Up A Tree

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I knocked the dirt from the ball field out of my cleats as I walked home from school after baseball practice. It was hot for May and my uniform shirt was damp with sweat. In less than a month, I’d be done with school, I thought. Except for playing baseball, I wasn’t planning on missing high school much. As I got closer to home, I saw my next-door neighbor, Benny, sitting on the curb in front of his house. He was sniffling and crying and scuffing his feet on the pavement. Benny was only in sixth grade but we were friends, in a way that a high school kid and a sixth grader could be. I sat down next to him, sitting so low that my knees almost reached my shoulders. I offered him a piece of bubble gum. He crammed it in his mouth, then swiped at the tracks the tears had made on his dirty face.

“What’s up, Benny?” I asked offhandedly.

He sniffed, rubbed his nose, and looked up to my right. There I saw the work boots, dangling on their long laces from the branch of a tree.

“Where’d those come from?” I asked nonjudgmentally.

“I threw them up there.” Benny mumbled.

I waited.

“When I got home from school I heard something in the basement. Those boots were at the top of the stairs and I could hear a burglar down there.” He chomped more quickly on his gum, becoming animated with his retelling of the tale. “I knew I had to call the police but I was afraid he’d get away, so I took the boots and called nine-one-one, real quiet. Then, I took some glass jars from the cupboard and threw them hard on the stairs so they would smash. He wouldn’t be able to walk up the stairs without his boots.”

“Sounds smart to me.” I smiled at him. His face clouded up and he continued.

“Then I ran out of the house and threw the boots up into the tree.” He looked up at them and I thought he was going to start crying again. I politely looked back toward the boots to give him a moment. They hung motionless from the branch in the heat of the windless day. I put a fresh piece of gum in my mouth. I looked back at Benny.

“Problem was,” he continued morosely, “it was the plumber down there fixing a leak in the pipes, and Mom was down there, too.” He looked at me with a pained expression on his face. I knew that pain. That embarrassed feeling of doing the wrong thing, just when you thought you did the right thing. Somehow it was the worst kind of mistake, making you feel disappointed in yourself. Then that feeling of chagrin would settle down in the bottom of your stomach, living there for days. Like when you miss an easy fly ball in the outfield when your team is ahead, allowing the other team win the game instead.

“I figure maybe you’ve been watching too much TV, Benny.” I mused, wiping at some red clay streaks on my baseball socks.

“That’s what my Mom said, and now I got no TV for a whole month.” The tears sprung into his eyes again.

I sighed and handed him another piece of gum. It was tough being young with a head full of drama, and nowhere for it to go. I stood up.

“Don’t worry.” I said. “A month isn’t ever as long as you think it’ll be.” Something I wanted to believe for myself, as much as I wanted it for Benny.

Teaching Trust

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Dr. Jesse Ross’s shoes seemed to find more echo than usual in the empty middle school hallway as she made her way back to her science lab. I’ve never seen it this quiet after school, she realized, with all the clubs, sports and assorted meetings, it was usually bustling till after 5pm. But today was the last day before spring break and, without any scheduled activities, every student, teacher and administrator had raced off as soon as the last bell rang. Jesse assumed the janitorial staff was still around somewhere, but they were nowhere to be seen. It’s rather unsettlingly deserted, she thought, as she hurried down the hall.
Jesse would’ve been gone soon after that last bell herself, if she hadn’t forgotten her keys back in the classroom. She’d had a meeting last period with the vice principal for the eighth grade, giving an update on students who were at risk of failing. Jesse was only worried about two. Brian, who had missed a lot of school due to health issues, was sure to catch up, but the other, Diana, well, her situation was more complicated. Diana had perfect attendance and she even stayed late every day for one activity or another. Normally this was the sign of a good student, but not in this case. Diana rarely completed her homework and she often had trouble focusing when she was in class. Dr. Ross didn’t think she had one of the many assigned conditions of the day, ADHD, dyslexia, or any other undiagnosed learning disability. No, Jesse suspected there was something else going on.
Dr. Ross turned the corner heading toward her room, thinking about her interaction with Diana the day before. It was after the eighth grade chemistry section and Jesse was alone, gathering her things in the front of the classroom. Four tall granite tables, one in each corner of the room, stood their ground, armed with two sinks and four gas jets each, ready for Bunsen burners. In the center of the room, twenty chairs waited for students, their tablet arms in place for note taking.
The air felt stagnant in the empty room. Something had gone wrong with the ventilation system and it still wasn’t fixed. Jesse would’ve opened the windows, except that it was too far below freezing outside. She moved toward her desk and noticed a notebook forgotten on the floor underneath a chair. She bent down, reaching for the binder with both hands, her long dark-blonde hair swinging. The book was stuffed to overflowing with folders and notes, and the front was covered with drawings in both black and blue pen. This doesn’t look familiar, Jesse thought, as she stood. The book could’ve been left by any of the thirteen year olds.
She brought it to her desk and looked at it more closely. The binder itself was red, but you could only tell that from the side. The front was completely covered with drawings of monsters, ballpoint pen dug deep, making them look 3D. The ferocious faces peered at her, reaching out with sharp claws and snarling teeth, making Jesse almost pull back in fear, they looked so real. Quite an artist, whoever did this, she thought.
She opened the cover to see if she could find a name, or some familiar marking. The three rings holding the notes and folders in place were stressed with the amount of material they held. Jesse’s hands moved automatically to straighten the papers and adjust the rings. The front item was a folder, covered with more drawings of monsters, claws reaching, faces tortured. These pictures, while still frightening, had more pathos in the eyes of the creatures. They looked like they were reaching out for help, more than trying to do violence. Jesse opened the folder and stopped when she saw the writing on the loose-leaf paper inside. Diana’s name was on top. Just then the door opened and Diana burst into the lab.
“Excuse me, I left my notebook- oh, you found it.” Diana stopped a few feet from Dr. Ross. Her thin, straggly hair lacked color or form. Almost brown, certainly not blond, it hung limply to her shoulders. Diana’s brown eyes looked accusingly at Jesse’s hands as they held open the notebook.
“Yes, here you go,” Jesse said, breaking the silence, “I was just looking for your name somewhere. You don’t have it written on the front, I couldn’t tell whose notebook it was at first.”
“Well, that’s kind of on purpose, actually.”
Jesse looked at her curiously. Diana didn’t explain.
“Well, I really like your drawings on the cover, they’re quite good.” Jesse said as she closed the notebook.
Diana looked stonily at her, as if Jesse had insulted her instead of saying something nice. Jesse smiled, but couldn’t hold it for long since it was met with that semi-glare. She tried a new tact.
“Looking forward to spring break?” Jesse asked, renewing her smile.
Diana’s glare turned anxious as she stepped closer to reach for the notebook. She took it and pulled it to her chest, nervously, her eyes fearful. Jesse felt Diana’s tension and realized they were both holding their breath. For some reason Diana didn’t move to leave. She seemed about to say something. Jesse spoke first.
“Is there something I-”
“I gotta go.” Diana turned quickly and left, flying out of the room so fast, the door seemed to bump emptily after her.
Those few moments seemed to haunt Jesse all last evening; those drawings, the thin limp hair, the stony gaze, and then the anxious fear in her eyes. It was as if Diana was going to share something with her, but she lacked the trust in her teacher. Jesse knew that trust was hard won from someone who had no experience being trusted herself. She had her own history to back that up. Diana had troubles at home, that seemed clear.
Those thoughts bounced around in her head as she walked the last few yards to her classroom. She was trying to do what she could to reach Diana, but she hadn’t yet figured out the key. The lab looked dark through the wire embedded glass window in the door as Jesse approached it. But I left the lights on, she thought, that’s odd. As she pushed open the door the sound of hissing reached her ears and the acrid smell of gas filled her eyes and nose. What the-?
Jesse ran from table to table, shutting off the gas jets. Every one of them had been opened to their full extent, and the room was choking with poison. Who would do this, Jesse thought, as she ran to the last table. Then she saw, on the floor, a figure splayed out between the chairs, faded blue jeans, gray sweatshirt, limp almost-brown hair. Diana.
Jesse ran to her and turned her over. He face was flushed, but she seemed to still have breath in her. Jesse struggled to gather her limp arms and legs, lifting her, clutching Diana’s body to her own, half dragging her out of the room, knocking over chairs as they went. Down the corridor and into the stairwell, down a half a dozen steps to the emergency exit door and then pushing through it, almost stumbling out onto the sidewalk. She went down on her knees, lying Diana down on her back. The cold fresh air hit Jesse’s face and lungs and she gulped it in as if for both of them. Leaning over Diana, she lifted her head to her lap. Bending her face close to Diana’s, she could feel her breath.
She fumbled in her pocket for her phone, calling 9-1-1. After quickly giving them the location and situation, Jesse returned her attention to Diana. She pulled Diana into her lap, cradling her head in her arms. As she adjusted her, the sleeve of her sweatshirt shifted and Jesse saw bruises at her wrist. It was as if someone had bound her, or held her roughly. Jesse felt her heart tighten. Just then, Diana began to stir and she coughed and folded herself into a ball as Jesse held her.
“Diana?” Jesse said urgently, “Diana? Can you hear me? It’s Dr. Ross.”
Diana’s eyes rolled and then slowly focused. At first she seemed to lean into Jesse’s embrace, falling into her, allowing herself to take the support. Jesse felt her heart go out to the girl like a prayer, her life was so delicate and precarious. Then, as Diana seemed to gain understanding of her surroundings, the clarity of the situation, of what had almost happened, of what had not happened, she started to pull away, to stiffen in Jesse’s hold.
“Diana-”
“Don’t let them send me home.” Diana whispered desperately. “Don’t let them, please.” Then tears flowed from her eyes in surrender. Jesse held her tightly, accepting the trust, securing a promise.

