text: Tag Cavello Desdemona For all the ones we’ve lost, and all the ones we have, and will have, with love in every world. 
   
   
   Desdemona 
   Desdemona 
   Tag Cavello 
   Copyright 2018 by Tag Cavello 
     
   
   
                                         
   
   
                                                                 “’By now you will, of course, have understood 
   how little of the truth they see who claim 
   that every love is, in itself, a good; 
     
   for though love’s substance always will appear 
   to be a good, not every impress made, 
   even in finest wax, is good and clear.’” 
     
   Dante,  The Purgatorio,  as translated by John Ciardi 
     
                                   For all the ones we’ve lost, and all the ones we have, and will have, with love in every world                     DESDEMONA 
     
   
     
   
   SOMMARIO 
   
   
   ∞ 
     
   
   CHAPTER ONE… … …DANTE 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER TWO… … …HORATIO 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER THREE… … …SUNNY 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER FOUR… … …NASCOSTO VILLAGIO 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER FIVE… … …LOCKER SIXTEEN 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER SIX… … …MERMAID PIZZA 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER SEVEN… … …MARIS 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER EIGHT… … …THE GLASS BLOCK 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER NINE… … …A DRIVE NORTH 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER TEN… … …GIRL TO GORILLA 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER ELEVEN… … …DINNER AND A PHONE CALL 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER TWELVE… … …SELF-LOATHING 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER THIRTEEN… … …LOVE RHYMES 
   
       CHAPTER FOURTEEN… … …HOSPITAL VISIT 
     
     
   
   CHAPTER FIFTEEN… … …HAPPY NEW YEAR 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER SIXTEEN… … …FOR DUKEY 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER SEVENTEEN… … …I THINK A MAN SHOULD BE STRONG… 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER EIGHTEEN… … …THE GIRL DOWNSTAIRS 
   
     
     
   
   CHAPTER NINETEEN… … …DEPLOYMENT 
   
   
       
   CHAPTER TWENTY… … …SUNNY COMES TO DINNER 
         
   CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE… … …THE IDES OF MARCH 
   
   
       
   CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO… … …DOGS ON ICE 
   
   
       
   CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE… … …SUNNY AND MARIS 
   
   
       
   CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR… … …WIN ON THE ROAD 
   
   
       
   CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE… … …CONVALESCENCE 
   
   
       
   CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX… … …IN MEMORIAM 
   
   ∞     CHAPTER ONE:  Dante 
   
    Norwalk, Ohio is strange. Or so the boy, whose name was Dante Torn, had in his thoughts always arranged. 
   
     
   Especially in the early dawn light. Every summer he delivered newspapers for a local publisher, which obliged him to wake before sunrise and tie his bundles with rubber bands, stuff them in a bag, and take to the quiet streets. 
   Though the bag was heavy, he was able to ride his bike during the week, his tall, wiry frame accepting the load with little complaint. Helping with this task was the fresh smell of flowers from neighboring lawns, and the twittering of birds from high in the ancient trees that lined Norwalk’s streets. 
   Of course during the week it was already a little bit light out when he left the house. He would step off the front porch of the fine, federal style brick mansion at 54 West Main Street where he lived, with the sun already peeking over the eastern hills between here and Cleveland, a cheerful eye. Also, the papers were light, especially on Mondays. What news came on Mondays, the day after everyone was supposed to rest? 
   “We pray on Sunday,” Dante’s father once said, “so there will be no news on Monday.” 
   He’d spoken it on a Monday morning whilst watching his son bundle papers full of meaningless fluff. School lunch menus. Artists with bad paintings and no one to come to their shows. Museum pieces. 
   Dante supposed it was one prayer to which God always acquiesced. If only humankind would take up its habit for supplication to invisible deities on Saturday as well. Then Dante might not have to get up  before  dawn on Sunday mornings to tie papers  three times  as large as the weeklies. Then he might not have to carry them in a wagon instead of a bag. Then he might not have to be unnerved by streets that were sometimes a little  too  quiet, even for a small town. For it wasn’t just heavy papers that made Dante dread the Sunday edition. 
   He’d seen things along the dark streets. Caught between wakefulness and dreaming, the town would every so often lose face. The Civil War mansions of Main, State, and Newton Street no longer looked like friendly old men, their doorways smiling, their gabled roofs fancy hats in want of a hand for tipping. Oh no. In the humid August shadows their doors rather seemed to gape, as if in awe for his temerity to disturb the stillness. And the roofs resembled furled, hairy brows over angry black eyes. They were faces, all, that would lunge at Dante—if they could—to swallow him whole. 
   Sometimes they tried. Halfway down Newton Street was a railroad crossing where he’d once seen a squirrel fall out of a tree. It lay still after hitting the sidewalk. Concerned for its well-being, Dante had approached it with caution. He knew these beasts carried rabies. And yet something about its mass of black fur made him curious. Closer and closer he had pulled his wagon of papers, until he was nearly on top of the thing. Then the fur had rolled to reveal a woman’s tortured, screaming face with accusing red eyes. Her long black hair coated the sidewalk like ink. With a gasp of terror Dante had leaped back. That was when the face, or whatever it was, disappeared, leaving him alone in befuddlement. 
   Another occasion found him on Manahan Avenue with his route nearly finished. Six papers remained in the wagon. Dante was glad, not because this morning had been particularly frightening, but because the thunder, which had begun half an hour ago, was getting louder. The sun had not arrived on schedule that day. Charcoal clouds, shot with lightning, roiled low in the sky. Dante was glad because he still had a chance to make it home without getting wet. 
   Hoping the rain would hold off, he heaved one of the papers. It landed hard on Mr. Jergenson’s porch. Dante winced.  No tip for you this week if you woke him up,  he thought. 
   An abandoned Magnavox, left on the curb for disposal, regarded him with its blank screen. Dante paused for only a moment to look at the broken knobs protruding from a cracked wooden frame. The console looked old and heavy. Left over from a forgotten time. When the screen began to flicker he assumed it was a reflection of lightning. He glanced skyward. Nothing there but more gray. Deeper now. Ever threatening. 
   Clenching hold the handle of his wagon, the boy began to move on… 
   Except there was a face on the TV screen now. A misshapen visage of dark eyes and horned forehead. Scowling with its sharp teeth, it snarled a message through the console’s broken speaker: 
   
   Carpe noctem! 
   
   Next moment, the face had gone, and the skies were raining so hard Dante could hardly see. 
   ∞ 
   Those things had happened a year ago, in 1991, when he was eleven. This summer had been much more quiet. In June he’d been frightened. Every Sunday morning was a minefield of weirdness he and his wagon traversed like soldiers of the mundane. When nothing happened in June his confidence increased. Rather than the pup’s face he’d had on since school let out, he faced July with something more regal, leaving the house each Sunday with a determined tug on the wagon, his chin high, his eyes keen. It all worked, or at least seemed to. Because nothing happened in July either. 
   Now here he was in August, two weeks before the start of school. 
   “You’re in love!” a girl said presently, as Dante made his way down West Main. 
   “No I’m not!” another insisted. “I just really like him. A lot.” 
   The two girls—teens—stepped around Dante’s wagon, not looking at him. But their giggles rose through the branches of the maple trees, and when Dante turned back, they both wore smiles like the sun, which had risen directly on time this morning. Neither of the girls, Dante noticed, had red hair. Too bad. For even if they liked him, he knew he could not like them back. At least not in that way. 
   Do either of you know Sunny Desdemona?  he almost asked, like an idiot. 
   They might have laughed harder at this. Or maybe they would have grown curious. Made inquiries. Though only twelve, Dante was already developing into a handsome brown-haired boy, his frame tall and lean. Carrying newspapers all summer worked wonders for his muscles as well. If these two girls liked him, shouldn’t they know more about the competition? 
   We don’t know her but who is she?  they might have wondered.  Come on! Tell us! 
   “Nah,” Dante said under his breath. “Wishful thinking.” 
   Less than a minute later the girls were just two distant figures on the sidewalk. They were headed downtown, though for what Dante had no idea. Most of Norwalk’s shops had relocated north to Sandusky. North to where the action was. Cedar Point, Perkins Mall. Marblehead Peninsula and Kelly’s Island. And of course Put-In Bay, the hottest little island on Lake Erie. These days Norwalk was just a town you drove through on your way to better places. A town of closed shops with soapy windows that read  closed  or  going out of business. 
   Dante turned to look at the girls again. They’d reached the Methodist church and were crossing the street. This puzzled him even further. Not only were the teens out early, but they had ventured to a side of the street where nothing but jewelry shops (all closed on Sundays) and banks stood. 
   “Hey kid!” 
   Dante jumped. A man at number ninety-nine glared at him from a tarred circular driveway. His house, like so many others on West Main, was huge. A Grecian beast with white pillars and green shutters. 
   “How ‘bout a newspaper to go with my coffee?” he asked. 
   “Sure,” Dante said. 
   He remembered the man’s name as being Ken or Keith. Ken or Keith did not expect to have to walk to the end of his driveway to get his paper. He expected the “kid” to bring it to him. This was clear by the way he put his hands on his hips. To Dante he looked like an umpire listening to Mike Hargrove gripe about a questionable call. Whatever. He pulled his wagon onto the driveway. The tar looked immaculate. Deep and rich. Would he sink if he stood still for too long? 
   “Hand it over,” Ken or Keith said. 
   Like Dante, he was tall and lean. A pair of rimless glasses decorated his face. 
   Dante handed him his paper. “Kenny Lofton has never agreed with a called strike in his life,” he then couldn’t help but let spill. 
   It utterly confused the other. “What was that?” he asked. 
   “Baseball,” Dante told him. 
   Now the man sneered. “I don’t watch  baseball. ” 
   “Sorry. Enjoy your paper.” 
   The boy turned to go. He got halfway to a row of hedges near the sidewalk when Ken or Keith called, “No tip for you on Thursday!” 
   You mean no tip for me ever,  Dante thought, because never once had this customer laid extra coin in his palm. Not looking back, he kept pulling his wagon. 
   “Sunny Desdemona!” Ken or Keith yelled. 
   Dante froze. Slowly, he turned to look at the prim, privileged man standing beside his stately manor. And in a quivering voice he said: “I’m sorry?” 
   “Money says I owe ya,” the other repeated. “But a smile says I’m your friend. Try one on sometime.” 
   “Of course,” Dante nodded, without smiling. “Of course. I will. Good morning.” 
   “And good morning to you, young man.” 
   The wagon trundled along behind him, a dog on a leash. Tiny bumps on the sidewalk made it jounce. At the corner of Main and Pleasant stood a dentists’ office slash residence. It too was large and quite old. Dante tossed a paper onto its wooden porch.  WHAP!  No one came out to retrieve it. The dentist, whom Dante knew was female, was probably still asleep in her basement coffin. 
   You’re in love,  he heard the teen girl say again. Only this time the girl was referring to him. 
   No,  Dante thought,  no. I don’t want to be in love. 
   Why not?  he asked himself. 
   
   Because she won’t love me back. It’s all wishful thinking. 
   
   
   All good things start with a wish, Dante. All good things. 
   
   Now who had ever told him that? Someone wise. Or maybe someone foolish. His uncle maybe. Kind but foolish. A drinker, a gambler. A man who got philosophical with his beer instead of angry. Had he once waxed poetic to Dante during some holiday eve party? 
   
   Please please please… 
   
   No, that wasn’t his uncle. That was The Smiths. Morrissey wishing on some star that wasn’t really a star at all, but a rock burning through Earth’s atmosphere. Wishful thinking. 
   
   All good things… 
   
   “Shut up,” Dante said aloud. He turned left on South Pleasant. Here the houses got a little smaller but still looked nice enough. One after the next, he delivered his papers. Dogs barked from back yards. Birds twittered. It was a lovely morning to be out for a walk. 
   Sunny Desdemona was a lovely girl. The prettiest Dante had ever seen. Last year, attending sixth grade at Norwalk Middle School, he had fallen in love with the back of her head. That was in room 105, Applied Math. The first day of classes. The kids had been restless from summer break, fidgeting in their seats. Pencils and notebooks, all brand new, shined under fresh tubes of fluorescent lighting. Sitting near the back row, Dante had looked up to get a bead on some rookie female teacher just out of college. He got something else instead. Fire. A blazing calligraphy of red-orange that capered on narrow shoulders. Within he could see a jewel, a glimmer of gold, shining like forbidden treasure lost to magmatic depths. It was, Dante realized, an ear-ring, and quite a beautiful one at that. Its shape resembled a trident. 
   
   WHAP! 
   
   Another paper, another porch. The wagon’s load continued to diminish, so by the time he reached the valley of Pleasant Street he had no trouble pulling it down. Here the houses backed away to provide room for a park. Breezy trees stood watch over a playground, a picnic shelter. Water gurgled on one side. Norwalk Creek, carried off by a culvert under the street. Normally Dante avoided the park on Sundays. Woodland bordered it on two sides. Or rather,  encroached  it. For Dante the dark trees seemed to lean a little too close to its tennis courts, its flower beds. Once, back in 1978, a rash of Sasquatch sightings had broken out between Norwalk and Monroeville. One such sighting was said to have taken place right near the tennis courts, where a trail led behind West Main to the old Baltimore and Ohio rail line. 
   But today the valley looked fairly inviting. Dante decided to cut through the park on his way up to Elm Street. He left the sidewalk. Dewey grass got the wagon wheels all wet. Near the shelter, he stopped to pick up some trash. Teenagers were always messing the place up on Saturday nights. Even the picnic tables had been violated. Their normally militant rows were now crooked. Twisted askew by crazy kids with stolen beer and garish girlfriends. Dante set about straightening them, then sat down at one for a breather. 
   Crude carvings in the wood provided a harsh welcome. Ridiculous thoughts laid down by untalented hands. Some were pornographic, others comedic. 
   Why?  one wanted to know. The word had been written in weak felt, faded but legible. Beneath lay a piece unlike all the rest. A paragraph, composed with the same marker, its words dim, its message anything but. 
   
   Why? 
   
   
   Why did you leave me? I’m sitting here watching our children play. Eve is on the swing, Aaron the monkey bars. They’re having fun, while all I can do is pretend. I thought our marriage was good. I thought you loved me. I was wrong. Now you’re with her somewhere. You’re with a better woman I guess. Someone prettier than me maybe, someone smarter. Eve and Aaron sometimes ask where their daddy is. I always tell a lie. But I am running out of lies to tell myself. I thought we were happy, Jacob. Why did you leave me? 
   
   
   Why? 
   
   Dante stood. Grabbing his wagon, he struck off towards the creek. A quaint little wooden bridge crossed it. He looked down at the water, saw his face looking back. 
   Sunny Desdemona’s face had not disappointed. He had waited all through that first day of class just to see it, not paying attention to the lesson. When the bell went off, he’d leaped from his seat, bumping his knee on the desk, so it was with a slight limp he saw her eyes for the first time. 
   They were green. The shimmering green of Aurora Borealis in an oxygen storm. Cinnamon freckles dotted her nose and cheeks like dragons at play on a pristine snowscape. Beneath that snowscape, a cutting-blade ridge of blood—her lips, to breathe, to kiss. And yes, to ultimately wound. 
   Dante did not think these things when he saw her. He felt them. And when the girl (he had not known yet that her name was Sunny) sneered at him for staring, he felt that too. Like her lips, it wanted to cut. 
   This girl is not going to be easy,  he thought. Then:  I’m going to have her anyway. 
   The girl—Sunny—had turned away from him. Dismissed him. Two other girls left the classroom with her. Dante noticed how they seemed to reach for her, though she was not the tallest in their group. They smiled as they talked, but not Sunny. Sunny only listened. 
   A bee flew over the wagon. Dante watched it buzz towards Hogan’s Hill, where kids liked to go sledding in the winter. Once, Dante’s toboggan had crossed the field at the bottom too fast and crashed, sending him head first into a frozen Norwalk Creek. The other kids had run to get a look, some concerned, others laughing. Good times. Crazy, frostbitten fun. 
   He pulled his wagon to the top of the hill. Here he met a younger boy—Michael Roberts. Dante knew Michael because the Roberts’ house was on his route. 
   “Hey Mike,” Dante said. “Here’s your paper.” 
   Michael took it. He was only seven. The paper looked very large in his hands, like a trout caught for breakfast. “Thanks,” he said. 
   “How’s that new swimming pool?” 
   “Good.” 
   “Haven’t peed in it yet, have you?” 
   The boy’s eyes grew wide. “No!” 
   “I’m just kidding,” Dante laughed. “I know you wouldn’t do that. Tell your mom I said hello.” 
   “Okay!” 
   The boy ran to the porch of his house, leaving a toy truck on the sidewalk. Dante waited. He didn’t want to see Michael’s truck get kicked or stolen. 
   Ten minutes later he was done with Elm Street. Only four papers remained. All of them went to houses further down West Main. Dante passed Michael again on his way back, waving hello. This time he did not cut through the park. He went to the culvert where Elm ended and Pleasant began. The creek flowed beneath him. If you followed it deeper into the woods you would come across an old stone bridge with an iron rail. Dante had learned this himself while playing guns with his friends years ago. The bridge had looked very strange and out of place, just sitting amidst the trees. It seemed to have no purpose other than to help wanton children cross the creek for further adventure. 
   His love for the red-haired girl had seemed purposeless as well, at least at the outset. He had even made fun of himself that first morning. A dozen Peanuts strip references played across his mind. He thought about asking his mom to buy him a yellow sweater. He thought about joining a little league team, going out for pitcher. Maybe one of the other kids would hit a line drive and knock off all his clothes. 
   By lunchtime, however, none of it was funny. Dante thought about her all through English class, and then all through World History. He had gone to lunch that day with his head somewhere between heaven and hell. Standing in line for Salisbury steak, he saw her sitting at a table with five other girls. The five other girls were talking to her. Talking, talking. The red-haired girl would only nod occasionally. 
   “That’s Sunny,” someone standing next to Dante said. 
   He turned to see a dark-haired boy with glasses and a cagey smile. “Who’s Sunny?” he asked, doing his best to sound innocent. 
   The dark-haired boy hadn’t been fooled. “The girl with the red hair you keep staring at. I saw you staring at her in Applied Math too.” 
   “Really?” 
   “Yeah, really. You want me to tell her you like her?” The boy’s smile flashed. Under the duel assault of it and his glasses, Dante thought he might go blind any moment. Also, he wasn’t sure he could answer his question, so he countered it with one of his own. 
   “What’s her last name?” 
   “Desdemona,” the boy answered, as if he had known the girl for a long time. Turned out he had. “She was in my class last year. Pretty much every boy had a crush, but she never let any of us so much as buy her a milkshake.” His eyes had wandered as he spoke, to where Sunny was sitting, and his voice had gone dreamy. 
   “You had a crush too?” Dante asked. Or he might have stated it, so aloof was the boy’s tone. 
   “I did,” the other replied. Then he’d blinked as if coming awake, and looked at Dante pugnaciously. “So what? You won’t get anywhere with her, either.” 
   “She doesn’t like boys?” 
   “I don’t care what she likes or doesn’t like. Not anymore.” 
   “I’ll leave her alone,” Dante told him, just for something to say. 
   Hearing this, the boy’s cagey smile had clicked right back into place. “No you won’t, you liar. But you’re going to get bitten, you’d better believe it. You’re going to get bitten.” 
   Thus far his prediction had not been accurate. Dante had gone through the rest of sixth grade without being bitten. Curiously, the boy with the glasses had disappeared. Gone off on Christmas break with his family and never returned. Timothy, his name had been. Timothy…something. Dante couldn’t remember what. 
   Anyway, he had not been bitten. Then again he was not holding Sunny Desdemona’s hand today, either. He had yet to even come close. 
   ∞ 
   Three of the final four papers in the wagon went quietly, without incident. Dante’s last stop was number 114. This was an old, old mansion that looked like a Greek temple. It stood on the opposite side of West Main, at the corner of Pleasant. Its huge windows and old, cracked pillars towered over unkempt grass (the man who lived here rarely strayed outdoors). Dante supposed it looked haunted, though he normally paid it little mind. Nearly done with another day’s work, he approached it now with cavalier deportment. The unmown lawn encroached its front walk. Some of the windows lacked shutters; all were badly in need of fresh paint. Dante took a step closer. A set of broken steps led to a set of double front doors. He tossed the paper… 
   And for whatever reason the shot went too hard. Maybe it was baseball. Steve Olin’s submarine had been smoking that year. Or maybe his lack of progress with Sunny contributed an element of frustration to his delivery. Whichever the case, Dante’s throw was aggressive, and when it struck number 114’s twin doors, one of the windows shattered. Jagged glass fell on the steps, disrupting the morning stillness. The sound frightened a murder of crows from a nearby tree; they rose, cawing, like black balloons from its branches. 
   Dante couldn’t believe his eyes. He looked at the shards of glass. Glittering, they lay on the mossy stone. In on piece Dante could see his face, his own guilty face, sickened by what had happened. The customer who lived here—a tall, rotund man who tipped light and never talked—was not going to like this. Oh no, not remotely. Sometimes on collection day Dante thought he detected a trace of irritability in the large man’s bulbous eyes, a trace of impatience, as if he felt the boy wasn’t meeting his standards. He always plunked his two dollars into Dante’s hand without a single word, or even the slightest hint of a smile. 
   Wait,  Dante thought,  that’s not true. He DID speak to you once. Earlier this summer. 
   And what did he say? Could Dante remember? Of course he could: “Be careful how you throw those papers, son, or you’ll break a window.” 
   The man had not sounded nice when he said it. If anything, he’d actually growled the words, and his face looked tired and mean. This after Dante had tossed one of the weekdays onto his step just as neatly as anyone could please. 
   Now he’d gone and spit in the eye of that warning; he’d gone and broken a damned window. Soon the rotund man would burst out, his face red with rage, his hair on fire. He would scream at Dante, call him names. Maybe even shake him by the shoulders. 
   
   Look what you did, boy! LOOK WHAT YOU DID!  
   
   Dante looked. The glass on the other door had a scripted B engraved into it. That could only mean the broken piece had been scripted, too. Marvelous. So not only was it destroyed, it was expensive. A one of a kind signature article. 
   Dante approached the door. Like it or not, he had to knock. He had to get the customer out here and confess his guilt. His stomach was in revolt. Eating itself from the inside. His hands were sweaty. 
   
   Run away. Just grab the paper and run away. No one will know. 
   
   Yes they would. Who else but the stupid paper boy could have come along at six-thirty in the morning and broken a window? And anyway, this house had neighbors. Others like it—huge and old—stood all along West Main. At least some of their owners had to be awake, had to have heard the crash. 
   Dante mounted the steps. Glass crunched. Feeling more like an idiot than ever, he kicked a few shards. Then he knocked on the other door—the one still intact. He knocked good and hard. Because hey, this incident needed to put to bed as soon as possible. Lord did it ever— 
   “Ow!” he cried. 
   A sharp pain from his ankle. Looking down, Dante saw it was bleeding. One of the shards had somehow gotten under the edge of his shoe. Now his sock was turning red. He was about to kneel for further assessment of the damage when the sound of heavy footsteps approached the door’s opposite side. 
   Oh man,  Dante thought,  oh man, here we go. 
   “Who is it?” the large man called, sounding like he’d not had his coffee yet. “Who…  Good Lord! ” 
   He had yet to open the door, but the cause for his exclamation hardly needed detective work to comprehend. He was looking at broken glass on the other side. No doubt it decorated the floor of his anteroom quite prettily in the morning sun. 
   “Has somebody lost their  mind? ” Dante heard him cry. The words carried a slightly warbled, somewhat coiled accent, as if bent to fit their speaker’s tongue.  “Perche? Perche?” 
   What in the world does “perche” mean?  Dante had time to wonder. 
   And then the door was flying open. And the large, round man was there, over six feet in height, his hair hanging in black curls around a face sculpted by angry hands: eyes thumbed deep and dark, nose blotted and smoothed crudely about the edges, lips stretched too far towards ears squeezed and molded with hasty, impatient need. 
   The man’s eyes fell directly upon their target. Dante watched him bare his teeth. They were surprisingly white considering their house of residence, surprisingly straight. The man scowled for a moment longer. The scowl dropped. Then, to Dante’s complete amazement, it became a smile. 
   “Now what did I tell you,” he said, “about throwing those papers too hard?” 
   And that was how he met Horatio Donati. 
       CHAPTER TWO:  Horatio 
     A new friend brings many stories to tell, especially one who has travelled well. 
     
   The man introduced himself as Mr. Donati. Horatio to his friends. He told Dante this as he swept glass off the step, occasionally pausing to hoist the pants of his blue pajamas. The glass fell into a broken dustpan that made Dante wince. In less than one second it had gone from timeless to trash. 
   “How old was the window?” Dante then asked, bracing himself for the worst. 
   He got all of it and then some. “1830, I believe,” said Mr. Donati after a moment. 
   “Oh no.” 
   “Oh no indeed. But then nothing lasts forever, boy. Not even the stars.” 
   “I’m really sorry. My name is Dante, by the way.” 
   Mr. Donati set the dustpan aside. “I remember. I also know you are sorry. You were very brave to knock on the door. Other boys would have simply run away.” 
   “I—“ 
   “The window, however, is irreplaceable. I am sad that after so many years it came to its demise under my care.” 
   “Are you going to sue me?” Dante spluttered. Over the past few minutes the sun had grown very hot. He could feel it on his neck, trying to set the nape on fire. 
   But Mr. Donati only laughed at the question. “Sue you? Good heavens, no! What could I achieve by suing my paperboy, other than a comic write-up in the very paper he delivers?” 
   “You mean you’re not angry at all?” 
   Dante looked at the other window. It looked every bit as old as the man in blue pajamas had told him. The gold letter  B  was scripted in such a way he somehow knew hadn’t been used for many years. It looked quite regal and masculine. 
   “What was the other letter?” he asked, before Mr. Donati could answer his first question. 
   “I must go inside now,” the man said by way of reply. He had stopped laughing, and his heavy shoulders were slumped. Dante caught his eye wander again to the broken door. He was taking things well, but he was still hurt, that much was clear. “I come from Sicily,” he continued, “where we sometimes eat ice cream for breakfast.  Brioche , it’s called. And it will melt if I don’t eat it soon.” 
   Dante nodded. He felt awful all over again, as if he too would melt, and very soon indeed. 
   ∞ 
   They did not speak again until the start of the school year. It was the last Sunday of August, and as always, Dante had saved the final paper on his route for number 114. Rather than throw it, however, he walked it carefully to the door, as if it were a girl at the end of a date. He placed the paper on the porch, taking in the fact that the glass had not yet been replaced. The doorframe was still empty. Through it he could see Mr. Donati’s anteroom. Coats and hats. An umbrella cane. 
   “Good morning.” 
   The man himself appeared from round side of the house, looking cheerful. No pajamas adorned him today. He wore a pair of faded blue jeans with boots and a yellow t-shirt. A garden spade hung from one hand. The other clutched a twisted mass recently murdered weeds. 
   “Good morning, Mr. Donati,” Dante said. 
   “Is that my paper?” 
   “Yes sir.” 
   “Good lad. And to judge by the empty wagon, your route is done, yes?” 
   “Yes sir,” Dante repeated. “Done for the whole year. School starts on Tuesday.” 
   “So I have read,” Donati told him. “Which leaves me perhaps another month to do my gardening. Perhaps two. The weather in Ohio is so  volubile. ” 
   “Volu…what?” 
   Donati smiled. “That is an Italian word. It means ever changing.” 
   “Oh.” 
   “Nothing at all like this house, mind you. This house is  costante. ” He gestured the upper windows with his spade. “Built in 1827 and still standing, just as strong as you please.” 
   Dante’s eye went to the windows, but only for a moment. The house’s huge pillars drew his gaze upward towards an ornate pediment that could have once been part of Siculus’ ancient wonders. “It’s Greek, right?” he said, neck still craned. 
   “You mean the style?” he heard Donati reply. “Indeed it is. Greek architecture was quite popular in 19th century America. This house was originally a seminary for young girls. A boarding school.” 
   Now Dante looked at the man. Here was something he certainly hadn’t known about 114. “This house used to be a  school? ” 
   “A long time ago,” Donati nodded. “And if you don’t believe me, I can show you one of the old chalkboards. It’s still in place on the wall.” 
   “Will you? That sounds really cool!” 
   Donati winked. “If you promise not to throw my newspaper at it, I will.” 
   ∞ 
   It occupied one of 114’s two living rooms off the main hallway. A crooked black slate, cracked in places, took up most of a dirty, peeling wall of dismal beige. The whole thing looked to Dante like a very old man holding in his last breath of life. Seeing it instantly made him feel that Donati was telling the truth. The dark texture looked almost liquid, ready to ooze off the wall at any moment. To lay chalk to it would no doubt make it fall apart on the floor. 
   The rest of the house, Dante soon discovered, quartered similar issues. Cracked paint and faded wallpaper—all beige—surrounded not only the chalkboard, but everything else as well. Crooked pictures, their frames caked with dust, hung despairingly from rusty nails. Fireplaces with cold, forlorn hearths stood in both living rooms. What little furniture Donati had chosen to decorate with did not look antique so much as merely old. Old and cheap. Still, he showed Dante the ground floor without the slightest trace of shame, explaining that there had once been a wall to separate the two living rooms. 
   “So there could be two classrooms?” the boy asked. 
   “Two classrooms,” Donati answered. “I purchased this house for a song, due to its dilapidated condition. In fact my words are almost literal, for I was once an opera singer. Can I get you some cappuccino?” 
   He showed Dante into the kitchen. It was a tight, narrow room behind the chalkboard. Seeing it nearly caused the boy to gasp in horror. By far it was the worst-looking room on the ground floor (who knew what ruin lay above?). Strips of paint hung from a sagging ceiling like jungle vines. Stained counters, all crooked, lay atop droopy cabinets of rotting wood. The floor had once been white but was now stained so deeply that Dante thought it would never come clean. 
   “Cappuccino!” Donati said again. Near the stove stood a silver, clumsy-looking contraption. Smiling, he poured a cup from it, then another for himself. “I could never drink too much cappuccino. In my mind it would be ridiculous for one to say ‘I have had too much cappuccino.’ It’s like saying you have too much money, or too much love.” 
   Dante nodded. In truth he knew nothing about cappuccino. The stuff was almost as alien to him as Jack Daniels. He took a sip. It was thick and warm—not at all hot. 
   “Good?” Donati asked, looking hopeful. 
   Dante found it surprisingly sweet but still good, and told him so. Then he asked: “Were you really an opera singer?” 
   They went back to the living room to sit by one of the cold fireplaces. Here Donati explained that he had once travelled the world, performing on the small stage (his voice was good but not, by his own admission, exceptional). He claimed to have played almost all the popular operas, from Vivaldi’s  L’Olimpiade  to Mozart’s  Le Nozze di Figaro. 
   “Albeit  L’Olimpiade  became awkward at times, for my troupe lacked money for set pieces. We played almost all of our operas on an empty stage, to small audiences in candlelit backwater theaters. Set pieces were usually trivial, provided the singers were good. And many of us were damned good. Marie Comfit. Louise St. Claire. Alfred Puissance. They could sing. Oh my, could they ever.” The older man seemed to have forgotten his drink. His eyes had filled with the mist of years gone by. “Nor did the time of day matter much,” he continued. “To us or our audience. Parents would bring their children to see Pinocchio at two in the morning.” 
   “Didn’t your singing disturb people who wanted to sleep?” Dante asked. 
   “Not at all. The theaters we used were always well off the larger streets. Hidden venues in back alleys. Paris is rife with them. As are cities like London and Madrid. Even Manila.” 
   Dante put his cup down. “Manila? Where’s that?” 
   The question brought a not unkind smile to Donati’s lips. “That is in the Philippines,” he said. “A hot city. So very hot. Now you tell me, boy,” he went on, before Dante could ask anything else, “how old are you, and what grade are you in this year?” 
   “I’ll be thirteen in October,” Dante said. “I’m in seventh grade.” 
   To this he watched the opera singer’s expression very closely. Experience had made him bitter. His dad’s friends—golf players and yacht owners—were a most condescending bunch, and became even more so when it came to his age. They liked to ruffle his hair, using names like “tiger” and “chief” and “big guy” rather than his real name. Then they would tee off, or duck down into their boat for another cold drink. They never gave drinks to Dante. Ever. Once, on a Lake Erie weekend, Janet Jones had ordered pizza. She had given a slice to her Great Dane. But none to Dante. Those were his dad’s friends. 
   To his great relief Donati showed no signs of being like them at all. The opera singer looked him in the eye as he spoke, nodding, with full attention trained upon his response. Nor did his gaze seem penetrating or disquieting. Rather, it was simply interested. Quite respectful. For the first time Dante began to feel comfortable around the man. And comfortable, indeed, with number 114, though he’d yet to see the upstairs. Despite its run-down state—and despite its huge rooms with high ceilings—the house did not feel like a scary place. Like its owner, it looked old but friendly. And willing, perhaps, to lend an ear of its own. 
   Donati’s next words made him feel even better. “I never liked school,” he uttered. “But then I was not your typical student. I found it difficult to absorb material from a textbook. Children like me wanted education through doing. What is it boy?” 
   Dante had begun to smile. “You didn’t like school, so here you are, living in a school.” 
   “Ah. A fine  ironia  indeed.” His head tilted with sudden thought. “Perhaps I bought this house in effort to overcome the old disliking. Eh?” 
   “Perhaps,” Dante said. 
   “But no. It is not true. Love is what brought me to Norwalk. The love for an opera singer, like myself.” The man hesitated. “Wait. Not like myself. Better. Beautiful and better. Georgina Esposito. Have you heard of her?” 
   Dante answered that he had not, but his voice lacked strength, and his eyes were restless. Donati’s confession of love for a woman had made him immediately think of Sunny. He glanced out the window— 
   And just for a moment, saw her. A girl in green, with long red hair all ablaze ‘neath the morning sun. She was looking at Dante intently, as if to say:  How dare you give your heart to me?  
   “She lived a long time ago,” Donati told him. “I loved her voice. I still do. In 1896 she came to Norwalk—“ 
   Dante forced his attention away from the window. Now he looked back. The patch of grass where he’d seen Sunny was empty again. And the patch, of course, was green. Next door he could just make out the hood of a parked red car. So that was it. That was all it had been. 
   “—to sing at the Methodist Church. On Church Street,” he added, “where it used to be. Not this larger cathedral on West Main. I came to Norwalk five years ago to see where Miss Esposito had once performed, only to find the building gone, and an insurance company standing in its place.” 
   “You mean Nationwide?” Dante put forth. 
   “I do not remember its name. I was so surprised at what I saw—so  stupito.  I came for a church and found what looked like a gas station instead, then the gas station turned out to be an insurance peddler.  Non potrei credre ai miei occhi. ” 
   “What does that mean?” 
   “I thought my eyes must be lying.” 
   Dante knew Church Street well enough. It wasn’t part of his route, but you couldn’t ride downtown without seeing it. Not that there was anything to see. Two parking lots, one for a furniture company and the other for the Universalist Church, were all it had to boast. 
   “I never knew the Methodist Church used to be there,” he told Donati. “Just the other one, which is empty as far as I know.” 
   The other nodded. “The Universalist Church. It’s empty. Though a young couple recently purchased it. They mean to turn it into a restaurant.” 
   This was news to Dante’s ears. The old man’s tone, however, was of a man speaking the grim truth. 
   “You don’t sound happy about it,” the boy delved. 
   “It will never happen,” replied Donati. “I’ve seen the inside of that church. It’s too far gone to restore. And the couple…” His eyes dropped to his cup before returning to Dante with a sad smile. “They’re very sweet but very young. Immature dreamers.” 
   “You’ve met them?” 
   “Ted and Martha Billings. They’re going to lose a fortune.” 
   “I’m…going to lose something, too,” Dante suddenly told him. “In fact I think I already have.” 
   The old man’s smile faded. Yet he was still listening, and quite intently. For his eyes had not changed. They had returned from the cup with an air of sadness. Now they looked inquisitive as well, to form a third milky potion between them. 
   “And what might that be?” he asked. 
   Dante swallowed hard before answering. “I’m in love with a girl from my school.” 
   ∞ 
   He told Donati everything he knew about Sunny Desdemona, which admittedly wasn’t much. She stood maybe four feet, seven inches tall to Dante’s five three. She had long red hair, with freckles on her cheeks. Her eyes were a green, like swimming grottos on a stormy island. She had lots of friends—or at least knew a lot of girls who liked her. 
   And of course, she was poison mean. 
   “Does  she  like  you ?” Donati asked. 
   He had refilled their cappuccinos whilst hearing the story. Dante seized his mug, eager to hide his blushing face. Why had he felt compelled to spill his guts to this relative stranger anyway? Why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut? 
   To his surprise, the opera singer came forward with an answer. “You are in love,” he said, “that is why you speak the way you do. You have the heart of a poet, which is lovely—except chances are you will never be a rich man.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now tell me.  Does  she?” 
   Placing his cup on the table, Dante said, “I don’t think so.” His so-called poet’s heart sank with the confession. “When she catches me staring she always makes a face. Like,  you’re stupid, kid, go away. ” 
   “I see,” the older man replied. “Well then, answer me this: Do you think you can win her, if you put your mind to the task?” 
   “Maybe my heart.” 
   “No, boy. It must be your mind. A fisherman’s palate becomes moist when he his hungry, but he must catch the meal with his mind.” 
   Dante thought about it.  Could  he win Sunny? Was there a way to make her look at him with interest rather than scorn? 
   “Your love will inspire you,” Donati went on. “That is where the heart comes in. But you must be wily as well.” 
   And from here he told Dante a little story of his own. Once, he said, in 1830, a boy from Norwalk fell in love with a girl who attended school right here at number 114. She was a very beautiful girl (of course), with tumbling black hair like tornado clouds, and eyes blue as a lightning-struck sea. Her name was Louisa. The boy’s name became lost over time, but so powerful did his love burn for Louisa—whom he’d met eating strawberries at a street fair—that on many nights he would creep through the countless mighty elms that had once grown around 114, and climb their branches to reach the school’s huge pediment, and slip inside to the attic bedroom where she lay. Here he would present her with myriad tokens of his affection—flowers, fruits, kisses. 
   Louisa loved them all. She also loved the boy. His face was handsome, his heart brave. Every time he visited, she thought of heroes. Climbing the trees took strength and courage. Traversing the attic at 114 took even more. 
   Here Mr. Donati explained that to reach the attic bedrooms from outside, you first had to cross a vast section of framework. A place where huge wooden beams floated in darkness like the hull of a sunken galleon. If you could manage this feat without losing your nerve, you might then be able to find a sliding wood panel that let on the attic stairs. None of the girls who lived in the attic would open this panel. The gigantic beams were simply too disturbing to look at, let alone walk on. The boy, however, used them every week to reach his Louisa. He used them at night, when the moon hung at just the proper place to light the way across. 
   For a full year his luck and skill with the beams held firm. But in August of 1831 it all came to an end. One night near the end of the month the boy came calling as usual. Though a cool wind had gotten up, and the sky was anxious with clouds, he climbed his favorite elm with ease. Minutes later, he was slipping through number 114’s tympanum oxeye window to place his foot on one of its frightful joists. By this time the wind had grown stronger, the clouds heavier. The school’s huge frame had come alive, dashing in and out of silvery light each time a cloud blocked the moon. Impatient as the boy was to see his love, he attempted to cross anyway, until the clouds grew too thick for the moon to escape, and he was utterly blinded. 
   “You must know what happened next,” Donati said. 
   Dante was pretty sure he did. “He fell.” 
   “Indeed. Straight down through the ceiling of the second floor. His body landed in the teacher’s quarters, where it became impaled on her bedpost.” 
   From here the old crooner seemed unable to move on. He stared at Dante for several seconds before rising from his chair to return, on bones seemed made of glass, to the kitchen. Dante thought it best to remain seated. From the kitchen came a rattling of dishware—plates and cups and who knew what else. What could Donati be doing? he wondered. Whipping up a soufflé? 
   The thought proved not terribly far off. Dante stared at 114’s cold living room fireplace for another ten minutes. His mind had gotten back to the boy—the poor, love-struck boy—and rather morbidly, whether the room in this house still bore evidence of the tragedy. Then Donati returned with a breakfast tray. It wobbled in his arms. Toast, jam, some re-heated muffins. He placed the tray on the table and invited Dante to eat. 
   “Not precisely Italian,” the singer said, a trifle apologetic, “but then we are in America. Are we not?” 
   Dante took a piece of toast. A rather silly question had occurred to him, but it felt like he had to know. “Was…was the teacher asleep in that bed when…when the boy fell?” 
   “She was rather rudely awakened by the event,” Donati admitted. “Miss McKinney, her name was. The crash made her scream, and when she lit the lamp, her bed was soaked in blood. It took a long time for the whole story to come out,” he went on, crunching a piece of toast. “Miss McKinney did not hear much of it, for her nerves were so damaged by the event she was unable to return to teaching. But an envelope was found with the boy’s jacket. An envelope with Louisa’s name on it. From there the love story became exposed.” 
   “What was in the envelope?” Dante asked. 
   “Ah!” 
   And before Dante could stop him, the old man was on his feet again. This time he went to the hallway. His steps echoed on the high ceilings. Dante heard him go up the stairs, rummage about somewhere for a minute or two, then come back down. As before, he had retrieved something. Not more breakfast treats though. 
   Donati sat. He placed an old, brown envelope on the table. Dark splotches stained its surface. It looked every bit as ancient and fragile as the chalkboard. Across the front, written in staggered cursive, was one word: LOUISA. 
   “No,” Dante said, awe-struck. “I don’t believe it.” 
   “You do. It’s just an old envelope.” The opera singer smiled. “No doubt you’ve seen stranger things.” 
   “I have. It’s just that—“ 
   “Open the envelope, boy. We must have your question answered.” 
   Dante reached for it. He feared it might fall apart in his hands, delicate as the fibre had become. Its texture was soft, almost powdery, as if at any moment it would crumble. Gingerly as he knew how, he extracted a parchment from within. This too proved a challenge to unravel. With great care Dante pulled one corner back, and then another. 
   “It’s already torn in many places, as you can see,” he heard Donati say, “but the poem is still perfectly legible.” 
   Indeed it was. And it looked to be written by the same hand as what had marked the envelope. Faded letters waltzed across the page, their orientation slightly crooked, their words all but hemorrhaging with desire. 
     
