamed from her monitor. “Hey! What the fuck I’m gonna do? Torture her with the lighter in my car or do I get a Zippo? A real man’s weapon?”

“Hey, will you snap out of it?” a voice from the real world yanked her head in another direction.

Sam’s heart braked. She focused on Erica, her best friend. “Jesus Christ, Erica! “Don’t do that! How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me?” Sam raked her hands through her fine, blond hair.

Erica wore the expression of a cat who has found the fish tank unattended. “I didn’t sneak up on you, darling. I simply walked in. Is it my fault that you’re so absorbed in whatever murder you’re plotting that you’ve gone deaf?”

“All right,” Sam smiled, “I guess I’m happy for the distraction.” Her villain’s carping, a tiny voice in her head now. She lit another cigarette and looked around for the cup of coffee she’d brought into her office hours before. “Are we having lunch or something? Did I forget again?”

Erica shook her head and thumbed through one of Sam’s reference books. “Mmmm, The Poison Cookbook. That should make for some interesting recipes.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Just dropped in to say, hello.” Erica purred.

Sam took the book away from Erica and put it aside. She admired Erica’s long, red fingernails and pictured her at home in a novel about murder and deceit. She’d make a perfect murderess; beautiful, intelligent and manipulative. Sam let the idea dance in her head. A definite possibility for her next female villain. Sam smiled in that writer way as the wheels turned. Click, click.

Erica tensed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Sam asked.

“Like you’re wondering if I have a gun in my garter belt,” Erica snapped.

“Am I, darling? I’m sorry. Really I was just thinking . . . about my story. You know how preoccupied I can get.”

When Sam looked at her that way, Erica felt Sam could read her thoughts. It pissed her off. She fidgeted with the clasp on her designer handbag. “Don’t lie to me, I know you were thinking something.”

Sam laughed. “You’re right. I was thinking . . . I was thinking what a good murderess you would make.” Erica went white. “Don’t get upset, I don’t mean literally . . . I mean for one of my stories, you know?” Erica’s eyes went icy. Sam hurried to explain. “As a model, I mean. That you would make a good model for one of my villains . . . in a story . . . Oh come on, it’s a compliment really.” Sam found one, little spot in the ashtray to crush her cigarette.

Erica pulled herself together and smiled. “Oh,” she laughed. “Yes, I see. Well, thank you, I think.”

But Sam wasn’t listening, she routed around her desk for something. “Do you have a cigarette?” she asked. “I can’t find mine anywhere.”

Erica frowned. “You can’t find them because you smoked all of them”

“Do you have a cigarette?” Sam grumped.

Erica dug through her bag. “So tell me, what kind of killer would I be?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably clever.” She sat back in her chair and pondered it. “I think one with panache.”

Erica was delighted. “Oooh, with panche. Really, you think?”

Sam nodded and grinned. “Yes, definitely. It would be clever and unexpected. Your victim would trust you and never believe you would do anything to harm them.”

Erica smiled. “I would? How intriguing. Why would I kill? Would I have a reason, or would it just be for kicks?”

Sam liked the game and gave it thought. “Good question. No, you wouldn’t do it for the hell of it. You’d have a reason. Jealousy probably.”

Erica shook her head. “I would not.”

“Oh please, Erica, you know how jealous you are. Don’t you remember last summer? You thought Jim and I were carrying on behind your back? It took us weeks to convince you that your were mistaken”

Erica’s face clouded and she nodded. “Yes, I remember. Of course, I remember.” She found a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Sam. “Here’s your cigarette, darling.”

Sam snatched the smoke, lit it and took a deep drag. “Thank God!” She coughed. “Jesus, these are strong! What are they?”

“Poison, darling,” Erica smiled. “Pure poison.”

“Please, don’t start with the lectures again. I get enough of that crap from my mother. Besides, you smoke too.”

“Yes,” Erica nodded, “but in moderation. It’s not an addiction for me.”

Sam felt dizzy and put the cigarette in the ashtray. “I don’t feel right.”

Erica stroked Sam’s hair and patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, darling, it won’t last long. I read it right here in your lovely book. They say the pain doesn’t last long.”

Sam tasted betrayal. “What book? What do you mean?”

“I told you I wouldn’t stand for you and Jim carrying on. You think because I’m beautiful that I must be stupid?” She waved a polaroid of Sam and Jim in Sam’s face. “I know what you did.” Tears welled up in her eyes but she fought them. “Well darling, it’s all over now.”

Sam knew she would be dead in minutes. The world faded out of focus. Her mind screamed questions and defenses but she couldn’t voice them. Equilibrium deserted her. She lunged for Erica but she fell out of her chair to the floor.

Erica bent down and checked for a pulse. She smiled. “Bye, bye, darling.” She put out the burning cigarette in the ashtray and put the stub in her pocket. “You’re right darling, I am a clever murderess, aren’t I? Do you think Jim will be surprised too?” Samantha’s dead eyes stared up at Erica in shock. Erica shrugged. “I guess the Surgeon General is right. Cigarette smoking can be hazardous to your health.”

copyright 2006