Lady Luck

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Janice scraped off the metallic ink with her lucky nickel, revealing each number, one by one. The usual feeling of anticipation, the bottled up joy, bubbling in her heart, was waiting to pop as the numbers were exposed. She rubbed at each square, brushing the tiny curls of silver and black off the card, never looking directly at the numbers until they were all clear. Every bit of the blind had to be neatly removed before she peeked. She wasn’t like some other lottery gamblers, who would take a few swipes just to see what was there, with no respect or regard for the beauty of the object. The ticket was almost clean now, this would be a winner, she was sure. Then, with a shallow breath, she looked at the numbers.
Nothing. Another losing ticket. She sighed and put it in the pocket of her jeans. She kept them all, the losers, to remind her of her efforts. Someday she’d take them, the instant scratch-off’s, the Power Balls, the Mega Millions, the daily Numbers, and burn them in a bonfire of celebration, when she won big. She smiled at that thought and picked up the iron to finish the week’s worth of shirts she was pressing for her husband, Bob. Smoothing out the white cotton, folding the collars just right, making sure the shoulders didn’t catch any wrinkles, she worked carefully. She tried to find some satisfaction in doing the shirts each week and she sometimes found it in the artistry of perfection. Although, let’s face it, she thought as she turned the collar down, it usually just felt like punishment. They ironed in prison too, didn’t they? She stopped for a moment to ponder that image. Suddenly she felt a tug at the shirt and the ironing board almost tipped over.
“What the heck?” she muttered. It was the cat, Jazzman. He had been pawing at the sleeve of the shirt and caught his nails in the cloth. Janice held the ironing board steady with one hand and untangled the cat with the other. He was always getting into something.
“Shoo, you silly cat.” She said gently. It had been her idea to get the cat when their three boys were young. She wanted a pet and thought she would counter the masculine/feminine balance in the house by getting a female cat. A kindred soul she could feel was on her side. They picked a cute kitten at the animal shelter and were told it was a female. They even named it Jasmine as they played with it there. The boys fell for the gray striped tabby immediately. But then as they filled out the paperwork, another worker told them it was a male. The boys wouldn’t choose another, they already had their hearts set on him. So they brought him home, changing his name to Jazzman. Janice sighed as she remembered. Her attempt had been futile. It was times like that when she felt there was no point in trying to influence her destiny. Let it come as it may.
It must’ve been about that time when she started to play the lottery, she thought as she worked on the last shirt. If destiny was that strong, then she would play the game. Buying her tickets had become such a part of her routine, she hardly remembered how it started. But that was then and this is today. Just another day in the long line of analogous days that made up her life.
But no, today is Tuesday, she thought and Tuesday is special. Tuesday is the day the Mega Millions number is announced. She always waited until Tuesday to buy her Mega Millions ticket. She never bought it in advance. Yes, it was part superstition, but she had another reason. Manny was behind the counter where she bought her tickets on Tuesdays. The steam rose from the iron and for a moment, as it enveloped her face and then dissipated, she felt the heat, like a blush. Or maybe it was the thought of Manny. He was the tall, dark and handsome owner of the store where she bought all her lottery tickets.
All In The Cards also sold greeting cards, gifts and magazines. Manny had a few employees that took most of the shifts at the register, but not on Tuesdays. Tuesdays it was always Manny. As Janice thought about him, working behind the counter, punching in her numbers so the machine would spit out her tickets, she felt almost dizzy. There was something about Manny that made her head spin. The way he spoke to her, so gently while he looked directly into her eyes. The way he laughed at her feeble attempts at humor. The way he handed her the tickets and said, “Good luck,” so warm and sincere. She’d never been unfaithful to Bob, but sometimes she thought, if Manny, if he ever made an advance…well that was probably about as likely as wining the lottery, wasn’t it?
Janice put on a clean blouse, a soft wine shade that brought out the rose in her cheeks, and looked in the mirror. Not bad for a broad of fifty-two she thought, and she smiled at herself. She brushed on a little eye shadow and mascara just enough to wake up her eyes. She and Bob had been married for thirty years and while she had been raising their three boys she’d all but stopped using make-up. In the last year or so since she and Bob had become empty nesters, she’d found the time to take better care of herself. She went to the gym almost every day, spent time buying clothes that fit her well and, yes, had even started using make-up again. Sometimes, as she stroked the mascara onto her lashes, she felt like a teenager. It felt like it had been that long.
On the drive over to All In The Cards, she contemplated the numbers she’d play. She needed six. Sometimes she played the birth months and days of her sons, sometimes her favorite numbers seven, eighteen and twenty-four, adding her birthday, four, fifteen, sixty. Some days she just told Manny to hit the random button and give her whatever numbers came out. What did it matter? If she was meant to win, she’d win. It wasn’t about having some kind of skill to pick the right numbers. It was either her destiny or it wasn’t.