   
   My shadow falls upon the porch, 
   
   
   Of the temple where you lie. 
   
   
   My shadow fades upon the torch, 
   
   
   Of the beauty I draw nigh. 
   
     
   
   Each night I walk the pediment, 
   
   
   To soothe an aching need. 
   
   
   I long for your disarmament, 
   
   
   I kiss you and I’m freed. 
   
     
   
   A giant’s bones are not enough 
   
   
   To keep my heart at bay; 
   
   
   A giant’s bones my own rebuff— 
   
   
   My love for you holds sway. 
   
     
   
   Always will I come for you; 
   
   
   Wait for me and see. 
   
   
   I love you, sweetest Louisa, true, 
   
   
   My darling, my dear, marry me! 
   
     
   “This was written by the boy?” Dante asked. 
   “To his Louisa on the night that he died. The story comes from the realtor who sold me this house. Where she got it” Donati shrugged “who knows? Does it even matter? The poem eventually found its way to Louisa’s hands. She kept it for the rest of her life. Never married.” 
   “That’s…” Dante began. But he couldn’t think what to say. Dumbfounded, he shook his head. “I don’t know what that is.” 
   But Donati did know. “That is  love,  boy. Romantic love. And when it’s real, there is no stopping it. A boy and girl will always come together. The author of the poem used his mind to make sure it happened for him and Louisa. But the spark derived from love.” He leaned closer. “If you truly love this Sunny Desdemona, you will think of a way to win her.” 
   “I love her,” Dante said, more sure of himself this time. 
   “Then what are you waiting for? Get to plotting, boy, get to plotting.” 
       CHAPTER THREE:  Sunny 
     Many days passed before he saw Donati again. But the opera singer’s words no distraction would rescind. 
     
   On the first day of school Dante dressed in clothes he thought would be suitable for catching Sunny’s eye: black boots, dark jeans, a red dress shirt. To complete the ensemble he added a leather jacket, though the early autumn weather remained warm. 
   Would he even see Sunny this year? That was another issue he wondered about. What if she’d moved away over the summer, or transferred to a different school?  Like maybe a juvenile detention center,  a cruel thought whispered as he walked down Benedict Avenue. It almost made him trip on the railroad tracks. But no, Sunny wouldn’t be in juvie, not at her age. The academic pundits of Norwalk’s school board might recommend her for home education, but they wouldn’t stick her in juvie. 
   Leaving the tracks behind, Dante walked uphill to Norwood Avenue. Further down it intersected Christie, the avenue of Norwalk Middle School. A double-laned drive—crowded with cars already—led to its single story facade. Groups of noisy kids gathered around the bike racks. Others stood in the parking lot, saying goodbye to their parents. Dante knew from last year that Sunny’s parents drove her to school in a slick Jaguar sedan. He looked for that sedan now, slowing his gait, but could find nothing remotely close. Nor was anything like it turning at the drive. 
   
   She’s gone; you know she’s gone. 
   
   Ignoring the thought, Dante approached the main doors of Norwalk Middle School. To him its impression was that of a federal prison, with its low rectangular windows set within beige bricks. High hedges protected the glass, giving the whole building a wall of sorts to peek over like a cat on the hunt. Dante did not care about cats on the hunt. This school couldn’t scare him—not anymore. That was last year. Last year he’d been too afraid to even walk on the first day; he’d asked his dad to drive him instead. Last year was sixth grade, the first year of middle school. New building, new teachers, new rules. 
   This year he walked right to the main door and yanked it wide. Kids, most of them shorter than he, scurried everywhere. Their voices were like snow on a television screen—blah blah blah, zabba zabba zabba. The buzz of crazed insects. Danta walked through them as best he could, trying not to step on any toes. He already knew his homeroom number—204. It waited at the end of the hall, an open door, a tall, smiling teacher wearing a beard. Dante remembered the teacher’s name as Mr. Wolfe. Or Wolfton or Wolfley, something along those lines. He was watching the kids at their lockers, his round, furry face a selling point:  I’m friendly, I’m helpful, you can trust me. 
   The lockers popped open, slammed closed. A smell of pine cleaner and new books hovered everywhere. Mr. Wolfe spied Dante, said hello. Dante said hello right back. 
   “Your locker is number sixteen,” the teacher said. 
   “Thank you, Sir.” 
   
   Where is she where is she where is she? 
   
   Dante went to his locker. A few more familiar faces from last year said hello. None of them had red hair. None of them were even girls. 
   Now he was stopped in front of his locker. A black combination dial regarded him blandly. Dante looked back at it. Of course, he had forgotten to get the combination from Mr. Wolfe. 
   ∞ 
   Things did not get any better at 7:30, when homeroom began. Hoping to rub elbows with various members of Sunny’s trouble-making clan, Dante took a seat in back of the room. An empty green chalkboard hung at his shoulder. A row of sleeping Amiga computers, their faces also blank, kept it company. There came the squeak of chairs, the slapping open of notebooks, a few coughs. Students were settling in. Mentally preparing themselves for day one at NMS. Looking from one seat to the next, Dante felt his heart sink lower, lower, lower. None of the girls he saw looked like Sunny. Nope. Sunny just wasn’t here. 
   “Okay then,” said Mr. Wolfe from in front of the class, “welcome back to anther year.” 
   Moans and groans greeted this. It made Wolfe laugh. 
   “Yes, I know how excited you all are. I am Mr. Wolfe, the seventh grade English teacher. Some of you will see me later today. Those of you who won’t have presumably been assigned to Mrs. Durkey.” 
   More moaning and groaning, some laughter. Mrs. Durkey’s rather unfortunate married name meant that a lot students called her Mrs. Turkey behind her back. Last year, Sunny had called it right to her face. 
   “Now let’s do the roll call,” Wolfe went on, “shall we?” 
   Over the next seven minutes he called everyone’s name neatly, soberly, alphabetically. His bearded smile never wavered. Dante’s lip tightened when he got to the  D  section, but Sunny Desdemona’s name was not cast. A hot, unreasonable anger toward Mr. Wolfe rose in Dante’s gut. For whatever reason, he was sure that Sunny’s name was on the English teacher’s roll card, but just to be mean, he skipped over it. Somehow, he knew Dante wanted her here, needed her here, so he skipped her. 
   Stupid,  the whispering thought said. 
   And yes, Dante knew it was exactly that, but he couldn’t help wondering. 
   
   She’s not even here! Do you see her here? 
   
   Someone knocked at the door. Mr. Wolfe went to it, stepped into the hall. Somebody else—another adult—had summoned him, but Dante couldn’t see who it was. The doorframe blocked his view. He tried to listen to their voices, make out what they were saying. There was laughter, something about cafeteria lunches. Then Mr. Wolfe returned to the room. 
   “Sorry about that,” he told everyone. Dante noticed that now his smile looked awkward, slanted, a little off. “We have a slight change in attendance.” The slanted smile faced the door. “Sunny?” 
   And in walked the girl of Dante’s dreams. 
   She wore black. Her skirt and blouse were like midnight struck upon an open blaze, her jewelry the stars, the green of her eyes a furious shimmer set above the chiseled cold features of her face. 
   Her boots, gold-buckled, clicked daintily across the tiles, until Mr. Wolfe’s desk arrested her progress. “Where would you like me to sit?” she asked, as if the teacher were stupid. 
   Mr. Wolfe either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Just find an empty desk,” he answered pleasantly. 
   Turning on her heel, Sunny approached the class. Dante wondered if anyone else noticed her sneer, or the way her nails, lacquered red, fanned at the belt of her skirt like bloodied claws.  Click…click…click  the buckled boots went on the floor, coming closer and closer to Dante’s desk. The heels must have been an inch high, yet Sunny was still short. A slender sprite with red hair. A deviant pixie. 
   The girls moved sideways a little to let her pass; the boys turned their eyes away. No one, it seemed, had the courage to look at those icy green eyes. Except Dante. 
   Perhaps that was why Sunny chose the desk right next to his. In one delicate move, she placed her bottom on the seat, crossed her bare legs, and flashed Dante the deadliest smile he had ever seen. 
   “Okay if I sit here?” she asked. 
   Dante could only nod. Her perfume smelled of baked cinnamon, and the sound of her breath felt good enough to drink. 
   ∞ 
   That first week took a long time to get through—much longer than five days. A number of issues contributed to the drag. Unseasonably hot weather, piles of homework, boring teachers. On Wednesday Dante stopped at his locker just before lunch, only to find that its combination no longer worked. Over and over he dialed the correct numbers; over and over, when he pulled the release lever, nothing happened. Hungry and thirsty (especially thirsty—the temperature outside had struck ninety degrees by then), Dante began to despair. If it really wouldn’t open, he would need to go to the office and report the problem. 
   It really wouldn’t open. Dante went to the office. First the principal’s secretary didn’t believe him, then the principal didn’t believe him. Then the school janitor was called, and everyone went to locker sixteen. The janitor dialed the same numbers Dante had been using for two days now. He pulled the latch. The locker popped right open. 
   Thursday came and it happened again. Dante twisted the dial to the left, the right, the left, just as he had all week. He pulled the latch. Nothing happened. 
   “No way,” he moaned. 
   The hallway was empty. Everyone else had gone to lunch. Dante tried the combination again. When it didn’t work, he punched a dent in the door. 
   “Having trouble, handsome?” Sunny Desdemona asked from somewhere. 
   Dante could not have turned faster without swirling his cranial fluid into parfait cream. A quiet row of neighboring lockers met his gaze; a broken pencil lay on the floor. There was nobody and nothing else to see. 
   “If this happens again,” the principal told him ten minutes later, “I’ll have to issue a demerit.” 
   “But sir, it never opens when—“ 
   “Stop it, Dante. No more tricks.” Here the principal smiled to show they could still be friends. “Okay?” 
   “Yes, sir.” 
   “How did that dent get in the door?” 
   “I don’t know, sir.” 
   The locker behaved itself on Friday. Over the weekend Dante went to see the Indians with his dad. It was the team’s penultimate year at old Municipal Stadium. From a pair of box seats behind home plate, they watched the Indians beat the Mariners 5-4. Dante bought a hot dog in the fifth inning. A woman vendor with red hair and green eyes sold it to him. Then Carlos Baerga came to bat. With the count at 3-2, Dante heard a voice from many rows off call his name. He turned—and there stood the vendor at the mouth of an exit tunnel. Her hair blew in a wind that wasn’t there, her teeth shined. And even though the tunnel was dark, her green eyes blazed like the Great Lakes sun. 
   ∞ 
   His locker door got stuck again on Monday. Rather than further distress the school principal about it, Dante decided to go straight to lunch. This was a mistake, though not one he could blame on the locker. The hot weather made sleeping difficult, and he had not been able to crawl out of bed soon enough this morning to brown bag a lunch. Now he faced a long line in the cafeteria listening to nerds talk about computer games. 
   And there they were: a sweaty row of bespectacled kids standing like section eight soldiers along the east wall. Short kids with bad skin and weird hair, grinning, batting titles like  Super Mario Kart  and  Wolfenstein 3D  back and forth. Dante listened to them without much interest, though some reminded him of Timothy, the boy he’d met in this very line last year, and who had not returned from Christmas break. 
   He spotted Sunny eating with a group of girls and hoped to get a seat decent enough to see her legs under the table. 
   “What are ya eatin’ today, kid?” a fat kitchen woman asked, knocking him from his reverie. 
   Dante went with the usual slop: coleslaw, greasy chicken, stale peas. Two minutes later he was sitting directly across from Sunny. The view it gave suggested intervention on a divine scale. She wore a red skirt with a black belt. Her bare legs were crossed. Dante could see the freckles on her knees. He tried to take a bite of coleslaw and missed, splatting it on his shirt. 
   At that moment Sunny stopped talking to her friends. She looked directly at Dante. A smile tugged the corner of her razor-blade lips. He was about to feign ignorance—to pretend to clean the coleslaw—when he saw the girl’s legs come uncrossed and part just slightly enough to give a brief, innocent glance of black underpants. What little appetite Dante had for food immediately died a disgraceful death. His eyes dropped to his plate. When they found the courage to look at Sunny again, he saw that her attention had gone back to her friends as if nothing at all were unusual. 
   Calling himself two hundred kinds of idiot, he stood up. With luck there would be just enough time to clean his shirt before classes started again. Except he didn’t want to use the main bathroom next to the cafeteria—there would surely be too many kids in there who would laugh and call him  coleslaw boy  or  slaw shirt  for the rest of the year. No need for that, thank you very much. 
   He checked to see if any teachers were looking, then snuck away from the cafeteria. A short hallway led to another longer, much darker corridor. At the far end lay the girls’ detention room. Trying to look casual, Dante proceeded towards it. With every step the light became dimmer. Painted walls surrendered their cheerfulness, bleeding into beige and brown. NMS’s worst behaved girls—Sunny included—spent a great deal of their time down here. While on detention they were forbidden to leave the wing, even to use the restroom. So of course this wing had a restroom of its own. It stood at the very end of the hall, where the shadows were darkest, and a dead-end trophy case—empty—hung from cobwebbed masonry like a looted coffin. 
   Dante’s footsteps slowed as he approached it. For some reason he felt it necessary to observe silence. The darkness perhaps commanded it. He looked left into an empty room with chairs put on desks. No girls were on time-out today. There wasn’t even a teacher nearby pretending to work. Only Dante haunted the hall. To the right was a pitch-black passageway. Here was where he needed to go. It led to the bathroom, where there were sinks for washing. Feeling around for a light switch, Dante stepped inside. But it was hard to see. Every light in the wing had been turned off, as if the school had decided to abandon it for demolition. Suddenly Dante imagined a huge explosion, and the black face of a wrecking ball crashing through the concrete. His death would be quick but severe. A screaming chaos. 
   You’re being stupid again,  he thought. 
   Yes, but… 
   The face of the wrecking ball would be blank but angry somehow. Determined. And oh, the deafening sound it would make. 
   His fingers found the switch, clicked it. A weak fluorescent bulb reluctantly came to life. It didn’t take long for Dante to wish it had stayed dead. Rather than push away his demons, it brought them closer. A long mirror that barely looked real hovered in the gloom. It showed him toilet stalls with crooked doors he did not have the courage to open. A row of sinks with rusty pipes. Strange graffiti. 
   He went to the sinks. There was no soap. He splashed some cold water on his shirt, then tore a towel from a broken dispenser. The stain persisted though. Even in the dark he could see it. His face was a different matter. Here the mirror seemed reluctant to give a clear picture. Subtly, as if old, deft fingers had mistaken his face for a lump of clay, his reflection kept changing. Here came a sickly old man with one foot in the grave, his eyes like sinkholes. Now a boy with hypertrichosis appeared, staring through hair thick as a dog’s. The boy seemed to want out of the mirror. He seemed at any moment ready to change places with Dante. 
   “Bloody Mary,” Dante said. 
   An old, grade-school memory flooded his mind. The girls at Pleasant Elementary used to tell stories about a witch who lived in one of the bathroom mirrors. To see her you first had to be alone with the lights off. Then you stood in front of the glass and chanted  Bloody Mary  five times. 
   “Bloody Mary,” he said again. 
   On the fifth chant, the witch would appear…and you would disappear. Or so the story went. Fourth grade girls in 1989 loved to tell it. One girl, Cloris Fanning, was even said to have dared the challenge, and died. 
   “Bloody Mary.” 
   The boy in the mirror looked back. He was no longer hairy. Just a boy. Just Dante Torn, twelve years old, a kid in the seventh grade. 
   “Bloody Mary.” 
   The bathroom light flickered. Something—a cockroach maybe—made a noise in one of the stalls. A cockroach, yes. Or perhaps the snicker of an old, old woman. 
   Dante closed his eyes. “Bloody Mary.” 
   And when he opened them, a girl stood in the mirror. Her eyes were glowing and her face dripped with blood.  “BOO!”  she screamed. 
   It was enough to make Dante scream back. Then he nearly fainted against the sinks. The cold tiles turned to ice beneath his feet. He slipped, seizing wildly for something to break his fall. His hand hit the mirror and broke a chip from it. 
   Now the girl began to laugh. And laugh, and laugh, and laugh some more. The music of her insanity filled the bathroom, getting louder with every step she took towards Dante. Now he noticed her hair—wild tufts of it sticking every which way. And her eyes, which shined like bullets left over from a murder. 
   And now her face. Of course he could now see her face. She was so close—only one step away, in fact. And still laughing. 
   At last Dante began to laugh too. “You got me good,” he said. “Sincerely.” 
   “Yeah!” the girl managed. It seemed she would never get herself under control. 
   Not that it mattered any more to Dante. He kept right on laughing with her, and had a teacher not finally heard them and arrived to investigate, he and Sunny Desdemona might have gone on laughing through every end of lunch school bell in the known universe.       CHAPTER FOUR:  Nascosto Villagio 
     A man tells a story of how he began, of places he knew from which he ran. 
     
   Horatio Donati smiled over a cup of recently quaffed cappuccino. “That,” he said, “does not sound like plotting. It sounds more like plodding.” 
   Dante had to agree. It was the Sunday after the bathroom scare, and while pretending to go for a morning bike ride down West Main, he’d chanced upon the old opera singer drying the last of that summer’s tomatoes on his doorstep. Immediately Dante found himself being invited back to 114’s tired living room—as he’d hoped he would—for cappuccino, and the coleslaw story had spun out like yarn from the spool of a March kite. 
   “But you did meet her,” the singer went on, “so all is well.” His brow went up. “Or is it?” 
   Dante raised a pair of crossed fingers. “So far so good. She didn’t seem too upset about my walking her back to class anyway.” 
   “Was that the first time you’ve escorted a girl?” 
   “Yes.” 
   Donati’s smile grew warmer. “Exquisite, yes?  Alterando il cuore.  Meaning, it changes the heart. There’s nothing like walking a pretty girl to a safe place.” 
   Dante thought of the way Sunny had walked after telling a slick lie to the teacher who’d caught them in the bathroom. Pleased and energetic were the clicking sounds of her boots on the tiles. Insatiable was the bounce of her hair, burning red enough to drive back the dark. At the end of the hall Dante held the door for her. The scent of perfume adorned her wake, wild-blossoms on midnight winds, soprano gasps into pink desperate lungs. No, there had been nothing like escorting Sunny in the whole world. 
   “And what will happen now?” Donati wanted to know. “What comes next for the romance of Dante and Sunny?” 
   “It isn’t a romance just yet,” Dante said, blushing. “I just walked her back to class.” 
   “That is fine, so long as you don’t rest on it for too long.  Chi dorme non piglia pesci.  Or rather,  cosa c’`e da guadagnare senza rischi?” 
   Dante did not respond. He didn’t need to. The opera singer’s Italian was lost on him; the gentle glow in his tone was not. Nevertheless, Donati went on to tell a story about the village where he’d been born and raised. It stood in the southeastern area of Sicily. The locals called it  Nascosto Villagio— or, the hidden village, as it was very small, its spires sheltered behind a series of picturesque hills. 
   “Imagine a flower,” Donati said, “picked on some long ago windy morning, and pressed by a lover within a tome of ancient poetry. That is  Nascosto Villagio , or how I remember it. Such a pretty, pretty place. Its little cobblestone streets smelled of bread and brewed coffee. Happy children ran home from school with neighbor’s puppies nipping their heels. Cool Ionian breezes ruffled the loveliest shop awnings you’ve ever seen embroidered. All the buildings were close-knit. Cozy. One day my mother sent me to the market to buy tomatoes. We lived on a street that sloped to a fountain circle. The fountain was long broken, cracked in many places around its once fine bowl, but on this day, as my young boy’s body sped forth, a cool breeze sped from the other direction, ringing doorstep chimes, and when I reached the circle a number of gathered leaves were disturbed skyward, so for just a few precious seconds it looked as if the fountain were spewing autumn. That is the clearest memory I have of the village. It was a beautiful place, but not without fault, oh no. 
   “Our mayor was a timid, skittish man. He had a bald head that used to gleam like cold water on a cloudy day. His mustache was always neatly trimmed, and his eyes were pedantic. The man knew so much yet so little. His love of peace and order had gotten him elected, though many years later I realized it wasn’t a love for peace, but a dread fear of violence. Not long previous the nearby city of Catania had been destroyed during its reclaiming from Mussolini. The aftermath absolutely terrified our poor mayor. Upon election his first act was to ban any and all firearms from  Nascosto Villagio .” 
   Here Donati paused to send Dante an appreciative nod. 
   “Very wise, very wise. And it went well. No one in the village wanted anything to do with hurting another. Three months of utter peace followed. But then one warm July night a traveler to  Misterbianco  paused in our village for dinner and a sleepover. He never made it to bed. He ordered his meal at Luchi’s Tavern, finished it, and then decided to have a beer. One beer became two. Two became three. You understand the idea, I think.” 
   “He got drunk,” Dante put in. 
   “He did indeed. And then he picked a fight with one of our locals. And then he stabbed the local to death with a rusty pocket-knife.” 
   “Holy moly.” 
   “There was nothing holy about it. The man he killed happened to be a friend of my family. A carpenter, like my father. They should have been in competition, but instead became friends, perhaps because their love for the craft was stronger than money. At any rate, once the friend had died, our family’s income doubled, as did its workload. I have no brothers or sisters, so there was only me to help with the extra chores. No more time could be given for school, so I left classes. All play with my friends ceased. I spent nearly every waking hour in my father’s shop. It stood as part of our house on  Via Cavello , the same street where a church choir used to practice three nights a week. I learned to cut wood and craft furniture. And as it happened, I learned to sing.” 
   “Because of the choir?” Dante asked. 
   “Because of the choir. One day we lost power in the village. I do not remember the reason. But I was forced to work late by gaslight in order to meet a deadline the following morning. So there I stood cutting in a mist of sawdust, my arms tired, my perspiration dense. And then I heard it: singing. Not for the first time, mind you. As I said, the choir practiced often on that street, using their little church which stood at the bend. But this night I noticed it more acutely, for I was exhausted, and the music seemed to soothe my aching bones.” 
   “What were they singing?” 
   “Ah!” Donati replied, raising his brow. “A very good question. Simple. Direct. And it has an answer:  Alleluia Nativitas.  An ancient song about the birth of Jesus. Hearing it, I put down my saw and walked to the church. Some of our neighbors had paused work as well. Their silhouettes hovered in candlelit windows. Passing by one house I heard the laughter of a baby.” 
   Donati stopped. He reached for his cup, found it was empty, put it back down. “From here I will cut this part of the story short,” he said, “for it’s already gone too long, and it bears no connection to our poor, delusional mayor. The choir took me in. It’s hard to say why, for I arrived at the nave looking shabby. My legs barely possessed the strength to stand. Yet they invited me to sing, which I accepted, and my voice must have sounded pleasant to them. Pleasant enough anyway. From that chance night my career in opera took wing.” 
   From here Donati’s story regained its initial course. He spoke of the village’s horror at what had happened in Luchi’s Tavern, horror which soon turned to outrage and disgust. A funeral for the victim took place. The victim’s obituary was written on a back alley wall, along with a drawing of his face. This practice, Donati explained, made up a dear piece of Sicilian tradition. “You will be a better person,” he told a wondering Dante, “if you think about death.” 
   “Yes, sir,” Dante replied. 
   It was the first time he called the opera singer by that title. A rather paradoxical consequence ensued. Donati rose to fetch Dante a second cappuccino, which he then insisted be consumed the Sicilian way—which was to say, quaffed. Dante could only do his best, which seemed to satisfy his host. From here the singer described what took place immediately after the funeral.  Nascosto Villagio’s  mayor made an official declaration: all knives and stabbing weapons small enough to hide were henceforth prohibited by law. Any resident or visitor who did not comply would be arrested. It was simple as that. 
   “You may imagine the public’s response,” Donati said gravely. 
   Dante thought he could. “They laughed. Then they went right on using their knives. Properly,” he added, seeing Donati’s eyes grow wide. 
   But the villagers hadn’t laughed—not right away. They made every effort to uphold the new law, abandoning steak knives for butter knives, and other such measures. Then one night Donati’s father broke his thumb pounding a nail for a birdhouse. The local doctor set and taped it. That doctor also served as village barber, and it was just bad luck the mayor happened to be getting a trim (with hedge-clippers, since scissors were banned) when the elder Donati arrived for emergency treatment. One look at the bloodied mass of his thumb sent the mayor into hysterics. Screaming, he jumped from the doctor’s chair and demanded the name of Donati’s assailant. The carpenter began to explain in as patient a manner he could. It only made things worse. By the end of the month all hammers were banned from the village, forcing Donati and son to make do with less than suitable substitutes. 
   Presently the opera singer grew sad. Dante watched his fat cheeks turn pale, and his eyebrows flood together like two pools of spilt ink. “The quality of our work suffered, as I was forced many times to pound nails with broken blocks of concrete, or sometimes a stale loaf of my mother’s bread. Customers complained when their tables squeaked, or their chairs came apart, dumping them onto the floor. Nothing could be done about it. My father and I, we…” he tapered off, closing his eyes in effort to make peace with the dusty memories. “We did the best we could,” was what came next. “We did…the best…we could.” 
   “And then?” Dante broke in. 
   Donati shrugged. “I stayed for another two years. By that time a number of other crimes and accidents had occurred, for which the mayor had no tolerance. He had banned mops, dogs, cats, frying pans, floor cleaner, bar soap, and even ladies’ hairpins, this last because the local poetess managed to repel an attacker by stabbing his eye out with one of the things.” Now the singer’s face was red with fury. “I tell you that man was insane. I needed to heal my family’s sudden financial ailment, so I accepted an offer to travel to Rome and sing before Pope Pius XII. He listened to our choir perform the rendition of  Alleluia Nativitas  we’d been working on for months. It was a success. I’ve been singing professionally ever since. Would you care for another  brioche? ” 
   Dante looked at his empty plate. The lemon-flavored treat he’d eaten for breakfast had been delicious, but he didn’t want to impose on Donati’s already overflowing kindness. After politely declining the offer, he asked what eventually became of  Nascosto Villagio . 
   “By the end of the mayor’s term,” Donati answered, “he had no one left to govern. The people had grown fed up and left. The houses were all empty, the streets, once filled with laughter and music, barren. Even the church fell into disrepair. What priest can preach to an empty nave? No. It was gone. Everyone gone.” 
   “Your family?” 
   “Moved to Naples, once funds were efficient. But the sadness of that once beautiful village remains heavy in my heart. Many years later I returned to Sicily.  Nascosto Villagio  is still deserted. And in utter ruin. All due to the foolishness of one man. Remember,” he continued, leaning closer to Dante, “ cosa c’`e da guadagnare senza rischi?  What risks we take by not taking risks. Eh?” 
   Dante felt his warm hand give a playful tap to his shoulder. But what would happen if he continued his pursuit of Sunny Desdemona? He thought again of holding the door for her. She had stopped and waited for him to do that very thing. With green eyes all but burning through his skull, she had stopped and waited. 
   “There used to be a boy who lived across the street from me,” Dante said, “in a house even bigger than my dad’s. It’s Greek revival, like this one, only the columns are curved around a huge porch you had to walk across to get to the front door. Inside there are all these dark, spooky rooms. Great for little kids to explore and make up stories about. This friend of mine, he used to think a witch lived in that house before him. A real witch. He said the realtor told his mom about it.” 
   “I very much doubt a realtor would say such a thing,” Donati answered, “but the idea is interesting nonetheless. Did thinking of Sunny remind you of this witch?” 
   “It did,” Dante admitted. “And about taking chances, like you said. We played in that house almost every day. It had a library, a music room, two fireplaces. The staircase was grand, but we hardly ever used it. We preferred the servant’s stairs. They were hidden behind a doorway off the kitchen, which we thought was cool. Hidden stairs. We used them all the time to get up to the attic, which was full of toys. Hundreds of toys. There were two Japanese pinball machines up there. A whole city of action figures. Trucks and airplanes. Crazy costumes left over from about a dozen Halloweens. And that’s just the tip of it. I tell you, Mr. Donati, this kid had more than he knew what to do with.” 
   “How lucky he was,” Donati said, smiling, “to have a friend like you help him play with it all.” 
   “You’re more right than you know. I think I was his only friend. Without me those toys would have gathered dust. Because without me he would have had to go up there alone to play, which…” Dante paused to shake his head. “No. No way would he have done that.” 
   “The witch frightened him.” 
   “She wasn’t supposed to be real. She was just a fun story. Until one day this friend and I went to the attic to play the pinball machines. They had this slot in back where you dropped marbles. I was doing that—dropping marbles into the slot—while he worked the piston. And way over by the stairs there was this antique folding frame, the kind that ladies used to use for changing clothes. Do you know what I mean?” 
   “Shoji screens,” Donati said. “That is the Japanese term for them anyway.” 
   Dante nodded. “This had to be a shoji screen then. It had oriental decorations on it. Anyway, we were right in the middle of playing when the screen started to shake. I mean really shake. Violently. It was like someone had hold of it and wanted to tear it apart.” 
   “That must have given the two of you quite a scare.” 
   “Not at first. My friend has an older sister, and we thought she was playing games. Trying to freak us out. We went to the screen, telling her to knock it off, we weren’t scared.” 
   “And when you looked behind the screen?” Donati said in a beckoning voice. 
   “Nobody was there. Nobody.” 
   “What do you think it was, son?” 
   A few moments passed before Dante could answer. “It could have been a rat,” he finally allowed. “Or maybe a stray cat jumped down from the roof. But we never saw anything else move in that corner. Just the screen.” 
   Though it’d been years since he’d set foot in his friend’s house, he remembered every room clearly. They had been immaculate—the wood polished, the floors waxed, the windows clear. An antithesis of the mansion he sat in today. Yet of the two homes, the prosperous one scared him more, while the picturesque ruin of number 114 felt like wisdom and peace. 
   “Do you believe in ghosts?” Donati asked. 
   And Dante had to admit he wasn’t certain. “Even when I saw the witch,” he continued, noticing how Donati’s eyes widened. “ Saw  her. I still wasn’t—am not—certain.” 
   “Good Heavens, boy. How did you see her?” 
   “One day we were shooting baskets in his driveway. And for just a moment I looked up at the servants’ stair window. The curtain twitched…and there she was. A woman in black. Her nose was long, just like a witch’s. She had green skin. But her eyes were gigantic—big and yellow as the moon. She had a bald head with little strands of dark hair sticking out. When she saw me looking at her she punched the window. It shook the glass hard enough for my friend to hear. He turned around, but by then she’d disappeared. He never saw her.” 
   “That is a very clear memory,” Donati said. “Does your uncertainty sprout from fear that it might have been real?” 
   This time Dante’s answer was instant. “Yes.” 
   “And did she frighten you the way Sunny Desdemona frightens you?” 
   “Not quite. I think I might be in love with Sunny. The witch disgusted me.” 
   “But they are both female. And both, quite possibly” Donati paused to allow himself a small smile “witches. Tell me…what did you do after you saw that witch in your friend’s window?” 
   “I went right back into the house. Again and again until my friend moved away.” 
   Donati leaned back in his chair. His posture resembled that of a very satisfied man. “Of course you did, boy,” he said. “Of course you did.” 
       CHAPTER FIVE:  Locker Sixteen 
     It isn’t a romance just yet, Dante had told his new friend. But the rest of that week gave cause to let. 
     
   Monday morning he arrived at school to find Sunny seated pertly on his desk, green eyes dancing, bare legs swinging. Sunny’s own desk was occupied by another girl. She sat in the chair, so while speaking to Sunny she had to look up. She seemed to be in the middle of some piece of gossip or other. Her mouth moved a hundred miles a minute; her hands waved. Yet whatever story she was telling interested Sunny only just. So it appeared to Dante. As before when he’d caught her with her friends, she was smiling, nodding, but not talking. That changed when she noticed Dante. As he approached the desk she whirled on him with a shark grin, cutting her friend off mid-sentence, and sang: 
   “What a perfectly beautiful morning!” 
   Dante smiled. He couldn’t think of a better way to describe it. 
   She introduced him to the friend the way a buyer might talk about being interested in a new car. “Dante this is Stacey. Stacey, Dante. He’s tall and might be strong enough. I’ll keep you posted.” 
   A girl with hair black as Sunny’s was red told Dante hello. She looked highly amused. Charmed even. “He  does  look much tougher than last year’s catch.” 
   “I can’t imagine him being weaker. Go sit down now. I’ll see you at lunch.” 
   And as a stray cat gets chased from capricious doors, Stacey scurried off. Dante had time to notice that her smile had fallen, and lay shattered under the desk. 
   “What about you?” Sunny asked Dante, slipping to her feet. “Am I going to see you at lunch?” 
   Mr. Wolfe had come into the room. His arms were crossed in a severe way that meant it was almost time to get quiet. 
   “Yes,” Dante replied. 
   Sunny frowned. It didn’t seem to be enough for her. “Uh-huh. And where am I sitting?” Her posture was that of a sassy brat: one knee bent slightly, hands on hips, face tilted. 
   “Well…you can sit with me if you like.” 
   Silence. Dante noticed her freckles beginning to flare. 
   “Class?” Mister Wolfe called. “Please be seated.” 
   It was as if Sunny hadn’t heard. Her green eyes never left Dante. “If I  like? ” her lips writhed. “Am I sitting with you or not?” 
   “Yes,” Dante coughed, “please.” 
   “Don’t  ask  me, Dante.  Tell  me.” 
   “Sit down everyone,” came Mister Wolfe’s voice again. 
   And again Sunny ignored him. Dante glanced over her to see that most of the other kids hadn’t. Chairs squeaked with the myriad placement of butts. Loud talking softened to low muttering. The day was about to begin. 
   “ Look  at me, Mister,” Sunny commanded. 
   Dante did. 
   “Good boy. Now.  Tell  me. Where am I eating lunch today?” 
   ∞ 
   “And did you tell her?” Donati asked, days later after Dante recounted this scene. 
   “Not in a forceful enough way, I don’t think,” Dante answered. 
   “So she didn’t eat lunch with you?” 
   “No. Not on that day.” 
   “I see. But she provided another opportunity.” 
   “She did. I messed that up, too.” 
   ∞ 
   The week passed slowly. It was a most miserable time for Dante. On Tuesday morning he smiled and greeted Sunny hello. She would not smile back, or even acknowledge his presence. Bare legs crossed beneath her desk, she flipped through a history book, pretending to care about homework. Yesterday she blew off lunch with him, though he’d told her to be there. Well… almost.  His command (for want of a better word) had been something more forceful than a question, at least. Yet she decided to eat with her friends anyway. From his table across the cafeteria he’d recognized Stacey, who also wouldn’t look at him. Dante imagined Sunny had commanded (properly) her friends not to pay the slightest bit of attention him. 
   The rest of that Tuesday went the same way—no lunch date, no words. Nothing. Not even a moment of eye contact. This too on Wednesday. In fact on Wednesday morning she raised her hand and asked Mr. Wolfe for a change of seats. 
   “This weird boy keeps bothering me,” she said, nodding toward Dante. 
   “Is that a fact?” the homeroom teacher asked, after everyone had stopped laughing. 
   Beet red, Dante began to bluster silly denials, which were cut off by Sunny. 
   “Yes he does, Mr. Wolfe. He keeps whispering that he wants to kiss me.” 
   At this the whole class went up like a Roman candle. Anyone not laughing hard enough to fall out of their chair was forced to help those who had. Even Mr. Wolfe thought it funny. Grinning, he chose to let the Bedlam die down its own, which took several minutes, all of which felt like sheer torture to Dante. Never in his life had he been the object of such spectacle, of such humiliating fixation. News of the incident soon spread throughout the entire school, so by Friday he was a minor celebrity, perhaps even a major one. On Thursday kids began addressing him as “Kiss Me” instead of Dante, and the name stuck. 
   Hi, Kiss Me!  they sang as he fought with his locker door, which had begun to jam again worse than ever.  Kiss Me!  they called at lunch, while Dante stared miserably at his egg salad sandwich.  Seeya tomorrow, Kiss Me!  they shouted at the end of the day. 
   It was horrible, quite horrible. Or it might have been, except that on Friday afternoon, Sunny decided to talk to him again, this time in a decidedly more amiable fashion. 
   Classes were over. The weekend beckoned with open arms. Amidst a clamorous fury of eager seventh graders, Dante trudged to his locker. He talked to no one, saw no one. His eyes were on his shoes, so all he saw were those and what seemed like a million pairs of others, swarming to get outside. 
   “Kiss Me!” he heard someone cry. 
   “Hey, Kiss Me! Seeya Monday!” another yelled. 
   Dante did his best to tune them out. His mind went to the homework pile on tap for the weekend. Thirty long division problems for math. A reading assignment for English ( Contents Of A Dead Man’s Pocket).  There was even a health task for the boys, doled out by their gym coach: fifty push-ups. Twenty for the girls. 
   “Kiss Me! Look everybody, there’s Kiss Me!” 
   Go away,  Dante thought. 
   At last he came to his locker. His hand dialed the combination. And of course, it would not open. Groaning inwardly at the thought of yet another fracas with faulty property, Dante tried it again. It did no good. The locker was jammed. Again. 
   “Hello, Kiss Me,” someone behind him sang. 
   Dante froze. His heart skipped a beat. The voice was familiar—high-pitched, pretty, yet cool and fiendish all the same. A pink knife with painted flower on the handle. 
   He turned around and there stood Sunny, her brow arched, her grin predatory. She was dressed in her usual style: black boots, pink knee-length skirt, blue classic blouse with short sleeves. 
   “H-Hello, Sunny,” Dante forced himself to say. 
   “Having fun with that locker?” the girl asked. 
   Dante glanced at the black dial. “Well, it’s…it’s stuck.” 
   “Sure it is.” Sunny tilted her head. “Hey, aren’t you mad at me?” 
   “No.” 
   “Stop lying.” 
   “I’m not mad at you.” 
   Dante watched the girl’s eyes suddenly narrow into slits. “Well  I’m  mad at  you.  Not telling me to sit with you for lunch. Do you like me or not?” And before Dante’s astonished gaze she twirled around on one leg, fanning the pink skirt out like a ballerina’s. 
   “I do,” he said. 
   “Then you’re going to need to be stronger, Dante. A lot stronger. I have standards.” 
   Just then one of the other students noticed them talking. A short, stocky boy with blond hair. “Woo-hoo!” the boy chimed from across the hall. “Hey everyone, it looks like Kiss Me still wants to be with Sunny!” 
   Sunny turned to look at him. But before she did, Dante noticed her face flood to near poisonous levels of hatred. The boy must have seen it too, for the grin melted from his face almost instantly. 
   “What?” he said, trying to sound tough. 
   “We’re having a conversation here,” Sunny told him. “Do you mind?” 
   By this time some of the other students had stopped to watch the confrontation—boys and girls of different shapes and sizes. Dante felt himself flush with embarrassment…until it became apparent none of the onlookers looked amused. No one looked ready to laugh. Instead, Dante noticed, they were rather like the boy who now stood in Sunny’s crosshairs: afraid. 
   “Well, well, well,” the boy managed to say, sounding weaker by the moment. “Sunny likes Kiss Me, too. How nice.” 
   “Yeah,” Sunny said. “Maybe she does.” 
   A large black spider crawled out of the boy’s bag. It bit him on the hand, making him scream. All of the girls who saw it screamed too, while the boys yelped and gaped. 
   Sunny watched the antics for only a moment before losing her temper completely.  “Break it up!”  she shrieked.  “Go home, all of you!” 
   No one needed to be told twice. Dante watched the kids scatter as if the spider—which disappeared suddenly as it had appeared—might soon crawl onto one of them. The stocky blond boy was clutching his hand. Tears drenched his puffy cheeks. “What did you do!” he yelled at Sunny. “ What did you do!” 
   “I didn’t do anything, idiot, it was a spider. You might want to have nurse Renson look at that hand.” 
   Leaving his bag on the floor, the stocky boy ran off. Now it was literally just Dante and Sunny in the hall. They had the entire wing to themselves. 
   “Where were we?” Sunny asked, not sounding as if she had the patience for any more games. 
   Dante didn’t know what words he might speak to defuse the ticking time bomb standing before him. The silence of the hall felt thick and creeping ever closer. He looked at Sunny’s freckles. Her green eyes. Her red hair. She was fierce and frightening and really quite beautiful. 
   “My locker,” he said. “But it’s okay. I can just tell the principal—“ 
   “You can open it right  now ,” Sunny snapped. “But you need motivation, that’s obvious.” Her face relaxed—a little—to let a devious smile curl the corners of her lips. “Imagine a girl trapped inside, Dante. She’s trapped inside and has to hold her breath, because the locker is full of water. Could you get it open then?” 
   This bizarre spillage of words confused him utterly. Blinking, Dante said: “I—I would certainly hope so.” 
   “Me too. I like swimming, Dante, but every so often I need to come up for air. All girls do.” 
   “Of course. Of course.” 
   “If I were trapped in here”—she tapped the locker with a tiny fist—“holding my breath, could you get me out?  Tell me ,” she demanded, before he could splutter something absurd. 
   And with all the courage he could manage, Dante somehow told her:  “Yes.” 
   Sunny took a step closer. Her voice lowered to a near whisper as she said: “I’m going to get a niccce, deeeep breath for you, Dante. Deepest I can. Then I’m going to wait.” 
   “Uh…” 
   “While I’m waiting I want you to open that locker. Don’t let me run out of air.” 
   “All right.” 
   “You’d better be more confident than you sound,” she told him. 
   She was now standing close enough to share the smell of a girl: perfume, shampoo, baby powder. He could hear her high, sweet, pretty breath as she gasped in and out, getting her lungs ready. 
   Her eye went to the locker. “How stuck is it today?” 
   “I’ve already tried it twice. It’s being stubborn.” 
   Sunny breathed in again— hahhhhhhh!  Her slim chest rose high. Then she let the breath out— phew!  “All right,” she said, “next one’s it. Put your hand on the dial.” 
   Dante did. 
   “Your hand is shaking,” she observed. “Relax, Dante. Be a man.” She then tilted her head back. “Ready?” she said at the ceiling. 
   “Ready,” Dante, still shaking, replied. 
   “ HAAAUUUUHHH!”  Sunny gasped. When her chest was quite full, she looked at Dante and smiled. 
   Immediately he set to work. He cranked the dial right, left, then right again, making certain to stop on all the correct numbers. His hand fumbled to the latch, pulled. 
   The locker stayed shut. 
   Taking a deep breath of his own, Dante tried again. Right, left, right. Now the latch.  Come on , latch,  he thought,  how about a break? 
   But no. Once more the latch simply would not move. 
   Next to him, Sunny let out a tiny moan. She was getting uncomfortable. Starting to feel some tightness, some pressure. Dante looked and saw that her lips were pursed. Arching a brow, she pointed to the locker.  Get back to work, mister. 
   In the middle of the third try she let out a longer moan. “Mmmnnnn!” 
   It caused Dante to lose his concentration and start over with the dial. Even so, the latch remained stubborn. 
   A desperate hand tapped his arm. Sunny’s eyes were wide. Her freckled cheeks were puffed. Frantically, she pointed to her chest. The lungs inside were just about spent. 
   “ Nn! Gnn!” 
   Dante’s fifth try didn’t even come close. He was yet to even finish dialing the combination when Sunny drowned. Out of breath and still far from the surface, she drowned. A hard, heavy gasp signaled her defeat—or rather, Dante’s. 
   “ PHEW! WHEW!”  she heaved. Needing support, she grabbed his shoulder.  “You did that…on purpose!” 
   “No!” Dante said, appalled. “No way!” 
   “You just had to let the damsel perish in a watery grave!” 
   “Never!” 
   Sunny looked up…and smiled. “Shame on you. That really hurt.” 
   “I’m sorry!” 
   “I should have told you my personal best is only about thirty seconds. After that”—she snapped her fingers—“hey, the girl’s gotta have air. Phew!” 
   Dante edged closer so she could lean on him some more. “Are you all right?” Then he kicked the locker— BAM!  “Stupid thing.” 
   “Yeah!” Sunny cheered. “Beat that hunk of metal!” 
   “Seriously, Sunny, are you all right?” 
   “Phew! Of course I’m all right! I wasn’t…you know…underwater for real. Thankfully,” he heard her mutter as an afterthought. 
   Dante looked at his locker. “I guess the school needs to replace this thing.” 
   “Nah,” Sunny said. “I bet now because you kicked it, it’ll open. Try it.” 
   Shrugging, Dante dialed his combination. No way did he think it would open. Nor did it matter, considering the girl inside was already dead. Still, when he pulled the handle, the door popped and swung wide, revealing his coat, his books. His gym bag. A dirty mirror. A pack of Black Jack chewing gum. 
   Sunny gave him a pat on the back. “See? It just took a little toughness. I knew it was in you.” 
   “Monday it’ll get stuck again,” Dante said. 
   Her response was adamant. “No it won’t. You showed it who’s boss.” In the next moment she was standing on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. “You also found out how long the totally great, totally awesome Sunset Desdemona can hold her breath. Don’t tell anyone else.” 
   Dante couldn’t respond. The kiss had set his heart into hysterics. A fireworks show lit the firmament of his brain, rendering blindness upon all rational thought. 
   “It’ll be just our secret, okay?” she whispered. 
   “Yes. Yes. No problem.” 
   “I gotta go. My dad’s probably waiting outside. But maybe next week I’ll let you walk me home.” She grinned. “If you’re a good boy. Bye!” 
   With that, she skipped off, leaving him as last actor of the stage. Not wishing to abandon the privilege too soon, Dante remained, placing his books down slowly on purpose, straightening his hair in the mirror. Then he closed the locker door. An utterly silent hallway, devoid of expression, regarded him. All of the classroom doors were shut and locked. 
   