She stopped at the last light before All In The Cards. Sitting there facing west, at the red light, thinking about seeing Manny, she almost missed noticing Bob’s car crossing right in front of her, traveling north on Washington Avenue. But wait, was it Bob’s car? He wasn’t alone. Well, why not? It was near the lunch hour, he was probably taking lunch with a co-worker from the bank. Janice’s red light turned green and she turned right, following Bob, with just a few cars between them. They drove a few blocks, All In The Cards was the next left. But Janice didn’t turn into the parking lot, she kept going straight. Bob’s car was still up ahead. The passenger was shorter than Bob, and had curly hair. Rather a lot of hair for a banker, Janice thought, unless it’s a woman. So, what? Bob could be having lunch with any of the other vice presidents or directors at the bank, and they weren’t all men. They passed Dougie’s Pizza, D’Angelo’s Grilled Sandwiches, and the Friendly’s. What am I doing, she thought, is this wrong?
Bob’s car kept driving, and Janice kept following. They drove under the highway and she saw that he put his blinker on to turn left. He was turning into the Holiday Inn parking lot. Janice passed the hotel and kept driving north. Of course he must be having lunch at Harry’s Sports Grill inside the hotel. Why not? It was a perfectly good alternative. Bob loved their fish and chips. Janice turned right, into the abandoned parking lot of the State Fair grounds. Her wheels crunched gravel as she turned around and faced Washington Avenue to turn left, back towards All In The Cards. Traffic was light for lunchtime, and she pulled back onto the main road. It must be a special occasion for Bob to go to Harry’s Sports Grill, it was a little farther out of the way than he usually travelled for lunch. He must be with a client. That was it, of course, someone from out of town, maybe from the main office in the city, she thought as she drove ahead. Then suddenly Janice turned right into the Holiday Inn parking lot.
What am I doing, she thought to herself as she held her breath, circling the parking lot, half crouching under the steering wheel, looking for Bob’s car. It wasn’t near the restaurant entrance. She turned toward the back parking lot of the hotel, passing the line of midsize sedans and SUV’s. Suddenly she pulled over to the right and put on the brakes. Up ahead, walking away from her, was Bob and a woman. They had gotten out of the car and were walking toward the back entrance of the hotel. They were holding hands. Janice felt a tightening in her chest, and realized she had stopped breathing. She forced herself to inhale, then exhale. What was she seeing?
She racked her brain, how could this be happening? Had Bob been different lately? Had he pulled away from her? Was he acting differently? No, he was the same as he’d ever been. Bob was reserved and aloof, an introvert who didn’t talk much and was more comfortable with the boys than he ever had been with her. She had learned to accept their relationship, many years ago, and while sometimes it felt lonely, she had her own friends that seemed to make up for it. Bob never fought, he was generous, an attentive father and a good provider. He was great with the boys and never criticized her. All valuable elements in a long-term relationship, she had always thought. She had learned to be happy, in spite of the lack of what some people might call love.
But had she been happy? Had he? Apparently not! Janice pulled out of the parking lot with a chirp of her tires. Was this Anger? Disappointment? Jealousy? Maybe it felt more like Liberty. Did he want out of the marriage? Did she? Her indifference surprised her. She drove straight to the card shop.
Manny was behind the counter, as he was every Tuesday.
“Hi, Janice,” he smiled cheerfully as she entered the store. “How are you today?”
Janice walked up to the counter and smiled back at him. His dark eyes had a light in them that she never saw in Bob’s.
“I’m fine thanks,” she answered, “quite fine. And you?”
“I’m well, thanks.” Manny answered. He paused a moment, waiting for her to take the lead. But she was quiet, just looking at him and thinking how nice it was to be there, on a Tuesday, exchanging pleasantries with Manny. Maybe she was a little bit in shock. Maybe she was feeling the impact of her discovery about Bob. I don’t feel sad, she thought, I feel…open.
“Would you like to buy a lottery ticket today, Janice?” Manny asked. He was a bit perplexed by her silence. Janice was usually upbeat and chatty with him. They’d talked a lot in the past year, since she’d been coming in, and he looked forward to her visit on Tuesdays. In fact, he thought of her more as a friend than a customer.
“I don’t know, Manny,” Janice began. “I did come here to buy a lottery ticket, but…”
“But?” he said after the moment hung in the air. “Can’t think of the right numbers?”
She laughed. The right numbers, she thought, is there such a thing? He smiled without knowing why she laughed, but he didn’t mind.
“Manny,” Janice began.
“Yes, Janice?” Manny said.
“Actually, I don’t think I’ll need a lottery ticket today.” She said, surprising herself. “But I was wondering, sometime when you’re free, if maybe you’d like to have a cup of coffee with me. Or maybe lunch. No, wait, how about dinner.” Her smile grew wider. “In fact, Manny, are you free tonight?”

Merry Christmas, Santa Claus

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Everyone said it had been an unusually long, hot summer. Things just haven’t been the same since global warming. Eventually, though, winter really cut in, just a few weeks before Christmas. I walked through the streets with my usual twelve layers of inner and outerwear to keep out as much cold as possible. In the winter, I try to keep my time on the street to a minimum. In fact, I have been known to transfer subway lines three times just to avoid walking a few extra blocks. You see, with me, it’s not the quantity of time that it takes to get somewhere, it’s the quality.

So, anyway, one afternoon, I was walking back to work from my lunch break, barely looking up so as to hide my face from the wind, and as I turned a corner, my nose caught the sulfur smell of a match, fresh from lighting a cigarette. I slowed down and looked up. Standing on the corner was an old man. He had no coat on, just several layers of street clothes. His trousers and shirt looked as if they had once been brightly colored, maybe some sort of red and gold, but now they were so dirty and tattered that their colors were indistinguishable from shades of brown. His hair was thick and white, as was his beard, and my eyes caught his twinkling blue ones. Something about him looked familiar and I smiled at him. He sort of bantered with himself, ignoring me, and puffed away on his cigarette. His image stuck in my mind until I got back to work. Then my brain was taken over with the stress of drudgery.

A few days later, I was underground, riding the subway downtown on my way home from work. It was one of those rush hour rides I’d put near the circus category; several people singing or talking very loudly to themselves; one or two people suddenly moaning and getting up to pace; and the usual trinket hawkers and potential subway thugs, all mixed in with the travelling workers like myself. I got lucky and grabbed the last seat. It’s not just that being able to sit down is convenient, but it kept me out of the main stream of frenzied activity.

I became absorbed in an article I was reading in a magazine about the plot of rap songs to subliminally prime us to be racist, when I just happened to look up. Seated right across from me was a large man, not obese but plump and tall, although it was hard to tell exactly how tall since he was sitting down. His clothes were loose and baggy, disguising but not hiding, his generous belly. His hair was snowy white and his skin had an ethereal glow about it. It was pink and translucent, almost glowing, the lower half covered by a white, scruffy beard. He smiled at me, as he mumbled to himself, and I looked down. Even from across the subway car, I had seen his old, cobalt eyes and they seemed to look right through me. At his feet was a dirty brown sack, like one for laundry, full and lumpy. I watched him out of the corner of my eye until we both got off at 14th street, but ascended different staircases.

Some time the following week, I was taking a shortcut to Houston Street from Spring via Crosby. It was very late at night and this cobblestoned block was dark, deserted and unsettlingly alley-like. I was hurrying down the middle of the street, to keep in the streetlight and out of the shadows near the buildings, until a rat, bigger than my foot, ran across my path and down into the sewer. I gasped, veered right and hopped up on the sidewalk, almost tripping head first into a doorway. I caught myself just in time and as I straightened up, I saw a figure sitting on a darkened step. It was a charming faced, roly-poly man, smoking a pipe. He had long white hair, a bushy beard and he winked at me. I had to rip my eyes away from him as I urged my feet to keep moving, making my escape from that at infested alley.
That night, the picture of him, in his dirty red and brown rags with pipe smoke encircling his head, would not leave my mind. What is with me, I thought, why does every homeless man I see, look like Santa Claus! It was unsettling, and I couldn’t help wanting to give my head a good shake as if I could knock something that might be loose back into place.

The next day was Christmas Eve, but I still had to work, which I felt was wrong. I come from the school of thought that says we should not only be granted holidays off, but a few days before and after, just to give us a margin of adjustment. But you can’t expect anything extra from the government and who else was there to work for at this point? So, at five o’clock on the dot, I rushed out of the office and pushed my way out of the building, through the crowd. The air was bitter cold and it hit my face with a vengeance. Why could I never get used to these arctic winters?

I had a few last minute things to do before getting together with some friends for an underground Christmas party. (This was already after the government had banned any celebration that was not connected with the church.) Part party, part meeting, my group kept abreast of political news by getting together and giving information verbally. It was safer that way, less traceable. But first I had to finish my errands. The stores were packed and as I fought the crowds, it made me nostalgic for the old days of privately owned mail order companies. In one store I was able to grab what I needed just ahead of another desperate slob and as I stood in line to pay, I started reading the government news rags propped up next to the register. The headline caught my eye:

“ANOTHER SANTA LOOK-A-LIKE MURDER! 3RD IN TWO WEEKS!”

What? What was going on here? Did that mean I wasn’t the only one seeing Santa doubles? And what did they mean murdered? I grabbed the paper off its rack and rifled through the pages for the story. It seemed that three bums, who all shared a mysterious resemblance to Santa Claus, had been shot point blank and found a few days apart. Shot? The only legal guns were owned by street soldiers and priests. I hadn’t seen an illegal guns in years. It was too risky and anyway there were plenty of other weapons to be had.

I was already late to the party and I still had a subway ride ahead of me. It was after eight when I descended the long staircase down to the Rapid Transit. It was almost deserted. Politically smart people were home and inside by this time, and who wasn’t trying to be politically smart these days. Only a few others waited on the platform with me. The silence somehow had an echo to it. The air was damp, barely warmer than outside. I puffed impatience out of my mouth in a steamy cloud. An uptown train came, everyone got on except me, and it screeched away. I leaned against a tiled column, wishing there was graffiti or advertisements to read, anything besides the usual government warnings and bulletins. I shivered and pulled my collar tighter around my neck.

Then, footsteps. They had an authoritative sound to them. I looked up. A black clad figure walked toward me from the far end of the tunnel. But there was no entrance down there. He must’ve climbed up from the tracks. It was hard to tell from a distance but he looked like a priest. He came closer and then I could see for sure, he was wearing the white collar and the back wool topcoat of the upper level clergy. He passed me and I nodded politely. He smiled a smug, cold-as-steel smile that made me shiver.

I saw the bulge around his shoulder where his holster would be and – wait a minute – something on his left earlobe. That didn’t make sense, priests didn’t have to wear those metal ear clips, those were only worn by soldiers. It was the dog tag that held their serial number. Did soldier-priests have to wear them? No, no I was sure not. He rounded the corner toward the stairs and disappeared.

Still no sign of my train, so I edged to the end of the platform where the pseudo priest had come from and looked down the tunnel to see what I could see. Nothing. It was too dark to tell from there. Should I venture further? Normally I wouldn’t risk it, but no one else was in the station, and it might be something to report to my group at the get together tonight. I carefully climbed down the five metal stairs to the tracks. It seemed even darker once I got down there and I kept close to the wall, afraid that any minute a train would come. I pushed my feet slowly sideways, feeling my way. And then my foot ran into something on the ground. Something that was blocking my path, something soft and large. I felt in my pockets for a match, but I knew it was futile, I don’t even smoke. Then, far away, a tiny light appeared and quickly grew. My train. It only took a few seconds for the light to get bright enough for me to see what the object at my feet.

Santa. Another Santa look-a-like. Dead. And I had practically witnessed the murder. I turned and scrambled back up the stairs before the train could pull into the station. Now there were other people on the platform, waiting for this train, including a few soldiers. The train shrieked to a halt and I jumped on the last car. Now what? I certainly wasn’t going to tell the street soldiers, the murder was probably committed by one of them. I sat there with my head in my hands.