   Weird. Shouldn’t there be some teachers doing gradework yet? 
   
   Apparently not. 
   He stood for another minute, enjoying the quiet. “Time to go,” he told himself. “Time to go.” 
   And still thinking of Sunny, he went home. 
       CHAPTER SIX:  Mermaid Pizza 
     Money changes hands surreptitious, leaving those in command most suspicious. 
     
   Dante lived just a quarter mile down the street from Horatio Donati, in a federal style home built in 1832. Its plain brick walls rose austerely over the street, undaunted by Norwalk’s downtown district, which seemed to creep closer to their mortar every year. From any of number 54 West Main Street’s nine commandingly large front windows one could stare forth and perhaps be unnerved by the city’s progress. It stood to reason. A fine, two-story colonial style home had once occupied the lot directly east, but no more. It had been demolished to make way for a bank. Up until recently, the lot due north bore the weight of a huge Queen Anne. Only just last year it had been torn down. Dante watched it happen from his bedroom window. City bulldozers and backhoes made quick work of the Queen’s tall corner towers and deep-shadowed entrances. Her death cries, the sound of shattering brick, echoed for half a mile in all directions. But number 54 remained. 
   Dante would have been glad to know his house was safe, and not simply because he happened to live there. He loved number 54. Like Donati’s home, it boasted a number of ornate fireplaces, all in far better condition. Its wide upper story windows afforded wonderful views past the purple maples that lined West Main. Often times in the summer he would sit in his room with the window open to allow the warm wind, and listen to the chickadees sing from their boughs. And at night there were fireflies among the leaves, sparkling like stars. 
   But what he liked most about the house was its staircase. There were no others like it in Norwalk. So Dante’s father liked to boast. Its beauty was one of the few things they agreed upon. It stood on the east side of the living room, a serpent of American cherry which began its ascent facing downtown, but soon curled immediately opposite without the use of a half-landing, so that the user, regardless of which level he began his journey, always set out east and ended west. The curve was tight, severe, immaculate. Meticulously beautiful amidst flowered stronghold high and pretty as Dolomites mezereon. 
   It was almost sickening to watch his father’s friends, Joseph and Janet Jones, taint it this weekend with their Gucci loafers. Yet taint it they did (or at least it seemed to Dante) on the Saturday night following Sunny Desdemona’s extraordinary little breath-hold. Not that their visit should have been surprising. Every other weekend they came to play cards in the basement and drink brandy. And while it was true they hardly ever went upstairs, Dante still hated to see them round the curve. It portrayed, he imagined, yet one more beautiful thing to which the condescending couple were granted access. 
   “Well hey there, tiger!” Janet’s dimpled face said when he opened the door. “Is your daddy home?” 
   “Sure,” Dante said, letting the couple in, “he’s in the kitchen.” 
   “Yo, slugger!” A towering man—Joseph—bellowed through his heavy mustache. His feet pounded the floor, shaking some of the home’s delicate Chinaware. “You’re gettin’ tall enough to pose for GQ!” And he gave Dante’s hair a ruffle. 
   “Thanks.” 
   “Yeah! Heck yeah! Mind if I go upstairs and use your bathroom?” 
   “There’s one down here actually.” 
   Joseph laughed, making his ugly chest hairs bounce like picket signs beneath the collar of his Land’s End dress shirt. “I know that, but come on, I’m a  big  guy, and that bathroom’s  small! ” 
   “Okay,” Dante told him. “Sure.” 
   “Thanks, buddy!” 
   And off Joseph pounded, all but attacking the stairs with his monstrous gait. 
   “Dante,” Janet scolded, “you know Joseph likes the big bathroom more.” 
   “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jones. Please make yourself comfortable. My dad’s almost ready.” 
   The woman’s volcanic features loosened—a little. “Okay then. We can let it go this time.” 
   He fetched her a plate of cheese. It had to be him, for his mother was out of town that night, eating cheese at some other card party. Cribbage, no doubt, which she preferred to poker.  Poker is for philistines,  Dante sometimes heard her say to his dad, to which he always replied,  So is the Mazda Miata,  before gazing out the window at her little red roadster. 
   “This cheese,” Janet told him presently, “is a bit stale.” 
   She was seated on the couch, her face lost in an essence of confusion as to what she might be chewing. 
   “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jones,” Dante said for a second time. 
   “Oh no, no. It isn’t  bad.  It’s just…stale. A little.” 
   Now Joseph came pounding back down. Dante saw a Homer Laughlin about to fall from its stand and rushed to catch it. 
   “You know what I like least about this house?” the big man said to no one in particular. “These stairs! They’re too steep and the curve always makes me feel like I’m being stirred in a damned tea-cup!  Dante! ” 
   He jumped, almost dropping the plate. “Yes, sir?” 
   “What’s takin’ your dad so long, boy? He kissin’ his money goodbye already?” 
   “No, sir. I’ll go check.” 
   Half an hour later all three of them were in the basement. The cards were on the table. So was the money. So was a rapidly waning bottle of brandy. Periodically, one of them would call Dante down with a request— Dante, the ash trays need emptied; Hey big guy, how ‘bout some water; Dante, another plate of cheese if you please.  He ran up and down number 54’s narrower, cruder stairs without complaint, careful not to drop anything or let his face flash signs of the least dissent. Janet made mention once more of the stale cheese. She also asked him to please bring down ice with the water from now on. 
   Around ten o’clock they decided to order pizza. It came on time, though Dante’s father refused to tip because he insisted the driver was ten minutes late. By Dante’s watch (it was he who had called the order) this was simply not true. 
   “Late,” his dad said flatly, handing him a ten from is wallet. 
   “But Dad!” 
   “No tip. Now bring us down the pizza.” 
   “Do as you father says, little boy,” Janet, who was now showing signs of inebriety, drawled. 
   I’m actually taller than you,  Dante thought,  not that tipping the pizza guy happens to be any of your business. 
   “Go, Dante,” his dad commanded. 
   Dejected, Dante went. The Pizza Brothers driver waited at the front door. He was fat. Huge, actually, with round, red cheeks that looked like Donati’s. His smile was like the opera singer’s too—wide, warm, friendly. Dante took the pizza. The bill came to nine dollars and ninety-five cents. A nickel came back, which Dante then pocketed. 
   “Seeya later, buddy!” the driver said, in a cheery tone nothing at all like the superior one Joseph used when he called Dante  buddy  or  big guy. 
   “Wait!” Dante called as the driver turned to go. 
   Janet’s purse was on the table where she’d eaten her cheese. She’d either forgotten it or had no worries for its safety. Whichever, she’d made a mistake, for now Dante, with a heat under his skin that burned like pre-fever, rummaged into it, found her wallet, and fished out a ten dollar bill. 
   “Here you go,” he told the driver, proffering it. “You’re a good man.” 
   The driver’s smile stayed friendly. It did not flicker to greed or hunger, or any other like sin. He took the money and asked: “How do you know?” 
   “It doesn’t matter,” Dante said. “It really doesn’t matter.” 
   “Thanks, fella. Enjoy your pizza.” 
   “Oh, I will.” 
   And the driver exited into the September night (followed by an approving wind that played through the trees), and Dante took the pizza downstairs, and the card game kept right on going. 
   ∞ 
   “You…stole money from your father’s friend’s purse?” Donati asked wonderingly, after slurping down a cappuccino. 
   “I did,” Dante admitted with pride. 
   “And how did that feel?” 
   “Oh I was terrified. I thought Janet would come upstairs and catch me.” 
   “But you committed the deed anyway.” 
   “Yes. And she never found out.” 
   Donati grunted. His chair creaked as he leaned back. “ Never  is a long time, young man. You did a wrong thing to support a right thing. You got something out of it—a little revenge, a little justice. The delivery driver certainly got something out of it. But this Janet person…” 
   “She’s nasty anyway,” Dante said. 
   “Perhaps,” Donati replied. “But for a scant minute or two, you descended to the level of your  bête noir .” Now he came forward again. “Tell me, Dante, if one night a cockroach crept under your bed, what would you do to chase it out? Kneel to the floor or lift up the bed?” 
   Dante frowned. The old singer’s reproachful tone hurt. But how could he know the way he, Dante, felt last night? Where was his song of empathy? Or of defending common decency? 
   “Sunny would have taken the money, too,” Dante said. The excuse was weak but better than none at all. 
   Donati smiled. “I suspect that Sunny’s arms,” he said, “are not as strong as yours. Though of course, after hearing this story of how she held her breath for you, I also suspect that’s what you like about her.” 
   It was another Sunday morning at number 114. And despite the current discomfiting breakfast table illusion, Dante felt even more at home today than he had last week. And last week, of course, he had felt even more at home than the week before. Sunlight burst through the living room’s cheap, thin curtains, illuminating the chalkboard as if in effort to coax old wisdom to its surface. Both fireplaces, dark, regarded man and boy like amused elders watching children at play. A clocked ticked from the hall. Spooning up the last of his  brioche , Dante was reminded of the picturesque ruins of Athens’ Acropolis, as well as the last of the Temple of Zeus. He had read about both during history class last year. Now here he sat in a near dilapidated home inspired by those very places. Can it be the destiny of everything and everyone, he wondered, to surrender what lay in their past to the sun? 
   “She shared with you a very intimate secret,” Donati spoke, “thus I will not have you betray it by asking how long her lungs endured. But I am put in mind of a story I once heard while on a stop to perform in Kalamata, Greece. It’s about a young girl who wanted to become a mermaid. This because she so much enjoyed swimming in that city’s Messiniakos Bay, which is deep and clear and beautiful, if not a bit cold. 
   “Her name was Alekto, which in ancient Greek translates to  unceasing.  The name fit her well, for even though she was only twelve years old, she possessed a will stubborn as the castle overlooking Homer’s lost Pharai. She was also quite beautiful, with long, golden hair and blue eyes. Each morning she would walk to the bay for a swim in its sun-streamed waters. There was a place among rocks which only she knew, which freed her to undress without being seen. And of course no one ever saw her, yet her body, it is said, was both fragile and slender, nary disturbing the film of the water’s surface when it passed through to visit the depths. 
   A pretty girl underwater is lovely to behold; no doubt this is why her story is told. Some like to talk of her billowing hair, others of her eyes upon lost, sunken lairs. But ‘tis her bare, dainty chest most pretend recall best, holding a breath in lungs sturdy though slight, as even within spark of death comes alight.” 
   Here Dante raised his hand, entreating Donati to pause. “Is that some kind of a poem?” he asked. 
   “Indeed,” came the singer’s reply. “A snatch of what I remember.” He sighed, as if in knowing the pleasure of memory longs for escape. “The original story was told in poetic form. There is a song, however, Alekto used to sing before she dove, translated to English by a professor at one of the Greek colleges. In it she longs to be a mermaid, so she could stay underwater indefinitely, for the sea fascinated her. She loved its cool depths, its blue beauty. She loved the glow of the sun on the fish and the rocks. Above all, she loved the feel of the bay on her naked body. She wanted to marry it, like it was a man. And in her mind the only way to do that was to become part fish.” 
   “Not all fish?” Dante wondered. 
   “Alekto had read many stories about mermaids. She became convinced that to be a mermaid was to be married to the sea.” 
   “But mermaids aren’t real.” 
   “Tell that to a twelve year-old girl,” Donati said with a smile. “Anyway, I have memorized the song. It goes as such.” 
   Dante listened as, with a deep breath, his new friend began to sing in a surprisingly thunderous voice, done further justice by the house’s high ceilings and many wooden beams. It rushed through the halls, exploring every room. It rushed up the stairs, entwining the rail like bougainvillea. The word  handsome  came to Dante’s mind. Donati’s voice was fine oak. Old library books on a leather chair. Wood smoke from the chimney of a forest cottage. 
     
   
   Maid of the deep, 
   
   
   Hear the song that I weep, 
   
   
   Hear the song that I weep, 
   
   
   Oh maid of the deep! 
   
     
   
   Swim unto me, 
   
   
   With your scales of Pisces, 
   
   
   With your scales of Pisces, 
   
   
   Oh swim unto me! 
   
     
   
   Snapping creature of the moon, 
   
   
   At the heel of Hercules, 
   
   
   During your romantic hour, 
   
   
   A bride come to the seas. 
   
     
   
   Like Anatolia ships, 
   
   
   Hard storms dashed upon the rocks, 
   
   
   I brave a devious wish, 
   
   
   I brave from balmy docks. 
   
     
   
   Maid of the deep, 
   
   
   Hear the song that I weep, 
   
   
   Hear the song that I weep, 
   
   
   Oh maid of the deep! 
   
     
   
   Swim unto me, 
   
   
   With your scales of Pisces, 
   
   
   With your scales of Pisces, 
   
   
   Oh swim unto me! 
   
     
   
   Come Hera’s Persian bird, 
   
   
   Paint with feathers morning mist, 
   
   
   Thus two animals of feeling, 
   
   
   Bring a third upon our tryst. 
   
     
   
   And shall depart one with the third, 
   
   
   Many fathoms, far below, 
   
   
   Trailing thanks to the others, 
   
   
   Deep as amphorae cargo. 
   
     
   “None of the villagers,” Donati went on to say after a short rest, “took Alekto’s wish seriously, though she spoke of it often. She even claimed a mermaid came to visit her. It happened one morning just after she finished her song. Alekto’s breath had just set free its final note when a girl’s head broke the water’s surface. She looked to be about Alekto’s age. She had blonde hair and blue eyes. And her tail, Alekto claimed, shone with cyan and gold. ‘My name is Ciara,’ the girl said. ‘Your singing is high as the hills ‘round Ephyra.’ 
   “She then said that Alekto could become a mermaid only when a suitable girl appeared to take her place on dry land. ‘The girl must mimic you perfectly from each day’s dawn,’ Ciara explained, ‘so that no one will know when Alekto has gone.’ 
   “‘That sounds impossible,’ Alekto replied sadly. 
   “‘Indeed,’ Ciara told her. ‘No girl of the earth becomes one of the sea. Nevertheless, I offer you this: Should you find a replacement of the kind I require, sing again from these rocks and your wish shall transpire.’ 
   “On that promise, Ciara’s head disappeared beneath the waves. Alekto went home feeling hopeless. Her hair hung in her eyes. Her feet dragged. By midday her mother asked what was the matter. When Alekto answered, she of course did not believe a word. Nor did Alekto’s father when news of his daughter’s sadness reached him. 
   “Over the coming days the girl went about her chores more slowly than usual, and without a smile. She ate less. The normal abundance of happy words from her mouth fell to a faithless stop. The days became weeks, the weeks, months. 
   “By this time friends and family were deeply concerned. A physician was called. 
   “‘Her spirit has flown,’ said her mother. ‘She moves through the day as if weighed by a stone.’ 
   “Replied the doctor: ‘I have studied these symptoms within that are pent, yet upon the girl’s brow I can find no ailment.’ 
   “The girl’s despair continued for another week. Then one morning, all without caution, she was well. It happened so quickly. Alekto returned from her usual swim among the secret rocks wearing a smile her mother had not seen for so long it was a wonder she recognized her daughter at all. Her hair shone like garden flowers on a windy day. Her eyes twinkled the blue of Saturn seen through misty clouds. 
   “‘I’m hungry,” she said. ‘What food might I find in this household’s pantry?’ 
   “Being so delighted to once more have her daughter thus, the mother prepared breakfast straight away. Alekto ate with fervor before dashing straight off to her chores, which she finished before noon, possessed of an energy she’d not demonstrated for almost year. This behavior continued the next day, and the next, and the next. Both mother and father were greatly relieved. It seemed their daughter was well. 
   “Well but no longer quite the same. As the days passed a number of subtle differences in Alekto’s demeanor began to surface. The mother was first to take notice. One morning Alekto came into the kitchen wearing a yellow dress she had sewn all by herself. Taken aback, her mother exclaimed: ‘Never have I seen you adorned as the sun; it blends poorly with hair on the shoulders it runs.’ 
   “To which the younger replied: ‘This is the color I choose as my best, though I shall sometimes wear others kept dark with the rest.’ 
   “That was the beginning. Alekto’s favorite color had changed from blue to yellow. Then came her favorite foods. She stopped preferring figs over teganites. She asked for her soup to be mashed instead of boiled. Suddenly snobbish towards Lesbos wine, she began to request Cretan. The mother grew more and more puzzled, but did her best with these tilts in her daughter’s behavior. 
   “Then one day Alekto lost interest in swimming. Never again did she go to the rocky grotto. She grew up to be a seamstress and married a carpenter. And all throughout she was happy. No one saw her cry or get sick ever again. 
   “So!” Donati said, his expression satisfied. “Did the girl merely grow up, or is she even to this day swimming with fishy friends? Eh?” 
   Dante laughed a little. “I think she probably just decided to grow up.” 
   “Perhaps,” the other replied. “And one day this Sunny Desdemona may grow up. In fact it’s quite likely indeed. But there is also a chance,” he went on, tilting his head, “that she will choose the sea. To swim with her dreams. Where would that leave you, my dear boy?” 
   Dante thought for a moment before saying: “I would follow her.” 
   “Down to darkest depths?” 
   Now he nodded. “I think so.” 
   Donati began to gather dishes from the table. They clanked and rattled gently in the window’s dawn light. “May the need never come to make such a choice,” he said with a soft tone. “May the need never come.” 
       CHAPTER SEVEN:  Maris 
     October arrived on a Thursday. The weather remained warm, tempting town thrushes for further stay.  
     
   Walking to and from school Dante noticed many of these birds. He did not think they were fooled. Their wings were restless, their eyes adrift. They could live in the cold but would choose not to remain. 
   Dante could only wonder what would happen before their return. Since the spider incident at locker sixteen, news of his and Sunny’s relationship had become the chief topic of student gossip. Nor did the drama of that scene provide the only fuel for its combustion. Sunny ranked among the most popular girls of the school; she was also, undisputedly, the most feared. A new boyfriend for her was  news.  Dante arrived at school the Monday after Donati’s mermaid story to find he had become a celebrity. It started at the bike rack, where a number of boys stared as he walked past to find Sunny waiting for him near the front door.  Hey handsome,  she’d greeted, to the myriad giggles of her entourage.  Girls, this is the boy who gets to carry my books from now on. His name’s Dante. Be nice to him.  And nice to him they were, though they always kept a respectful distance, especially when their queen was present. The seventh grade boys were even more respectful. There were no shy, knowing smiles from them in the halls. They did not laugh, or whisper behind their hands. They only stared, with eyes like toddlers through the gates of a forbidden palace. He had become an enigma to them. Someone to admire without movement of the feet in eagerness to approach. 
   Also on that Monday, Sunny had asked him, with perfect innocence in her green eyes, whether it would be okay for him to eat lunch at her table, rather than the other way around. “That’s fine,” Dante had replied (knowing the weight of her obeisance upon his conceit), “no problem.” 
   Her eyebrow had shot up. “Sure?” 
   “Yes.” 
   “It would just be kind of hectic to have all the girls who eat with me move to a different table.” 
   “Understood,” Dante said, deepening his voice, and taking care not to drop his eyes. 
   “Thank you, baby,” she’d smiled. Then, after a quick check to make sure no one was looking, she’d stood on tip-toe to give him a kiss. “Seeya at lunch!” 
   He’d been eating at her table ever since. The first time had been awkward. A hundred blushing smiles from the entourage. Evaluating eyes. But by the second day he was more comfortable. Willing to adapt to their scrutiny. Sunny helped by eating with her hip lightly pressed against his own, or leaning on his shoulder when one of the other girls talked. Her touch was her requisition.  Talk,  it allowed,  but talk carefully. 
   The morning of October first began in the new normal way. Sunny waited for him by the front door, peering through the darkening foliage of a tulip tree. Her red hair resembled the truant autumn, her black clothing the sober regard of that fourth season which often begins with a gentle push of its arrow before unleashing the deluge of an honest freeze. She asked Dante to carry her bags. Again, fresh routine. Then she began to chatter about her previous afternoon, scarcely pausing for breath, as they walked the crowded halls. Several girls waved to Sunny. 
   “Thirty problems of long division,” she said, after nodding towards one of their blurred faces. “What a drag! I couldn’t focus on anything! Did Krieger give that one to your class, too?” 
   “Of course,” Dante said. “I must have wasted five sheets of paper on it.” 
   “Five sheets of paper and now I’ve got tendinitis in my wrist!” 
   “Sunny!” a dark-haired girl called. “Hello!” 
   “Hello, Stacey. See you in science.” 
   They came to her locker. She opened it on the first try. A mirror with a pink frame hung on the door. A bottle of Adagio perfume stood on the shelf. Lady Speed-Stick. Maybelline cosmetics. Sunny took the bags from Dante, placed them next to a pair of gym shoes. She unzipped the zipper. Here Dante assumed she would reach for some necessary tool for class—a pencil, an eraser. But no. Her hand popped out of the bag with a small red and white box. Quickly, the hand went to Dante’s coat pocket. He felt it being shoved down deep. When it re-emerged, the box was gone. 
   “What was that?” he asked Sunny’s pair of devious, unblinking green eyes. 
   “Later,” she said. “Don’t touch it now. Just follow me.” 
   And without hesitation she struck off. Dante followed her up a ramp to the eighth grade wing. Three classrooms—Health, English, Science—stood amidst a flurry of students preparing for their day. Most of the students, though older, were shorter than Dante. Sunny cut through them with ease, bringing them to a foyer decorated for Halloween. From one corner a scarecrow gazed with burlap bag eyes. In another was a cutout of a green-skinned witch. Growing more curious by the moment, Dante followed Sunny into the cafeteria, and then outside, where grassy smells from the football field tantalized many boys into contact play. Sunny marched towards it without once looking back to check if Dante were there. A few other girls saw her and waved. She did not wave back. She rounded the corner of the building, and for one crazy moment Dante really did think the football field was her destination. 
   
   She wants me to try out for the team, oh great. 
   
   The football field was not her destination. Instead, she stopped rather abruptly midway down the wall, her boots stamping the grass. Dante joined her. 
   “Sunny, we only have about ten minutes to get the homeroom—“ 
   “Look,” she commanded. 
   Her eyes were on the tennis courts. Following them, Dante could find nothing of merit. There were kids hanging out at the gate. A few of them carried racket bags. Dante reached into his pocket, touched the little box Sunny had given him. It felt like cardboard wrapped in cellophane. 
   “What is this?” he asked her again, not quite daring to bring it out. 
   “See that girl with the blonde hair? Gold blouse, white skirt. The one who looks perfect.” 
   “Um…” 
   Sunny’s tone became impatient. “Dante she’s standing like twenty yards off.” 
   “I see her.” 
   He did indeed see her. The blonde tumble of her hair was hard to miss. She stood near a single white lily. Two other girls stood with her. They were talking and laughing. This went on for about a minute before one of the girls pointed to the building. The other two nodded. Then they all walked off together. 
   Dante looked at Sunny. She was watching the trio with eyes narrow as that goddess of warfare who burst from her father’s head. He looked at the trio again, until they reached the building’s corner and disappeared. 
   “I believe her name’s Maris,” he spoke. 
   The narrow eyes seized him. “Do you? And where did you come by that information?” 
   “She’s in my gym class,” Dante said innocently. “Old man Hogan always ogles the poor girl. He’s a weirdo.” 
   “Poor girl, huh? Straight A student and every teacher’s pet. She’s more popular than me. She’s prettier than me. I hate her.” 
   Sunny’s face had become nearly red as her hair. Her teeth gnashed. Dante reached to take her hand, only to find both closed into tiny, wrathful fists. 
   “Stop that,” he said. “I don’t know about the pet and popularity stuff, but to say she’s prettier is nonsense.” His fingers closed over one of the fists. “Sunny? Are you hearing me?” 
   She wasn’t. Her gaze found the corner where Maris had disappeared, as if to see a mocking ghost of that girl still there. “Take the package out of your coat,” she said tonelessly. “Not all the way. The teachers will see it.” 
   More than a little displeased with what that implied, Dante once again reached into his coat, found the box Sunny had given him, and took a peek. It was cigarettes. A packet of Marlboro Reds, freshly sealed. 
   “Got it?” Sunny asked, still transfixed by the corner. 
   “I’ve got it,” Dante said weakly. “But what the hell, Sunny? These will get us both kicked out of school.” 
   At last she deigned to look at him. An evil smile stretched the sides of her mouth. “No, Dante. They’re going to get  Maris  kicked out of school.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Do you follow? Understand? Get the picture?” 
   “Not quite.” 
   “Then listen further. I want you to slip that little present into her bag—“ 
   “Sunny—“ 
   “I don’t care how. Figure it out. Then figure out how to draw a teacher’s attention to that bag. Not Hogan’s. You’re right, I think he has a weird crush on her.” 
   “Sunny.” 
   “Or if you don’t want to use her bag, try something else. Maybe her coat. So long as she gets busted, I don’t care.” 
   “Sunny, you have absolutely no reason to hate Maris Dubois. She’s—“ 
   Sunny made a snarl, silencing his talk. A look of pure rage fumed at him like volcanic fire. “Maris  who?   Who? ” 
   “Mr. Hogan does a roll call every day. The students hear each others’ names.” 
   “Super,” she hissed. “So tell me, Dante, the names of all the other kids in that class.” 
   “That’s thirty kids, Sunny.” 
   “ Do  it!” 
   Dante swallowed. He was in deep water here. Perhaps too deep. “Well,” he began, “there’s Robert Roach—“ 
   “Not that dork! Everybody knows him!” 
   “Casey Lyons. Sam Bean.” A smeary blur of faces stained his thought. Furiously, Dante tried to sort them out, to get them straight. He tried even harder to make sure none of them were girls. “Jackson Gray. Theodore Zucker. Uh…” 
   Sunny rolled her eyes. “Okay, shut up. Just shut up. Her last name  is  Dubois. I knew that, but then I hear gossip from girls all day long. You knew it because I guess you”—she pulled a disgusted face—“ remembered.  Nice.” 
   Chancing to take a step nearer, Dante said in the most compassionate tone he had: “I promise to forget it from this day forth.” 
   “Don’t bother,” she pouted, refusing to look at him. “Just make sure those cigarettes do their dirty work for us.” 
   “Okay,” he said. “I will.” 
   “Good.” 
   ∞ 
   Dante spent the rest of that day in a kind of fever, plotting his girlfriend’s devious attack. The possibility for success was not strong. He could see only two chances to do her bidding—the gym class basement locker room, after everyone changed and went upstairs, or lunchtime, when Maris often hung her coat on a row off hooks just off the girls’ bathroom. He decided on the former, reasoning that with the locker room empty he would stand less chance of getting burned. 
   Friday morning he sat in homeroom with the cigarettes in the pocket of his leather jacket. Sunny had remained pouty all day yesterday, but now seemed returned to her usual self. She kept close to Dante in the hall, leaning her head on his shoulder while Stacey complimented her ear-rings. She then asked Dante if they could go to the girls’ room for one final touch-up before classes. He told them yes. But as homeroom came to a close his confidence slipped. Gym was third period—just ninety minutes away. In ninety minutes he would be sneaking into the girls’ changing area to plant cigarettes in Maris Dubois’ bag. 
   
   And even if you’re able to pull that off, Wonder Boy, how are you going to make sure she gets caught with the stupid things? 
   
   
   
   
   “Dante?” Sunny said. Homeroom was over. They were off to first period—study hall for her, math for him. “Everything okay?” The familiar sneer was back on her face, twisted as snakes that once turned foolish heroes to stone. “It’s going to be today, right?” she went on, before he could answer the first question. 
   “Today,” he said. 
   The sneer writhed. “You don’t sound too sure of yourself.” 
   “ Today,”  he repeated, locking on with her eyes. 
   “Good boy.” She patted his back. “Go to it.” 
   The long division assignment she had already groaned about was due today. Rather than collect it though, Mr. Krieger decided to have his class grade it out loud. It killed time and gave him an excuse not to work. Dante scored a 26 out of 30, good for 87%. He wondered what Sunny would score later that day. By then, of course, he would either be her champion, or locked in detention hall with the usual band of delinquent gorillas who spent time there. Dangerous kids like Casey Didion and Lamar Taylor, who wouldn’t just beat you up if they decided not to like you, they would put you in the hospital. 
   After Krieger’s class he went directly to science, where that teacher, a tufty-haired man named Mr. Sitz, gave a lecture on the eruption of Mount Saint Helens. 
   “On May 18, 1980,” he intoned, “all hell broke loose in Washington State. It did not happen without warning. Two months earlier, volcanologists speculated that magma had begun to move beneath the mountain. A magnitude 4.2 earthquake indicated as much. Somewhere deep under all that rock, pressure was building. One hundred and twenty-five years of dormancy had come to a close.” Mr. Sitz raised his eyebrows. “What does that tell us about nature? Anyone?” 
   A few tentative hands went up. Mr. Sitz called on a tall, thin girl named Jennifer. 
   “It’s unpredictable,” she said. Then: “At least until…you know, certain indicators appear. And by then it’s almost always too late.” 
   “Almost,” the science teacher agreed. “But it does leave us time—usually—to get out of the way. If we so choose. Not all of us do. Not all of us have a choice, for love typically fails to provide one. Love of the land, or of the work.” He paused. “Or of the very thing that threatens to destroy you. In the case of one Harry Randall Truman, that thing was the mountain, at the foot of which he lived for fifty-two years. He loved Saint Helens and refused to leave her, even after it became clear she was by no means stable. She was beautiful and he loved her. And in the end that love killed him.” 
   The end of period bell sounded off. Everyone jumped from their seats. Or nearly so. 
   Dante did not jump. He rose to his feet like a sick elephant. His science book fell to the floor— flop!  He stooped, grabbed it, rose again. In the process of doing so the package of cigarettes fell out of his jacket. They were now next to his boot. 
   “Dante!” called Mr. Sitz, approaching his desk. “Your essay on the Challenger disaster was pretty good. Of course you know that already. I put a B plus on it.” 
   “Yes sir.” 
   Mr. Sitz took a step closer. Dante swallowed hard and, surreptitiously as he knew how, placed his boot over top of the cigarettes. 
   “Now you’ve got me looking forward to your oral report next spring,” Sitz said. 
   “Thank you, sir.” 
   The science teacher’s nostrils twitched. “Say, what’s that smell? Something burning?” 
   “I hope not, sir,” Dante replied, pretending to look around the room. 
   “I hope not either. My word, the last thing we need in a school building is…” Sitz’s words trailed off. His eyes had dropped to the floor. “What…on earth…are  those? ” 
   Now Dante had to look down, too. Not that he wished to do so. His mind began to flicker with a million different pictures. Him sitting in the principal’s office, him sitting in detention hall, him sitting alone at home. In all he was shame-faced. Humiliated. Laid low. 
   Slowly, Mr. Sitz bent down. “Move your foot, please,” he said. 
   Dante moved his foot—the other foot. Nothing happened for a few seconds. Then the science teacher was standing again. In his hand he held, of all things, three dead black beetles. 
   “Gross,” he said, grinning. “Left over from somebody’s biology assignment. Sorry you had to sit next to them today. You should have spoken up.” 
   “I…didn’t notice them, sir.” 
   “I’m surprised none of the girls screamed,” the other moaned. “Oh well.” He shrugged and walked to the trash can, where he pitched the bugs away. While his back was turned, Dante quickly knelt, grabbed the cigarettes, and pocketed them. “Better get on to your next class,” Sitz said with a wink. “Can’t keep dear old Mr. Hogan waiting with his badminton racquets.” 
   Shaky and sweaty, Dante left the science room. A large number of kids were still in the hall, snatching books from their lockers, talking about basketball, talking about cheerleading. Jokes were swapped, bubble-gum popped. The girls giggled and the boys haw-hawed. Dante walked past his own locker, not needing any books for gym. He was getting close to the foyer ramp when a hand fell on his shoulder. 
   “ Boo!” 
   He spun around so fast his jacket fanned like a skirt. Two girls—Sunny and Stacey—were smiling up at him. Sunny’s smile, however, weakened at the sight of his skittishness. 
   “What are you so jumpy about?” she demanded to know. 
   Summoning all of his strength, Dante said: “Oh, you just caught me in a daydream. Where are you ladies headed?” 
   “Back to Mr. Wolfe’s room for English.” Sunny’s green eyes began to glitter shrewdly. “And you’re going to see Mr. Hogan. Right?” 
   “That’s right. Badminton day.” 
   “Let me know how it turns out,” Sunny told him. The shrewdness had found its way to her smile, and into her voice. “I’ll be waiting, Dante.” 
   ∞ 
   “Okayyyyy,” Mr. Hogan told the boys. His voice oozed through the locker room like cold pancake syrup. He wore a blue tracksuit every day, though Dante was quite certain he was too old (most kids put him in the late fifties) to do any running. A whistle hung around his neck. “Okayyyy. Todayyyy we’ll be playyyyying badminton. Please be careful with the equipment. And go easy on the girls.” 
   With that, he left the room so the boys could get changed. Dante hung his jacket in a locker whose number identified with the ancient Christian belief of leisure for witches. He put on his track pants. Then, when no one was looking, he slipped the cigarettes into the pocket of the pants and hung back, waiting to be the last one out. 
   One by one the boys went upstairs. Dante pretended to tie his shoes. He adjusted the string on his track pants. The locker room grew quieter, quieter. Soon he was all alone. 
   Knowing he had at best two minutes to plant the evidence before Mr. Hogan noticed him missing, Dante moved quickly. He left the boys’ locker room, checked the stairs to make sure no one was watching, then slipped across to the arch-way marked  GIRLS . Here he found a hard left that dumped him into an alien room the male body had absolutely no right to trespass. Like the boys’ room, it was dark, though far brighter clothing hung in the lockers. A flowery scent of perfume beckoned. Odysseus to its Siren call, Dante followed. With every step he felt more and more strange, as well as more certain he was about to be caught. His eyes fluttered across the lockers. The blouse Maris had on earlier did not seem present. He took six more steps into the room. Basement shadows loomed closer. A torn poster on one wall read:  WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?  Beneath was a picture of a girl, deep in thought, staring a package of cigarettes.  SMOKING IS A DIRTY HABIT!  the poster went on to inform. 
   There’s somebody in here,  Dante’s mind gibbered,  somebody can see you, you’re going to get caught! 
   He was about to run when he saw it. Maris’ blouse. It hung in locker 33, gold as the peaceful flame of the goddess by that name. By this time, however, he would be missed upstairs. Doubtless Mr. Hogan was already taking roll call. Had he come to Dante’s name yet on his little white sheet of notepaper? Deciding to risk it, Dante walked quickly to the blouse. Beneath it was a pink book-bag. Again, Maris’. All he needed to do now was unzip it and stuff the cigarettes inside. He reached into his pocket; his hand closed around the box. Three seconds was all would take. One…two…three. Then he could get out of here. 
   “Okayyyyy!” came Mr. Hogan’s voice from upstairs. “Where’s Dantayyyyy? Can someone go downstairs and check on him please?” 
   With trembling hands Dante pulled the cigarettes free and dropped them onto Maris’ bag. No good. She would be caught with them, certainly, but no one would believe they were actually hers. At best he could later brag to Sunny that he’d messed up five minutes of the perfect princess’ day. Not good enough—not  nearly  good enough. 
   “Okayyyyy!” Mr. Hogan croaked again. 
   “Shut up already!” Dante hissed. 
   He picked up the cigarettes and ran. His foot caught on a bench. He flew through the air like a shot bird, hitting the floor hard enough to cut his elbow open on a chipped tile. Blood splattered the bench, the other lockers. Some of the girls’ clothes were stained. 
   
   Oh no! Oh no, oh no, oh no! 
   
   He sat up slowly, assessing the damage. The cigarettes were gone. At some point they had escaped his fingers and disappeared. Meanwhile his blood continued to drip. The cut was sizeable—maybe an inch long. A red mess pooled on the floor, growing larger every second. 
   “What the HELL are you doing in the girls’ locker room?” 
   Wide-eyed, Dante looked up to see an incredulous Mr. Hogan gaping with utter disgust. Clearly his eyes could not believe what they were seeing, because they couldn’t open any wider, lest they fall out as marbles would from an old saddle bag. 
   “It was a rat,” Dante gibbered, desperate to grasp any branch available from this humiliating quicksand. 
   “Get up, boy.” 
   “A rat!” 
   “I said  get up .” As he spoke Mr. Hogan seized Dante’s arm and pulled. The wound opened wider, spilling more blood. “You are despicable, young man.  Despicable.  Shame on you.” 
   The gym teacher’s hateful face looked ready to spit fire. Blood dripped onto his tracksuit but he didn’t seem to care, or even notice. His grip tightened on Dante’s arm. 
   “The only rat in here,” he said, “is the one going to the principal’s office. From there you’ll probably be expelled. You need discipline, boy. Hard, heavy discipline.” 
   Mr. Hogan might gone on with this litany, except that in the very next moment he was bitten by a rat. Dante had no idea at first. The gym teacher’s mouth fell open again. He let go Dante’s arm and began to scream like a woman. 
   “ EEEEEE! EEEEEE! EEEEEE!” 
   “Mr. Hogan? What’s wrong?” 
   “ EEEEEE!” 
   He started hopping on one foot. That was when Dante looked down to see a large, gray rat scuttling under the bench. He gasped. He looked again at Mr. Hogan’s foot. Disbelief flooded his senses. It couldn’t be real, it just couldn’t be. No way. 
   It was real all right. Mr. Hogan took a seat on the bench. Breathing heavily, he looked at Dante, and then at the rat. It was half the length of a man’s arm. It stopped, turned, grinned at both of them for a moment. Then it ran to the wall and disappeared. 
   “How in the world,” Mr. Hogan heaved, “did a  rat  get in here? Phew! We need traps. Lots of traps.” 
   “Mr. Hogan—“ 
   “And I need a doctor. I guess you do, too. Let’s tell the class what happened and get to the clinic.” 
   *** 
   Minutes later, while waiting in the nurse’s clinic to get his arm taped, Dante happened to look out the window. Standing near the bike racks was a girl with red hair. Sunny. This was odd because classes were still ongoing. And even though the racks were clear on the other side of the parking lot, Sunny’s eyes were fixed directly on him. Her hair danced in the wind, a bonfire. 
   “Dante Torn?” the nurse called, distracting his gaze. “Please come in.” 
   And when he looked out the window again Sunny had gone. 
       CHAPTER EIGHT:  The Glass Block 
   
    “It happened in 1923,” Donati said, with the fireplace behind him alight. “An explosion so ruinous it awoke at noon the maid of midnight.” 
   
     
   It was Sunday again. Over breakfast Dante had described the events of the previous week while the opera singer quietly listened. Only once did Donati break in, this to ask whether the cigarette box was sealed or torn open. When Dante told him it was sealed he smiled and said: “Mistake. Who would believe this Maris had been smoking if the packet wasn’t even opened yet? Please continue.” At the end of his story the singer let several seconds pass without saying a word. Content to let the silence draw out, Dante waited. The living room of 114 looked picturesque as ever today, what with the fire’s glow upon the floor, and the light of gray clouds dampening its tired walls even more. In the hallway a grandfather clock ticked. From the doorstep the sound of wind chimes. 
   “A rat,” Donati said, the way a man speaks when he tries to convince himself. “On school grounds. That will raise a ruckus with the board of health. Unless of course it can be swept under the rug.” 
   “I swear I had no idea there was a real rat in the locker room,” Dante told him. “It was just something I reached for. The story I mean. It just popped into my mind.” 
   “Coincidence is an evil thing,” Donati said. “I believe that with all of my heart. On Friday it wasn’t on your side. You just happened to catch the good of it, like a man who finds a sack of money after a bank robbery. With coincidence that’s all we can do—benefit while it’s busy doing Lucifer’s work elsewhere. Did you know,” he continued, “there was once a woman who died downtown, simply for standing in the wrong place at the wrong time? It happened in 1923…” 
   ∞ 
   Norwalk was a different town then. Not that I was here to see it—goodness no! But I have found several trips to our local library to be quite educational. There are history books with photographs and articles. My interest in such things began with Georgina Esposito. When I arrived here, the church in which she’d performed by gaslight so long ago was gone, with a bland insurance company risen in its place. I meant to return to Cleveland immediately, where I was staying with friends, but first wandered into the library, with hopes of discovering why Church Street no longer had a church on it. And I did indeed find out, though the story contains no romance, no drama. The old Methodist church was torn down so a larger one could be built nearby. This was done about 1895. 
   The razing may have lacked romance, but the pictures of Norwalk taken during that era certainly did not. In the silent, leather-lined aisles of that library exist a virtual treasure-trove of moments lost. I encourage you, dear boy, to visit it and see for yourself. What you will notice right away is the traffic. For about fifty years—between 1850 and 1900—Norwalk did not sleep as it does today. Businesses boomed on East and West Main. Banks, bars, restaurants, cigar shops. Drug stores, general stores. Basement barbers and snake oil cafes. Just down the street is a house with an old strawberry patch in the backyard; the owner used it to make ice cream—strawberry, of course—which he would then sell at a parlor. There were also dressmakers, blacksmiths, pastry chefs. Doctors and dentists. Lawyers. Tanners, milliners. Things were busy, is what I mean to put forth. Norwalk was a very busy place. A trolley car once ran the length of Main Street to help lighten the horse traffic, but goodness, to see the pictures you wouldn’t think it helped very much. There were horses everywhere. And carriages. And barefoot boys helping ladies down folding steps. These boys would then receive a half-penny for their chivalry, or perhaps a penny if luck favored. 
   The beginning of Norwalk’s decline is hard to pin down, but at a guess I would blame the closing of a large canal to the north, which once bore the largest merchant ships Lake Erie could float. Farmers would travel to the canal port, hoping to trade agricultural goods for money or equipment or whatever else might be needed for their fields. It all made for great business until about 1850, when the railroads came. Then, slowly, the wailing of horn-blowers was replaced by the whistle of trains. The once raucous canal became more and more silent. In 1858 a control dam failed, preventing large ships from entering the canal at all. This marked the absolute end of its use. The canal closed. It was over. Today you can walk the valley where it once functioned. Souvenirs for historians lie buried in the dirt. One windy spring morning a friend of mine found the top of an Elkington teapot, quite by accident, while cleaning his shoe on a rock. This actually happened. 
   The canal’s death may have marked the beginning of death for Norwalk, but for a number of years there was still hope among the horses. The St. Charles Hotel continued to thrive, and about 1894 a rather large glass block department store opened. It was here the woman I mentioned earlier met her demise. How exactly did it happen? Oh my, but the story is grim. 
   Two floors of the original glass block are all that stand today. If you’ve ever been to the video store at the corner of Main and Benedict, then you’ve been inside of it. But in 1894 it was  five stories high.  Majestic. Marvelous. None of the other business blocks could match it, or even come close. It faced northeast, as if to pay homage to this state’s great glass city, and in the mornings it glowed like a handsome, dignified man, while at night its many windows watched the moon in the way of poets in thought for a rhyme. Ah, Dante! I know it only from pictures, but how I wish my shoes could have pressured the clay walks of its living days. Hearing that may sound strange to you—a man from beauteous Italy fawning upon American architecture—but to find something so wondrous in a place so unlikely makes the thing even more wondrous still. 
   Much of what department stores sell today could be found inside. These included clothing, cooking utensils, pet supplies, health and beauty aids, household cleaning items, dishware, timepieces. And sporting goods, of course. It is said that the father of America’s famous NFL coach, Paul Brown, once bought a football there. You’re nodding, Dante. You must have heard that story. Do you believe it is true? Yes, so do I. 
   Getting back to the building. As I said, magnificent. Just down the road in Bellevue stood its twin. Both buildings were five stories high and both had a cupola on the roof where one could enjoy a no doubt breath-taking view of Ohio’s countryside. The Bellevue store’s fate is a mystery to me, but what happened to Norwalk’s will live in history books for all eternity. 
   It was 1923. August 5th. A Sunday. This was rather fortunate, for had the accident occurred during the work week many more people would have perished. As it stood, the store was closed for the day. Empty but for two stationary engineers who were new to the job. The previous engineer had retired, and it should be noted he voiced grave doubts to the management concerning these fresh applicants’ abilities. 
   They were in the basement when it happened. No doubt it was dark, lit only by that time period’s fitful flame. Did I also mention the basement was huge? It was. It had to be to provide foundation for such a tall building, as well as house the store’s massive Bigelow steam boiler. 
   Ah! The expression on your face, Dante! It has changed considerably. Your soul’s windows burn with the fires of deduction. The destination of my story has become plain, yes? And you are quite right. Regardless, we shall travel on. Perhaps the sights along the way will interest you. 
   The Bigelow ran the length of the basement’s east wall. It was black as the sixth hour of a water thief’s repose. To look at it one might have wondered why he could see no stars. To stand near it one might have felt a very disturbing and venomous regard—the gaze, if you will, of Friedrich Nietzsche’s well-remembered abyss. 
   Tending a boiler is not difficult, but one does need to be extremely cognizant. Most can withstand steam pressure of three hundred pounds per square inch. That gives a tender plenty of time to adjust the necessary valves should anything go wrong. Something did indeed go wrong that day in the basement of The Glass Block. At approximately 10AM the Bigelow’s pressure gauge began to rise, very slowly but very steadily. To this day no one knows the reason. Perhaps the boiler was old and in need of repair. Perhaps its two doomed tenders were not properly trained to adjust its valves. I rather think it was the latter, for at 11:30 a young chimney sweep cleaning the basement at that time reported an ominous knock coming from inside the Bigelow’s tank. He had no idea how to read a pressure gauge, but left the building immediately after informing the two tenders. 
   A wise lad he must have been, for at 12:05, the Bigelow exploded. Its ferocious cry of agony slaughtered the peacefulness of that Sunday noon. The new tenders were instantly killed, while every window of The Glass Block shattered and became as storming knives. Chunks of brick flew in all directions, some landing over a mile from the blast point. Flag poles fell over; sidewalks collapsed. 
   No one knew what had happened—not at first. The fire department raced fast as they could towards an arm of black smoke. A curtain of dust veiled the sun, making things hard to see, but it soon became apparent The Glass Block was burning. Firemen later discovered the Bigelow boiler on the roof, six stories removed from its proper place. The side of its belly was torn open. 
   Considerable damage had also been done to the rest of the building. As I’ve told you already, none of the windows survived. It was 6PM before the fire came under control. It burned until midnight, by which time the once magnificent store was completely gutted, a total loss. Her five stories still stood, but three of them were no longer safe and were eventually chopped off, like mold from a slice of bread. 
   The Glass Block never reopened. For about thirty years the building operated as an umbrella factory, then that closed, too. When I arrived in Norwalk it was a realty. Now, as you well know, it’s the video store. But remember, Dante, that it was once great and powerful, and that only a lack of love for what helped it be strong brought about its demise. 
   By the way, that woman I spoke of, the one who died by coincidence? She just happened to be standing right outside the block when it exploded. The sidewalk collapsed, pitching her into the basement, where her broken body burned to ash. Family members later recounted that she’d decided on a constitutional after that day’s church services. Alas, her health did not improve. Quite the opposite. As for coincidence… 
   Bah! I hope a part of that evil thing died in the basement with her, truly and with all my heart. 
   Poor, wretched girl.  La tua anima `e libera. 
   ∞ 
   “What does that mean?” Dante asked. 
   He did this almost every time he heard Donati speak Italian. Never once did the singer appear irritated; rather, he answered with a tone that sounded appreciative of Dante’s interest. 
   “Your soul is free,” the singer replied. 
   “Do you really believe that?” 
   “Indeed I do. Upon death the soul is unleashed. Unleashed, that is, to return to its one true owner.” 
   For the next half hour they spoke of other things, then Dante had to leave. His father expected him to rake the lawn before lunch. Hearing this, Donati carefully offered a sum of money to have the same done for  his  lawn, to which Dante agreed, promising to return later that day. By four o’clock all the leaves in front of 114 were in neat orange piles, ready for bagging. When he was finished Dante rang the front bell. Donati opened the door with ten dollars in his hand. 
   “Is this enough?” he asked, with pure innocence. 
   Dante told him that it was fine—more than fine. He then thanked the singer for his generosity. 
   “You’re a good lad,” Donati told him. “A very good lad.” 
   “Thank you, sir,” Dante said again. 
   “Take this Sunny girl out on a Coke date. Or perhaps for an ice cream.” 
   “That’s a good idea.” 
   “But remember…” the other began, only to let his thoughts trail off on a chill afternoon breeze. 
   “Yes?” Dante reached, hoping to bring them back. 
   Donati took a deep breath before continuing. “Remember that she is dangerous. I know this from what you have already told me. She is dangerous, Dante. Take care to make adjustments when the pressure grows too high.” 
   And on that piece of advice, he gently closed the door. 
       CHAPTER NINE:  A Drive North 
     At the end of October came a festival. Always at this time of year the local amusement park held one, for to summer a final farewell. 
     
   The park, called Cedar Point, named it  Hallow-weekends , as the festival only ran on those days. This was its third year and Dante had yet to go even once. He had always wanted to (Halloween was his favorite holiday) but could never think of a proper way to ask his parents. He knew from past visits—summertime visits—that amusement parks were not the cup of tea of his mom and dad. The huge roller coasters did not interest them (never once did they pause on the midway to gape at their enormous, gleaming skeletons). The junk food vendors did not please them. They found the smell of Sandusky Bay offensive (unless its odor approached from the hull of a yacht). Icky smells of candy and soda made them nauseous. The place was too noisy. The place was too crowded. All of these things and others Dante could ascertain just by looking at their faces, or listening to their voices when they told him—along with whomever friend had come along for the day—to be careful, and to be at such and such a place by lunchtime. 
   Hallow-weekends won’t be so bad,  Dante wanted to tell them, each and every year.  Most of the rides are closed; the vendors sell apple cider; the bay won’t smell because the air is cooler.  They would make good rebuttals for the elder Torns’ disapproving stares toward his request. Good, just not good enough. This year they had not taken him to Cedar Point at all. They might have had he asked, but more and more, their acquiescence for his follies seemed too awkward to endure. So Dante had decided upon silence last June. Now, in October, he did the same. 
   But it wasn’t Dante’s parents who finally took him to see  Hallow-weekends . It was Sunny’s. 
   It happened this way: The Monday after his botched cigarette prank he went to school late. The blame lay totally with him. He’d forgotten to set his alarm clock; thus, both he and it overslept. At eight o’clock he stepped into the principal’s office with an excuse paper from his mother (its message dashed off hastily over coffee and a croissant). 
   The secretary scowled from her desk. “What do  you  want?” she groaned. 
   Dante gave her the paper. “Late for school.” 
   “Again?” 
   “I haven’t been late all year.” 
   Now the woman snorted. “That’s what they all say, kiddo. And what do  you  want?” 
   This last was directed over Dante’s shoulder. Her turned to find Sunny walking in the door. As always, she was dressed in black. Her crooked smile dodged around Dante to find the secretary. 
   “Just a moment of your time,” Sunny obliged. She walked to the desk without looking at Dante, and from a small, neat bag she wore on a chain around her wrist, produced a slip of paper. 
   “Another excuse paper?” the secretary asked, as if the death of her would soon come about from them. 
   “Yes,” Sunny told her, “I’m afraid I overslept. Forgot to set the alarm.” 
   “Shame on you.” 
   “I know. I’m horrible. Luckily, Dante is here to walk me to class.” She raised her slender arm—the one with the bag on it—to Dante. “Shall we?” 
   “Of course,” Dante said, in a rush of unexplainable confidence. “You look rather lovely this morning.” 
   “Why thank you, kind sir!” 
   “Let me get the door.” He held it open, and in a whiff of shampoo and perfume, Sunny went through. Dante then turned back to the secretary, whose impatient face had turned to something more like one placed in the audience of a frightful magic show, so large were her eyes. “A pleasant day to you, Miss,” Dante sang, pretending to raise an invisible hat, the way gentlemen once did in that city by the Thames whose etymology hides in ancient tablets. 
   “Thank you,” the secretary got out timidly. 
   When the door was shut, both Dante and Sunny began to laugh. 
   “Well played,” Sunny said, “well played!” 
   “Have you been reading deep literature of some sort over the weekend?” 
   She shook her head. “No, no. It’s just when your dad drives you to school in a Jaguar every morning you sometimes feel baroque. It passes.” 
   “Did you really forget to set your alarm?” 
   “I really did, my dear. Why?” 
   Dante shrugged. “Coincidence. I forgot mine, too.” His mind went back to the rat in the girls’ locker room. And then there was the biting spider in the blond boy’s bag. Coincidence. 
   
   I hope a part of that evil thing died in the basement with her, truly and with all my heart. 
   
   They walked slowly down the dormant hall. Sunny put her head on his shoulder. Her boots clicked. “Page 101,” a teacher behind one of the doors called. From more distant still came the rumble of thunder. A storm was coming. 
   “Sorry about the cigarettes,” Dante said. 
   Her eyes flicked upward. “We’ll have to do better next time, won’t we?” 
   By  we,  of course, she meant  you.  Dante knew as much but held his tongue. 
   “Doing anything this weekend?” she asked. 
   “Nothing planned,” he answered. 
   They had reached the new wing, top of the ramp. Bright fluorescent lights shined on posters and doors. Two other seventh grade girls passed by in the other direction; both said hello to Sunny. 
   “Well,” Sunny said, after nodding to them, “why don’t you come with us to Cedar Point? They’re having a Halloween festival.” 
   Dante’s heart stumbled. Never once had she called upon him outside of school. Now this sudden invitation to an event he’d been wanting to see for years. 
   “By us,” he said, “you mean you and your parents?” 
   “That’s right. My dad’s driving.” 
   She added this final part as if it would make everything perfectly safe. And indeed, why shouldn’t it be? 
   One reason seemed clear enough. “Do they know about us?” he put forth. “Do they know we’re like…a couple?” 
   Sunny’s green eyes flashed again in that way that signaled danger. “We’re not  like  a couple, Dante. We  are  a couple. And yes, they know.” 
   “How do they feel about it?” 
   “It?” 
   “Yes. The relationship.” 
   They had passed through the foyer, with its myriad spooky decorations, and were now at the entrance to the cafeteria, where Sunny would go for period one study hall. She stopped. Her grip on his arm tightened. 
   “Thank you for walking me, Dante. Now then. Would you like to come with us this weekend or…do you have someone better to buy pumpkin spice coffee for?” 
   “Sunny.” 
   The green in her eyes continued its vehemence. Such was its capering Dante could only think of imps before their stoning by sublimity. He knew he had only seconds to say the right thing, otherwise she would turn on her heel without a word and not speak to him until maybe Thanksgiving. 
   “Sunny,” he told her, “I would love to come with you this weekend. What time should I be at your house?” 
   The capering stopped; the flame went out. Crisis averted. Smiling, Sunny pulled him a little way down the hall, to a place where no one would see. Here she took a small slip of paper from her bag and wrote her address:  911 Wooden Tee Lane, Sycamore Hills. 4PM sharp! 
   “Sharp,” Dante said after reading it. 
   “That’s right,” she replied. Her eyes widened crazily. “Sharp as the stakes of Salem. Be there!” 
   “I will,” he promised. It was always nice to see her so happy. 
   “Thanks, Dante!” And before dashing off to study hall, she stood on tip-toe to give him the sweetest good-bye kiss, he might have mistaken it for a good and proper girl’s. 
   ∞ 
   The week passed happily enough. Dante walked to class with Sunny when he could (besides homeroom they only shared one other together). He ate lunch with her and her friends. In the afternoon they said goodbye at his locker, or sometimes her locker, always with that entourage of girlfriends standing close, their strange smiles hovering like Valentine’s Day balloons over a haunted dance floor. Every now and then between classes, Maris’ face would appear among the throng of migrating students. At these times the effect on Sunny’s confidence was passing but noticeable. Her chatter stopped; her grip on Dante’s arm tightened. Once, toward the end of the week, Maris drifted near their lunch table to talk with Mr. Wolfe. All of the girls with Sunny went quiet and bowed their heads. Sunny also went quiet. Her gaze, however, was defiant, locked with hatred on the girl she considered her enemy, whether by nature or bad fortune. Curious, Dante tried to get her attention. It was like she didn’t hear. She would not even look at Dante until at last Maris went away, at which point everything returned to normal. 
   His father okayed the trip to Hallow-weekends. It happened on Wednesday night, after Dante knocked on the door of his study and was told to come in. This room was even more hushed than the rest of the house, with its thick brown carpet and heavy oak paneling. On one wall hung a painting of a tree, ripe with fruit. The opposite wall contained a fireplace, lit for the chill evening, where thumbprints of dead bricklayers could be seen in the mortar. 
   “Hello, Dad.” 
   “What is it, Dante?” 
   The older Torn had turned in his seat. His face was like petrified wood, his dark hair neat as a doll’s. No emotion but vague annoyance at being disrupted (he was an accountant; six papers formed a triangle on his desk) tainted his eyes. 
   “I was invited by a friend to go to Cedar Point this weekend. Is it all right?” 
   Almost without hesitation, Mr. Torn said: “Yes, that’s fine.” A silence then burgeoned between them, wherein the only noise came from the fireplace. “Is that all?” Dante’s father wanted to know. 
   “Yes. Thanks, Dad.” 
   “Goodnight, Dante.” And without waiting for his son to leave, Mr. Torn returned to his work. He did not even ask on which day of the weekend the trip would fall, or at what time, or for how long. 
   “Goodnight,” Dante said. 
   But Mr. Torn was no longer listening. 
   ∞ 
   On Saturday, as the sun neared its unwarming meridian, Dante left number 54 in a black leather jacket. A long walk to Sycamore Hills came next, yet being a summertime paperboy he scarcely minded. The autumn wind lent vigor to his bones. Dry leaves rushed on the sidewalk, trailing scents of sap and wood. Cardboard skeletons danced to jangling wind chimes. When he came to Mr. Donati’s house he saw the old opera singer on the front step, a broom in his hands, sweeping dirt from its threshold. Dante called and waved. The older man smiled and waved back. 
   “Busy morning?” he asked. 
   “Busy day. Spending it with Sunny by the lake.” 
   At this Donati’s head tilted slightly, as if amused by Dante’s insisting proximity to things better left with space. “Sounds romantic.” 
   “Perhaps.” 
   The tilt straightened to allow a burst of good-natured laughter. “Perhaps, he says! Perhaps! Come back tomorrow and tell me about perhaps!” 
   Fifteen minutes later Dante came to the entrance of Sycamore Hills. A pair of wide drives—an entrance and an exit—plunged into a realm of neat, expensive one-level ranch style houses that overlooked a golf course. Keeping to the right side of the entrance lane, Dante entered. Sycamore Hills had only been around since the fifties; thus, none of the homes looked remotely old as his own. Their lawns were large and green and lovingly mowed. BMWs snoozed in many of their driveways, but Dante also noticed Subarus, Saabs, and even the occasional Porsche. Saplings lined the walks; behind the houses, however, loomed larger trees planted for protection against dimpled spheres. 
   At every intersection he read the signs for Wooden Tee Lane, though he already knew from Sunny that it was further back. Here was Fairway Lane, which led to a parking lot near the clubhouse. Here was Pin Drive, which became a cul-de-sac. Dante walked all the way to a row of elms overlooking the ninth green. The row also provided afternoon shade for Wooden Tee Lane, which Dante now entered, checking the house numbers for 911. 
   He needn’t have bothered. A girl—Sunny—waved to him from the porch of a blue house with yellow shutters. 
   “ Ciao, Dante!” 
   From the way she stood at the rail the house might have been a ship approaching port. In fact she was not at the rail but  on  it, the toes of her boots pointing through the lower plank of wood. Excited to see her after such a long walk, Dante waved back. The wind played with her hair, raising it like a serpent on a pungi’s song. He approached the house at a swift gait while she in turn ran to the top step of the porch, where she did a twirl, fanning the hem of her purple dress. 
   “Handsome jacket,” she said, feasting her eyes. Then: “Come inside! My mom and dad want to meet you!” 
   Her hand reached out and fairly dragged him up the steps. Seconds later they were entering a dark, austere living room with hardwood floors and leather furniture. The smell of pipe tobacco greeted him. Wood smoke. Old library books. On a coffee table rested a bowl of fruit. 
   “Take one, Dante,” Sunny offered. “Go on. They’re delicious.” 
   “Really?” 
   “Of course!  Daddy! ” she shouted towards a flight of stairs.  “He’s here!” 
   The sound of footsteps crossed the ceiling. They reached the stairs, started down. A pair of legs in black trousers appeared at the railing, and then long arms in a blue silk shirt. Dante put on what he hoped was his best smile for the occasion—friendly but not too wide, pleasant but respectful. He felt Sunny’s hand slide around his waist. Her own smile was much brighter. She stood on tip-toe for a moment, dropped back down. Clearly this introduction had been on her mind for a long time. 
   “Daddy?” she said to the tall, lithe man who was now at the bottom of the stairs. “ This  is Dante. Dante? Daddy.” 
   His thick black hair seemed to glow in the dim light, like the space around bodies celestial. Two deep-set eyes regarded him from a pale, smooth face that might have been chiseled from marble. He took a quiet, distinguished step towards Dante, and then another, and another still. His shoes made no sound despite the firmness of the floor. And when he spoke his voice, though lacking a cheerful arc through which to exit, was like that of a fine friend. 
   “Ah!” he sang, extending a hand. “Dante Torn. I’m very happy to finally meet you. My name is Brenton. My wife will be down in a minute.” 
   Brenton’s fingers were long and cool as a vampire’s. They slithered through Dante’s own, squeezed, and retreated. 
   “Hello, sir,” Dante said. “Thank you for having me today.” 
   The tall man’s eyes widened for a moment. “Oh, it’s no trouble at all. We’re glad you could make it. Sunny talks about you all the time.” 
   “Daddy!” Sunny interjected. 
   “All the time,” Brenton went on. “You should hear her. Dante this, Dante that, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.” 
   “Okay!” Sunny cut in for a second time. “Thank you, Daddy, for making our guest feel at home.” 
   “Sunny’s a very special girl,” Dante said, to which she gave a growl of exasperation. 
   But her dad only laughed. “Oh, don’t I know it. She’s been my daughter for twelve years. Can I get you a drink? We have soda. Juice. Beer.” 
   “ Daddy!” 
   “Okay I’m just kidding about the beer. We have a fully stocked kitchen though—“ 
   “I’ll fix him something,” Sunny said. “If I let you do it you’d probably burn the house down.” 
   “Good point,” Brenton said. “I’ll go back upstairs and see if your mother needs anything. Dante?” The long-fingered hand patted his shoulder. “Make yourself at home in the meantime. It shouldn’t be more than half an hour before we leave.” 
   “That’s fine, sir. Thank you again.” 
   The older man turned to go, then stopped to give Dante another look. “You’re a well-mannered lad,” he said appreciatively. “Sunny might actually know what she’s doing this time.” 
   And on that strange observation, he glided back upstairs. 
   ∞ 
   The kitchen was shiny and clean, with everything—pots, pans, dishes—properly arranged. Sunny bade him sit at the table, then fussily set about fixing him a light snack. 
   “I’m so sorry about my dad,” she all but gushed as she arranged some grapes on a plate. “He’s been sort of worried about boys starting to chase me around. I’m twelve now, getting to be that age, blah blah. And I’m like, Daddy  relax,  there’s nobody I’m interested in. This was before I met you of course.” 
   “He seems very nice to me,” Dante said, with more sincerity than he had felt in a long time. 
   Sunny put a plate of grapes and sliced cheese in front of him. She then took one of the grapes, held it to his lips. “Eat,” she purred. 
   He opened his mouth to apprehend the fruit from her fingers, yet in jesting reluctance she would not let go, so that his tongue brushed the softness of her skin, his lips the lacquered nail. Smiling now, Dante reached forth to cup her wrist, as one might cup a match to steady the flame. Here Sunny finally let go, only to seize another grape and duplicate the procedure. When two grapes were in his mouth she reached for a cube of cheese. 
   “One more,” she said, her tone that of a nurse giving medicine to a child. “Come on. I promise it won’t kill you.” 
   “Promises, promises,” he said around the grapes. 
   “That’s right. Now eat.” 
   He took the cheese into his mouth, using special care to let all three flavors—grapes, cheese, and girl—entwine themselves upon the canvas of his palate. 
   Sunny smiled. Her green eyes narrowed. “Good?” 
   “Very good. Thank you.” 
   From the other room came the sound of down-going footsteps. Still smiling, Sunny glanced in their direction. She pulled the plate away, went to the refrigerator, stowed it. Then Brenton entered the kitchen. 
   “We’re ready,” he said. 
   “Great,” Sunny told him. “So are we.” 
   ∞ 
   Dawn Desdemona was a short, quiet woman who looked like her daughter. Her hair was red, her eyes green, her skin creamy white. Her smiles were pleasant, her words welcoming. The only, slightly odd thing that Dante could see lay in her dress, which was black like something for a funeral, and her white lace gloves that seemed approximately one hundred years late for a completely different occasion. Nor was Dante the only one who took notice. Upon seeing her, Sunny told everyone to wait while she raced upstairs (her own dress was purple, the cut modern enough) to rummage about for a number of seconds. There came the sound of drawers opening and closing, the shuffling of clothes hangers. 
   “What are you looking for, dear?” Dawn called. 
   Then Sunny’s voice, muffled, slightly irritated: “My choker!” 
   “Top drawer, right side, plastic case!” 
   “Thank you!” 
   She came down with her neck wrapped in black lace. Pinned to the middle was what looked to be a tiny silver moth. 
   “It is a moth,” Sunny said, when Dante asked. “The nocturnal butterfly, that’s me.” 
   “Shall we go?” Brenton spoke. 
   The amusement park was about thirty minutes north of Norwalk. Brenton and Dawn made pleasant, desultory chatter with Dante at first, but soon began to ask him a number of innocent, unprying questions. It made sense considering the tilt he had brought upon their daughter’s life. Where did he live? What did his parents do for a living? Did he like school? Who were his favorite teachers? 
   “Sunny doesn’t like school,” Brenton revealed after Dante answered this last. “Can’t say I blame her. Most teachers know nothing about kids. They’re burned out, bored, irritated. We wanted to home school her—“ 
   “And I said  no ,” Sunny cut in. She was snuggled close to Dante, holding his hand. “Home schooling is anti-social.” 
   “You just like making mischief with your friends,” Dawn said. 
   “It  is  fun. Right, Dante?” She looked at him with an evil grin. 
   The Jaguar crossed the Milan Canal, which brought back Donati’s story from the previous week. On the spot Dante decided to give the Desdemona family a brief history lesson. Did they know, he asked, that this huge valley full of trees was once flooded with water? 
   Sunny peered out the window. “How deep was the water?” 
   “Deep enough,” Brenton suddenly said, “to anchor good little girls to the bottom and let them drown!” 
   All three Desdemonas laughed. Dante, stunned, could only blink. 
   “Well that leaves me out!” Sunny told them 
   “Beyond all doubt,” Dawn reassured with a mock roll of her eyes. “Beyond all doubt.” 
   A short drive through open country followed. Dante knew the route well. Pretty white farmhouses dotted forlorn crops of swaying wheat, their porch lights aglow in a day given over to that nymph of the golden ram, so they looked like fires upon a distant gray shore. 
   The tourist city of Perkins came next. Empty hotels pined for summer along a parkway which would not awake for some thirty days, at which time those celebrants of the Holy Son’s birth planned to stampede with green givings. They passed restaurants, malls, car lots, cycle shops. At one stoplight Dante saw a book with a broken spine lying dead on the curb. Not far down from there stood a new store. Its theme appeared to be adult fulfillment. Candy colored lights glowed in a window set with deviations meant to tempt and tease. A pair of red lips glistened on a pink sign. 
   “Wow!” Sunny said, in a surprising tone of admiration. “When did  this  place open up?” 
   “Maybe a month ago,” Brenton told her. “I read about it somewhere.” He glanced for a moment into the back seat. “Why? Does it interest you?” 
   If Sunny’s excitement was out of place, her dad’s grin at the headrest was downright perverse. Curious to get the mother’s reaction, Dante looked at Dawn, only to find that her lip, too, had become a crooked whirl, beneath eyes like those of a feline watching her young make a virgin kill. 
   “It’s cool all right!” Sunny chirruped, spinning in her seat to prolong the moment. When the view became further obstructed, she bounced across Dante’s lap to touch her nose to the glass. “We gotta come back!” 
   Come back?  Dante thought. 
   He shook his head. The Desdemonas were teasing him, that was all. Breaking in the new guy with silly jokes. Sunny’s weight shifted in his lap. Soft purple fabric brushed his arm. Her eyes were still at the window, though the shop had fallen far back. Suddenly he noticed Dawn again. She had turned to look straight at him, that strange smile still in place, and because Sunny resembled her so much it was as if, at that moment, the perfect adult version of the tween in his lap had stolen his attention for hostage in a wave of red, a flash of green. And then she turned away to pretend like nothing untoward had happened. 
       CHAPTER TEN:  Girl to Gorilla 
   
    A finger of land pointed north toward clean snows. On it a park had been built of six boroughs. 
   
     
   Or seven if one counted the huge parking lot, which was mostly empty on this late October afternoon. Brenton parked the Jaguar close to the gate and everybody piled out. Shockingly cold wind off the lake swept Dante’s hair. Immediately he took off his jacket and gave it to Sunny, who had begun to shiver. With a grateful smile she slipped her arms through its sleeves. The garment hung far too large on her tiny frame. Her chest had doubled in width; her hands had disappeared. 
   “How do I look?” she asked. 
   Only the truth would suffice. “Beautiful as ever,” Dante said. 
   Arm in arm, they followed her parents to the gate. Brown cornhusks were set up around the turnstiles. Jack-o-lanterns. Paper ghosts. In the ticket booth stood a tall girl wearing zombie make-up. Dante thought she’d done a rather decent job with the shading. Green skin faded to black eyes and bloody, drooling lips. She sold Brenton four orange tickets with cackling witches on them. He gave one to Sunny and one to Dante. 
   “Hooray!” Sunny yelled. 
   One at a time they went through the turnstiles—Sunny first, then Dawn, then Dante, then Brenton. A wide, gray midway met them on the other side, lined with shops colored for the season. Orange and black streamers fluttered from a number of small trees. Green witches grinned in yellow windows. Sunny gave a laugh. She was pointing at a maple grove to the left, where a large mannequin had been hanged by a noose from one of the branches. Its painted face gagged for air, which the teenaged couple posing next to it thought, to judge by their laughter, hilarious. 
   “Smile!” came the photographer’s muffled voice on the wind. 
   Immediately Sunny demanded that she and Dante copy their antics. Kicking through leaves, they entered the grove. The dummy swung and hit Dante on the shoulder. He pushed it back, which caused its head to loll and look straight at him. A spider crawled up his spine. The dummy’s face seemed familiar—crude, but familiar. Hairs from a messy brown wig hung across wide eyes framed with glasses. Fake, crooked teeth protruded from a frightened grimace. Frightened, or was it just being cagey? 
   “Say hello to Timothy Grass,” the photographer—a woman dressed like the bride of Frankenstein—said. “Then smile and hold still.” 
   “Got it!” Sunny said. “Hello Timothy!” 
   She stood on one side of the dummy, Dante the other. A Polaroid Instamatic picture was taken:  Click! Bzzzz!  The woman took the picture out, shook it, handed it to Dante. 
   “One dollar,” she said. 
   He paid with three quarters, two dimes, and a nickel. Then he evaluated the picture. It had come out reasonably well despite the dark day. He and Sunny were smiling, Sunny with her arm around Timothy’s waist. The dummy was not smiling, but its eyes had somehow managed to find the camera. Perhaps the wind shifted its body while Dante wasn’t looking. This could also be the explanation for its teeth, which had fallen partway out of its mouth to resemble a pair of vampire fangs. Seeing them called forth an odd memory from last year: 
   
   You’re going to get bitten, you’d better believe it. You’re going to get bitten. 
   