Suddenly, there was a loud whining creak coming from the door between subway cars and I jumped. Four subway soldiers came through the door, their guns out and their two-way radios blaring garbled voices. Could they – could they want – me? They saw me and came right toward me. I had nowhere to go, so I stood. They grabbed me by the shoulders, searched me and chained my hands and feet.

No use asking what was the charge or trying to defend myself. I wouldn’t get my street rights back as long as they believed I was the culprit. I’m sure I had a file as a trouble-maker as thick as a brick. I knew my participation in the meetings had been risky, but I didn’t care. It was the only way my brain could survive the kind of life I had to lead. If I was lucky, they’d give me a quick execution without the usual torture session. After all, they had seen me crawl out of that subway hole, they probably had a camera recording it. It must’ve been a set up. They’d probably been following me for weeks, just waiting for the right time. Those other ‘Santas’ I had seen, probably died minutes after I left them. That meant they could place me at every scene.

The way I look at it, I was probably lucky to get these last three weeks of freedom. If you could call them free. What can I say? In a way it’s a relief. Who wants to live in a world without Santa, anyway? Maybe he’ll be around in the next life. Merry Christmas, Santa Claus.

The Compound

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The Compound was a large lot of land that lay a hundred yards inland from the river, north of the Edge, and south of the Ghetto. Where the Edge was uneven and scattered with rubble, the Compound was flat and bare, clear of debris. Baked hard as rock by the unrelenting sun, the dirt surface of the Compound was populated with small groups of people and their camps. To the north were the remains of buildings, foundations of long gone structures jutting out of the ground. Even farther north and east, the empty buildings of the Ghetto could just be seen at the horizon line. To the west, Velo City rose in sparkling glory across the river, its glass buildings twinkling like stars as the sun began to set behind them.

Braddha, a tall, muscled man in his twenties paced the hard ground of the Compound near a campfire on the north end. He wore dirty black jeans and a dark T-shirt, like all the other gang members, and a long knife hung from his belt. His face and arms were dark with tan, his black hair hung almost to his shoulders. The look on his face was a mix of anger and impatience that made him look older than he was. He stopped his pacing and looked out over the Compound.

He knew that the power he wielded over his people lay in keeping them on the edge of hunger, but not too far over it. He knew that in order to keep them compliant, they had to believe in his omnipotence. He also knew that he couldn’t let anything interrupt his show of strength because any sign of weakness was an invitation for someone to challenge him.

He had come from the north camps to live south of the Ghetto only a few years ago, but he had built a strong gang that ruled the territory east of Velo City and south of the camps. When the traders came down from the north, they knew they had to work under his rules, and pay him his tax, in order to barter their wares. He ruled the Compound, the Ghetto and everyone that passed through.

He had set up a clear border and had so far been unchallenged. The only test to his authority was the recent appearance of the Teller. That defiant annoyance was putting disquieting thoughts into the heads of the people. Ideas that could distract them, diluting their focus on what was important, like obeying him. The Teller was trouble, and it was Braddha’s job to eliminate trouble. That’s how he secured his domination.

Young men and women in their teens and twenties, moved around the camp. Some roasted meat on campfires, or stirred pots, some huddled in groups playing quiet games. They all were dark haired and thin. None wore a smile or made a sound. They felt Braddha’s anger like a heat wave and had no wish to tempt it to turn in their direction. They knew that as long as they followed him and obeyed his rules, they would be fed and safe. But they also had to avoid Braddha’s wrath.

Two young men, dressed as the rest, one with diagonal scars on his face, came walking from the north and entered the camp slowly. They approached Braddha, the scar faced one in the lead. Braddha turned to look at them. The two men stopped in front of him, looking at the ground, silent.

“I see you’ve come back empty handed and empty headed.” Braddha growled. “You’ll be the last to eat tonight, if there’s anything left.”

A teen brought Braddha a piece of the roasted meat on a long bone. He took it in his left hand and sat on the ground. A few others sat with him, their share of the meat in their hands.

“You’ll go again tomorrow, to try to find where the Teller sleeps.” Braddha barked, before he took a bite of his dinner. “If you come back with nothing, you’ll get nothing.”

Braddha tore the meat off the bone with his teeth. Watching him, the others began to eat as well. The two men stood in front of him, looking hungrily at the food. Then they slowly backed away to the edge of the group. Braddha kept his eyes on them, burning with anger. The only way to make them do what I need, he thought to himself, is to make them want it bad enough.

The Ghetto

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The Ghetto was east of the river across from Velo-city, but a few miles north of the Edge.  There were still some buildings left in the Ghetto, unlike the Edge, which was almost completely barren. Crumbling and burned out, the buildings of the Ghetto stood five and six stories tall.  Their windows black and gaping like silent, screaming mouths.

Luca was a rough looking young man; six feet tall, dark complexioned, and if you looked close enough, handsome.  His ragged brown hair almost touched his shoulders, but his beard wasn’t old enough to be full, it just outlined his strong jaw.  At first glance you might think he belonged to one of the gangs.  But if you saw him up close, if you spoke with him, you would see light in his eyes and you might catch a glimpse of his brilliant smile.  Something you’d never see with one of the gang bangers.

Luca walked down the main old street in front of the burned out buildings of the Ghetto.  He wore faded blue jeans, worn and dusty, and a threadbare, gray T-shirt, the hems of the sleeves ragged.  On his head he wore a visor made of rough sackcloth and dark plastic that shaded his face from the bright sun.  His body moved quickly, as he made his way through the ghost of what was once a city.

Two dark haired young men appeared on the other side of one of the crumbling walls near where Luca walked.  They were dressed in dirty black jeans and ripped black T-shirts, smudged with the dry dust that covered everything in the Ghetto.  They were alike as they could be, until you looked close, then you could see that one had diagonal scars scratched across his face.  As they looked over the wall, they caught sight of Luca and began to climb toward him.

Luca heard them before he could see them, and he picked up speed and headed off toward the tallest of the crumbling buildings, running swiftly and quietly.  He knew why they were after him.  The gangs hated the idea that he told stories and put something inside peoples’ heads other than fear.  The thought made him smile, since keeping ahead of them was part of the fun.

The two young men tried to match Luca’s speed, but he was already way ahead of them.  Luca ducked between two buildings and down an alley, the tall buildings on each side of him like narrow canyon walls, and the two men ran after him down the middle.  When Luca reached the brick wall at the end of the alley, he stopped, turned, crossed his arms and smiled, and leaned his back up against the wall as if it was a natural time to take a break.  The two men slowed and looked at each other.  Then walked cautiously toward Luca, knives bared.