   “Dante?” Sunny said. “Everything okay?” 
   He turned to her. “Yeah,” he replied, though he wasn’t entirely sure. “Yeah. The dummy’s just creepy, that’s all.” 
   The remark earned him an elbow to the ribs. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Sunny told him. “No, sir.” 
   ∞ 
   He initially assumed she meant the park, and indeed, that assumption gained weight the further along the midway they walked. Nor could all of this be credited to the decorations. For one thing, the wind was getting stronger, swirling leaves high over the deserted fun-rides. Dante saw a number of parents herding their children into cafes for hot chocolate and began to wish he could have one, too. For another the day, though it wasn’t yet three o’clock, had turned dark enough to make most side streets off the midway look haunted. Cobblestones painted to look old beckoned from narrow, dreary passages. A few patrons, coaxed by their call, whispered from quaint marble doorsteps. Some smoked cigarettes. Others had transistor radios. From one alley a girl in a ripped skirt—a girl Sunny’s age—looked at Dante, and he could swear her eyes glowed green. 
   Then they were past her. Never minding the wind, the Desdemonas guided him leisurely through a smattering of less lively autumn displays—dry, dormant fountains; closed ice cream parlors—until they came to a puppet show set near the foot of Cedar Point’s giant Ferris wheel. Here two puppets, a girl and a man, were playing a scene with a mock Ferris wheel designed to look like the giant one. The girl, shaking in terror, kept looking at the ride and telling the man she didn’t want to get on. 
   “Don’t be silly!” the man said. “When’s the last time you saw a Ferris wheel fall over?” 
   “I dreamed about it!” came the girl’s squeaky reply. 
   “You shouldn’t put stock in dreams! They mean nothing!” The man’s plastic foot stamped on the stage. “ Nothing I tell you! Now get on!” 
   “No!” 
   “Little lady!” 
   Suddenly the Ferris wheel began to shake. Children in the audience began to point and laugh. 
   “It’s falling!” the girl screamed. 
   And the man: “Run! Run!” Over the course of one second his opinion on Ferris wheels had done a total one-eighty. 
   “Oh  no! ” the girl screamed again in a far more sarcastic tone of voice. “No, Rudolph! Ferris wheels don’t fall over! Let’s have a picnic on the grass!” 
   “Are you crazy, girl!  Run! ” 
   Everyone in the audience was laughing now. Dante could feel Sunny trying to control herself but losing the battle. The Ferris wheel shook once more, slid over to where Rudolph was standing, and fell flat on top of him— SPLAT! 
   “ YAY!”  the children yelled. 
   Instantly appreciative of this, the girl puppet did a number of curtseys, pausing only to wave and say  Thank you! Thank you! You’re all beautiful! 
   “Encore!” Sunny shouted. “Throw him off the Millennium Force!” 
   Rudolph heard. He crawled from under the Ferris wheel and shook his fist at Sunny. Ever the deviant juvenile, Sunny stuck out her tongue, to which Rudolph responded by turning around to shake his bottom at her. This put the audience into absolute hysterics. Wild laughter flew about in all directions. Even Sunny thought it hilarious. Tears flowing, she grabbed Dante’s shoulder for support. He laughed right along with her. Brenton and Dawn did too. Everyone was laughing like never before until Rudolph suddenly stopped shaking his butt and fell down for the second time. 
   Dante noticed it first. Rudolph wasn’t moving anymore. He looked, indeed, as dead as the wood that formed his essence. Gradually the laughter died down. Bemused adults blinked at the stage; children went back to their lollipops. Meanwhile Rudolph continued to be dead. Assuming the show had ended, people began to wander away. Then the girl puppet also fell over, and from behind the booth a lady began to scream: 
   “Gary!  Gary! Oh my god! ” 
   “What’s going on?” somebody next to Dante asked. 
   He opened his mouth to say he didn’t know, at which moment Brenton cut in: “I think the puppeteer had a seizure. From my angle I could see him fall down and start…you know, shaking.” 
   “Jesus,” the somebody said. 
   “A seizure?” Dante said. “Seriously?” 
   Brenton shrugged as if he couldn’t be less interested. “That’s what it looked like. How about we walk over to the freak shows? Those are always a hoot.” 
   Dante looked again towards the puppet booth. Two paramedics were now on the scene. One of them had kneeled to talk to the puppeteer. The puppeteer’s eyes were open, and he was nodding at the paramedic. 
   “He’ll be all right,” Sunny’s voice said at his ear. “If it’s really epilepsy then he shouldn’t have gotten everyone laughing so hard. Harsh noise can trigger seizures almost as easily as blinking lights.” 
   “But it  was  funny,” Dante told her. 
   Sunny’s head tilted. “Was it really?” 
   “Well…” 
   “Hey you two!” Dawn called, and Dante was surprised to see that both parents were already fifty feet down the next lane, which was sprinkled with wood chips. “We’re going to Frontier Town! Coming with us?” 
   “Of course we are!” Sunny cheered. She grabbed Dante’s wrist. “Come on, you. Show’s over here.” 
   About that he couldn’t argue. The area in front of the puppet booth looked forlorn. The audience had dispersed, leaving its used candy wrappers to dance in the wind. Not wishing to be counted among the abandoned, Dante let Sunny guide him away. 
   ∞ 
   Frontier Town greeted them with the smell of wood smoke. Its source lay somewhere along a dirt road made up to resemble an old west mining town. There was a saloon, a general store, a blacksmith, a tailor. Of all the boroughs at Cedar Point, this remained Dante’s favorite. Character-wise it couldn’t be beaten. From the saloon’s crooked wooden porch, littered with broken peanut shells, to the steamer from parts north that whistled in a pinewood depot, the terrain might have been authentic enough for an Eastwood picture. 
   As if he could read Dante’s thoughts, Brenton asked if anyone was hungry, and if so, maybe they could grab a bite in the saloon. They went inside to find a tavern filled with chatter and piano music. More peanut shells littered the floor. Brenton ushered everyone into a candlelit booth with ripped leather seats. Then he snapped his fingers at a pretty young waitress, who froze as if bitten by an insect. 
   “Four ham and cheese sandwiches,” Brenton said when she got to the table. 
   “And to drink?” the waitress asked. 
   Brenton tipped her a wink. “Pitcher of beer for me and the missus. Two Cokes for the kids. Oh and bring glasses for those Cokes, please.” 
   The waitress wrote it all down, clicked her pen, and disappeared. 
   “That,” Brenton said to Dante, “is how you do help.” He was no longer smiling. His eyes, in fact, had turned deadly serious. “Keep it friendly but don’t let them forget you mean business.” 
   “Yes, sir,” Dante replied. 
   “Too much patience,” the other continued, leaning forward, “and you stumble, and you fall to their level. You become content with failure, because hey”—now he leaned back, spreading his arms, smiling—“everyone likes you! What else do you need? Is that what you want, Dante? To be an amicable failure?” 
   “No, sir.” 
   The arms dropped. “Good lad. Good lad. Anyway, my Sunny’s sweet enough for the both of you. Isn’t that right, dearest?” 
   “Right as rain, Dad,” she said. 
   From under the table Dante felt her hand take his knee. She kept it there until the drinks arrived, at which point Brenton poured out, ordering him and Sunny to open the Cokes but leave their glasses alone. 
   “It’s dark in here,” he said, lifting the pitcher of beer. “No one’s going to notice. Or care.” 
   And with that, he filled Dante’s glass to the brim with foaming gold brew. Sunny’s came next, then Dawn’s, then his own. 
   “ See them tumblin’ down!”  the piano player began to sing.  “Pledgin’ their love to the ground! Lonely but free I’ll be found! Driftin’ along with the tumblin’ tumbleweeds!” 
   “Dante?” 
   He looked at Brenton, who was looking back steadily. “Drink up.” 
   “But the waitress,” he stammered. 
   “What about her?” 
   “She’ll be coming back any minute with the sandwiches!” 
   “Then empty your glass quickly, before she arrives.” 
   “Go ahead, Dante,” Sunny said. In the candlelight her smile seemed to glow like a fire bolt struck through the heart of a lamb. “What’s wrong? Never had beer before?” 
   “ I’ll know when night has gone! That a new world’s born at dawn! I’ll keep rollin’ along! Deep in my heart is a song!” 
   “Boo!” one of the patrons shouted. 
   “Shut up!” yelled somebody else. 
   “ Driftin’ along with the tumblin’ tumbleweeds!” 
   Dante looked at his mug of beer. It was full to the brim—nothing like the little sips his dad would give him at parties from time to time. 
   “Time to earn your man card, Dante,” Brenton’s shadowy figure spoke. He raised his mug, Dawn hers, Sunny hers. “To young love,” the father said in a thoughtful voice. “May it be quick and keen as death’s arrow spearing. May it burn hot as the inhumed sea. And may the two of you, Dante and Sunny, be ever toward it endearing.” 
   Dante picked up his mug. He clinked it with the others (Sunny’s tiny arm trembled slightly with the weight of hers, making him wonder if she could really quaff such a large helping). Then he began to drink. 
   The first gulp refreshed him. The second was bitter. The third burned his throat. 
   Sunny couldn’t finish. Her mug hit the table half empty. Brenton’s mug—completely drained—followed. Then came Dawn’s, also empty. 
   “Come on, kiddo!” Brenton cheered. “You can do it!” 
   Dante took two more swallows. His head had begun to swim. The entire saloon now felt as if it were floating gently on Lake Erie. Over the glass he could see Brenton’s eyes twinkling like stars upon full masts. He took two more swallows. Sunny put her hand on his shoulder. “Do it, baby,” she whispered. 
   Determined not to disappoint her, he tilted the mug back farther. Farther. The beer trickled away. Almost gone. Almost gone. 
   Ah! 
   Now there was only foam! Victorious, Dante drank that too, then slammed the mug down hard enough to make the candle jump. 
   “ Whoo-hoo!”  Sunny screamed, throwing her arms round his neck. 
   “Well done!” Brenton pronounced. “I’m very pleased!” 
   For a moment Dante felt he might pass out on the floor. Sunny rescued him with a kiss on the cheek, which boosted his vigor. 
   Dawn began to clap. “You’ve got a  man  all right,” she told her daughter. In his drunken state Dante tried hard to deduce the amount of sarcasm in her tone. Yet she seemed quite sincere, and her face, like the others’, was radiant with pride. “It’s about time!” 
   ∞ 
   It was six o’clock by the time they reached the freak tents. Night had fallen, to which end the park became fully alive. Ghouls and ghosts capered in the streets. Some of them gave candy to the kids. Others tried to scare the teens and tweens. Sunny fell victim to this last, all but jumping into Dante’s arms when a green zombie lunged from behind the general store. Still feeling heroic, he pulled her close, shielding her body from the undead creature’s terrible maw. 
   “ ARRRGHHH!”  the zombie snarled. 
   “Arrgh yourself!” Dante told it. 
   “ Would you like me to eat your braiiinnns?” 
   “No, thank you. I still use them from time to time.” 
   Cowering behind his shoulder, Sunny had gone from screaming to laughing. “Atta boy, Dante!” she said. “You ain’t afraid of no ghosts!” 
   The tents were not typically an attraction for Cedar Point—or at least, Dante couldn’t remember seeing them before. About ten stood at the edge of Frontier Town, each with a crier to tempt passers-by through their dark doors. 
   “See the Amazing Bertha!” one yelled. “Fattest woman in the history of humankind! Seven-hundred pounds of pure, sickening blubber! You’ll be shocked! Appalled! Disgusted!” 
   How politically correct,  Dante thought dryly, his eyes on a picture of what looked to be a whale in a flower print dress. 
   “Ladies and gentlemen!” came the scream of another from across the street. “Ladies and gentlemen, inside this tent is an atrocity so stunning, so terrifying, you won’t believe your own eyes! Come and behold… the two-headed man! ” 
   The crier stepped aside to reveal a cartoon drawing of a two-headed man. One of the heads wore an evil, twisted sneer, the other looked stupid enough to poop its own pants. 
   Brenton and Dawn paid it zero attention. They did, however, pause in front of another tent, where a giant picture of a snarling gorilla towered over the midway. 
   “Halo!” the crier sang, smelling fresh blood. He wore a checkered suit complete with cane and tweed top hat. To Dante, he looked perfectly ridiculous. “So you want to see the gorilla? Of course you do!” 
   “Of course we do,” Brenton said, nudging at Dawn’s rib. 
   “Ah!” the crier spieled on. “But the gorilla can only manifest itself through the body of a beautiful young girl! A young girl…like  this  one!” His white-gloved hand pointed directly at Sunny, who blinked but could not form a reply. 
   “You mean Sunny?” Brenton asked. 
   “Is that her name? Lovely! Perhaps she would be willing to take the stage! And then undergo a truly  fascinating  transformation!” 
   It was Dawn who spoke next. “You want to turn my daughter into a gorilla?” she said. 
   “Oh it won’t be  me , madam! Instead, why don’t we make it her very own father!” 
   Brenton’s eyes grew wide. “Now see here, young man,” he blustered, “you can’t possibly think that I would ever—“ 
   “Do such a thing!” the crier finished. As he spoke he raised his voice even higher, so that passers-by on the street could take notice.  “Oh no! How could I ask a father to turn his sweet baby girl into a full grown gorilla? A beast! A monster! Well the answer is simple!” 
   “Tell me,” Brenton demanded. 
   A crowd of people were now gathering around the entrance to the tent. Sunny’s face wore an expression of one highly amused. She looked from one patron to the next, before finally settling her eyes on Dante. “Girl to gorilla,” she said. 
   “I doubt it,” he told her. 
   “Wait and see.” 
   “Because I see by your face that you think it’s impossible!” came the crier’s answer. The crowd was getting larger by the moment. Elbows bumped Dante’s ribs. Voices, most of them male, began to egg Brenton on. “Well, sir,” the crier said overtop them, “if it’s so impossible, then why not give it a try!” 
   “Yeah!” somebody shouted. “Go on! Change her into a monkey!” 
   “ Gorilla!”  corrected the man in the checkered suit. 
   “Whatever! Come on! I’ve got five bucks says it can’t be done!” 
   “And I’ve got ten,” Brenton said, grinning at the crier. Then, to Sunny: “What do you think? Wanna try?” 
   “Sure!” the girl replied. 
   Her answer didn’t surprise Dante. She would of course love the attention. Devour it like Hercules’ Nemean lion would a finger. 
   To a round of delighted applause, Brenton and Sunny walked into the tent. Dante and Dawn went next (as friends of the act, they didn’t need a ticket). Dim light welcomed them. Weak bulbs flickered on massive support posts. The floor consisted of odiferous yellow grass sprinkled with old popcorn. In front was a stage made of plywood. It smelled of spruce and glue. Sunny followed her father behind it, looking back at Dante once to blow him a kiss. 
   “Front row seats,” Dawn said to him. “That’s nice.” 
   There were no seats, of course. Everyone wishing to see the show had to stand. This fact in no way deterred the curious. Within minutes a hundred people occupied the tent. Once more Dante felt elbows getting too close. Heard puffs of hot breath. They talked in low tones—almost whispers—in regard to some undocumented respect for darkened rooms. Dante did his best not to pay attention. It wasn’t hard. A large purple curtain, the color of Sunny’s dress, hung over the stage. Along its hem he could see movement. Shuffling feet. People were working on the other side. Trying to set up whatever it was that needed setting up. 
   “What’s taking so long?” somebody wanted to know, though it hadn’t really been all that long. Five minutes at most. Yet the arrow of the complaint must have struck its target, for at that moment a jittery, creepy music piece began to play. High piano notes in staccato accompanied by guttural bass lines. Dawn informed him it was called  The Witch  by Tchaikovsky. When it was over the crier from outside took the stage. Smiling in the gloom, he raised his hands for silence. Everyone, including the complainer, obliged. 
   “Thank you!” the crier spoke. “Thank you all! The show—the most horrific show ever in the history of midway spectacles—is about to begin. Our subject is a sweet young girl, twelve years old, who will soon change, before your very eyes, into a savage gorilla!” 
   “ YAYYY!”  the crowd cheered. 
   “ SAVAGE!”  repeated the crier, to even more cheers. “Huge and bloodthirsty! Utterly insane! A monster to give you nightmares!” 
   “Really,” Dante heard Dawn say. “My Sunny isn’t a monster!” 
   “ Are you ready?”  the crier’s voice shrieked. 
   And the crowd:  “YES!” 
   “ Are you READY?” 
   “ YES!” 
   Dante covered his ears. He didn’t know how good the crier’s act would be, nor did it seem to matter either way. To judge by the noise his audience was already well pleased. 
   “One more thing!” the crier sang out, raising his index finger. “One more thing! It should be noted here that I have instructed the girl’s  very own father in how to change her!” 
   “ NO! NO WAY!” 
   “Yes way! And to prove it, ladies and gentlemen let me introduce you to the kindly, the elegant, the distinguished,  Mister Brenton Desdemona!” 
   Everyone applauded like lunatics as the curtain flew back to reveal Brenton, standing stage left, and Sunny, tiny and dainty, locked inside of an iron cage. 
   “Hello, Mr. Desdemona, hello!” said the crier. “You have a very lovely daughter!” He then held his microphone to Brenton’s lips. 
   “Thank you,” Brenton replied. “It’s a pleasure to be here.” 
   “Oh!” came the crier’s mock expression of surprise. “We have a gentleman in our midst! And tell me, Mr. Desdemona, do you feel you can incant the proper words to transform this beautiful girl into the hideous beast we saw on the poster outside?” 
   Brenton smiled. To Dante he looked perfectly at ease with his position. “Absolutely,” he told everyone. “It will be…very easy.” 
   At this the audience began to cheer again. A few of the men even threw their hats. It had no effect on Brenton. His face remained sober, his smile serene. He looked down at Dante and winked. 
   “Come on!” the crier said, all disbelief.  “Easy?” 
   “My daughter,” Brenton said, never once taking his eyes from Dante, “always does whatever I tell her to do.” 
   “ YAYYY!”  erupted the crowd. 
   “You heard him, everyone!” yelled the crier. “Anything he wants done, gets  done!  So without further ado, let’s have our show!” 
   The tent continued in the way of old Bedlam for another minute, until finally Brenton raised his arms. Instantly his canvassed audience fell silent. Thanking them for their subordination, he turned to Sunny, who had waited through everything with a smile more crooked than the Cuyahoga, and eyes shining green in the peaked light. 
   The crier handed him his mic. Brenton nodded, raised it to his lips. “How are you feeling?” he asked Sunny. 
   “Pretty good!” she spoke into the mic. “A bit cramped but good.” 
   Titters from the crowd. A few coughs. 
   “Cramped?” Brenton said. “Well once you’re a gorilla it’s going to be a lot more cramped.” 
   “I know!” 
   “Think you can handle this?” 
   “Oh yes! No problem!” 
   “Then let’s begin. Take a deep, deep breath.” 
   “ AHHHHHH!”  Sunny gasped, filling her small, thin chest to its utmost capacity. 
   “Good girl! Now let it out slow.” 
   “ Phewwwww!” 
   “Marvelous. Now then. Close your eyes. Clear your mind. Relax your muscles.” 
   Dante watched her take another deep breath, wait five seconds, and release it. He tried to see behind her, to the back of the cage, where doubtless a double in a gorilla suit was waiting for his cue to step forth. But no. The show’s collaborators had everything locked down water tight. Dante could find nothing in the gloom save for the eagerness of his own imagination to conjure terror. This, of course, was precisely what the act intended. Its religion was a sham, its promises hollow. Its wrapping paper, however, could not have been more enticing were it moist with the waters of Tartarus which ebbed and flowed in that place far underfoot. Thus Dante watched, transfixed. He could not move or even think to move. The act had him in its clutches. 
   “Gorilla,” Brenton said softly into the cage. “Think of a gorilla. Large. Muscular. Bestial.” 
   Submerged in darkness, Sunny stood, eyes closed, breathing slowly. Her hair was frozen fire. Her face glowed pale, the face of a girl long dead, painted on a locket with loving hand, forgotten, discovered, forgotten again. A girl in the attic, defying time. 
   “Gorilla, gorilla, gorilla,” Brenton said. 
   And then it began to happen. Sunny’s breath caught. Several members of the audience gasped with her as, from what Dante could tell, patches of black hair grew on her neck, her hands. Squinting, he once more cast his doubt forth in attempt to penetrate the ruse, to see beneath its mask. Once more it resisted. Its game was elaborate. Hair now sprouted over Sunny’s arms and face. Dante watched, horrified, as her lips oozed forward, became large, misshapen. Primal. 
   “Good girl,” Brenton told the now half-beast. “Keep your mind on the gorilla. Nothing else matters. There is only gorilla.” 
   Sounds of ripping fabric came from the cage. Sunny’s dress was tearing. The body within had grown far too large for its seams. 
   “Gorilla!” 
   More black hair, bursting from skin turned dry as barren rock left to the flames of Betelgeuse for many millions of years. 
   “ Gorilla!” 
   Sunny grunted. Growled. Her eyes, feverish yellow, regarded the audience with hungry contempt. She was six feet tall. Maybe more. 
   “Gorilla.” 
   Dante could even smell her. It was the smell of animals in cages, to which she had exactly become. Sneering at the audience, she stepped forward.  Loped  forward. Primeval. A creature from another time. Rudimentary. Crude. 
   “Sunny?” Brenton called. “Sunny, are you in there?” 
   Her bulging, neanderthalic head turned, looked at him. Dante could hardly breathe. He felt all alone in the tent. The crowd had ceased to exist. 
   “It’s me. Your father.” 
   A slow growl rolled from the beast’s wiry neck. Its lips pulled back, revealing huge, blocky teeth. 
   “Do you recognize me?” Brenton went on. “Sunny?” 
   She didn’t. Or if she did, she was too agitated by her confinement to care. Snarling, she seized hold the bars of the cage. 
   “Sunny, no!” 
   People in the front row began to move back. Dante and Dawn followed. Worried voices rose toward the canvas roof, growing hotter, more intense, with every moment. 
   “Sunny!” 
   
   What’s going on what’s she doing? 
   
   
   I don’t know! 
   
   
   Move back! Move back! 
   
   Sunny’s huge arms shook the bars, which clanged and rattled but did not give. Some of the women started to scream, clawing their way toward the exit. 
   “Please!” Brenton told them. “It’s okay! She can’t get out!” 
   The beast’s arms bulged as it shook the bars harder.  Harder.  Harder.  The entire cage began to slide sideways. Dante saw it threaten to tip, then he saw something else. A padlock in front of the cage had broken. It lay on the floor, murdered, its hasp a broken neck. 
   “Dante!” Dawn yelled. “I think we should leave!” 
   “Oh my word!” came Brenton’s voice, horrified. “The lock! It’s broken!  Be quiet everybody! I need to change her back!” 
   His command produced the exact opposite effect. Rather than shut up, everyone shrieked and bolted. Bags of popcorn hit the grass. Lollipops. Ice cream cones. Dante turned to run and almost tripped over a little red-haired girl no more than five years old. Tears streamed down her bawling face. Her hands shook with terror. 
   “ Daddddyyyyyy!” 
   “Whoa!” Dante said. He knelt and put his arms around her. “It’s okay, little girl, we’ll find your daddy.” 
   “ I’m scared!” 
   “Nothing’s gonna hurt you, I promise.” 
   A tremendous crash exploded from the stage. Dante turned to see the gorilla had gotten free. It kicked the door of the cage, which flew and nearly struck Brenton a killing blow, missing his head by scant feet. 
   Dante scooped the girl up. His idea now was to run fast as he could to the exit. Most of the audience had already done that very thing. The way was clear, or relatively clear. He could see Dawn, calling for him to  move, move!  Behind her was a short, skinny man who had lost his hat. He bent, picked it up— 
   And then someone—something—picked  Dante  up. 
   He let go the girl an instant before he was spun around to face what it was. The gorilla had him! Bulbous yellow eyes, buried in a black mop of tangled hair, burned inches from his own. Hot breath puffed onto his face. Its mouth scowled, drew in air, and bellowed a furious roar load enough to shake the lights. 
   “ Daddy!”  the girl behind him continued to scream.  “Dadddddyyyyy!” 
   “ DADDY!”  the monster barked at Dante, mocking her.  “DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!”  Then it dug its claws deeper into his arms.  “I’M GONNA EAT YOU LITTLE BOY! EAT YOU, EAT YOU, EAT YOU!” 
   “ Dadddyyyyy!” 
   Dante could do nothing but stare in horror at the beast’s terrible face. Its maw opened to reveal teeth strong enough to break bones. And so they would. 
   “ TIME TO BITE OFF YOUR HEAD!” 
   “ Dadddyyyy!” 
   Roaring again, the beast brought Dante’s face to its jaws. 
   “Daddy? Daddy. Helloooo, Daddy.” 
   “Hello, sweetheart,” Brenton said pleasantly from over the beast’s shoulder. “Everything okay?” 
   “Oh, sure,” the little girl behind Dante replied. “But I think the show’s over.” 
   The beast spoke next. “Yeah,” it agreed, putting its victim down. “We’re good.” 
   As soon as his feet touched the ground Dante whirled to find that the little red-haired girl had aged approximately seven years. Through some trickery he had yet to understand, or even question, Sunny Desdemona now occupied the place of the bawling child. Her glimmering face appeared quite calm. She smiled at Dante. 
   “How?” he plumed, for want of anything better. “I…I don’t get it.” 
   “You got it all right,” Sunny told him. “Got it good!” 
   People were now filing back into the tent. Some of them pointed. Others laughed. Dante turned around to see that the beast had removed its mask. Beneath shined the grinning face of the crier. 
   “My apologies,” he said. 
   Furious, Dante was about to tell him where he could stick his apology, when it suddenly became clear that the crier was asking forgiveness from somebody else. Namely, the man behind him. Brenton. 
   “We’re not lost yet,” Sunny’s father assured. 
   Still looking at Dante, the crier asked: “No?” 
   “Not at all. You can go get dressed. We’re through here.” 
   Without another word the costumed man turned and disappeared behind the stage, leaving Dante as he’d entered this place, with Brenton, Dawn, and Sunny. 
   “Why is he mad?” Dante wanted to know. “I’m the one who should be mad. I  am  mad.” 
   Brenton raised a brow. “Are you?” 
   In truth Dante wasn’t sure, which probably made the answer  no.  Flustered, yes. Confused, absolutely. “Just tell me why he apologized,” he demanded. “Did the act fail? It sure felt scary enough to me.” 
   “No,” Brenton replied, icy calm in the unvigorous light. “Not scary enough. You hesitated. Revealed empathy.” 
   “What’s wrong with doing that?” 
   “Ah.” 
   Sunny put her arm around his waist. “It’s okay, Dante,” her soft voice purred. “You’re coming along fine.” 
   But rather than provide comfort, the remark puzzled him even further. “Coming along to  what , Sunny?” 
   A new voice broke in before she could answer. It belonged to Dawn. “Didn’t you know,” she asked, “that the little girl was actually our Sunny? Isn’t that why you stopped to save her?” 
   “I didn’t—“ Dante began. 
   He got no further. “Think before you answer!” the mother warned, her green eyes shimmering. Then she seemed to relax a little. Her shoulders dropped. A warm smile opened on her face. “Think. Carefully. You knew the girl was Sunny. Right?” 
   “Well,” he tried again, following the woman’s instructions whilst hardly knowing why. “Maybe. Maybe I did. She had red hair like Sunny’s.” 
   “Yeah!” Sunny said. “She did! And even if you thought she was somebody else, the hair made you think of me! So you became…” Her eyes leaped to Brenton. “What’s the word, Daddy?” 
   “ Chivalrous  is what I believe you’re searching for,” the man replied. 
   “That’s the one!” 
   Brenton nodded. “Of course it is. So perhaps tonight was not a total failure after all.” He smiled at Dante. “My wife and daughter often remind me that even in setback there are…possibilities to seize upon, and hold dear.” 
   “And one day,” Dawn said, “you will remember that without us.” 
   Sunny laughed. “No,” she insisted, “not Daddy. Never.” 
   Brenton could only shake his head. His hand reached out and came to rest on Dante’s shoulder. “Women. Delectable, aren’t they?” 
   Dante did his best to agree that they were. His mind spun in a whirlwind of questions quite likely too dangerous to ask, at least for the time being. Better to watch, and wait. Perhaps later he could persuade Sunny to share more information. Had the entire act been planned, orchestrated, as some sort of suitor’s test? If so, why? And what exactly had he done wrong by protecting the girl—the girl who had somehow transformed into Sunny Desdemona while a jester in a costume distracted him with grunts and growls? 
   “Good show,” an audience member told Brenton. “Worth every penny.” 
   “Thank you,” the other said. 
   More people soon appeared to compliment the family performance, so it took nearly ten minutes to reach the midway, which was still busy with customers and criers. 
   Half an hour later the Desdemonas, along with Dante, strolled through this section of the park again, this time on their way home. All of the freak tents were still going strong. All except the Girl To Gorilla tent, which had closed. The flap was sealed, the poster removed. 
   “One show only,” Dante muttered as they passed. 
   He hadn’t intended the remark to be heard, but Brenton caught it. “Oh no,” he said. “There’s more to come. Much more.” 
   “Wait and see,” Sunny told him, for the second time tonight near this very spot. And then a third: “Just you wait and see.” 
       CHAPTER ELEVEN:  Dinner and a Phone Call 
   
    He did not see Donati the following day. Breakfast time words proved unmovable clay. 
   
     
   “I got an interesting phone call last night,” Dante’s father said over toast and coffee, “from Janet Jones. Seems she recently lost ten dollars from her purse.” 
   Dante swallowed a mouthful of Corn Flakes. Both parents were looking across the table. As always their appearances nearly matched, like mannequins in a window. But for a low simmer of accusation, man and woman were posed expressionless. Dark hair framed carved faces, one of glory on the battlefield, the other of freedom. 
   “Sorry,” he told them. 
   “Sorry for what, exactly?” asked his father. 
   “I’m sorry that…you know, she lost the money.” 
   He finished eating in silence, not looking up from his bowl. Minutes later he was heading out the door to visit Donati. His father stopped him. 
   “Dante! I need you to grab a rake and take care of the lawn.” 
   He froze, his hand on the latch. “Right now?” 
   “Yes, right now.” 
   “But I’m on my way to Mr. Donati’s. He needs help with reading his newspaper.” 
   This was a lie—one of them anyway—he’d manufactured to help justify his visitations with the old man. Never once had his father questioned it. Until today. 
   “You raked his lawn last week? Or was it the week before?” 
   “Dad—“ 
   “Now it’s time to rake yours. Get to it.” 
   After the lawn his mother asked him to wash the breakfast dishes, which she had inexplicably left to harden in the sink. After this, she sent him on an errand to buy postage stamps. Postage stamps on a Sunday. 
   “Who are you writing to?” Dante asked.  To whom are you writing?  Mr. Wolfe corrected in his mind. 
   “Nobody,” his mom shrugged. 
   “Then why—“ 
   “Just  go. ” 
   Dante went. Once home, it was time to tidy the basement. He cleaned the card table, dusted the stereo. A small trash bucket in the corner needed changing. He did that, too. Then a creak on the steps announced the presence of his father. The older man looked at Dante stonily as he had at breakfast. A pipe simmered in his mouth. 
   “Why don’t you tell me,” he began, without coming to the bottom step, “where you put that ten dollars? Then this nonsense can come to an end.” 
   “I don’t have ten dollars,” replied Dante. This was the truth; thus, it came out as such. 
   His father didn’t care. “Young man,” he said, “I grow weary.” 
   “I don’t see why you think I would steal ten dollars. I have everything I need here.” 
   “Indeed,” the father puffed, now beginning to look a bit like Sherlock Holmes. “Right now only you know the answer to that question, Dante. I’ll strike you a bargain.” 
   “A bargain.” 
   “Yes. Call Janet. Apologize to her. She won’t accept it, but no matter. Your mother and I will be satisfied. Do this and we let you continue the regular life of Dante Torn. If not, why…” A puff of smoke floated in front of his face. “Who knows? Perhaps you and Mr. Donati will need to become postage friends instead of breakfast buddies. Maybe that’s why your mother sent you out for those stamps. How does that sound?” 
   A sudden fury swelled in Dante’s chest. The smug, satisfied music of his father’s words made him want to smash something to pieces. The stereo, maybe. Or perhaps the card table could do with flipping over. A chair against the wall. He looked at the garbage bucket. It was just the right size for kicking across the room. 
   “I await your answer, dear boy.” 
   “Can’t I think about it for awhile?” Dante finally managed. 
   His father struck a match, relit the pipe. “And why,” he asked, an eyebrow raised over the flame, “must you do that?” 
   “Because I’m quite innocent and don’t wish to proclaim otherwise to a person such as Janet,” Dante said, mimicking—savagely—the other’s style and tone. 
   “You’re not helping our situation,” said his father. 
   “I didn’t take her money.” 
   And the father: “You’re a lying fool. It shames me.” 
   He didn’t wait for Dante’s reply. Instead he turned on his heel (the step creaked again) and disappeared through the top door. 
   How can he know?  Dante wondered.  How can he know I took the money? 
   He didn’t have a shred of proof. Not one tiny little scrap. And yet… 
   
   Joe and Janet are his friends. They’ve known each other since way before you were born. 
   
   “Whatever,” Dante said to the empty basement. His eye went to the card table. The grown-ups were calling his bluff, betting more chips. Fine. But Dante would not show his eights and aces until he absolutely had to. 
   From the top of the stairs his mother told him to get ready for church. An hour later he was in the pews, wondering if today’s sermon would involve some mysticism about the dishonor of thievery or obeisance to thy father and they mother. Nothing of the sort arrived. The priest instead settled into the second epistle of Paul, intoning the benefits of belief in what one could not see. 
   “ We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed,”  he read.  “We are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed…” 
   Once back at number 54 Dante was sent straight to his room for the rest of the day. Here there was little to do except nap and brood at the window. The latter got boring very quickly. His room overlooked State Street. Beat up cars, broken sidewalks. Kids playing catch with a Nerf football. 
   The former brought with it a dream. 
   
   Okay, Sunny said, peering at him over a card table. What do you ya got? 
   
   
   Dante looked at his hand. An ace of diamonds, a two of hearts, a four of spades. One king, one queen. A jack faded yellow, as if time had taken special issue with its glossy features. 
   
   
   I don’t think I can use any of these, Dante told her. 
   
   
   Sunny’s hair caught fire. She howled and sprang over the table. Barking like a demon from deep within the earth, she ripped at Dante’s throat. 
   
   
   In utter terror Dante groped for a pitcher of water, tipped it over… 
   
   Then he went downstairs to dinner, where no one spoke to him, even when he asked his mother to pass the mushroom soup, please. Plates clanged. Utensils dinged. Yet words, like the steps of those two poets within the city of  Dis , proceeded with great hesitancy. The ground was uncertain. Treacherous. 
   Deciding it best to leave things that way for a little while longer, Dante finished eating, went upstairs, and washed for bed. The card table dream still flickered in his mind. He guessed it wouldn’t for much longer though. The wax of its wick had nearly been spent. Its light was but an ember on the dish. And why not? He had never put much stock in dreams. 
   He put his toothbrush away and went back to his room. Dark had fallen. Pegasus’ great square glowed high in the south of a sky with no moon. Dante lay down. A book of poetry peeked from under the covers. He read for awhile. Then he fell asleep. 
   Hours later he awoke to the howling of heavy wind. His bedside clock showed 12:42. Curious, Dante rose and went to the window, to find that State Street had become a chaos of swirling leaves caught up in a rainy storm. The breath of Aeolus cradled their boughs. Rain drops spattered the window, rushed away, then spattered again. 
   He watched the storm for a number of minutes before deciding to go downstairs for a midnight snack. The hall outside of his room was quiet. Not wishing to wake his parents, Dante tip-toed down the stairs. This was rather unnecessary, as number 54’s mighty curved case did not creak, but habit for lairs of serenity had hold of him. He came to the ground floor. Darkness. A ticking clock. Furniture snoozing in deep shadows. The window pane shook as a particularly hard gust of wind struck it. Dante walked to the kitchen, where a purring refrigerator greeted his arrival. He went to the door and was just about to open it when the living room phone rang. 
   Say what?  he thought, his hand frozen on the handle. 
   The phone rang again. Dante looked at the stove clock. Straight up 1AM. Now who in the world…? 
   For a third time the phone’s bell  brrrrring! ’d from the living room. Dante walked to it with a head full of possibilities, none of them happy. Happy calls didn’t come in the middle of the night. In the middle of the night they rang only for emergencies. 
   “Hello?” he said, switching on a lamp. 
   “It’s one o’clock in the morning,” a young female voice chanted. The air of amusement in its tone gave it away on the spot. 
   “Sunny?” Dante said. 
   “I speak to you with words imploring, darkness rife with imps ashoring…” 
   “Sunny?” 
   She laughed. “Yes, dear, it’s me. I can’t remember the entire poem, sorry.” 
   “You’re up awfully late on a school night.” 
   “Those are my sentiments, Mister. But then I knew you’d be up.” Another short, brutal laugh puffed through the line. “Skulker.” 
   Smiling now, Dante said: “So what’s on your mind?” 
   “Pizza. I’ve got a slice. Wish you were here to share it.” 
   “Me too. But I think I’ll need to make do with Corn Flakes this time around.” 
   “Got Milk?” 
   “Of course,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Now quit watching lame commercials on TV.” 
   When Sunny next spoke her tone was more serious. “There’s a storm outside, Dante,” she said. 
   “I hear it. It sounds like ghosts in the trees.” 
   “Maybe that’s true. What do you say we join them for awhile?” 
   “Together? How?” 
   The line began to hiss with static, faint at first, but intensifying as Sunny said: “Oh, that’s easy. Just keep listening to me, Dante. Dante?” 
   Her request was rapidly becoming difficult to follow. He could barely hear her at all. 
   “ Dante. Dante.” 
   Sunny’s voice, fading, fading. The hiss became a rush of turbulent water. Frothing madness over jagged rocks. Tilting the receiver away from his ear, Dante called Sunny’s name. Whether she answered he never found out, for at that instant the rushing stopped cold, as if frozen on that antediluvian gale which killed the great mammoths even as they dined. Complete silence followed. Then, surprising him even further, another voice he knew spoke on the line. It belonged to Joseph Jones, and it was not happy. 
   “Boy!” he shouted, making Dante jump. “Boy, you’d better start talking to me right now!” 
   “Who is this?” Dante snapped, irritated to have Sunny snatched from the cup of his ear by this bellowing brute. 
   But it was evident immediately that Joseph was in no mood for demands.  “Get your father on the phone right now, boy! This is the last time I’m telling you!” 
   And Dante, growling: “Well that’s a relief. Let me go wake him up.” 
   “ I don’t like your attitude—“ 
   He dropped the receiver and went upstairs. Neither of his parents were heavy sleepers; getting them out of bed was no great chore. In five minutes his father, rumpled and ruffled, was seated on the couch, listening to Joseph. Dante waited while his mom brewed coffee. Of course the news would be grim. 
   “Oh no,” his father kept saying, the receiver pressed to his ear. “Oh no. Oh no.” 
   His mother put a mug of coffee on the table. Her face looked anxious. 
   “Joe, I’m sorry,” the father said. “My God. Is there anything you need?” 
   “Honey?” his mother asked, brimming with dread. “What is it?” 
   She had taken a seat next to her husband. Dante was in the chair opposite. The elder Torn spent a few more minutes talking with his friend, until at last he said goodbye and hung up the phone. He looked at his wife. Then at Dante. 
   “ Honey,”  the mom asked again. Practically begged.  “Tell me what’s going on!” 
   “Yeah,” Dante listened to his father say. “Yeah. Okay.” 
   But he wouldn’t speak. Whatever had happened needed time for its messenger to arrange. To formulate into words. Indeed, when at last he did open his mouth, he could only manage one. 
   “Janet,” he said. 
   Dante’s mother gasped. “Oh God!” she said. “Is she okay?” 
   “No. She had a stroke. She’s…she’s dead.” 
   For a long time his father couldn’t say anything else. Number 54’s front windows shook with more heavy gales. Dead leaves swirled on the porch. Dante heard these things clearly, along with something else. A girl’s voice, echoing in his own mind. 
   
   Pizza. I’ve got a slice… 
   
   “Dead,” his father said. He sounded drugged. “I can’t believe it. I just talked to her yesterday.” 
   Dante looked at his mother. She had begun to cry in the early morning gloom. 
   
   Wish you were here to share it. 
   
   No tip,  his father’s voice echoed,  now bring us down the pizza. 
   And Janet, half-drunk:  Do as your father says, little boy… 
   
   Call Janet. Apologize to her. 
   
   But it seemed the need for apologies to Janet had come to an end. Nor would she continue to accuse Mr. Torn’s thirteen year-old son of theft. 
   “How old was she?” Dante asked rather stupidly. 
   And his father answered. By dawn he’d forgotten it, though. It didn’t matter anyway. She’d obviously been old enough. 
   Dante sat at the breakfast table eating Corn Flakes all by himself. Both parents had risen early and gone to Joseph’s. Consolation and commiseration. Thinking about what words of comfort they might be using, he poured more cereal into his bowl. 
   “Goodbye, Janet!” he called to the empty kitchen. “Oh and…thank you for the tip!” 
       CHAPTER TWELVE:  Self-loathing 
   
    Two holidays passed beneath unclear skies, followed by remembrance of a boy with weak eyes. 
   