Luca waited until they got within a few feet, then bent his knees into a squat and jumped straight up, catching hold of the bottom of an old iron fire escape.  He swung himself forward, and releasing his grip, kicking the two men in the center of their chests with his feet as he flew toward them.  They fell to the ground, and Luca rolled to the ground beside them, quickly getting to his feet and running out of the alley.  The one with the scars roared with anger, pulled the other one up and they both stumbled out of the alley.

When they got out into the street, Luca was nowhere to be seen.  The two dark clothed men looked around them, ran up and down the street and back down the alley, but they couldn’t see where Luca had gone.  They stood in the middle of the street, confused and angry.  Above them, running across the tops of the buildings, was Luca’s speedy form.

 

The Shed

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Smitty rubbed the soot from her eyes and looked at the sun as it hung low in the sky. Soon it’ll be night and the dogs will come out she thought, automatically.  She stoked the coals and gave the bellows a few pumps to get the heat high enough. The sword she was working on was more than half done, she had hammered it into the right shape and length, and completed the heat treatment to harden the blade, now she was assembling the hilt.  After that it would take another few days to file, polish and hone the blade to meet the standards she set for her work.

Making the hilt was her indulgence.  It was the one time she allowed herself to reveal anything personal.  On this sword she had planned to make the grip a rough texture, hammering tiny indentations in an evenly spaced pattern that covered the entire surface.  But on one side there would be a highly polished asymmetric silver streak, real silver inlaid into the steel, reaching from the guard to the pommel. That’s what she’d call this one, the Streak, she smiled to herself.  The image of the finished sword was fully formed in her mind.  She swung the hammer with force and purpose, as she knew exactly what it would look like.  This sword would be one if the best ones, she thought.  Maybe I’ll keep this one for myself.

The sun slipped lower and she knew it was time to close the open wall of the metal shed that exposed the blacksmith works to the outside.  Smitty’s shed was on the Edge, a rubble strewn empty stretch of rocky ground not far from the bridge that led to the glass skyscrapers of Velo City.  The shed was only yards away from the river, a toxic strip of dark water separating the residents of Velo City from the rest of the world.  North of the shed were the crumbling buildings and camps that stood in contrast to Vel City’s glitter.

Just a few more swings of the hammer and I can put this down for the day.  Smitty wiped the sweat from her brow.  She couldn’t smith at night with the south wall of the metal shed closed, the coals were too hot for the small space of her home.  At night she could polish and carve, but smithing was for daylight hours.

She examined the shaft of the sword, measuring it with her eyes. Had she fused the metal layers well?  Had the coals been hot enough to harden the steel for the best of strength?  Was the edge right?  Yes, I think so, she thought to herself.  I can just finish the hilt now and then begin the polishing tonight.

From across the open compound she heard low growls.  She turned, realizing the sun had slipped behind the tall buildings of Velo City to the west. Not exactly sunset, but dark enough to fool the wild dogs. She swung at the hot metal one last time, risking the arrival of the beasts that only came out at night and would kill and eat anything that breathed.

She swung the hammer one last time.  That was it.  She could close up the south wall of the shed and make it safe.  She looked off toward the northeast, where the broken abandoned buildings stood.  To the east she could see the shadows of the dogs running her way.  She’d have to hurry.  She put down the sword and grabbed the edge of the shed’s open wall.  Pulling it on its engineered wheels, it creaked as it moved, slowly closing the gap, shutting her in, alone for the night.

Once the shed was closed and secure.  She climbed up the ladder, through the hatch in the ceiling, up onto the roof.  She sat back in the metal chair she’d made and looked toward the west, the sun completely gone, the towering buildings of Velo City glowing.  No matter what, she said to herself as she had many times before, I’d rather be here than there.

 

Breathless

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To tell you the truth, I never thought it would end between us.  Especially not the way it ended.  The way it ended me.  The way she ended me.

When I first saw her, I felt as if I had always known her.  It wasn’t that “love at first sight” kind of thing, it was more that she looked familiar to me.  And then, from our first conversation I couldn’t picture living the rest of my life without her.  I didn’t know how right I would be.  But, I’m getting ahead of myself, let me start at the beginning.

I’ll never forget that first night we met.  It was early one spring evening and I was at the bar in America’s.  She came in with some people I knew and sat at a table.  I looked over and I couldn’t help staring.  She left me breathless.  She was dark complected and petite with a wild mane of deep brown curls.  I sat there memorizing her face, those dark, bright eyes, that straight nose, I remember thinking it was kind of funny that we both had the same little round rimless glasses.  Every gesture she made, every little turn of her expressive body, had me light headed and gasping for air.  There was that strange feeling that she was familiar, yet I knew I had never met her before.  She caught me staring and she smiled at me.  A big open, fall-right-into-this-face smile.  I walked over and introduced myself.  Her name was Jesse.

We sat and talked all night, as if we were alone in that huge restaurant full of people.  When it was time for her to go, she just stood up and said goodbye.  I panicked for a second and then asked her for her phone number.  She said she wouldn’t give it to me, but she said she’d take mine and promised she’d call the next night.  I wrote my number on a bar napkin and I held it out toward her.  When she stepped in to take it, I pulled her close and kissed her.  I felt as if time stood still, right then.

She turned to go and I realized I was holding my breath.  When she reached the door, she turned and smiled at me and then slipped away.   The next day at work I couldn’t stop thinking about her.  I’d catch myself daydreaming in the middle of trying to crunch some complex numbers.  I had to put them aside and work on something less important.  I thought for sure I would mess something up.  By the end of the day I had to laugh.  She must’ve been a dream, nobody could be that wonderful, I told myself.  It must’ve been all the beer I drank, the late hour.  I’d try to get back to work but then in my mind I’d see her turn and smile at me from the door, and I’d have to stop and catch my breath.

When I got home that night, she called, and we planned to meet.  This is the test, I thought, when I see her it’ll be back to reality.  But it was never reality with Jesse, circumstances never seemed real when she was around.  I felt like nothing else mattered when I was with her, nothing else existed.  Being with her was like finding a long lost twin sister.  I felt like I had known her all my life.  Our thoughts mirrored each other’s, every move was in sync.  And I wanted to be with her every minute.  No matter what we were doing we seemed to always be close enough to give a squeeze of a hand, a light touch here, a hug.  She was the most affectionate person I ever met and it brought out my own demonstrative side.  On the second date, we almost couldn’t wait for the movie to be over.  I walked her to her apartment and she drew me in without a word.  It was the most amazing night, exploring, confessing, sharing, and it was only the beginning.

Before I knew it, I was seeing her almost every night.  I’d pick her up after work and we’d do anything fun we could think of.  She was great at thinking up exciting things to do, often she would surprise me by not telling me what she had planned until we arrived at the spot.  Some nights we’d go to see a play and others we’d end up at some smoky little jazz club I had never heard of, or just sit in an outdoor cafe and drink a bottle of wine.  She’d find restaurants for us to try in every hidden corner of the city and one night we even went to the circus.  On some warm summer nights, we just walked from one end of the city to the next.

All that activity died down after a while.  Maybe it was just because summer ended, but I guess that happens in every relationship, you want to start settling down.  Actually, I think we started staying home more often about the time I got sick.  I caught one of those ravaging flues.  It really caught me by surprise, so early in the fall as it was.  It took me out of work for over a week, viscously attacking my respiratory system.  Some nights it was so bad, I thought I would die.  I don’t see how I could’ve recovered without her.

Jesse would come over every night and make me soup, sit with me, feed me.  It was a horrible illness, I had to sleep propped up because of the fluid in my lungs.  Sometimes I’d slip down in the middle of the night and I’d wake up choking, gasping for air.

After I got well, we continued spending more time at home.  We’d meet after work, at her place or mine, have some dinner, hang out and talk or watch TV or do our own chores.  I guess it was after a few months of this when I told her.  I remember it was almost Thanksgiving.  It was one night when we were at her place.  It was very late and we had just turned out the lights.  We were fast falling asleep, warm, cozy, quiet.  I rolled over, took her in my arms, and told her that I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t help myself; I loved her.  She didn’t say anything, just hugged me tighter and we fell asleep that way.

The next morning, she had already left for work when I woke up and I remember feeling disoriented.  Her apartment didn’t look familiar, right away, as if things had been moved around.  Or maybe I had just expected to wake up in my own bed.

I didn’t see her the next night, she told me she had too much work to do, and I thought nothing of it at the time.  I had a little cough, sort of a wheezing, so I thought it best to just go bed early anyway.  I didn’t want a relapse of that flu.

The next day, she called me at work and invited me over to her place for dinner.  I almost laughed at her formality, but she sounded so serious.
We had a nice supper and she purposely kept the conversation light.  Afterwards, I started to turn on the television, but she stopped me and sat me on the couch.  She sat next to me, cross-legged, facing me.  She smiled and tenderly caressed my hand, studying it intensely, and she told me that we had to stop seeing each other.  Just like that.  I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe, I thought it was some kind of a joke.  But then I saw how serious she was.

She said she had needed last night to do some thinking, and that she decided it would be unfair for us to go on like this, because she didn’t feel the same way I did.  When I had told her that I loved her, she realized that she’d been leading me on.  I couldn’t believe her, how could I have read the signals so wrong, I was sure she loved me. It never occurred to me to hold back telling her how I felt.  I told myself that she was wrong, she just didn’t know her own mind, of course she was in love with me.  Give her some time and she’d realize it.

I tried to laugh it off, I told her that I wasn’t really in love with her, it was just that she was my best friend and I loved making love with her.  Just because both of those things existed together didn’t necessarily mean I was in love with her.  But she didn’t buy it, she said she wouldn’t see me anymore.  I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach, knocked the breath out of me.  I didn’t know what to say then, and she kept staring at me with this sweet, concerned look.  I couldn’t take it.

It was strange, because my cough got worse over the next week, but it felt different than the flu.  I kept calling her but she would just let the answering machine pick up or, if I called her at work, her assistant would say that she was busy.  It was driving me crazy, not seeing her, and meanwhile my cough was getting worse, I was having a lot of trouble breathing.  I thought it was because I was so upset at her leaving me, that it had to be psychosomatic, or caused by stress.  I had to see her.  I felt that if I could just talk to her, tell her we’d do it all her way, everything would be OK.

I tried going over to her apartment, but she wouldn’t answer the door.  I couldn’t find any way to get through to her.  I wasn’t getting my work done, I couldn’t sleep at night, and my cough was getting worse.  I felt something was gnawing inside me, something that was stealing my breath and replacing it with pain.  The incredible all encompassing feeling of love I had inside had turned into a deep empty cavity of suffering.

Breathing became so uncomfortable, I finally went to see a doctor.  The doctor sent me to the hospital and they did a slew of tests on me.  I never had so many x-rays or gave so much blood.  The next day, my doctor called to tell me that the results were in and he asked me to come down to the office.  He wouldn’t tell me over the phone, which made me a little nervous.  I thought it had to be something pretty serious for him to set it up like that.  But I kept telling myself that there wouldn’t be anything really wrong with me.

I got to the doctor’s office and saw the look on his face, I knew what he was going to say.  I knew exactly what he was going to tell me.  Lung cancer.  I checked into the hospital that same day.  The disease was so advanced, they removed one of my lungs later that week.  They let me keep the other, but they told me it wouldn’t be long before that one had been consumed.

It’s funny, all that breathlessness I had felt from her, from the flu, from the cough.  Now I’m in a hospital bed and breathe pure oxygen through a tube hooked up to a machine.  It’s the best I’ve been able to breathe in a long time.

I lie here thinking, about her, about my short and unproductive life.  I know it’s only a matter of days.  I’ve tried to come to terms with everything.  She doesn’t visit me.  I try to forget we ever ended.  They give me drugs for the pain.  I have the most incredible dreams.  They’re so real, I dream about the times when we were happy.  I relive that, over and over, that feeling of happiness.  When I dream, it all comes back to me in a beautiful drowning flood.  And, through that, through that beautiful flood of happiness, breathing doesn’t even seem necessary.

Rosanne Limoncelli copyright 2011

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The Edge

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The place called the Edge wasn’t much more than a rubble strewn empty stretch of rocky ground where the land met the river.  On the other side of the water, the gleaming glass skyscrapers of Velo City rose out of the rancid river the way crystals form in nature: tall, sharp and glowing.

The dark river stretched about two hundred yards between Velo’s island city and the Edge with only one bridge spanning the gap.  The bridge was ancient, made of stone and metal, and still looked passable, but was never crossed.   Crossing over from the Edge to Velo City was forbidden, and so the bridge was heavily guarded on the Velo City side.  Every night the sun set behind the skyline of the city turning the cold glass skyscrapers into a dark sparkling silhouette.  The looming towers lorded their majesty over the flatness of the Edge, as if to say “we are everything and you are nothing”.  That’s rather how it felt, actually, if you lived on the Edge.

“Hurry, hurry, it’s clear now, hurry, hurry, hurry,” the Kid thought to himself as he scurried quickly through the rubble of the Edge.  He carried a bulky brown cloth sack, if you could call it carrying, since he barely kept it from dragging on the ground even as he clutched it the best he could with both hands.  Small and wiry, the Kid was no more than ten or eleven, his skin brown from the sun and dirt.  A smudged cloth visor hid most of his short black hair and his Asian-influenced eyes.