     
   Dante’s interim report card for the first week of December read as follows: 
     
   Math –  U  (unsatisfactory) 
   Science –  S  (satisfactory) 
   Gym –  S  (satisfactory) 
   American History –  U  (unsatisfactory) 
   English –  S  (satisfactory) 
     
   Too embarrassed to show Sunny yet curious about her own grades, he stood in the school lunch line wondering how to bring the subject up without tripping on any wires that would lead to exposure of his meager academic attainments. She was currently on his arm, chattering away about—of all things—a trip her parents had planned to a nearby town called Howling. 
   “It’s only my dad who has a business trip there,” she said, “but they both want to go.” She stood on tiptoe to speak more quietly into his ear. “And I’m trying to convince them to let me stay home alone.” 
   Dante watched a mischievous grin spread over her features. “Totally alone?” he asked. 
   “Of course,” came the girl’s far from sincere reply. “I’ll be thirteen in March. That’s plenty old enough. Don’t you agree?” 
   “It’s old enough but I would still worry.” 
   “We could talk on the phone.” 
   Sunny’s closest girlfriend Stacey was in line behind them. She was smiling, and her face had gone red as Sunny’s hair. But Dante knew she wouldn’t laugh—wouldn’t even speak—unless Sunny gave her permission. 
   “Well?” Sunny asked. And on her face waited an expression Dante could read like a book:  You’d better not be okay with just the phone, Mister. 
   Dante wasn’t. “I’m still not comfortable with your being alone. When is this business trip supposed to happen?” 
   Instead of answering, Sunny smiled and put her head on his shoulder. 
   “You don’t remember,” he continued, sliding his arm around her leather jacket, “or you don’t want to tell me?” 
   Just then a girl with mousy hair and glasses passed by. Dante thought she looked familiar—then it hit him. 
   “Timothy,” he said aloud. 
   Sunny looked at him. “Who?” 
   By now the mousy-haired girl had reached the far end of the cafeteria. Dante watched as she disappeared around a corner and said: “Oh I was just reminded of this goofy kid I met here last year. His name was Timothy. I might have thought of him at Cedar Point, too.” 
   “You mean the Timothy who vanished last Christmas?” 
   “That’s the one.” Dante looked down at Sunny, whose green eyes had wandered to the lunch counter. A smell of lasagna hovered close. Garlic. Hot bread. “Did anyone ever find out where he went?” he ventured casually. 
   Her answer was flummoxing to the extreme. “Skiing I think,” she said. 
   “ Skiing?” 
   “Yeah, you know.” Her arms began to move in a pantomime of one surrendered to powdery cold slopes. “Swish! Swish! Alberto Tomba. Calgary.” 
   “You’re telling me he went on a skiing trip for a whole year?” 
   “No, no, no.” She made as if to grab Dante’s nose and twist it. “His family moved north. Probably to Canada.” 
   “How do you know all this?” 
   “Timothy tried to date me last year. I turned him down flat.” 
   “Why?” 
   Sunny looked up. Like Timothy, her smile had vanished. Disappeared within cold and unforgiving features. “I suppose,” she nearly hissed, “he wasn’t good enough. Not for me anyway.” 
   “And I am?” 
   “All right, kids,” one of the cafeteria ladies said. “What’s it gonna be?” 
   “Two lasagnas and two chocolate milks,” Dante told her. 
   The lady’s round face was expressionless. “Five bucks,” she said. 
   “ What?” 
   She pointed to a sign on the wall.  SCHOOL LUNCHES HAVE UNDERGONE A RATE HIKE DUE TO INCREASED LABOR COST OF OUR SUPPLIERS. MERRY CHRISTMAS! 
   “Wow,” Dante said, reaching for his wallet. 
   “Tough ole world, little guy,” the lady said. 
   “I guess so.” 
   ∞ 
   As usual he was the only male among Sunny’s lunchtime entourage. They were king and queen of the court. Dante waited for his queen to sit, then placed himself beside her. From here the table fell into a clean, shallow pool of trivial banter. Silverware clanged over talk of teachers and grades, friendships and families. Dante again wondered about Sunny’s grades. Should he ask her straight out? Likely she’d be offended if he didn’t. Wonder about whether he cared enough to know. 
   “How did you do on your report card?” he said gingerly. 
   To his utter relief, she perked up in her seat. “Wanna see?” 
   “Of course.” 
   She pulled the card out of her bag and handed it to him without even bothering to unfold it. Dante opened it himself. Then his jaw dropped. 
   All  Os  for  outstanding.  Straight down. 
   “Okay,” he said to her, “I’m gonna bite. How did you do this? I mean you’ve got an  O  here in gym. I’ve seen you in gym, Sunny dear, and you’re no athlete.” 
   She looked worried. “Are you mad at me?” 
   “No! I’m happy for you.” 
   “Because I could flunk everything if you want.” 
   “Don’t do that.” 
   “See that kid over there?” Sunny asked. 
   Her head was turned towards the lunch counter. Dante tried to draw a bead on who it was she had it mind, but all the chatter and clanging dishes made the cafeteria noisy as the forge of Hephaestus. He tried again, found nothing, and gave up. 
   “Which one?” he asked back. 
   Without turning her head, Sunny replied: “Dorky. Pimply. Glasses.” 
   Based on this information Dante was able to spot him easily enough. At the end of the table sat a skinny kid wearing oversized black glasses. He was dressed in what Dante considered hand-me-down clothing—striped polo, tan slacks, brown loafers. Nobody else sat with him. He ate slowly, keeping his head down. Dante felt pretty sure he didn’t want to be noticed. 
   If wishes were horses, kid,  he thought. 
   “I see him,” he said to Sunny. “What about him?” 
   She fetched a deep sigh as if the question were stupid. “His name’s Shaya Blum. Stupid name if I’ve ever heard one. He comes from a poor family. Has no friends. Bad skin.  Terrible  skin,” she corrected. “His grades are  blah. ” 
   “Blah?” Dante asked. 
   “Average, my dear. Very average. He can’t run, throw, or catch. He sneezes in class all the time. His nose is runny. He farts.” 
   “ What?” 
   “I’ve heard it. The teachers pick on him. The bullies chase him after school.” She stopped and smiled at Dante. “Get the picture?” 
   “He’s pathetic.” 
   “Bingo. And you know what we’re gonna do about it?” 
   Dante smiled back. “I shudder to think. But I also see those green eyes shining.” 
   A new voice broke into the chat. Until that point Sunny’s entourage had been talking quietly, keeping one eye on their queen yet mostly relaxed. Now, however, Stacey became inclined to raise her head. “It involves Maris,” she said. 
   The entourage fell silent. Sunny looked at her for a long time without speaking. Her brows were raised. Her lips were pursed. “Do you want to tell him?” she asked calmly. 
   Stacey shook her head. “No. Sorry.” 
   “Go ahead. We’re listening.” 
   “Sunny, it’s okay—“ 
   Sunny’s voice remained polite, but Dante knew (and doubtless Stacey did too) where the real words were coming from. Their source, as always, was really quite green. “I  know  it’s okay, dear, that’s why I’m telling you to go ahead.” 
   Stacey swallowed. She took a drink of water. Nobody at the table seemed especially impatient for her to speak. They all waited. Sunny was holding Dante’s hand, smiling at the other girl. Whether Stacey liked it or not the stage belonged to her. 
   “Sunny wants to write a fake love letter to Maris,” she began, fumbling her words. “You know. With Shaya’s name on it. You know. And then…you know…like…get the whole school in on it. Like what’s going on…” 
   Sunny’s nails began to scratch at Dante’s skin. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Quite the reverse. She let Stacey go on with a few more  you knows  and  likes  before finally drawing the hook to pull her off. 
   “What my  dear  friend means to say,” she all but oozed with foulest sarcasm, “is that I mean to humiliate Maris beyond the realms of reckless Phaethon.” 
   It was Dante’s turn for a drink. He finished his milk, put it down. Would that something stronger had been in the carton. 
   “You want to get the whole school laughing at Maris because some doofus kid with anxiety issues wants to kiss her under the mistletoe.” 
   “That’s what I have in mind.” 
   “How will you copy his handwriting?” 
   “I’ve already stolen samples off his desk. He got an F on his book report for  Moby Dick  because he didn’t turn it in. Said he lost it. He didn’t lose it.” 
   Dante shook his head. “Evil, girl.” 
   “He has very sloppy handwriting. Just like any boy. I can’t copy it. Guess what that means?” 
   “Huh boy.” 
   “It’s all yours.” Sunny raised her fork. Daintily, she put her last bite of lasagna into Dante’s mouth. “But let me compose the letter, okay?” 
   So when I use it I’ll be copying two people at once,  Dante thought. 
   Stacey raised her hand. Dante guessed that speaking out of turn once had been plenty enough for her. 
   “Yes?” Sunny asked. 
   “How will we let everyone know that Shaya wrote her a love letter?” 
   “I haven’t worked that part out yet. But Dante was right about the mistletoe. I want to implement this whole thing right before Christmas break.” 
   “No,” Dante cut in. “Bad idea.” 
   Sunny blinked. “Why?” 
   “If we humiliate Maris in front of the school, then everybody goes away for Christmas and New Year’s, they’ll have forgotten it all by the time they come back. It’ll be like it never happened.” 
   “Oooh. Good point.” 
   “Second week of January is better I think,” Dante said. His eyes had gone to the window, through which he could almost see the ensuing chaos. “Kids’ll be bored. Eager for the next big thing. And this will be big all right. If it works.” 
   “It’ll work,” Sunny said, cozying herself even closer to Dante’s side. Clearly pleased by his wisdom, she was smiling from ear to ear. “So!” she told the rest of the girls. “This is what we have for now: The village dork writes a love letter to a pretty pink princess; the entire kingdom gets wind of it and laughs at them both. It’s social murder. Any questions?” 
   They looked blank. Dante took that as a  no. 
   “Great!” Sunny said. Then, to Dante: “Finish your pineapple, dear. Vitamin C.” 
   ∞ 
   “Are you happy with yourself, Dante?” the old opera singer asked. 
   Dante listened to the clock tick in the hall of number 114 for a very long time before answering. It was Sunday morning again. At last his father had allowed him to come and visit the old man. With Janet dead what did that ten dollars mean, anyway? What was the lie all about? It had deteriorated. Turned to straw in their hands. 
   “I don’t really know,” he said. 
   “Then the answer is no,” came the other’s reply. “Whenever a man says he doesn’t know, he knows.” 
   “Truly I don’t.” 
   “You’ve just told me some interesting new stories about this girl Sunny. The trip to Cedar Point where she seemingly turned into a gorilla. A midnight phone call from her that hissed into the death of a family friend. And now, of course, you plan to help her humiliate a popular girl at school.” 
   Dante lowered his head. On the table were the remains of his  brioche . It had not tasted good today, though the reason had little to do with Donati’s cooking. 
   “What does Sunny mean to you?” the singer went on. 
   Dante was still thinking of how to answer that when his friend started in with another of his stories. This one concerned a boy his own age who was living in rural England during the early 1980s. He was small and sickly and received poor grades at school. He had no friends. 
   “I am not exaggerating that last,” Donati said, looking sad. “He had  no  friends. Even his parents disliked him.” 
   Dante shrugged. “My parents don’t especially like me,” he let on. 
   “Not true. At least it doesn’t sound true, based on our earlier talks. Mr. and Mrs. Torn may be somewhat cold, somewhat distant, but they like you. Was your father not upset when you showed him this month’s school report card?” 
   He had been. Not violently so—rarely if ever did the yachtsman allow his anger to get physical, perhaps because, as Dante often suspected, he would never last long in a boxing ring. Instead his face, upon seeing the report card, became like a flag bereft of its breeze. Fallen on the pole, unable to bare its pride. Without a word he’d sent Dante to his room for the rest of the day. 
   Hearing all of this made Donati nod as if he’d expected no less. “Do they ever beat you?” he asked. “Call you nasty names?” 
   “Oh no,” Dante said. “Never even once.” 
   “Well then.” 
   “But that doesn’t mean they like me,” he felt forced to add. 
   A tiny spoon gleamed in Donati’s hand. With it he pushed a puddle of melted ice cream across his plate before saying: “Perhaps not. They do care about you, though. They want to see you do well. The same cannot be said for that poor boy in the English farmhouse. Oh no. Oh no indeed.” 
   “His dad never paid attention to him at all?” 
   “He paid the boy plenty of mind. To scold him. The whip him. To call him a useless waste of stardust.” 
   “Why?” 
   The opera singer looked at Dante the way one looks at an idiot. “Because he was ugly, that’s why. Ugly and stupid. Sick all the time.” 
   “That’s no reason—“ 
   “Isn’t it?” Donati cut him off. “Your girlfriend seems to think it’s plenty of reason.” 
   Dante got the point and closed his mouth. 
   “It continued for years,” the other said. “The beating. The name calling. Meager meals from his mother. Classmates poking fun at him, beating him up. Then one morning when he was twelve he suffered a  grand mal  seizure.” 
   “What’s that?” Dante asked. 
   “The worst manifestation of what’s probably the worst disease a living being can get. Electrical impulses from the brain become blocked, rendering the body’s limbs without proper command from their control center. Everything begins to twitch violently. Or, as in the case with  grand mal , the victim may actually pitch himself back and forth across a room, banging his head against walls, falling down stairs. He literally has no control of his body until the seizure stops.” 
   Dante knew what seizures were. Two years ago a boy in his fifth grade class had suffered one during lunch hour, falling backward out of his seat to crack his head on the cafeteria floor. It had looked and sounded horrible. No animal cooked alive on a spit could have appeared more grotesque, or with its breaking skull ‘neath the hammer of a cruel master created worse music. 
   “So his brain was damaged?” he asked Donati. 
   The opera singer’s answer surprised him. “Not physically,” he said. “After three more attacks, the boy’s terrible father finally took him to a hospital, where doctors could find nothing wrong. And indeed, even the boy did not think he was sick. He was convinced an entity from another realm wished him harm. A tall, angry man with an unkempt black beard.” 
   Lost in utter confusion by these words, Dante shook his head. “I don’t get it.” 
   “A ghost, dear boy, a ghost. The boy told anyone who would listen, including his doctors, that he was being attacked by a ghost.” 
   “So he was insane.” 
   Donati laughed. “Oh, Dante. How like a common man you can stumble to be. How like a non-believer.” 
   “I bet his doctors thought the same thing. The dad too.” 
   “As a matter of fact they did. But the attacks continued, always in the middle of the night, rousing the poor boy from sleep, never during the day. This confounded the doctors even more, for seizures do not pick and choose by the moon. Before long the boy began describing his attacker in more detail. He was a tall, wide man with black hair and a black beard. He always wore a red and black checkered shirt with blue jeans and heavy black boots. And often, as he beat on the boy, he would speak.” 
   As if to contradict this latter fact, Donati stopped talking. His eyes dropped to the gooey ice cream, which must have maintained its appeal, for in the next moment he retrieved a spoonful and lifted it to his mouth. All Dante could do was wait. He wanted to know what the ghost said, what fury it vocalized from the other side. Was it the secret of death? Or a portrait perhaps, painted with fierce syllables, of God himself? 
   Donati looked up and smiled. “Emronoh,” he said. 
   This confused Dante even further. “I’m sorry?” 
   “You wish to know what the entity said. Or rather what it shrieked as it beat the boy in his own bedroom. I can see it plainly in your eyes. It said  emronoh.  Over and over. Emronoh, emronoh.” 
   “I have never heard that word before in my life.” 
   “Nor had the boy. But the entity would bellow it in a rage, its eyes on fire, the blackness of its beard thick and wild, as if grown out by something from deep in the woods. The boy repeated the word to his father. By then the man wanted to hear no more. He thought his son was playing tricks to get out of his chores. He made the boy work anyway, beating him like always. And yes, his mother continued to serve him gruel. Foul slops with dirty water. That was his family. That was his life. Hounded by day, haunted by night.” 
   Dante found he could picture with terrible ease everything the opera singer said. It hurt his heart. “Why, Mr. Donati?” he pleaded. “Why?” 
   The other stared over the table with wide eyes. “But my dear boy, I’ve already told you. He was ugly and stupid. Useless.” 
   “I don’t believe that.” 
   “Ah.” 
   “Where is this boy today? Is he still alive?” 
   The laugh these questions brought forth was sarcastic. More like the snort of a pig. “Still alive, yes. Surprising eh? Though certainly no longer a boy. He eventually grew into a tall man with a black beard, who often dresses in heavy checkered shirts and blue denim pants.” 
   “How do you know how he dresses? You’ve met him?” 
   “Never.” 
   “So what,” Dante asked, carefully as he could, “is the significance of his clothes?” 
   It seemed to irritate his friend. The spoon clanged as Donati dropped it to the plate. The opera singer rose, cleared the table, and carried everything to the kitchen. “Perhaps,” he called over a flow of water from the sink, “there is no significance. Perhaps I added it for my own amusement. What do you think, boy?” 
   “I think it has significance. But then I already said as much.” 
   Another clang, this one louder, though Donati was further away. “You’re being clever and foolish at the same time,” he called. “Is this yet another trait derived from trysts with that strange girl?” 
   “I don’t know,” Dante admitted. “Maybe.” 
   “What does Sunny mean to you, Dante? Can you tell me that?” 
   The water stopped. More clanging—lighter, musical—floated into the room. Donati was putting the dishes away. 
   “Strange isn’t how I would describe her,” Dante said, peering into the fire. “She’s more like a knife. A very sharp knife with no one to hold the handle.” He shrugged. “Well. Now there’s me.” 
   Donati came back into the room and sat down. Dante looked over the table at a man concerned as one might be for his own son. 
   “Are you truly willing to do that?” the singer wanted to know. “Take the handle, and cut?” 
   “Tell me why you mentioned the boy’s clothes. Please.” 
   “Had you been listening more intently you would already know. His clothes, as a man, often match the ones worn by his childhood attacker. The ghost with the beard—the beard that looked remarkably like the one this man wears today.” 
   “Are you saying they are the same being? The ghost and the boy?” 
   But if Dante hadn’t been listening intently before, it was Donati who seemed detached now. “In his middle teens the boy decided to shrug off the hatred,” he said. “All of it. From outside and in. No matter how cruelly the world treated him, he decided never to be cruel with himself ever again. It was wise. Almost immediately the ghost stopped coming. The attacks stopped. The boy let go his fear of the dark, his fear of sleep. He rose every morning, did his chores, and went to school. He spoke softly and patiently to everyone he met. He made sure to exhibit kindness, thoughtfulness. He was helpful of others. Truthful. Trustworthy. This was inevitable. Respect for himself radiated. Shined like heat from the sun, warming all it touched. During that year his grades at school went up. His father stopped beating him. His mother began serving him proper meals. Everything changed.” 
   “Change,” Dante intoned, “is always change for the worse.” 
   “Stop that,” the other huffed, scowling. “It isn’t true. Change is sometimes necessary. It certainly was in the boy’s case. He grew into a strong, productive man. A farmer like his father.” 
   “It sounds to me like he lay down and let the world walk on him, Mr. Donati. And hey…everyone loves a doormat.” 
   “He recognized,” Donati said patiently, “that a mess on the table cannot be cleaned by a foul rag. Would you care to know what the word meant? The one the ghost kept screaming in the dead of night?” 
   “Yes,” Dante nodded. “Please.” 
   “In his late teens the boy was playing guitar with a little folk band he’d put together. He remembered the word,  emronoh , and thought to make it the title of a song. His band-mate heard the song and liked it. Then one night, just for fun, they played it backward. A lot of gibberish blared from the speakers of course, until it came to the title, when  emronoh  came out as  honor me. ” 
       CHAPTER THIRTEEN:  Love Rhymes 
   
    False words of love from perspective disabled must snap the wrong way off one’s crooked table. 
   
     
   Dante had no idea what to buy Sunny for Christmas. He spent early December walking the streets of downtown Norwalk with hope in his heart that something—anything—in the lit windows of cotton snow and sparkle frost would catch his eye. No such luck. Main Street commerce was dying a slow, cruel death at the hands of several new department stores which had recently opened in Sandusky. Hair whipping in a stiff breeze, Dante stopped in front of a clothing outlet. The garments on display looked scruffy, outdated. A Santa Claus with crooked eyes leaned drunkenly on the glass. Dante crossed the street and doubled back the way he came. He crossed Benedict Avenue (where a paper bell decoration, flying on the wind, nearly took off his head). The Glass Block Building, site of the famous boiler explosion Donati had once told him about, stood on the corner. Passing it with nary a glance, Dante ducked inside of a flower shop. His fingers were crossed. Perhaps here he would find help. Salvation. 
   “Get out,” a short, fat woman said from behind the counter. “We don’t allow kids in here.” 
   Dante took out his wallet and showed her three twenty-dollar bills. “Too bad,” he said. “Guess I’ll go to Henry’s Flowers instead.” 
   But he didn’t go to Henry’s, which was two blocks away to the northeast. Any flowers he bought for Sunny would likely be dead by Christmas anyway. He needed something else. Something simple and eloquent that defined her. 
   “Something out of town,” Dante said to himself, fetching a deep sigh. 
   Later that week he asked his mother for a ride to Sandusky Mall. Doubtless needing to get a little elf work done herself, she agreed. They left Norwalk at nine-thirty and arrived at ten to a mass of other early birds waiting for the main doors to open. Dante’s eyes jumped from face to face. Most were female but not all. No one looked especially drunk on holiday cheer. 
   “Hey Mom,” he said, “if you were a twelve year-old girl, what would you want for Christmas?” 
   “I don’t know,” came her uninterested reply. She looked at her watch, then the doors, then her watch again. 
   “I’m kind of stuck for an idea.” 
   “Oh. Yeah, okay.” 
   “Thanks for caring, Mom.” 
   “Anytime, sweetheart.” 
   The doors were unlocked at 10:06. Dante and his mother moved forward with the rest of the herd. They passed a video arcade, a restaurant, and a bingo parlor before reaching the mall’s main midway, where the drowned wishes of a three-tiered water fountain dampened his spirits even further. After instructing him to meet her back at the fountain at noon, his mother went left, vanishing behind a Timex kiosk. Dante took a seat on the basin. Wandering about from store to store had already proven a bad idea. He needed to think. Formulate. Perhaps even pray. 
   Two giggling girls, both about Sunny’s age, approached the fountain and turned right. Slim, stylish bags hung on their shoulders. Dante wondered if there were credit cards in them. 
   Perhaps you should find out,  a reasoning thought told him. 
   He followed them (casually, keeping a safe distance) to a pink and red cosmetics store that looked nothing at all like a place Sunny would shop. Paper hearts were taped in the window. Teddy bears hung from the ceiling. No, Sunny would never shop here. Maris, definitely, but never Sunny. Sunny would strut right past the entrance without even turning her head. 
   Dante went inside. He browsed the aisles, which didn’t take long. It was a small, cozy store. A saleslady smiled at him but didn’t quite dare ask if he needed help. 
   Buy her a Teddy bear,  a desperate thought ventured. 
   Oh yeah,  came the reasoning one’s response,  good idea. She’ll probably slaughter it with a butcher knife in her basement. 
   “Shut up, both of you,” Dante muttered. 
   Then he saw the nail polish rack. It was one of those narrow plastic towers that rotated. Suddenly inspired, he crossed to it and gave its bearings a spin. More bright red appeared. More pink. Then came a small troupe of different, less popular shades. Black, blue, green, silver. 
   “Black,” he muttered again. “It’s gotta be black for her.” 
   He reached for one of the bottles, but froze when his eye caught another shade. It was dark red. Dark as blood. Dante picked up the bottle.  OPI Transylvania Cocktail , it read. 
   The name pleased him. Quite relieved to have this difficult treasure hunt finally end, he went to the counter. A plastic register waited to eat his money. No one stood at its keys, however. A box of charm bracelets rested on an otherwise empty counter. Dante looked over his shoulder in time to see the giggling girls leave. The saleslady who’d smiled earlier was nowhere to be seen. 
   “Hello!” he called. “Anyone here?” 
   Morrissey answered from speakers hidden in the ceiling. His girlfriend was in coma; he knew, he knew, it was serious. 
   But aren’t you gay?  Dante thought. 
   Still no saleslady. He went to each aisle and peered down. Female accessories glimmered everywhere—hair scarves, fishnet gloves, bangle bracelets. All were devoid of human occupation. 
   No matter,  the reasoning voice assured.  You can wait. You have time. 
   Dante,  Sunny answered, freckles flaring,  my personal best is only about thirty seconds, remember? 
   “I do,” he said aloud. “And this time, girl, I’m going to take care of you.” 
   There were two CCTV cameras in the store. Minding them, Dante went back to the nail polish rack. The maneuver was a ruse. He pretended to put the  Transylvania Cocktail  back, then palmed it instead. When both cameras were turned the other way he dropped the bottle into his pocket and walked out. Mission accomplished. 
   That was stupid,  came the reasoning voice’s disgusted response.  I’m ashamed of you. 
   “Get over it,” Dante said. “Or…don’t. See if I care.” 
   He visited a few other shops before noon. The mall remained sleepy. Things around here never really picked up until after lunch. Dante went to a toy store, a gift store, a candy kiosk. In none of them did he buy—or steal. He had what he wanted. 
   On his way back to the fountain he passed a music store that sold CDs and cassette singles. It made him realize something about that reasoning voice, the voice which had, over the past couple hours, fallen utterly silent. 
   It belonged to Donati. 
   ∞ 
   The day seemed one for killing birds. Once home Dante went directly to his room, sat down, and knocked off the phony love letter to Maris. Only it wasn’t a letter. It was a poem instead. This because, at the last moment, Dante decided the project needed structure and romance. A piercing tip to slay the heart of its target. It came out far more easily than he ever would have dreamed. He’d expected it to take days, weeks even. Instead he got the bones of the thing set up in less than an hour. An hour after that, he had it polished as close to perfection as a young man could hope. All that remained was to run it past Sunny. 
   Next morning before homeroom he did that very thing. 
   “Missed you in school yesterday,” she said, slamming her locker door a little too hard. 
   “I had some shopping to do with my mom.” 
   “You could have called to tell me that. The girls kept asking me where you were. Like an idiot I had to tell them I didn’t know.” 
   “Sorry. There was something else that kept me busy,” he added with a smirk before showing her the poem. 
   She asked what it was at first, then froze, raising her hand to halt all replies. And like the memory of a bad dream which fades at dawn, the anger in her face retreated. Her green eyes widened for a moment; a gasp of air filled her chest. Was that what it looked like? she wanted to know. Was that the letter? 
   “It’s a poem,” Dante said. “Slight change of plans.” 
   She gave a whoop and leaped into his arms, bending her knees to let him take all of her weight, which he did with great eagerness, twirling her around before the red faces of a dozen other students. 
   A million thank-yous followed, all between a million kisses on the cheek. These kisses were soft, breathy, and smelled like cinnamon. Dante accepted them with a willingness for a million more. 
   “I am  really  sorry I got mad at you just now,” Sunny gushed after he put her down. “I was just worried. I didn’t know what happened.” 
   “If I miss school again I won’t be so boneheaded. I’ll call you.” 
   “Yes!  Please,  Dante,  please. ” She plucked the paper from his hand. “My gosh! So this is it!” 
   “That’s it. Don’t get too excited yet, honey. I need you to proofread.” 
   “I’m excited! I know it’ll be awesome! You didn’t have to do this, Dante. I said I would write the letter.” 
   “I actually couldn’t remember which one of us had that job. Just keep in mind when you read it that every word is actually how I feel about you. Otherwise I’d have been totally stumped.” 
   “Ooh,” she purred. “So this is going to get me excited tonight?” 
   He took a step closer, closing what little space was left between them. “You’re going to discover a few things, little girl.” 
   “In that case I won’t read it until I’m in my bedroom.” 
   “Cross your heart?” 
   She made as if to follow through, raising the sharp-nailed index finger of her right hand. At that moment Mr. Wolfe poked his head into the hallway. It was time for class, he told everyone, all chatter needed to cease, all locker doors needed to be closed. Sunny put the poem into her bag, with a second promise not to touch it until after dinner. She also told him not to worry about how they would engage the school. He’d done enough, she said, or almost enough. There was still the issue of copying the poem in Shaya’s handwriting. 
   At lunchtime they watched him—Shaya—eat alone again. He sat in his usual spot near the kitchen, hair unkempt, clothes shabby. His glasses were crooked. His torn blue sneakers were stained. No one talked to him, or even seemed to notice he was alive. 
   “Pathetic,” Sunny said, face shriveled with disgust. “I can’t wait to see the look on Maris’ face when we pull this thing off. I really can’t.” She looked at Dante. Her hands fluttered to the collar of his shirt, straightened it. She gave each of his sleeves a tug and a pat. “Where’s your jacket, honey? The leather one?” 
   “It’s in my locker,” Dante said. 
   “You should wear it. It’s cool.” 
   “Okay.” 
   She grinned. “Or let  me  wear it. Would that be okay?” 
   “Absolutely,” Dante said, liking the idea. “You can even take it home with you later if you want.” 
   “Oh, I want,” Sunny said, putting a French fry into his mouth. “I really, really want.” 
   ∞ 
   He sat up that night, unfocused on a book report coming due for Mr. Wolfe’s English class. The book he’d chosen was a mistake. The plot was bland, its characters weak. No one in the pages seemed to care about what Mr. Wolfe called The Main Idea. They hardly recognized its existence at all. Instead, the author sketched a colorless, tuneless narrative about family life with a precocious two year-old boy. The boy liked to throw food. He liked to scream and yell. There were no surprises, no twists. Even Dante’s phone, when it rang, couldn’t rouse him from the torpor the pages induced. Rather than answer it he waited for someone downstairs to do so. Then he flipped to the last chapter, frowned, and dumped the book into the wastebasket. 
   Minutes later his father came to the door. “Isn’t that a library book?” he asked, eyeing the discarded corpse. 
   At this hour of the night Mr. Torn was scarcely more than a silhouette, dark and lean. Dante could tell he didn’t really care about the book. Something in his posture (hands in pockets, shoulder to the frame) indicated an air of one feinting towards happenstance. If that were true he had missed, and badly. Dante knew his father never did things without a reason. 
   “Yes,” he told the silhouette, after a garbage pail glance. “You’re right. I forgot.” 
   “It’s not proper to throw literature away. Even if you think you’re doing the world a favor.” 
   Dante frowned. Here was a new opinion, and one he never would have expected from the no nonsense yachtsman. “I guess you’re right,” he said. 
   “I know I’m right,” the other pressed. “Someone else might actually enjoy that book. Someone else might even learn to read from that book.” 
   “I’m sorry.” 
   “Don’t apologize to me.” 
   Wilted, Dante fished the book from the trash, put it on his desk. The cover art no longer looked mischievous, but reproachful. “I’ll return it tomorrow,” he said. 
   Mr. Torn’s posture continued to lean. What he had actually come here to say couldn’t be far off. “That was the hospital on the phone,” he said, keeping his voice level. “Your friend is sick. The old man who lives down the street.” 
   This piece of news caused Dante’s mouth to fall open. “What?” he stammered. “Mr. Donati?” 
   “That’s the one. Don’t worry. The nurse said he’s comfortable and fully alert.” 
   “What happened?” 
   “All I could get from the nurse was minor cardiac episode.” Mr. Torn moved off the frame. Message delivered, he could stand on his own again. “She also said that Mr. Donati would like you to visit him tomorrow. It’s Saturday so you won’t miss school.” 
   “I’ll go in the morning.” 
   “Good idea. You can return the book on your way.” 
   On that chiding note, Mr. Torn disappeared, leaving Dante to worry over the opera singer’s condition. Minor cardiac episode? So it was a heart attack then. He’d fallen ill with chest pains during the day. Had he called for an ambulance? Dante tried to remember hearing sirens at school. He couldn’t. But of course that didn’t mean anything. 
   
   Stop it. You’re being stupid. 
   
   Knowing he’d never get any work done now, Dante pushed the book report aside. He turned out the light and got in bed. It was a cold night. A layer of frost chilled the window, which shook with occasional gusts of northern wind. Between these came muffled chatter from his mom and dad in the next room. By midnight both—breezes and banter—fell silent. Dante continued to blink at the ceiling. He was at last beginning to drowse when the phone rang again. 
   Instantly his thoughts leaped to Donati. In one swift motion he was off the bed and snatching at the receiver. 
   “Hello!” he fairly gushed. 
   Silence from the other end. Then a smooth, soft, female voice said: “Dante. Sweetheart.” 
   
   
   
   Dante felt the tightness in his chest shift from anxiety to delight. “Sunny! Hi! You’re up late.” 
   “Oh I’m  always  up late, dear. And tonight I have some interesting literature on hand.” 
   Dante glanced at the library book. “Wish I could say the same here.” 
   “You’ll be okay. Just give a plot outline, then state your opinion. Your  civil  opinion.” 
   “How do you do that?” 
   “Do what?” 
   “Know what I mean before I can even tell you.” 
   She laughed. “Female intuition, Dante. Once you kiss a girl she can look right through you.” 
   “So I’m yours?” 
   “I’m afraid so. That’s okay I hope. It better be,” she added with a mischievous twist. 
   “It’s more than okay,” Dante said. He carried the phone to the bed, dragging its line. “Have you read my little missive yet?” 
   “That was the interesting literature I referred to.” 
   “Remember I wrote it about you, not Maris.” 
   “I remember,” Sunny purred. “I liked it, Dante. It’s going to work just fine for what we have in mind. Lie down in bed for me,” she told him next, with a gasp of quickened breath. Then: “Are you all alone there?” 
   “I think so,” Dante replied, stretching out on the mattress. “My mom and dad are quiet. Usually means they’re asleep.” 
   “Mine too. And my door is locked. I’m under the covers with all my clothes off.” 
   Dante tried to picture this as best he could. Imagination didn’t normally frustrate him, but tonight it did. He wanted more than just thoughts of the red-headed deviant lying naked before him. He wanted sight. He wanted touch. Scents and sounds. Defeated, he decided to tell her these things, to which she responded that of course she knew of his desires already, and that she wanted nothing more than to be with him, too. It would happen, she promised. They would find time to be together—to be  alone  together—no matter what the cost. From here Sunny’s voice took on a chiding tone. Had he already forgotten about her parents’ trip to Howling? And if not, why wasn’t he excited about it? The opportunity was perfect. They could have lots of fun. Maybe even too much fun. 
   “When is that trip?” Dante asked again. She had dodged the question at lunch. Now perhaps, corning her with it again, he could get an answer. 
   Instead the line clicked and went dead. 
   Dante pressed the carriage switch. “Sunny? Hello?” 
   There was another click in his ear, then a dial tone. He was about to call Sunny’s number in Sycamore Hills when a powerful gust of night wind struck the window. Twigs scratched the glass. The light flickered. 
   “Dante?” a female voice rang from the hall. “Dante?” 
   Sitting up in bed, Dante studied his bedroom doorway. Was his mother awake? The voice hadn’t sounded like hers. It had sounded higher, younger. 
   “Yes!” he called back, getting to his feet. 
   Only the wind answered, howling up State Street and onto Main like a woman fleeing murder. Dante peered into the hall. No one peered back. A single weak light—a night light—glowed from a console his mother had picked up last year at an Amish furniture store. That was it. 
   Needing to be further convinced, Dante walked to the end of the hall, where a window overlooked Norwalk’s huge Methodist church. This close to midnight it was nothing more than a sleeping giant. Amongst its dark, brooding stones Dante could make out very little. And anyway, the female voice hadn’t come from over there. 
   He decided to chance knocking on his parents’ door, lightly at first, then with more force when no one answered. Yet still nothing stirred on the other side. Dante took hold of the knob. His next action would be borderline anathema as far as the Torns were concerned. Under no circumstances did either parent allow their son into their bedroom. Undiscovered repercussions awaited. Sticky ends. 
   Dante turned the knob. Or rather, he tried. The door was locked. 
   “Dante?” 
   He jumped, nearly tripping over his own feet. The voice, faint and feminine, now seemed to be calling from  his  bedroom. Looking in that direction he could see the doorway. Light flooded the hall carpet. Had he turned it back on at some point? It was hard to know for certain. 
   Slowly he walked to the door. Halfway there the downtown clock tower chimed midnight. Dante got to the pool of light, leaned and peered into his room. There was his bed, his desk. Both were empty. His telephone, which he’d left on the covers, was also there. No sooner did he see it, it began to ring, over and over, stubborn for an answer though Dante hesitated a long time before at last finding courage enough to cross the room and pick up the receiver. 
   “Hello?” he asked. 
   “Dante!” Sunny’s voice replied cheerfully. “What happened?” 
   He looked back at the hall, almost expecting the mystery voice to say his name again. “I’m not sure. The line went dead.” 
   “Ah. Well for a few minutes there I thought it was  you  who’d died.” 
   “I was about to call you back actually, but then the house sort of got weird. I heard a voice call my name.” 
   “You’re just spooked over the wind.” 
   “Maybe that’s it,” Dante said, lacking conviction. “But it sure sounded real.” 
   When Sunny next spoke her voice was that of a Hollywood comedienne. “Maybe it’s  haunted ,” she moaned, elongating the word for drama. 
   Her tomfoolery forced a smile to his lips. “Then we have a late ghost. I’ve lived here all my life.” 
   Sunny didn’t answer, though this time he knew she was still there. Her presence tightened the line. “Sunny?” Dante said. 
   “ BOO!”  she screamed, loud as she could into his ear. 
   At that instant every light in the house went black. Lightning flashed outside; thunder boomed. A hundred public service announcements had taught Dante never to hold a telephone during a storm. He put it on the bed, rose, and tried to feel his way to the desk, where he kept a penlight. Halfway there the lights flickered back on. For an instant Dante thought he saw a reflection in the window—a reflection of something tall and oddly formed that leaped from view once the lights came on. His eyes went back to the door. It was still open, inviting him into the hall for a look. 
   No way,  he thought, crossing the room with an intent to close and lock it. 
   A second flash of lightning lit the world outside, followed by more thunder. Dante had his hand on the door and was about to shut it when he noticed two deep, curved marks in the hallway carpeting. They were set far apart, with pointed tips turned slightly inward. They resembled, Dante thought, a pair of cloven hooves. 
   Rain began to pelt the window, lightly at first but soon with the commotion of hailstones. He closed the door, twisted the lock handle. With luck that would do to hinder unwanted visitors. Without luck… 
   “Who am I kidding?” Dante muttered. 
   Leaving the light on, he went to the bed and lay down. After five minutes he could resist temptation no more. He dialed Sunny’s number. She answered, giggling, on the second ring. 
   “What’s so funny?” Dante asked. 
   “I knew you’d call me once the lights came back on. I got so scared when my room went dark I screamed.” 
   “You screamed the word  boo. ” 
   More laughter, fading from the receiver as if its owner had fallen backward in bed. “I think that was it,” she said, regaining control. “First thing I thought of in the dark was ghosts.” 
   “Me too,” Dante said. “Are you okay now?” 
   “Oh I’m good. Everything’s fine here. How about you?” 
   “Power’s back on for now.” 
   They talked for another hour, never minding the storm or those public service announcements. Dante had forgotten all about monsters and ghosts when someone knocked on the door. Hesitant but not wishing to show weakness with his girlfriend listening in, Dante answered it. 
   “Go to bed,” his father commanded. “It’s one o’clock in the morning.” 
   “Aw,” Sunny pouted into his ear. 
   “Sure, Dad,” Dante said. “I’m out.” 
   Mr. Torn looked at the phone. “Who the heck are you talking to?” 
   “Girlfriend.” 
   “Is that so? Hooray for you. But please tell her goodnight and go to sleep.” 
   “Sunny?” Dante said into the phone. He smiled at his dad and made an  O  with his thumb and index finger. 
   “Yes, darling?” 
   “Goodnight and go to sleep.” 
   “Oh, very amusing,” Mr. Torn said, turning back to his own bedroom. “Goodnight, Dante.” 
   “Goodnight, Dad. Goodnight, Sunny.” 
   She was still laughing at his lame joke. “Goodnight, Dante. See you Monday morning.” 
   After she hung up Dante looked at the floor. Two vague scuff marks where Mr. Torn had stood marked the carpet. But as for the hoofprints… 
   “Gone,” Dante said. “Weird.” 
   “Dante?” Sunny called from the dark at the bottom of the stairs, freezing his bones. “I love you. Sweet dreams.” 
   There came a giggle, followed by fading footsteps. Then silence. 
   Slowly, Dante closed his door and locked it. 
       CHAPTER FOURTEEN:  Hospital Visit 
   
    The hospital floor shined with wax, as clean linen does of the finest flax. 
   