“Hur-ry, hur-ry, hur-ry,” he chanted in his brain, keeping time with the motion of his feet.  He scooted along with his head down, struggling to pull the sack a bit higher.  As he reached the big rock, he took a quick look behind him, always a mistake.

Five dark haired older teens were approaching from the north.  They were thin and wearing ragged clothes, very much like the black cotton fatigues the old soldiers used to wear.  They carried nothing and walked closely together, often bumping and shoving each other.  The wind off the water made their loose clothes whip at their bodies, but it was no relief from the heat.  It would take the sun to finish setting to allow the air to cool. It would come soon, the coolness of night, but the darkness would bring other elements.   None of them good. The teens looked toward the Kid and quickened their pace in his direction.

The Kid saw them coming toward him.  No place to hide, he thought, keep moving.  He hurried south, past the big rock on the edge of the water, the gang moving more quickly now.  The Kid was moving as fast as he could, but he was hindered by the heaviness of the sack, which he gripped even tighter.

The gang overtook him easily, separating him from his sack and dragging him inland, then pushing his thin frame back and forth between them, as if making him the game-ball of the day.  Punching and slapping at his tanned flesh, they laughed and taunted him.  He tried to twist away from each hit, attempting escape, but each time one of the teens would grab him and pull him back in.  They had him.  As darkness came closer, the Kid thought about how good supper was going to taste tonight, if he could just get to it.

Suddenly there was the loud clang of steel against stone and they all stopped and looked west.  A tall figure was just visible in the dusk, standing by the big rock.  Details of the silhouette were hard to make out, except for the long steel sword that glinted in the last of the remaining sunlight.

The Kid, now held by only one of the skinny teenagers, tried to wiggle himself loose.  It was useless at first but soon, the eyes of the teen facing the figure, began to show fear, and his grasp weakened.  The Kid was able to slip free.  He ran toward the dark figure, who stood on strong legs, hips distance apart, one hand holding the long sword, its point resting in the dirt.

The gang slowly gathered themselves closer together, whispering and muttering.  Then as if on command, they abandoned the sack and hurried away to the north, stealing glances behind them.

The sun finished setting itself below the skyscrapers.  The air quickly turned cool.  The howls of the dogs moved closer.  Across the river Velo City’s lights mocked the night, as darkness came to the Edge.

Rosanne Limoncelli Copyright 2011

 

Paper Bag

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I woke with relief to silence. When I’d locked myself in my room the night before, my mother and her boyfriend were in the middle of an argument.  Something to do with drugs, as was usual with Mabel and Pete.  They kept me awake half the night and then, after they made up, went out to celebrate.  I rose slowly trying to get a lead on what day it was.  Sunday, it must be Sunday, I thought, as I heard some far off church bells float into the room.  It was hot and sunny, what some might call a nice summer country day, but I’d lost the meaning for the word nice.

I rolled off my mattress that lay on the floor and got on my hands and knees.  My head was throbbing with lack of sleep and food and after I rose unsteadily, I went into the kitchen.  Mabel and Pete hadn’t made it home yet, and if I was lucky, I still had some quiet time before they showed up.  I looked in the refrigerator, nothing but moldy bread and assorted condiments.  The cabinets weren’t much more fruitful, my best chance at eating was to get to my crappy minimum wage job at the McDonalds out on the highway. It was a twenty-minute walk, but I’d eat my fill when I got there.

I drank a belly full of water and washed my face.  I tried to avoid looking in the mirror, since I still had a bruise around my eye that Pete gave me.  When my father died, I was relieved that I’d have a break from the beatings, but then my mother went and replaced one abusive spouse with another.  The more things change, the more they stay the same.  I got myself dressed for work and combed my thin brown hair.

Fifteen days until I was eighteen and then I’d be gone.  I’d thought about leaving so many times, but I knew my best chance would be after I was legal.  I didn’t have much money, or any training to get a job that paid well, but wherever I landed had to be better than this.

I went back to the kitchen to head out the back door and I noticed the cabinet under the sink was ajar. It looked like something was stuffed in there, something too big for the space, blocking the door from closing all the way.  I knelt down in front of the cabinet and opened it.  There was a big paper bag, full of something, the top folded down, shoved inside.  The cleaning bucket, that was usually the only thing under the sink, was shoved to the side, but there still hadn’t been enough room for this bag so the door hadn’t closed all the way.

I slowly pulled the bag toward me.  I knew I would get a beating if I got caught looking at something they didn’t want me to see, but they weren’t home.  It had some weight to it and I pulled it onto the floor in front of me.  I unrolled the top and opened it wide. Looking inside, I couldn’t see what it was at first, I thought it was some pile of scrap paper.  But as I reached my hand inside and felt the texture of it, I realized it was money.  I lifted the bag closer to me, why was it so heavy?  Something shifted underneath the bills.  I reached my hand down into to the bottom of the bag. I came out with a gun.  My mouth went dry.

Now, I don’t know much about firearms, but this looked like a good one. It was heavy and sleek and felt good in my hand.  I sat there on the floor with a sack of money in my lap and a gun in my hands.  The church bells started up again in the distance.  The air in the room was stifling.  My stomach growled.

Suddenly the screen door flew open.  I spun around just in time to see my mother and her boyfriend tearing toward me with their eyes wild and their fists raised.  I raised my own fists in defense forgetting that they gripped the pistol.  Instinctively I squeezed the trigger until the gun was empty.  Mabel and Pete fell to the ground with barely a moan.  My ears rang with the aftershock of the gunfire.

How had I not heard them approach?  They must’ve been passed out in the truck behind the shed.  I watched as blood pooled onto the kitchen floor.  I felt around inside my heart for remorse but only found relief.  What to do now?  Our shack was far enough away from neighbors to hope that nobody had heard the shots.  I could take the money and run.  Start a new life somewhere.  But why run away?  Wasn’t this self-defense?  Didn’t my body have enough bruises to make a good case?

I looked at the sack of money.  I could stash it and return to my status as poor abused teen and ride out this story to the end so I could start a new one.  Somewhere far away, a fresh start, free and clear from any ties to this one.  Who would argue that I hadn’t suffered enough?  Who would put me in jail for defending my life?  Maybe there were some who would, but I’d take that chance over running for the rest of my life.  I dropped the gun, got to my feet and walked over to the phone.  Honesty is the best policy, I thought wryly, and my truth was as good as anyone else’s.  I dialed 9-1-1.

Rosanne Limoncelli   Copyright 2011