     
   Dante’s first thought, upon entering a brightly lit waiting area, was not to slip and fall down. He walked gingerly between several rows of plastic chairs. There was a TV on the wall, unplugged. Stacks of magazines lay fanned on a glass table. An old woman with a cane looked at him through heroic spectacles. 
   “No smoking!” she barked, squeezing the cane with blue knuckles. “My husband has emphysema!” 
   Ignoring her, Dante made his way to the service desk and inquired as to where he might find Mr. Horatio Donati. The nurse was a woman not much younger than the one behind him. She frowned at Dante, sizing him up with a pair of stormy gray eyes that perfectly matched the curls of hair poking from beneath her cap. 
   “We don’t have anyone here by that name,” she said. 
   “Try looking first,” Dante told her. 
   “Excuse me?” 
   “You’re excused. Now I’m looking for Horatio Donati. He got sick yesterday—mild cardiac episode—and they brought him here.” 
   The nurse’s jaw hung open. “My goodness, you’re a rude boy, aren’t you?” 
   “I didn’t come in that way.” 
   “You’re going to leave or I’m going to have you removed.” 
   “Hello!” a youngish-looking gentleman with black hair cut in. “Can I be of help?” 
   Dante repeated his request, to which the gentleman responded by looking at the nurse’s computer. After a few keystrokes Donati’s name popped right up. 
   “Room 112,” the gentleman said. “You can go right down. I’m Doctor Slater, by the way.” 
   “Thank you, Doctor,” Dante said, and without sparing the nurse another glance, left the desk. 
   112 was at the end of a hall lined with healthy plants whose stems drooped from their pots. To Dante they looked ready to get up and walk. Several Christmas decorations hung on the walls—stockings, silver bells, Santa Clauses—as well as the door to Donati’s room, which was covered in green crepe paper. He raised his fist to knock, then decided that unless Donati had a nurse in the room he wouldn’t be able to answer. 
   Dante turned the knob instead. The door opened on a quiet, brightly lit room. Quiet for two reasons: The TV, like the one outside, was switched off, and the bed was empty. This second detail took Dante by surprise at first, until he noticed a wheelchair at the window, along with its occupant: Horatio Donati. 
   Despite his surroundings he didn’t look ready to present his ticket at Saint Peter’s gate just yet. His round face, Dante saw, was still ruddy with life, the curls of his black hair still rich. To judge by his belly he hadn’t been skipping out on the  brioche . And most important of all his eyes, which had thus far not noticed they had a visitor, looked bright and aware. They were set on the window—or rather, what lay beyond. It couldn’t have been much. Dante knew the hospital was built in a circle around a plain green lawn, and that Donati’s window looked out upon that lawn. Still, the opera singer appeared as the nurse who’d spoken to Dante’s father had promised: comfortable and fully alert. 
   “Hello,” Dante said, stepping forward. 
   Donati’s head turned, and when their eyes met, his face broke into a wide smile. “Dante!” he called, raising his arms. “My boy!  Mi sei mancato! ” 
   What he wanted with those raised arms could not have been more plain. Smiling, Dante crossed the room and hugged his friend hard. “ `E bello vederti, ” he whispered. 
   The remark surprised even more alertness into Donati’s already shining eyes. “He’s been studying! Eh?” 
   “I looked that one up this morning,” Dante admitted. “I wanted to say it to you, because it’s true.” 
   “You’re a fine boy, Dante,” the opera singer said, tightening his grip. “A fine boy.” 
   “Don’t be too quick to judge.” 
   “Not at all.” Donati let go his hug and looked at him. “So long as you don’t forget what that other, slightly more well known Dante wrote in his  Paradiso. ” 
   “Tell me.” 
   “’ The pious man may fall, and the thief may rise.’” 
   “Ouch. If that’s true then what does it mean to be good?” He was thinking of Sunny as he spoke, who always acted as if she already knew the answer was  nothing. 
   But Donati held a different view. “It means that you care,” he said, “even if others do not. Even if”—he took a moment to cross himself—“God does not.” 
   “Don’t go losing your faith on me, Mr. Donati. One of us needs to be strong.” 
   “Never say that last part to a man in a wheelchair.” 
   “Sorry. I lost my head.” Rather than let the comment lead them into his strange goings on of late, Dante decided to change the subject. For help he looked out the window. The view, however, was pitiful as he’d imagined. Brown grass and drab, dead trees. “You need a walk in the park,” he told Donati, frowning at the pre-Christmas dreary. 
   The other laughed. “My doctor said the same thing.” 
   Ah, now here was something they could talk about—something so obvious, in fact, that Dante nearly missed it. “What happened?” he asked. 
   Donati shrugged as if the story were too boring to tell. “My chest was hurting,” he said. “I thought it was indigestion, until it got so bad I could barely walk. So I called an ambulance.” 
   “And what did the doctors find?” 
   “Atherosclerosis. Hopefully mild. I don’t want to be cut open.” 
   “Does it hurt now?” 
   “Not at all; in fact I’m getting hungry. When do they serve lunch in this mausoleum?” 
   “That’s a heck of a word to use—“ 
   At that moment the door clicked, and a nurse came in with a tray of food. Donati rolled directly to it, running over Dante’s foot in the progress. 
   “Whoa!” the nurse—a young lady—exclaimed. “You must be hungry today!” 
   “Indeed I am, Miss,” Donati replied. “And what do we have?” He made a face at the tray. “Fish and fruit. Bah.” 
   “Now now,” the nurse chided, “look where your western diet has gotten you.” 
   “But I need my cappuccino! I need my  brioche !” 
   Dante watched from the window, amused by this miniature drama. The nurse told Donati that he would see nothing of sugared coffee or ice cream in bread whilst a patient at her particular hospital, to which the opera singer went on to proclaim misunderstanding, mistreatment, and—dare he need use the word—cruelty. 
   “Everything on this plate will make you strong,” the nurse promised. 
   She left without hearing anything more. Feeling safer now the battle was over, Dante strolled to the bed. The fish didn’t look so bad; it smelled even better. When he told Donati as much the old man grunted, then proceeded to wolf the entire meal like the glutton he’d been at number 114. 
   “Good boy!” Dante cheered. 
   “Yes Father, but where’s my ice cream?” 
   There was a remote control on the bed-stand. Dante picked it up, only to have Donati immediately wave him off. 
   “Oh no, no,” he said. “No television, please. I’m already grouchy.” 
   “Did you hear that storm last night?” 
   Once the words were out he regretted saying them. Here lay a path that would stray back to Sunny, whom Dante, though he didn’t know why, felt hesitant to discuss this morning. 
   “Slept,” Donati grumbled. “Slept and dreamed.” 
   “About what?” 
   “A girl. Lovely creature. Tall and skinny. Short black hair.” 
   The opera singer paused to knock back the last of a glass of chocolate milk. When he put the glass down his eyes wandered to the bed as if the girl in question might be found beneath its sheets, beckoning for company. 
   Dante put the remote down. “Real or total fantasy?” he asked. 
   And Donati, still eyeing the bed: “Oh, real. Very real. I gave her singing lessons last spring. A very windy, stormy April that was. Perhaps the storm you mentioned took my mind back.” 
   The wheelchair creaked as suddenly he began to rise. Dante made a move to help but once more was waved off. The opera singer climbed into bed and lay back with a sigh towards the ceiling. It wasn’t a sad sigh. To Dante it sounded rather happy—the expelled breath of one recalling better times. Memories that scratched behind the ear. 
   Dante found a chair and dragged it to the bed. From here he wasn’t certain how to proceed. Would Donati tell him more about the girl? Would it be wise to listen, considering the possibility he might blurt something about Sunny? 
   “Keefer was her name,” Donati said, without provocation. “Trixie Keefer. A perky, pretty, sunny girl. Blue eyes. Big smile. Full of life.” 
   “Sunny,” Dante said, then slapped a hand over his mouth. 
   The opera singer didn’t notice. He went on speaking, his eyes on the blank TV, his mind in the recent past. 
   “We met at a little restaurant on West Main. She was waitressing tables. I’m not sure how she found out about my singing, but when she did, she asked for lessons.” 
   “When was that?” 
   “It must have been February,” Donati sighed. “I remember it was snowing outside. Big, white flakes, like the kind that falls on the Furka Pass. She asked, and I said yes without even quoting a price. That spooky old house of mine needed some sunshine, and Miss Keefer had plenty.” He looked at Dante. “She  did  pay me, of course. Just not in coin. A waitress doesn’t have coins to dole out for singing lessons. No. She cleaned the house. Did my laundry. Cooked. Chased solicitors away from the door.” 
   To Dante that sounded like a wife. He said this out loud to Donati, who nodded and replied: “She  was  my wife. For three months. In fact she’d only been gone a few days when I first met you. She was a good student. A good singer. A good housekeeper.” 
   Here the singer hesitated and turned his head away. Sensing he had more to say, Dante waited. 
   “And a good lover,” Donati told the wall. “You might think any girl would be a good lover for a man my age, but I haven’t always been old, or fat, and I have traveled the world.” Sighing, he turned his gaze back to Dante. “Anyway, you’re too young to hear about lovers, good or bad.” 
   “I’m thirteen.” 
   A look of surprise took hold the other’s face. “Already?” 
   “July thirteenth,” Dante said. 
   “ Mamma Mia!” 
   Laughing now, Dante countered the generic expression with one of his own: “That’s-a spicy meatball!” 
   “It is indeed! Still, thirteen is too young for…you know. This sort of talk.” 
   “My girlfriend is twelve and she acts like she’s raring to rip.” 
   “Girls mature faster than boys. They walk balance beams where we fall. Their compass needles point to poles we cannot explore. When is her birthday, by the way?” 
   With an inner wince (he had tripped up and mentioned Sunny, just as he’d feared) Dante told him it was March fifteenth. 
   “Going to marry her?” Donati asked with a grin. 
   “I thought you said I’m too young for this sort of talk.” 
   “I’m sick in a hospital bed. My mind is foggy.” 
   “You’ll get strong again.” 
   “Yes,” the singer agreed. “For awhile at least. But there’s an adage that goes  we’re only young once.  That once is long gone for me whether I get well again or not.” 
   Watching Donati’s sad eyes, Dante tried to get his mind around how his friend felt. It was tricky business. Like a man at dawn imagines what it might be like to harvest at dusk, so being old felt to Dante. The very idea was little more than a dream, remote and surreal. A city in the skies of a foggy sea. From the deck of his freshly launched vessel he could only nod with puzzled expression, which Donati, though a bit dreamy himself, somehow noticed and, to reassure the mirage was anything but, repeated: 
   “One time only, Dante. From that viewpoint young love is not at all perverse. Rather, it is almost necessary, lest we miss out on beauty, on vigor. But keep in mind when the storms come, you’ll have a more difficult time staying afloat on the water. Or,” he added, as if in response to unheard objection, “perhaps the strength of youth will make it easier. What do I know?” 
   “Did you have these thoughts when you were with your student?” Dante put forth. 
   “No, no,” the other said with an impatient sniff. “I merely enjoyed her company.” 
   “That may be all you needed to do.” 
   “Maybe.” He looked at Dante. “In any case, my enjoyment with Miss Keefer ended when she graduated high school. Her family is currently vacationing in Key Biscayne.” 
   “They’ll come back,” Dante said. 
   “In time for her college courses to resume, yes.” 
   “You’ll still get to see her.” 
   “I’m not certain that’s wise. She told me a frightening story one night about a girlfriend of hers who disappeared. Left school one spring and went wandering. In late August she came home with a boyfriend. She was pregnant.” 
   “It sounds like she eloped,” Dante said. “I’ve heard of girls doing that before.” 
   Donati gave a nod. “She later told Trixie that she did indeed elope. To a far away place where someone she loved was murdered.” 
   Dante’s eyes widened. Here was a twist he would never have guessed in a million years. “I’m not sure I follow,” he said to Donati. 
   “Apparently a wild animal attacked the friend’s mother and…killed her.  Murdered , I suppose, wasn’t quite the word to use. But when the friend came home with the father of her child, someone else followed. That someone broke into their home. He attacked all three.” 
   “Why on Earth did he do that?” 
   “Miss Keefer doesn’t know for certain. But her friend—Ingrid, her name was—intimated a revenge connection having to do with a family squabble. Two families squabbling, I should say. At any rate, the attack was brutal and bloody. This interloper punched Ingrid’s boyfriend in the chest so hard that his hand went through and pulverized the heart.” 
   “Don’t be silly,” Dante cut in. “No one could do that. This Keefer girl must have been having fun with you.” 
   “She gave me the address of the home where it happened. And when. October, 1990.” 
   “And did you check up on it?” Dante had to ask, though he felt he knew the answer already. 
   “Yes,” Donati replied softly. “The address is in Sandusky. Two years ago a young man was murdered there. Police responding to an anonymous phone call—presumably from Ingrid—found his bloody body in the kitchen. His breastbone had been smashed. His heart crushed.” 
   “But Ingrid made it out okay?” 
   “The police eventually detained her. She answered a lot of questions. They must have been good answers, because she wasn’t arrested. With a little more time she may have been, but…” 
   Here Donati’s voice trailed off. As before, Dante decided to wait rather than prod for more information. Seconds later the gambit once again paid off. 
   “She disappeared,” the singer finished. “Vanished. Nobody could find her. Not even Trixie.” 
   “And she’s still gone?” 
   “As far as I know.” 
   Dante sat quietly by the bed. He could think of nothing to say. If the story were true this was the first he’d ever heard of it. That meant nothing, of course. In 1990 he’d only been eleven years old. Rarely had he paid much attention to the news. Even today he sometimes struggled to keep up. 
   “Ingrid and her boyfriend were a strange couple,” Donati said. “So Trixie told me. One was an introverted artist, the other an unconfident, gauche everyman. Trixie and I were also strange. Were we ever. She was eighteen and me fifty-two.” 
   “Yep,” Dante had to agree on the second count. “That’s out there all right.” 
   But the singer hadn’t finished yet. There was one more couple he wanted stirred into the fray. 
   “You and this Sunny,” he said, smiling from the hospital pillows. “Improbable. Most improbable.” 
   “How so?” 
   And as cold water enfeebles the colors on a fresh painted canvas, so did the thought of Sunny weaken Donati’s smile. “I encouraged your relationship at first, but she seems…cruel,” he said. “A girl given over to the infliction of pain.” His eyes flicked from the ceiling to Dante. “Why would you love such a creature?” 
   “I don’t love her,” Dante said, or tried to say. His voice was barely more than a whisper. 
   “You said once that you did. And it’s true. It’s in your eyes when you speak her name. And your voice.” Here Donati let his smile return full force. “Your voice becomes music.” 
   “Stop it.” 
   “You’re blushing.” 
   “It’s the heat. They’ve got it cranked too high.” 
   “Do you still plan to write that letter she asked you to write? The one you told me about after Thanksgiving?” 
   “Yes. In fact I’ve already written it. It’s a poem.” 
   “And the deed is done?” 
   “What deed?” 
   “You wanted to humiliate two innocent children,” Donati said patiently. Then, just as patiently: “Or did you?” 
   “It’s just a little prank,” Dante said. “But no. That hasn’t happened. Yet.” 
   “Second thoughts?” 
   “Orchestration. Timing.” 
   “Don’t do it, boy. It won’t be funny. At best it will be awkward; the school will blink in confusion and move on with the year, forgetting it all. At worst…” 
   Dante leaned forward. “Yes?” he asked, genuinely curious about the older man’s eyes, which to his utter surprise appeared ready to weep. 
   “At worst, souls will be destroyed. The girl’s. The boy’s. The boy’s in particular. He stands before a tsunami. And yours, Dante,” the singer added. “We mustn’t forget yours. Pain can be like light, and its target a mirror.” 
   “Unless the mirror breaks,” Dante said. “Then I won’t have to worry.” 
   “Is that what you want? Good Heavens, boy.” 
   “No. No, of course not. I was thinking of Sunny.” 
   “If those are the thoughts she puts in your head,” Donati told him with furled brow, “consider another for the flowers you buy. Girls like Sunny don’t destroy souls, Dante.” 
   “No?” Dante said, perking up at this bit of optimism. 
   Donati, however, hadn’t veered down any gilded paths, as his next words proved. 
   “No,” he said. “They eat them.” 
       CHAPTER FIFTEEN:  Happy New Year 
     Dante spent Christmas alone in his room. His presents were few, given not with love, but memories of love, set too deep to exhume. 
     
   Things were certainly different with Sunny. On the day before school let out—Tuesday—he’d given her the nail polish. Their surroundings had been secret. No one ever went behind the giant Christmas tree in the foyer. Knowing this, Dante had led her there by the hand. They’d hunkered down behind a number of large, empty boxes decorated to look like presents, and here, Dante gave her his own present. Sunny’s response could not have been better. Gushing with thanks, she’d thrown her arms round his neck, punctuating each word of gratitude with a kiss. The color was perfect, she’d squealed, totally what she would have chosen had she been in the shop with him. 
   “I’m glad you like it,” Dante told her, leaning on a Styrofoam snowman. 
   And Sunny, with her head on his chest: “Oh, I love it dear. In fact why don’t we just stay here all through fifth period?” 
   “I have a better idea,” Dante had then said. “Why don’t we just go home early? Sneak away to Stoutenburg Park, swing on the swings?” 
   “In twenty-five degree weather?” 
   “Sure. I’ll keep you warm.” 
   And so they’d gone, giggling, down one empty hall and up another, peeking around lockers like a couple of Santa’s helpers hoping not to get caught with the milk and cookies. They’d slipped out the front door, ducked behind the bicycle racks. None of it frightened Dante. Somehow he’d known they wouldn’t be caught. 
   He’d been right. Fifteen minutes after leaving the school, on the cold, empty playground of Stoutenburg Park, Sunny had given Dante his present. It was a book.  The Giving Tree,  by Shel Silverstein. 
   “Don’t open it here,” she’d said, snuggling him on one of the picnic tables. “Wait ‘til you’re alone.” 
   “Thank you for this,” Dante said before putting the book inside his coat. 
   “My family doesn’t celebrate the holiday. But how could I not let you know what you mean?” 
   “So the book has a message?” 
   “Not according to Silverstein. Read the inside cover though. You may find something.” 
   Later that night he did exactly that, pulling the book’s handsome cover back slowly in a ploy to savor the moment. There was a note inside, written in loops and swirls of red ink. 
     
   Dante,  Sunny had written. 
     
   
   Chances are you’ve already read this book a hundred times. Its author insists there is no message, but as I told you on the picnic table, the message is mine not his. It goes as follows: Sometimes—most of the time—being good just doesn’t matter. The universe is going to take from you. You are the giving tree; it is the old man. Stop. I’ll help you. I’ll show you how. 
   
   
   Love, 
   
   
   Sunny 
   
     
   He had indeed read the book more than once, but since he always found it so enjoyable he read it again right there at his desk. Then he read Sunny’s note again. And again, and again. 
   … but as I told you on the picnic table, the message is mine not his. 
   Over the school year she had executed a number of disturbing maneuvers upon his psyche, to the point where they should have, by this time, been nearly commonplace. All the same, his heart went cold at these words. How on Earth had she possessed the foresight to write them? There was simply no way Sunny could have known his intention to steal her away to the park. Right up until the moment it happened, Dante hadn’t even known himself. 
   On impulse he decided to open the book again, flipping the pages carefully to see if she’d written anything else. There was nothing until the very back, where on the opposite side of the cover he found: 
     
   
   I know everything… 
   
   
   About the boy I fell in love with. You, Dante. 
   
   
   You. 
   
     
   Had this strange statement, written in the same red ink, and in Sunny’s hand, been there all along? Dante couldn’t be sure. He put the book on the desk, stood up, and went to the window. The scene beyond—light snow, a large church, an empty street—was certainly familiar enough. Comforting even. But the darkness he sensed did not come from outside. Rather, it was right here in the room with him. 
   “Sunny?” he called aloud, still staring at the church. “Tell me something. How long were you able to hold your breath that day in front of my locker?” 
   He waited a few seconds, then crossed to the desk. The book lay there, just as he’d left it. But had it perhaps changed just a little bit? He opened the cover gingerly, as if at any moment it might snap and take his fingers off. Sunny’s note was still on the inside, word for word as she’d written it. Dante flipped to the back. There was the other, shorter note. It too read exactly the same as before. 
   “You’re an idiot,” Dante said to himself, closing the book. 
   He didn’t get it all the way closed. Somehow one of the pages curled over too far. Yanking the cover back so as not to damage it, Dante’s hand slipped. The book slid to the edge of the desk and fell off. It thudded on the floor with its cover wide open. Dante bent, picked it up… 
   And saw that it had fallen to page thirty. 
   ∞ 
   New Year’s Day arrived. 1993. Like always, it was a quiet one in Norwalk. It brought no drinking or dancing. Nobody honked their car horns, or sang Auld Lang Syne in drunken, warbled notes. In Ohio fireworks were illegal for civilians to launch; thus, the skies at midnight of January the 1st remained dark and cold. Indeed, for one in Norwalk to look from skies to streets retained the potential for brief confusion, as they both, at a glance, pretended to be each other. But for the courthouse clock that chimed the hour, nothing among the old downtown buildings made a sound. 
   This year Dante didn’t care. He wasn’t in town for the holiday. He’d gone with his mother and father to stay at a hotel in Cleveland, where a yacht-owners convention had been booked. The idea excited him at first, not due to the company they would surely keep (tall, suave, self-important—and of course, male), but the premises in which they’d be kept. The  Hotel Consorcia  on Euclid Avenue was lavish—or so his father promised the week leading up to the event. It boasted three hundred rooms throughout fifteen floors. A swimming pool, a gymnasium; a Jacuzzi, a sauna. There was also a video arcade (again, promised by his father before Dante saw any actual proof), a candy store, and an ice cream parlor. 
   Of all these fanciful amenities, only the latter two turned out to be bogus. They arrived on the afternoon of December 31st. A valet parked their car. Luggage boys carried their bags through a revolving gold door. Beyond lay a whisper quiet, dim lobby painted wine and gold. Huge pieces of cedar wood furniture snoozed beneath the glow of pleasant lamps. At a long counter, also of cedar wood, his father spoke to a girl who procured a room for them on the ninth floor. 
   They went up in an elevator silent as the lobby. The car’s door was mirrored. Seeing himself reflected made Dante, as always, immediately self-conscious. He set about straightening his hair and collar while his parents stood statuesque. It didn’t seem to help much. His jeans looked baggy, his shirt wrinkled. Irritated, he took a deep breath and decided to hold it until the doors opened, which they did in plenty of time, dumping them all into yet more dimness, this time a hallway, lushly carpeted and set with fake plants that cast long, vaguely unsettling shadows. 
   A cart with their bags on it sat outside room 909. Dante’s father opened the door with a mag-card, then asked Dante to roll the cart into a room that smelled of fresh laundry. One of the bags—a red duffle—belonged to him. He put it on the bed closest to the window, hoping his parents wouldn’t ask him to switch. Then he went to the glass and looked out. Craning his head, he could see Euclid Avenue’s wet sidewalks stretching to the Huntington and PNC buildings. Nearer by was the State Theatre on Playhouse Square. Everything was rain and concrete gray. Not unpleasant. A day for coffee by candlelight, or a good book in an easy chair. This was the departure of 1992. Its final few steps would be from a city by the lake. 
   “Dante?” his father called. 
   Dante closed the curtain. “Yes?” 
   “Your mother and I are going to wash up for the convention. Once we’re gone you’ll be on your own…probably for the rest of the night.” 
   “Okay.” 
   “They’re having a little party after all the boring slide-shows,” Mr. Torn went on to explain. “I guess to ring in 1993.” 
   He spoke this last as if the holiday were normally too trivial to muck about with. For the most part that was true. Dante thought his parents might stay out late tonight, but they wouldn’t dance or get drunk. That kind of behavior simply didn’t fit their reasoned, sensible style. Some of their friends, on the other hand… 
   “Is Joe going to be there?” Dante asked. 
   Immediately he regretted bringing that particular friend into the conversation. Too many bad memories—bad and not so distant memories—involved Joseph Jones. And since Dante never liked the big blowhard anyway, why had he even bothered think of him? 
   “No,” his father said, with a drop in temperature Dante could easily feel. “Joe doesn’t leave his house much these days. But don’t worry,” he added after a moment, “I’ll leave some money for you on the bed-stand.” 
   Ouch,  Dante thought. 
   His father stared at him with eyes like the headlights of a police car. “Will there be anything else?” he said. 
   “No,” Dante told him. “Thanks.” 
   “Good boy. Happy New Year, Dante.” 
   “Thanks,” Dante said again. “Happy New Year, Dad.” 
   ∞ 
   In less than an hour he was all by himself in the room. By then it was near six o’clock and almost full dark. Euclid Avenue had come alight, though very few Clevelanders wished to brave the damp weather. Looking out the window Dante could see a good many traffic lights serving a futile purpose. He counted their cycles—red, green, yellow, red—half a dozen times before seeing a single car. 
   Not that the cold was solely to blame. Because of the holiday very few shops along the strip were even open. Of those that were, Dante guessed, none would welcome patrons with open arms. Yes, there were people who still had to show up for jobs over the holidays, but they didn’t expect to work. 
   Yawning, Dante left the window. What lay beyond mattered little. He was prisoner of the hotel. Indeed, it appeared as if he might open 1993 right here in room 909, watching movies on cable television. Hoping this wouldn’t be the case but feeling powerless to avoid it, he lay back in bed with the  Consorcia’s  remote control and began to surf channels. What sprang up was not encouraging. First came a black and white sitcom from the fifties; next, a basketball report from two nights previous—Cavaliers 114, Hawks 96—then a Schwarzenegger movie on HBO; then snow; then a beer commercial; then another black and white, this one a movie featuring Cary Grant and Joan Fonaine. 
   “Hello, Monkey-face!” Cary Grant sang. 
   Dante clicked the TV off. He put the controller on the table, right next to what his father had left him for dinner tonight: fifty dollars.  Not bad,  he thought.  I can do a lot with fifty bucks. 
   Then he remembered he was in the  Consorcia . With luck he might be able to afford a burger, fries, and a Coke at the bar. If they even let kids into the bar. If not, he would have to call room service. 
   There was a menu next to the phone. Dante skimmed it. The meals were pricey all right, all printed in flouncy curly-cues he could barely read. In fact only the kiddy meal would leave him with change enough to tip the delivery boy. 
   He was not going to order the kiddy meal. Tossing the menu aside, Dante reached for his shoes. He put them on, grabbed a key and the money, and left room 909. If the Hotel  Consorcia  couldn’t feed him on fifty dollars, he would find a deli down the street. 
   As it turned out, there was a buffet lounge off the lobby that sold reasonably priced meals. Dante ate Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes in a quiet corner which, through an arched wooden doorway, gave him a view of the bar, where bald-headed old men drank whiskey in the dark, their glasses clinking. None of them spoke, or even smiled. They’d grown tired of the future, Dante guessed. For them New Year’s Eve had long ago lost its ability to enchant. They’d brushed the fairy dust of hope away, knowing it no longer sparkled with the power to give wings to its receiver. Instead, it brought sneezes and coughs. Dante watched one of the men put down his drink and light a cigar. Smoke clouded his face. The smoke of anguish yet to come. 
   ∞ 
   After dinner he found the video arcade, a by no means easy task in this particular hotel. It began with a decision not to ride the elevator back upstairs, but stroll past their shiny doors to the end of the hallway. Here an unusually dark T intersection offered two options: turn left to the convention hall (where the yachtsmen were no doubt discussing old Christopher Cross hits and whether or not Dacron was stronger than Spectra), or turn right into an even darker corridor possessed of undisclosed destinations. 
   Dante chose right, leaving the glow of the convention to caress his shoulders. That glow quickly faded while the hallway seemed to get more narrow with every step. He passed a janitor’s closet, then an empty room with a black sink counter and a coffee pot. Steam billowed from the pot. Beside it was a white mug, its rim chipped. 
   Dante was almost past the room when he noticed a poster on the back wall. Hesitating, he afforded it a closer look. It was an oddity. Never before had he seen anything like it, and for the life of him, he couldn’t see its purpose in a luxury hotel. 
   It showed a flight of black stairs, beneath which floated a pair of tilted, angry green eyes.  Beware All Lairs Beneath Old Stairs,  a message beneath the picture read. 
   What it was supposed to mean, besides the obvious (and ludicrous), Dante held no power to fathom. More than likely an employee had hung it there for a joke. Unsettled regardless, Dante walked to the end of the hall. Here a flight of concrete steps, uncarpeted, curved down to what he at first guessed was a parking garage. Expecting to be deposited onto a tier of chrome grills and bumpers, he rounded the curve, only to be surprised by a dim, carpeted room of blinking, blipping screens. Another poster, this one far more friendly, hovered on the wall to the right. It showed a powered-up Pac-Man gobbling colored ghosts, while on the bottom a caption proclaimed:  We’ve Got To Stop Eating Like This. 
   Delighted by his find, Dante entered the room. Huge, black video consoles—all of them lit—formed a corridor of electronic bliss. Better still, there was no one else in the room, so he had his pick of the games. 
   He started with  Ms. Pac-Man  and worked his way towards the back, dropping quarters into other games like  Galaga  and  Space Invaders  and  Street Fighter.  Screen lives went reasonably quick, as he wasn’t an especially skilled player. This fact scarcely bothered him. The fact that the room was dark didn’t bother him either, nor that he was alone, until an hour later when he noticed a small, round table with a white card taped to it. On the card was a series of black words. Dante glanced at it once before finishing his round of  Tempest.  Only then did he afford it another look. In an instant all merriment came to a halt. The card’s message was not a happy one. Far from it. 
   Closure Of This Retro-Arcade Shall Be Permanent And Absolute,  it read,  All Games To Be Left On For The Beguilement Of That Which Our Young Patrons Have Feared, And Spoken Of In Awkward Forums. Entrance To This Room Is FORBIDDEN Without Express Permission Of Hotel Management. Thank You. 
   Suddenly unable to move his legs, Dante looked back along the row of consoles. He now stood at the room’s opposite end, far from the curved steps. He took a deep breath. No doubt the sign, like the poster in the coffee room, was meant to be a joke. Otherwise, why wouldn’t it be hanging at the doorway, rather than all the way back here? Still, Dante felt unnerved, and no longer wished to feed coins to the blinking machines. Letting the breath out, he took a step forward. That was when a pinball machine on his right,  Gorgar , kicked a free ball to its piston, and began make sounds like a heartbeat, as if it had somehow come alive. 
   Beat Me!  a voice through its hidden speakers challenged. 
   It was the voice of a demon, which was appropriate, considering the picture on the machine’s backboard that depicted one of the beasts. It grinned at Dante with long teeth and green eyes. 
   Boom-Boom!  thumped the heartbeat effect.  Boom-Boom! Boom-Boom! 
   Dante looked at the card again. 
   
   --For The Beguilement Of That Which Our Young Patrons Have Feared— 
   
   Spine tingling, he left the room at a hurried pace, not daring to look over his shoulder as he moved. He reached the top of the stairs and passed the coffee room without a glance. 
   ∞ 
   Back at the elevators, he asked a bellhop for directions to the swimming pool, hoping that time in a festive, public area would help calm his nerves. The bellhop obliged with a smile, along with a neat, crisp hand covered with white glove. Dante put a quarter in the hand, then made his way through the dark lobby, keeping his mind focused on the route he’d been told to use. Through the lobby, to the left, and down a long, wide hallway that led to an enormous glass dome. 
   The young man’s instructions proved accurate. In less than two minutes Dante was at the edge of a large, rectangular swimming pool. It ran the length of an open foyer that echoed the sound of footsteps, along with that of lapping water. Above spanned the dome, black and starless, as the time was now past eight o’clock. A cloak of darkness also hovered along the far wall, where a row of plain, numbered doors slept, awaiting tenants. 
   Few were here at the moment. Indeed, Dante could see only one—a slender lady with long red hair, swimming laps in the pool. She wore a green, two-piece bathing suit with ties that streamed elegantly, like tiny kite strings, from her body. Each kick of her legs threw up light, dainty droplets of water. 
   “ Phew!”  she breathed, her arms moving.  “Phew! Whew!” 
   Not wishing to disturb her exercise, Dante found a seat at one of the tables. From here he watched, by a series of furtive glances, as the red-haired woman swam from one end of the pool to the other, and back again. She looked quite graceful. Her slender body made scarcely a ripple upon the surface, and the music of her labored lungs was high and pretty. A couple of times she caught Dante watching, but didn’t seem to mind. She even smiled at him once. That was when he noticed her eyes, like her bikini, were green. 
   Smiling at him again, she drew a deep breath— AHHHH!— and dove down. 
   Dante counted to ten before she broke the surface, filling her small chest with what sounded like much needed air. 
   “OH!” she cried, as water sprayed her twinkling eyes. “Goodness!” 
   “Are you all right?” Dante forced himself to ask. 
   “Yes!” the woman answered, breasts heaving. “But I should have rested a little first! Whew! Got a bit too confident with my mermaid skills!” 
   Dante cleared his throat and nodded. He could think of no suitable response to her statement, though one seemed required, as the woman kept staring at him, her smile thin yet knowing. Knowing of what Dante couldn’t be sure, as they had only just met. 
   Or had he perhaps seen her before? When she next spoke, it was to say that she was a relative Sunny’s, and that she knew the family of her boyfriend—of whom she spoke often, with elated fondness—was staying at the hotel for a yacht convention. 
   “Sunny has shown me your picture many times,” the woman said, swimming to the edge of the pool to grab hold. “You can only be Dante.” At that moment her smile widened, and her eyes narrowed, so that Dante almost felt he was seeing a shark in the water. “Is my intuition correct? It normally is. My memory too.” 
   “I’m Dante,” he told her, trying to smile back. 
   “My name is Hadria,” the woman said. “I’m Sunny’s cousin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 
   With that, Hadria got out of the pool, dripping water all over the tiles. Dante put her height to be just over five feet, and guessed her weight to be not much more than a hundred pounds. She fetched a towel from a nearby table, dried herself, then took a seat next to Dante. 
   Over the next few minutes they exchanged a smattering of simple pleasantries, with Hadria doing most of the talking while Dante punctuated her musings with tiny, awkward crumbs of information about himself. 
   “Sunny talks about you all the time,” Hadria said again, with a friendly tap on Dante’s arm. “Being in love makes her very excited. Very happy. Of course it does. Everyone loves to be in love.” 
   Dante noticed that every time she spoke the word  love , her green eyes fluttered, and her brow wrinkled, as if she were suffering some minor discomfort. He began to wonder if perhaps this woman had once been in love, and been hurt by it. If so he didn’t care to imagine what kind of man would have inflicted the pain, for Hadria’s beauty was such that it seemed fresh with each anxious glance he sent in her direction. Her red hair, now dry, lay like a curtain of fire over shoulders delicate and narrow. Light freckles sprinkled her cheeks, which were otherwise clear, arcing back to dully pointed ears, each pierced with a small, milky-white stone. 
   “Moonstone,” Hadria said, when she caught Dante looking. The shark smile had come back to her lips. “The stone of desire. It radiates female energy and stimulates a man’s appetite for love. I’ll loan them to Sunny for you. If you like.” 
   Mention of his girlfriend caused Dante to blurt out what had been on his mind for several minutes now. “You look like her. Like an adult version of her.” 
   Hadria tilted her head. The motion must have captured a ray of light reflecting off the pool water, for her green eyes then began to twinkle like stars seen on a clear, cold night. 
   “Does that mean I interest you?” she asked in a slithering voice. 
   Here Dante, feeling ridiculous, began to splutter explanations and apologies in equal measure. Yes, he found her to be an interesting woman, but not like that, or not like how she seemed to ascertain; not that she  wasn’t  interesting in that way, not at all, but he loved Sunny, he belonged to Sunny, he would never— 
   Hadria cut him off with a laugh. “It’s all right, Dante. I know precisely what you’re trying to say.” 
   “Thank you,” Dante gushed. “That makes one of us, at least.” 
   At this the small woman laughed some more, glancing in opposite directions, perhaps as a way to reassure herself that no one was looking. Once she saw that they were still alone, she looked at Dante and asked: 
   “Would you like to time how long I can hold my breath underwater? I’ve been trying to reach one minute but haven’t quite been able to.” 
   “Sure,” Dante said. “No problem.” 
   “I have a watch in my bag. Let me get it.” 
   Hadria rose and walked, pixie-like, to the next table, where she rummaged briefly through a large bag and came up with a pink wrist-watch. After pressing a few of its beeping buttons, she handed the watch to Dante. Its green display showed a row of zeroes. Next to them was a button marked START. 
   Hadria walked to the edge of the pool. After a brief glance into its depths, she dove in. Dante admired how her reedy frame barely disturbed the water. Seconds later she surfaced by the ladder, refreshing her lungs. 
   “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but I’d like to try this without a top.” 
   Dante’s eyes widened as Hadria reached behind herself, untied the top of her bathing suit, and lay it on the tiles. 
   “I’ll get a much deeper breath this way,” she then explained, “and also be more relaxed while holding it in.” 
   She didn’t wait for Dante to offer an opinion on the matter. Instead, her chest began to rise with a number of heavy practice breaths. 
   “ Ahhhhhh! Phew!”  Hadria plumed, over and over.  “Ahhhhh! Phew!” 
   Unable to help himself, Dante peered through the water. It wasn’t rippling quite enough to conceal Hadria’s small, tight breasts. Her nipples, sharp with cold moisture, were like tiny white beads. Beneath them Dante could make out the bones of Hadria’s ribcage. For the time being at least, they were perky with moving air. Yet listening to the woman breathe, Dante could tell her lung capacity was small. Try as she might, Hadria’s chest just didn’t hold very much of what one needed to last long underwater. 
   “Ready?” she asked, and in a moment Dante realized she wasn’t talking to him, but to herself. “Ready,” she answered. 
   Her eyes jumped to Dante. Raising the watch to show that he, too, was ready, Dante gave her a nod. Then Hadria drew a final, deep breath, and slipped below the surface. 
   ∞ 
   When it was over, she asked if Dante wouldn’t mind carrying the large bag back to her room. He obliged readily, seeing how the woman’s chest still heaved from its prior exertion. Thanking him, Hadria put on a robe and they walked to the elevators. 
   Her room was on the sixth floor, in the middle of a dark hallway with carpeting so brown and thick Dante thought he could almost mistake it for a river of sludge. Certainly that couldn’t be the analogy guests of the  Consorcia  were meant to make, but here it was. 
   They went into Hadria’s room. She clicked on the light. Red carpeting decorated with yellow flowers sprang into view. The air smelled of lemon, as if the flowers might be real. From the wall jutted a double bed. Next to that, a desk and phone. In front of the bed stood a large entertainment table, complete with television and radio. All in all it was, Dante thought, a basic hotel room. Basic, that was, but for its occupant. 
   “You can put the bag on the bed,” Hadria told him, “then come into the bathroom with me.” 
   This last caused Dante’s eyes to widen. He looked at her, awaiting further explanation. She’d none to give. She draped her robe over a chair and disappeared into the bathroom without a word. 
   Dante put her bag on the mattress. The bathroom door hung wide open. Golden light spilled from inside. Briefly, Dante considered simply leaving—of running out to the muddy hallway and away from Hadria forever. But then her voice came into the room, shocking him further with its words. 
   “You know Sunny’s a virgin, yes?” Hadria called. “She’s frightened. You know…of being with a boy.” 
   “I guess she would be,” Dante did his very best to reply. His feet remained stuck at the foot of the bed. Indeed, even if he could get them to move, he wasn’t sure at the moment where he wanted to go. 
   “But then she met you,” continued Hadria, “and felt perfectly at ease. You were like a friend she once knew a long time ago, come back from a hidden grave in the wood.” 
   Dante thought those words strange indeed. Hearing them brought a chill to his spine. He watched a shadow move across the bathroom light, nearly eclipsing it in full. This too was odd, as he’d noticed earlier the light mounted on the ceiling, and Hadria’s stature was small. But then the shadow was gone, and Hadria began talking again. 
   “It’s so natural,” she said. “Never once have you made Sunny feel skittish or hesitant. She’s already told me she wouldn’t mind being married to you. Isn’t that beautiful?” 
   Dante’s befuddlement at the older woman’s mannerisms continued. She didn’t call him out on it, or let his awkwardness fester. Instead she invited him, quite politely, to join her in the shower, so that she might wash with an extra pair of hands on her back. 
   Still frightened but far too curious now for flight, Dante approached the doorway. From inside came the squeak of a handle turning, followed by the sound of flowing water. When he peered round the frame he saw Hadria in the shower, fully naked. Her back was to him, yet still, when she arched her neck to let the water flow down her chest, he was able to see the shape of her ribcage, which hadn’t held quite enough air to maintain a sixty second breath-hold underwater. The urge to touch it—to touch her—became nearly overpowering. As cool air from the sea fans a spark to a flame, luring it to rage before Selene’s tide, so the woman excited Dante, and it was all he could do not to enter the room. Only the thought of hurting Sunny held him in check. 
   “I know you’re there,” Hadria said, not bothering to look over her shoulder. “Come inside. I could use your help. Sunny too.” 
   “Sunny?” Dante managed. 
   Now Hadria  did  look. “She’s a virgin, Dante, but she doesn’t want both of you to be. Not for her first time. She wants you confident and in control. That’s why you’re here tonight. To learn confidence and control.” 
   “Did she tell you that?” 
   “She most certainly did. Now get undressed. I’ll show you exactly what you need to do. We’ll go nice and slow.” 
   With that, Hadria went back to washing herself. It was as if she knew Dante would eventually do as he was told. And less than a minute later, he did. 
   “Good,” Hadria said, as Dante stepped into the shower. “Very good. Now I want you to just…do what comes natural. Okay? Do what comes natural.” 
   “But you said you would show me—“ 
   “Shhh. I will. I will.” 
   ∞ 
   At midnight came the explosion of pyrotechnics. Flowers of fire, large as a football stadium, burst over the lakefront, throwing fitful light upon Cleveland’s many knifelike towers, forlorn steel bridges, and grotesque offerings of abstract park art. Dante and Hadria watched from her window. Each of them drank a glass of wine. 
   “Happy New Year,” she said, smiling up from his shoulder. 
   “Happy New Year, Hadria,” Dante said. 
   He felt ever so much more comfortable now in her proximity, a fact which stood to reason. He didn’t even mind that they were both still quite naked, though she’d pulled the curtain wide for the show. 
   They watched until the fireworks ended. At the fading of the final rocket, Hadria’s room fell into a blackness almost pitch. All Dante could see, by the faint glow of downtown, were her eyes, which suddenly looked too green and too bright. They blinked at him in a cat-like, predatory way. Uneasiness began to creep back into his chest, until Hadria spoke with a voice gentle and warm as any he’d heard from the kindest of giving souls. 
   “Take what you’ve learned tonight back to Sunny,” she said. “She’ll be so relieved by your ability to take charge. When she’s ready, of course.” 
   Not long after, Dante dressed and left the room to return to his own on the ninth floor. Upon unlocking the door, he found it empty, the curtains closed, the beds unused. By then it was nearing one in the morning, but his father had already warned that he would probably have the whole night to himself. 
   Not that it mattered. Dante had rung in 1993 in the best possible way any man could. The only thing left to do now was sleep. He brushed his teeth, put on a pair of pajamas, and lay down on the bed. 
   Blinking blearily at the ceiling, he tried to imagine doing with Sunny what he’d done with Hadria. It took very little effort. Tired though his body was, his mind still seemed eager for play, so it was to Sunny’s high, devious laughter that he finally fell asleep, and dreamed of iridescent fire in black skies cold with a coming storm. 
       CHAPTER SIXTEEN:  For Dukey 
   
    Happiness came from an unlikely source, breaking the groove of an elder’s course. 
   
     
   The farmer, who’d introduced himself as John Huntley, stood with his hands in the pockets of his overalls. He was every bit as tall as Dante’s father, but much wider, with huge brown boots on his feet, a blue bandana in his back pocket, and a red face that Dante thought looked well accustomed to smiling. 
   All three men were in a barn on the east end of Monroeville, which was a very small town three miles west of Norwalk. In a million years Dante would never have pictured his father in such a place, but here he was. His reason lay on the floor, bundled beneath a pile of blankets. As John Huntley talked, Dante kept looking from the bundle to his father and back again, trying hard to get his mind around what he was seeing. 
   He couldn’t do it. His father was a lot like the skyline of Cleveland—cool, pragmatic, rigid—but here, on a cold day in a cold barn, the ice had cracked. From beneath emerged a very different man. One who had not known the sun for a long time, or perhaps never at all, and looked all the more happy to feel its long overdue radiance upon his face. 
   Dante watched as Mr. Torn knelt and, gently pulling the blankets away from their contents, began to laugh. Laugh! Mr. Torn was laughing! At this Dante almost wanted to run to the nearest phone, where he would then dial 911 and beg for assistance. 
   “Dad?” he brought out instead. 
   “Look at them, Dante! Just look at them!” 
   “Yeah,” Dante said, smiling, “I’m looking.” 
   The puppies—a litter of four shih-tzus—yipped and yapped about the teats of their mother. They were brown and black bundles of fur, with tiny, wriggling noses that poked at Dante’s hand when he tried to pet them. All looked friendly, full of energy. Ready to play for the next hundred years. 
   “They’re not really farm dogs,” John Huntley explained as the elder Torn, to Dante’s absolute shock, picked one up and began to cuddle it. “So I figured it best to sell the pups. We’re looking to get a briard for the sheep.” 
   “I can’t imagine anyone not wanting one of these,” Mr. Torn cooed into the baby shih-tzu’s nose. The shih-tzu licked him back. “What time is it? Huh? Huh?” 
   “It’s almost noon,” John Huntley answered. 
   “Is it time to go outside?” Mr. Torn went on, talking to the puppy. “Huh? Who wants to go for a walk?” 
   John Huntley laughed. “That one’s male. And he’s yours for a hundred dollars of you’re interested.” 
   As if he could understand this, the puppy began wagging his tail furiously. His tongue licked Mr. Torn on the nose. 
   Instant friendship,  Dante thought, dizzied by the whole scene. 
   At that moment a warm breeze swept into the barn, kicking up a number of dried leaves gathered along a row of horse stalls. It was still January, but a false summer was upon the region, thawing John Huntley’s frozen fields into mucks of heady, wet earth smells. Dante couldn’t say he was happy to have the snow gone (no snow meant no sledding), but did enjoy the balmy winds, which had been blowing wildly all week. 
   “Sold,” Mr. Torn said. 
   And the puppy yipped, and continued to lick his face. 
   ∞ 
   “Uh…Dad?” Dante chanced, as they cruised back to Norwalk. “Are you all right?” 
   “Of course I’m all right!” the other practically giggled. “Look at this guy!” 
   The puppy was in his lap, with two of his paws on the steering wheel. Ready, Dante thought, to beep the horn. His father must have been thinking this same thing, because he laughed again and placed the puppy’s paw over the little  BMW  logo on the wheel. Then the horn went off—once, twice, three times. 
   “Good boy!” Mr. Torn sang. “You tell that truck to move! You tell it to move right  now. ” 
   “Dad, do you want me to drive?” 
   His father blinked for a moment. “Drive? What are you talking about? You’re thirteen years old!” 
   And the puppy, still smiling from within all that black and brown fur, barked his assent. 
   “Dukey,” Mr. Torn said. “You’re name is Dukey. How does that sound? Hmm?” 
   Dukey’s tail wagged furiously, dusting Mr. Torn’s camel hair coat. Mr. Torn scratched him behind the ears. Then, to Dante’s utter horror, he emitted a series of baby sounds—coos and other silly gibberish—before leaning in to kiss Dukey spot on the nose. 
   “Dad!” 
   “Oh, hell,” the older Torn said, grinning like a drunkard. “He’s a  puppy,  Dante! Look at him!” 
   “I’m looking, I’m looking.” 
   “Don’t you think he’s cute?” 
   “He’s adorable.” 
   It’s you I can’t figure out right now, Dad,  he wanted to add, but couldn’t. As the velvet petals of a baccara rose will bloom only with enough heat, so his father now bloomed. As a falcon will only fly for its master when properly motivated, so his father’s spirit—seemingly born without wings—now flew. 
   “What do you think your mom will say?” he asked, giving Dante a little wink. 
   Dante reached over to pet Dukey, whose pink tongue panted on a delirious smile of tiny white fangs. 
   “She’s going to love him, Dad.” 
   The other looked relieved. “Really?” 
   “Really, Dad. Don’t worry.” 
   ∞ 
   “ Really!”  Mrs. Torn shrieked.  “You got a puppy! Oh my God!” 
   She came tearing into the garage with arms wide and snatched Dukey from her husband’s arms. 
   “Isn’t he great?” Mr. Torn asked, with perhaps a hint of trepidation. 
   “He’s beautiful! Just beautiful!” 
   “I thought so, too. We went out to John Huntley’s farm to see about a boat trailer and found this little guy instead.” 
   Mrs. Torn cuddled the puppy’s nose and asked if he had a name yet. Then they both got back in the car. Dukey needed puppy food. Of course he did. And chew toys. And snacks. And a collar. And a bed. 
   They forced a promise from Dante not to let anything bad happen to the puppy while they were gone. He assured them—repeatedly—that Dukey would be in safe hands, and they could take as much time shopping as they needed. Satisfied, they drove off, but not before a few words of encouragement from his father. 
   “Get to know him, Dante,” he pressed. “Play with him. Have fun.” 
   Dante waved as the Bimmer backed of the driveway. Mr. Torn turned too soon and bumped into the trash can, knocking it over. Rather than curse his clumsiness (which he did whenever it reared its audacious head), he laughed, pointed to his temple, and made a twirling gesture. 
   “I’ll get it, Dad, don’t worry!” Dante shouted. 
   “Be cool, Dante!” his dad shouted back. 
   “Wow,” Dante said to himself as the Bimmer purred off. “’Be cool.’ My dad actually said that. I must be out of my head.” 
   He picked up the trash can before going back inside to entertain the family’s new member. A smell of pee struck him straight away. It was in the kitchen—a small puddle of it, gleaming on the linoleum. It took a few minutes to get the mop out of the closet, fill the bucket with soapy water, and clean the mess. During that time Dante took no notice of anything wrong. Whistling, he rinsed out the bucket in the bathroom, then slid it back into the closet. Mission accomplished. 
   “Dukey!” he called, washing his hands at the sink. 
   No answer. Dante went back to the kitchen—the scene of the crime. The refrigerator purred in its cozy little corner. A burble came from the water dispenser. 
   “Dukey!” Dante called again, peeking at a forest of dog-less chair legs under the table. 
   He checked the living room next, where a clean carpet for once meant bad news. He looked under the sofa and behind the stairs. He even took a moment to peer inside the fireplace. Still no dog. 
   Now he whistled before calling Dukey again. When no answer came, Dante went to the garage. Perhaps the dog had slipped out while Mr. Torn was fumbling with his keys, though this was unlikely. Yes, Dukey had enjoyed riding in the car, but he had been in the kitchen when the parents went out, Dante felt sure of that. Anyway, Dante’s father didn’t fumble keys. Dante’s father didn’t fumble anything. 
   A cold wind rattled the garage door. After a quick look around Dante knew he wouldn’t find the little shi-tzu. There was a rake, a workbench, a lawn mower. But no shi-tzu. He went back inside, locked the door, and tried to think of where else Dukey might be. Not upstairs, certainly. Eight week old puppies didn’t climb stairs. 
   The loose pretzel twist of fear that had been in his stomach since this weird search started now felt tighter. More painful. Pretty soon he was going to need some sea salt and cheese dip. 
   “Dukey!” he yelled, suddenly angry. “Get your butt out here!” 
   When that didn’t work, he sat down at the table for a few deep breaths. “Okay,” he said to himself, “okay. Think, Dante. You’re a new puppy in a big house. Where would you go?” 
   He rose, went to the living room again, checked behind the piano. No soap. He returned to the kitchen and opened the cupboards under the sink. A couple of things presented themselves here, none of them good. A spilled bottle of  Mr. Clean  oozed yellow liquid over a tundra of mouse poop. The poop led to a  Victor  trap, sprung, with dead perpetrator inside. A lifeless eye gleamed at Dante. Bones from a broken neck. 
   “Great,” Dante said, “another mess.” 
   He was back outside in the garage, depositing the mouse in its new trash can hotel, when the phone rang. Dusting his hands, he went to the kitchen and grabbed the receiver. 
   “Dante!” Mr. Torn boomed. 
   Dante had to rub his ear a moment before answering. “Yeah, Dad.” 
   “How’s Dukey?” 
   “Oh…not bad.” 
   Immediately his father’s voice became suspicious. “Not bad? What is he, an old geezer who just got home from a doctor’s appointment? Tell me how he is.” 
   “Sorry. He’s good. Sincerely.” 
   “Put him on the phone.” 
   “Put him on the phone? How can I do that?” 
   Mr. Torn raised his voice.  “Put him on the phone.” 
   “All right, all right. Hold on.” Moving the receiver away from his lips, Dante called: “Dukey! Here, boy!” 
   “Oh my God!” he heard his father say. “Is he responding to commands already? What a good dog!” 
   “ Reow! Reow! Reow!”  Dante went, doing his best puppy imitation.  “Arf! Arf!” 
   “You sweet little baby!” came Mr. Torn’s gushing response. “Your papa loves you! Yes he does! Yes he does!” 
   Dante looked at the receiver as if it had suddenly grown antlers. 
   “Can you put Dante back on the phone? Huh? Huh?” 
   “I’m here, Dad,” Dante said. 
   “We’re coming home. We’ve got all the stuff we need. Tell Dukey we’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” 
   “Um…okay. Dukey! Fifteen more minutes.” 
   The line clicked. Mr. Torn had hung up. 
   “Dammit!” Dante hissed at the empty kitchen. “What am I going to do?” 
   That was when his eye fell on the basement door. It was open a crack. 
   “Oh no,” he said. “No. It can’t be.” 
   He crossed the linoleum, put his hand on the door, pushed. It creaked open on a flight of dark, wooden stairs. At the bottom was blackness. His hand felt along the wall and found the light switch. The dreaded light switch that, once flipped, would illuminate a puppy’s stiff body on the basement floor. Yes. Surely that’s what had happened. Mr. Torn’s new puppy had fallen down the steps like someone’s grandmother with a laundry basket. Now he was gone. 
   Bracing himself for the worst, Dante flipped the switch. 
   A concrete floor, thirteen steps down, leaped into view. Much to his relief, nothing soiled it. It was, in fact, quite clean. Perfectly swept. A person could eat off that floor. It was that beautiful. 
   Whistling for Dukey, Dante went down. Once at the bottom he looked under the steps to see if Dukey might have fallen through halfway down. But no. There was only an old ping-pong table, folded, along with a torn instruction book on kung-fu. The washing area was also innocent. A mouse-trap, this one unsprung, lay behind the clothes dryer. Next to it were someone’s pressed initials from when this floor was set, over a century ago:  V.L.F. 
   “Ten minutes,” Dante said to himself, “I have ten minutes to find that dog.” 
   He spent five of those minutes walking around the basement, whistling. Then he ran back upstairs. His mother’s mantle clock ticked from the fireplace mantle. Beyond that, nothing in the house moved. 
   Then came the sound of a car engine. Dante ran to the window and looked. His chest loosened. The car wasn’t a Bimmer—not even close. It was a Dodge Aspen from 1974. 
   How is it those things are even still running?  Dante wondered. 
   And that was when Dukey whimpered from somewhere close by. 
   With less than two minutes to go, Dante began to search with fresh gusto, clapping his hands, calling Dukey’s name. Through the kitchen window he caught sight of another car, this one unmistakably his father’s, approaching the drive. Dukey whimpered again. Wherever he’d gotten lost, it wasn’t in the kitchen. His call for help had come from the hallway, where Dante now ran. 
   The Bimmer pulled into the garage. Dante heard the electric door open, the car slide in, the engine cut. Two car doors opened, slammed closed. Keys jingled. 
   “Dukey!” Dante screamed, desperate. “Come on, boy! Where are you?” 
   “Dante?” his father called from the garage. “Why are you yelling at Dukey?” 
   “We’re just playing, Dad!” 
   He heard his father’s key in the back door lock. The lock began to turn. Dante ran back to the basement door and tripped over a basket of clothes his mother had left there. The clothes—and Dante—spilled down the hall. Slacks. Socks and underwear. Rubbing his knee, Dante sat up. His parents stepped into the hallway. 
   “What happened?” Mrs. Torn asked. “Dante, why are you on the floor?” 
   “Dukey!” Mr. Torn yelled. 
   Dante blinked at him. “What?” 
   “Dukey, you sweet little schi-tzu! Come here! Aww!” 
   Dante looked at the overturned basket. Two beady eyes, a tiny black nose, and a big smile shined from beneath a blue blouse. Mr. Torn put down the bags he was carrying, knelt and scooped up the puppy. The puppy gave him a big, furry kiss on the cheek. 
   “Aww!” Mr. Torn cooed. “Aww! Is Daddy’s puppy okay? Is he? Huh?” 
   Dukey barked to show that he was okay. 
   “You’re just a sweet little guy, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Yes you are!” 
   “I think your father’s in love,” Dante’s mother said to him. Clearly she liked the idea. The smile on her face gave it all away. “Did you trip over the basket?” 
   “Yeah,” Dante told her. “My bad. Me and Dukey were playing.” 
   “Silly. But just to make sure you don’t fall again, think you can take the basket downstairs for me?” 
   “Sure, Mom.” 
   His father heard nothing of this exchange. He was still cooing and petting and kissing Dukey. Dante put the spilled clothes back into the basket while his parents took Dukey to the kitchen to show him his toys. He carried the basket down to the basement. Sounds of a squeaky toy soon followed, along with a thousand or so happy yips and barks. 
   “You go get your ball!” His dad’s voice. Laughter from his mom. “Go on! Go on!” 
   I don’t get this,  Dante thought.  Who are you people and what have you done with my parents? 
   Deciding that it didn’t really matter, he ran up the steps to play with Dukey. 
   He didn’t get what was going on with his mom and dad, but he thought he could get to like it just fine. Just fine indeed. 
       CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:  I Think A Man Should Be Strong… 
     Whenever it seemed like things were fine came the flash and the tremble from a distant storm line. 
     
   Dante received a  D  on his book report from Mr. Wolfe. It surprised him, not because the report wasn’t especially bad (it was), but because Mr. Wolfe, normally mild and highly forgiving of his students, had scratched a nasty criticism across the top of Dante’s title page: 
   
   
   BORING! 
   
   
   Dante looked up from his desk. Mr. Wolfe sat before a blank chalkboard, scribbling in a grade book. His face looked set. Expressionless. Down to business. His desk, Dante noticed, seemed a bit off, a bit strange. A brown, half-eaten apple lay on its side. Untidily stacked papers drooped over the waste-basket like melting ice. 
   Stacey was Dante’s seatmate in English. Now he turned to her and asked: “Is he okay?” 
   She looked at him. “Who?” 
   “Mr. Wolfe. He’s acting a little off lately.” 
   “Oh! Oh, yes.” Her eye went to the English teacher, who still wasn’t addressing the class, though the bell had sounded five minutes ago. “You haven’t been told? Word’s going around the halls.” 
   “No,” Dante said. “What’s wrong?” 
   Mr. Wolfe’s head snapped up. “Are you people talking?” he demanded bitterly to know. 
   No one answered. 
   “All right then,” he went on, “if you can manage to stay shut up for a few more minutes we’ll begin.” 
   Dante gaped in astonishment. He turned to Stacey and saw that she was doing the same thing. 
   “Wow,” she whispered. “It’s worse than I thought.” 
   “What’s going on?” Dante whispered back, cupping a hand round his mouth. 
   “It’s his wife,” Sunny’s friend replied. “She left him over Christmas. They’re getting a divorce.” 
   Mr. Wolfe scowled again. His eyes were red, as if he hadn’t slept in a week. He warned the class that if he heard one more word—just one more—he would keep everyone behind this afternoon for detention. How did that sound? Did it sound good? Because he meant it. Oh yes. Anyone who thought otherwise was welcome to test him. 
   No one did. 
   ∞ 
   At lunch Sunny kissed him and told him to eat his green peas. She smoothed the wrinkles on his shirt, brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. She didn’t seem to know about his encounter with Hadria over the holidays—or if she did, then her cousin had been telling the absolute truth, and this was how Sunny wanted things to be. 
   Not that Dante would ever dare speak to her about that night at the  Hotel Consorcia.  Rather, he paid extra close attention to her mannerisms throughout January, in case she let a clue slip that his secret was not really a secret at all. Dante didn’t think it was. 
   But if her mannerisms were the same today, her attire certainly wasn’t. Perhaps as a means of countering the dreary skies and bitter cold that had crushed the region’s false summer like a sudden illness, she’d come to school in bright colors. A yellow blouse floated on her chest; a stonewashed denim skirt clung to her pelvis. Pink ear-rings swung from her lobes as she listened to the other girls. What those girls were saying marked another slightly unusual difference for this particular lunch hour. Their chatter, which normally consisted of clothes, music, and TV shows, had taken a turn into more serious territory. 
   A dark-skinned girl named Rajani was telling the table how she’d just lost her grandmother. It had happened at church, she said with eyes wet, up near Port Clinton. A heart attack. Total collapse in the pews. A ambulance was called. Priests and nuns had tried to assist her in the meantime, which only seemed to make matters worse. She’d wailed, Rajani said, pushing her lunch away as a lost cause. She’d begged them to get away and leave her alone. 
   “Maybe she was afraid of being read Last Rites,” Dante said. “I’ve read about that. Church-goers not wanting to see priests when they’re sick.” 
   “My grandmother didn’t go to church,” Rajani said. “Ever.” 
   Dante blinked. 
   “Somebody took her,” the other went on to explain. “Somebody pulled her in. Then she died.” 
   Now Dante felt a hand on his knee. It was Sunny’s. 
   “Who took her?” she asked Rajani. “Do you know?” 
   Rajani shook her head. 
   “Can you find out?” 
   The head shake became a weak nod. “Maybe.” 
   “Do it. Then I’ll have my dad handle the rest. Speaking of which”—she smiled at Dante—“that little business trip of his I told you about? It’s happening on my birthday. March fifteenth.” 
   “Wow,” Dante said. “And you’ll be alone in the house?” 
   “No. My dad says I’m not allowed to be alone.” 
   “Okay—“ 
   “You’re going to be there, Mister.” Sunny’s green eyes sparkled. “Right?” 
   The entourage began to giggle mischievously. Even Rajani looked better. Holding court as the queen bee, Sunny gave everyone a nod. Her hand found Dante’s under the table, slipped inside. It was soft and dainty, the nails sharp. Dangerous yet delicate. Dante stroked her fingers. He gave them a light, careful squeeze. 
   “So it should be interesting,” Sunny said to the table, as if all of the girls were going to be there on March fifteenth. “But between now and then we have some business to take care of.” 
   The girls leaned forward. None of them were smiling now. Their eyes were wide and unblinking. Plates were pushed aside, straws bent down. Rajani had wiped her tears. 
   “As everyone already knows,” Sunny began, lowering her voice, “we have a plan of pain set in motion for the little Girl Scout known as Maris Dubois.” She shot Dante a look after saying this last. 
   “Is that what her surname is?” Dante asked innocently. 
   “In order for the plan to work,” she continued, “we had to involve someone else. A boy named Shaya Blum. He usually eats lunch right down there.” She indicated an empty seat clear down by the lunch counter. “He seems to be absent today, but who cares as long as he doesn’t die on us.” 
   The girls all tittered. Dante felt along Sunny’s fingers, investigating the sharpness of her nails. Were they volatile at the moment? Did they still wish to cut him over that whole fiasco about remembering Maris’ last name? It seemed not. Indeed, her hand felt more like a sleeping kitten. Relaxed and content. 
   As for the rest of her… 
   “Quiet, please,” she ordered. 
   Everyone shut up. 
   “Good. Now what we’re going to do is humiliate Maris in front of the whole school. Destroy her popularity. I figured the best way to do that is to go political. So I made Dante write a mock love letter. Or rather a poem. The poem is addressed to Maris and looks like it comes from Shaya. Again, all of you know this already; this is just for review. Questions so far?” 
   Stacey’s hand went up. “How will you make the handwriting look like Shaya’s?” she asked. 
   “I think I’ve pretty much nailed that,” Sunny told the group. “I’ve been practicing with some stolen samples. In fact I stole one of his notebooks. His handwriting is crap. I had to use my right hand to make the letters stagger all over the page.” 
   More laughter from the girls. This time Dante joined in. “Remember I offered to do the copying,” he reminded. “You adamantly refused.” 
   “I adamantly refused,” Sunny repeated. “I didn’t want you to feel like you were doing everything.” 
   “Not at all.” 
   “Anyway,” she went on, “it should be convincing enough for Maris. Have any of you ladies ever gotten a love poem?” 
   They looked at each other. To judge by their clueless expressions, Dante guessed none of them even knew what a love poem was. 
   “Me either,” Sunny said, with a hint of accusation. 
   Dante blushed. “Oh God, you’re right—“ 
   At that moment a fat fly, the biggest he had ever seen, fell onto Sunny’s plate and began to squirm for life in the pasta sauce. Sunny gave it a scowl. She did not look appalled or even the tiniest bit grossed-out. Rather, Dante thought, she wanted to smash the creature with her fist. 
   But she didn’t smash it. Her eyes went back to the group. “When you get a love letter you don’t go analyzing the handwriting,” she said. “Assuming of course the boy is brave enough already to put his name on it. And lucky us, Shaya has guts he never knew about.” 
   “But how will we expose it to the whole school?” Stacey blurted, then slapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry!” she said into her palm. 
   Sunny looked at her steadily. “Don’t worry about it. It’s a fair question. It was also the biggest challenge of this whole sting. I was stuck on it for a long time.” 
   “Was?” Dante asked. 
   “That’s right,” she said, smiling theatrically. “Because it’s solved. It took me a long time because I tried too hard. I made the whole problem bigger than it actually was.” Sunny leaned forward, gesturing for everyone else to do the same. Her green eyes were as the gecko of gold day dust, disport with predatory gleam. Her grin was the grin of a shadowed gargoyle high above a rainy street. 
   “I’m going to have a hundred copies made,” her tongue slithered. “Then we—all of us—are going to hang them up in the halls.” 
   “Wow!” Stacey said. She sounded too full of delight this time to care about mindful ordinance. 
   Sunny kept talking. “Put them on lockers. Put them on chalkboards and bathroom mirrors. In library books. Stairwells. Tack them to bulletin boards. Put one on Mr. Hogan’s butt if you think it’ll help.” 
   “Ew,” Rajani grimaced. 
   “Just make certain they’re  seen.  By a lot of people. The more the manier.” 
   “Merrier,” Dante said. 
   “Exactly. Does everyone understand?” 
   The girls all nodded. Dante put a hand on Sunny’s knee and squeezed. 
   “You will each get a measured amount of copies,” she went on gravely. “Don’t lose them. And don’t hide any back. I shall know if you do.” 
   Her voice was cold as dirt thrown over a grave. The girls all nodded again, but this time nodding didn’t cut it. 
   “Everyone say:  Yes, Sunny, I understand.  Right now.” 
   To which the girls immediately complied. Sunny looked at Dante. She didn’t expect  him  to comply; rather, she was asking for his approval. He gave it. 
   “Very good,” he said to the girls. “Wait for your copies to come. Sunny and I will take care of them.” He looked at Sunny. “How does Valentine’s Day sound for activation of our devious little plot?” 
   “It sounds good, Sir,” Sunny replied, before again addressing the table: “Everyone hear that? Valentine’s Day. Let me hear a  yes, Dante and Sunny  this time.” 
   “ Yes, Dante and Sunny,”  the girls responded, almost robotically. 
   “Then we’re finished for now. At ease, ladies.” 
   There came a high, musical sound—the breeze of winter through black thorns—as several pairs of female lungs let out a breath. Then, as if on cue, the lunch bell rang, and everyone adjourned. 
   ∞ 
   At the end of the day Dante went to Sunny’s locker. Not that it was a long trip—only straight across the hall from his own—but he met her there often to carry her bag and walk her outside. 
   Today Sunny’s locker was closed. She’d either already been here or hadn’t arrived yet. It didn’t alarm him at first. She’d told him earlier that her dad had gotten off work early and would be here to pick them both up. Perhaps she was already waiting outside. 
   He turned to go and bumped into Stacey. Her books hit the floor, the pages splattering open. 
   “I’m sorry!” she gushed, kneeling to pick up the mess. “Omigosh!” 
   Dante knelt with her, grabbing the books. “Don’t be silly. It was my fault. Listen, have you seen Sunny?” 
   “Yeah, she went to the girls’ room. The one beside the science lab.” 
   Dante picked up the last book— Invisible Man  by Ralph Ellison—and handed it to her. “Thank you. Take care getting home.” 
   He went to the science lab still thinking Sunny was okay. Other students gave half-hearted waves as he passed, but things were thinning out now, getting quiet. A boy wearing a denim jacket stopped to get a drink, then went outside. Another followed him from the library. After that Dante was alone. 
   He waited by the girls’ room for a minute before someone came out—a mouse with brown hair and glasses. Dante asked her if Sunny was inside. The girl claimed not to know Sunny, but said she was quite sure she’d been alone in the bathroom. Dante thanked her. He was beginning to worry now, to feel an instinct old and natural as fire swell in his chest. Hoping she had indeed gone outside after all, he took a step towards the exit— 
   And stopped as a sound of breaking glass came from the lab. 
   Dante went to the door. It should have been locked but wasn’t. The knob turned in his hand. Another noise came. Springy. Metal on tile. The sound of a chair being dropped. Dante opened the door to find Sunny pinned at the back of the room by a short, muscular boy with blond hair. The boy held her wrists against the wall. Sunny’s face was twisted with pain. Tears wet her cheeks. 
   “Are you gonna say you’re sorry?” the boy asked. He squeezed Sunny’s hand, making her wince. 
   And slowly, silently, Dante came up behind him. 
   “Come on. Say it.  I’m sorry, Billy. ” 
   Dante got directly at his back and stopped. “Hello, Billy,” he said. 
   Billy let go of Sunny. He spun around. Though short, he had powerful-looking arms and a wide chest. Dante thought he recognized him as being on the JV wrestling team. He also recognized him from somewhere else, though for the moment it didn’t matter. Nor did Billy’s muscles, or the sneer on his face. Right now only one thing mattered. Only one. 
   Smiling, Dante said: “I’m sorry, Billy.” 
   He picked Billy up and threw him over one of the desks. The desk fell over, spilling broken pencils. Billy hit his head on a chair. Snarling, he leaped to his feet. He cocked a fist at Dante. 
   Dante punched him in the eye. Billy screamed and flew backward over another desk. 
   “I’m sorry,” Dante said again, “that I’m gonna beat you so badly you’re gonna need an ambulance.” He hesitated. “Oh wait. No I’m not.” 
   And then he proceeded to beat Billy very, very badly, slamming his head on the tiles, the chairs. He punched Billy in the nose and felt it break. Blood flew. Crimson droplets of life. Some of it splattered Mr. Sitz’s desk. Dante didn’t care. He slammed Billy against the chalkboard, cracking its slate wide. A huge piece fell on the floor. Then he punched him under the chin so hard it knocked him cold. 
   The sound of crying made him stop. Chest heaving, Dante turned to see his girlfriend still standing at the back wall. Her knees were buckled; her hair was a mess. Make-up streaked her face. But she was smiling at Dante like a shark. 
   “That,” she told him, “was so, so awesome. Really, Dante. Wow.” 
   He went to her, jumping over toppled furniture, so she could fall into his arms. 
   “Baby?” he whispered, holding her close. “Sweetheart? Are you all right?” 
   “I’m fine,” she sobbed. “I’m okay.” 
   But her whole body was shaking. Dante thought if he let her go she might fall. 
   “Easy,” he told her. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. It’s all right.” 
   “Did you kill him?” she asked. 
   “I don’t know.” 
   “Could you, please? Never mind,” she added quickly. “We’re at school. I’ll have Daddy do it.” 
   Dante wanted to laugh, except he wasn’t quite certain just how funny Sunny was trying to be. 
   “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Do you want me to carry you?” 
   “I sure do, but I think it would attract too much attention. Let’s just walk.” 
   Dante’s eye went to the mess. Toppled furniture, broken chalkboard, blood. Knocked out jerk on the floor. “I think,” he began clumsily, “I’ll be going to juvenile home. The one on Benedict Avenue most likely—“ 
   “No one will know about this,” Sunny said into his ear. “Daddy will handle it. All of it.” 
   “I hope that’s true,” he said, not really believing it was. How could anyone cover up chaos like this? 
   “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Sunny said with a little laugh. “It’s all right. And thank you.” She kissed his ear, and then his cheek. And then on the lips. “Very.” Kiss. “Very.” Kiss. “ Very  much.” 
   Dante let his arms tighten around her. Despite what had happened, the assault she’d experienced, the pain, the fear, he was smiling. This probably wasn’t the best time to tell her he loved her. They stood on a bloody battlefield, the enemy conquered. It probably wasn’t the best time—it was probably better than that. It was probably perfect. 
   “I love you, Sunny,” he said. And if her green eyes were to suddenly catch fire and burn him to death for that statement, so be it. 
   Instead they shined, like two planets set beneath the moon on a wintery night, where ice hung from the eaves of abandoned places, and bare trees trembled along unkempt boundaries of snowy fields. 
   “I know you do, Dante,” she whispered. “I know. Just like I’ve always known you were the one.” She kissed him again. “Let’s go, before somebody comes in.” 
   Dante gave Billy one last look. He was beginning to stir. His eyes blinked. Saliva drooled from his chin. 
   “Isn’t this the kid we saw at the lockers last year?” Dante asked. “The one who got bitten by the spider?” 
   And Sunny, gently tugging him towards the door: “Yes. Come on, Dante. My dad’ll be outside.” 
   Billy blinked some more and looked around blearily. Dante wanted to kick the brute one last time for good measure, but couldn’t. Sunny was right. They had to get gone. 
   They slipped into the hall, where no one saw them, and outside to the January sun, which burned in a sky so blue it was a wonder fish weren’t swimming in it. 
       CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:  The Girl Downstairs 
   
    Donati came home from the clinic still sick, though cotton continued to burn from his wick. 
   
     
   It had long since been unnecessary for Dante to knock at number 114 on his Sunday visits. The opera singer had given him a key, kept supple by an oiled pouch, which he now used in the home’s ancient lock. It was ten in the morning. The smell of fresh cappuccino should have greeted him in the anteroom. Donati should have been up and about, fiddling with breakfast, smiling, beckoning Dante inside. 
   This morning the hall was quiet, the stairs empty. Peering into the classrooms-turned-living rooms, Dante could see two cold fireplaces. The table where they ate  brioche  was clean and bare. He went to the kitchen already knowing what he would find. And sure enough, it too was empty. 
   None of this surprised him. Donati had not been home from the hospital long. Along with heart medication, his doctors were prescribing extra rest, and more vegetables in his diet. Dante went to the stairs half wondering if he should go up and check on the old man. Deciding not to, he turned to go, and that was when Donati called from one of the upper rooms. 
   “Is that you, Dante?” his cracked voice asked. 
   “It’s me,” Dante said. “How are you this morning, Mr. Donati?” 
   Shuffling footsteps across the hall. Slippers on wood. Donati appeared at the top of the stairs. “A storm rumbles on the horizon, young man,” he said as he started carefully down, “but it has yet to reach the happy streets.” 
   “You look well,” Dante lied. 
   The singer looked rather more like Ebenezer Scrooge. He’d lost weight, and now his bathrobe, rather than bulge around his once formidable belly, hung like a beaten battle flag on a bent pole. Clinging to the rail, Donati took the steps as the child he once was, using his right foot to come down, hesitating, bringing the left, then moving again with his right. 
   Help him, dummy,  called a voice from some great distance in Dante’s mind. 
   He helped the singer into the living room and got him sat down in his usual chair. Donati thanked him. He tightened the belt of his robe. Then he asked for  brioche . 
   “I think your doctor would prefer strawberries and chamomile tea,” Dante told him. 
   “And if he were here he could have some,” Donati said with a smile. 
   “That wasn’t exactly what I meant—“ 
   “I know, dear boy, I know.” He tilted his head. “Do you know how to make toast?” 
   “Of course.” 
   “And wrap it around ice cream?” 
   “I think I can manage. If you truly insist.” 
   “The truth is typically an unhappy thing,” Donati said. “And food makes me happy. So let’s eat  brioche  and call it a lie.” 
   ∞ 
   They took breakfast without speech, clinging forks on the plates, slurping from coffee mugs. The only other sound was that of the fire, which Dante had taken time light, and the constant aging of the house. Sighs from peeling paint, groans from warped wood. The creak of subsidence in some far off empty room. 
   When Donati’s plate was clean he asked Dante about school. How were his grades? Going up or going down? Dante told him they had leveled off, but were still low. Cs and Ds mostly. The singer became appalled. He asked what was wrong. Was it concentration? Self-confidence? Or something else? 
   “A girlfriend,” he ventured. “ The  girlfriend.” 
   Dante waved the allusion off. “No, no. Sunny’s cool.” 
   “I see. And what of that despicable letter? Has it been deployed to its intended target?” 
   It took Dante a moment to gather what Donati was talking about. “The poem you mean,” he replied flatly. “Not yet. But we’ve set a date.” 
   “Is there no way I can change your mind about sending it at all?” 
   “I…don’t think so,” Dante admitted. 
   The other shook his head. “Sad.” His fork found a bit of  brioche  left on the plate, lifted it to his mouth. “Sad,” he repeated, “but here I am, still happy to be your friend. I am  ipocrita.  A hypocrite.” 
   “Don’t beat yourself up,” Dante told him. 
   “But I must. At times the only teacher we can listen to is ourselves. Indeed, that voice that speaks in our brains, the voice of Virgil, the voice of  reason , is always the strongest. It knows what’s best.” 
   “What is it telling you now?” 
   Donati looked at him with a dab of ice cream hanging on his chin. “You’re a good boy who has been mislead by beauty.  Fleur de feu.  That is French. It means flower of fire. It happened to me once, a long time ago. Would you care to hear?” 
   “Please,” Dante said, in all sincerity. 
   “Then perhaps you should boil more water for cappuccino.” 
   ∞ 
   It happened somewhere between 1958 and 1960. Our choir from  Nascosto Villagio  had not been out of Rome for long. The Pope enjoyed our singing, but of course there were other choirs that deserved a chance to be heard, and indeed other Catholic places on the planet that deserved a chance to hear us. One of those places was the Philippine Islands. We flew to its capital to perform at a beautiful church in the village of Intramuros—a Latin worded meaning  within the walls— which is even today considered the heart of Manila, and at the age of five hundred, is its very oldest section. 
   I arrived at San Agustin Cathedral on a sweltering hot day. It must have been the end of April. High summer in the Philippines. At that time of year the planet is tilted in just such a way to bring the full effect of the sun directly upon the islands. We were ants under a magnifying glass. It tell you, boy, it  burned.  Sweat dripped from your body. The air felt weighty and reluctant to nourish your lungs. It was like being trapped inside of a stove. And no matter where you went that sun found a way to reach you. It gouged at my eyes. It cooked my arms brown. During my time in the tropics I came to despise anything having to do with hydrogen and helium. It hasn’t gone away. You may have noticed by now that I almost always prefer to stay indoors. 
   We stayed at the church on that first day, and when evening fell, we did our show. It went well despite the heat. Manila in those days was a clean city filled with respectful, decent citizens. And of course any church-goer is urbane. The priest was also very kind. He enjoyed our singing and asked us to hold over for more shows. That was a lucky break, for while we all relished the idea of flight to cooler venues, none of us were keen on more road travel, especially having just arrived from Italy. 
   We slept that night in the church’s stony basement, deep beneath the streets. My chamber in particular was quite set apart from the others, and possessed of a cool draft which immediately earned my gratitude, though I could never locate its source. The candle at my bedside flickered throughout the night, as did a number of pages from an open Bible, their fluttering disturbing my sleep to the extent that I was forced to rise and close the cover. 
   In the morning we ate a delightful breakfast with the bishop. He, too, had been impressed with our performance. It would very much please him, he went on, to have such a talented group of singers continue to display their abilities for the Catholics of Intramuros. 
   We rehearsed after lunch, then performed that very evening for anyone who wanted to come and hear. The nave was huge, and because of the heat the church’s massive doors were kept open, allowing passers by to see the gold of candlelight through the arches, and become entranced. Later that night I returned to my chamber. The draft was waiting. That it hadn’t decided to leave made me happy. I lay awake until midnight with a book, drowsing over the pages until at last sleep carried me off. Hours later I awoke in pure darkness. Remember we were deep in the basement, near the crypts. The rooms had no windows. But that strange draft had found a way to put out my candle. 
   And from across the room I could hear it: the pages of the Bible, fluttering. This was odd, since I knew I hadn’t myself opened it. I lit the candle, rose, and once more closed its cover. Then I went back to sleep. 
   We sang at the church for perhaps two months, drawing decent crowds even on days when there were no sermons. When not singing, I was strolling the streets of Intramuros, getting acquainted with its ancient stone walls. The sidewalks were clean, and for a time swept with a spectacular pink show of Dona Luz petals from a number of blossoming trees. I shopped in several bookstores and drank coffee at lovely cafes, many of which served  brioche . 
   In one such café I met a barista who told me about an apartment for rent off nearby Dewey Boulevard. It had to have been June by this time, for the choir’s run at San Agustin was nearing its end. Indeed, the choir itself would soon be no more. Two of our tenors had found work at a theater in the Ukraine and were leaving soon. Two other female singers had just gotten engaged. The group’s time together was winding down. We had at best two weeks’ worth of shows left. 
   Soon to be in need of a place to lay my head at night, I visited the address off Dewey. Mind you I never would have bothered to do this at all, except that I, too, had been lured from the choir by a singing offer from Manila’s Lyric Theater, which often held operas. A troupe there was in need of a baritone voice, and I was in need of broader vistas upon which to let my interests frolic. 
   As luck would have it, the cab driver who took me from Intramuros was not familiar with the address; thus, we were forced to tool around a number of quiet, shaded barangays that looked as alien to me as the blood eye of Zeus upon a midnight desert landscape. Making things stranger still were the heavily clouded skies, rumbling with violent dreams that would soon become reality. Summer was over and the rains were near. The cabbie warned me about this in English that I found surprisingly good, when I asked to be let off so I might find the address on my own. He would have none of it. Setting his meter to pause, he said that to step out now would mean certain drenching from the deluge poised over our heads. I peered out my window to see that the skies were even darker than they’d been five minutes ago, and a wind had gotten up, bending the branches of myriad flowered trees along the residential lane. 
   And yet the rains held off, even as the kindly driver—a middle-aged man who introduced himself as Milo—at last located the address. It was a three-storied white house with an unkempt lawn cut through by a broken sidewalk. Dead leaves swirled on its dusty concrete porch, and its windows were all black. It didn’t look to me as if anyone were home, so I thanked Milo for the ride, then asked if he might wait a few extra minutes should my appeal at the doorbell prove fruitless. He agreed, and not wishing to waste more of his time than necessary, I hurried across the lawn and up a short flight of crooked steps. 
   The bell was an antique—the kind with a handle you had to twist to make ring. I did so. To my great surprise the door was pulled open after only a few moments. A very small, very old woman peered at me through enormous square glasses. Using my best Tagalog, I began to inquire about the apartment. She nodded, saying that yes, there was indeed a unit available for rent at this address, but no, she could not give me a proper showing today, as she was just on her way to a dentist appointment. I remember that her name was Mrs. Dominguez. Might I be available to return tomorrow at this same time? she asked. She spoke mostly in English, which enabled us to retreat from my own linguistic ineptitude. I thanked her and said that of course I could come back. She then gave me a quick look at the apartment, which seemed adequate. This after I informed Milo I would only be another five minutes. 
   I returned next day at the exact same time and under very similar weather conditions. Such is the season from June to September in the Philippines. Afternoon storms flood the streets; at midnight they flood them again. In between lie the churning, tumultuous skies which I already mentioned, at hopeless war with Apollo, yet clinging in paradox to that language of his poetry which speaks through the voice of other deities: the wind and rain, the sigh of cooled trees; fallen foliage at play down the street; garden flower scents swept away to far off places. 
   The landlady did not answer. Instead the door opened on a girl of perhaps twenty, small and slender, wearing a plain but rather pretty white dress that complimented her delicate curves. I stammered a bit, taken aback by her beauty, before regaining the course of my thoughts to give my name, along with the purpose of my visit. Mrs. Dominguez was out for the day, the girl informed, but that was all right, for she’d been told to expect me. 
   “My name is Princess,” she said, pulling the door wide. “Come inside and let’s look at the apartment.” 
   I was startled by her invitation, for yesterday we had not gone through the Dominguez apartment, but to a separate door—the vacancy’s main door—at the house’s far end. Still, the environment beyond Princess’ shoulder looked harmless enough; thus, I left my shoes on the wind-swept porch and followed her inside. 
   Her beauty continued to distract me. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, and forced to make a guess, I would have put her weight at around one hundred pounds. Her feet, tiny and bare, made no sound as we passed through a clean, quiet living room decorated with wood furniture, then into a shiny kitchen where hovered the faint scent of coffee and dish cleaner. 
   Princess opened another door which let on a long balcony connecting the two apartments. It overlooked a lawn of flowered trees, pink and red, that were just now beginning to sway with the winds of a coming storm. The door of the vacant apartment opened onto another kitchen—one I had already seen, if briefly. Only today the floors were swept, the counters polished. A window was open to invite the flowery breeze, which lifted Princess’ hair as if in attempt to lure her out to the boughs for a dance with the petals. 
   I checked under the sink for leaky pipes. All seemed dry. Next I looked for rotted wood along the cabinetry. Again I was satisfied. Princess then led me into the living room. She turned on a light that cast an orange glow over the cloudy-day shadows. A spacious, clean room presented itself. The ceiling was high, the floor sturdy. One thing I hadn’t noticed the day before was a flight of stairs at the archway, going down. 
   “Where do these go?” I asked Princess. 
   She smiled. “To the basement apartment, where I live. I’m a student at Mary Cause Of Our Joy College.” 
   “Ah!” I answered. “What do you study there?” 
   “Hotel management. Showing this apartment for you is actually giving me a nice little dry run in the business.” 
   “I can see how it would. And you’re doing a lovely job,” I added, hoping not to sound absurd. 
   “Thank you, Mr. Donati.” She smiled again and, to my utter astonishment, performed a lovely little curtsey. “Most Filipinas my age still live at home with family, but both of my parents are dead. I’m able to afford the apartment and school with money they left me.” 
   At this I had no idea how to react. I did my best to convey sympathy through tilted brows and downturned mouth, along with offering one of those tiny nods one reserves for occasions when words simply will not do. 
   We looked at the bedroom next. I had no complaints, and told Princess I would be happy to accept the apartment if Mrs. Dominguez would have me. The show of modesty made her laugh. “Of course she’ll have you,” she said. “She goes to the church where you sing.” 
   “Oh,” I said. “She didn’t tell me.” 
   “Come back tomorrow. Mrs. Dominguez will be here, and chances are she’ll let you move right in.” 
   At that exact moment a crash of thunder—the loudest I had ever heard—went off like a bomb outside, shaking the entire building. I jumped, but if Princess reacted I didn’t see. When I turned from the window, ready to laugh at my skittishness, she was already gliding down the basement steps, her black hair entwined with the shadows, and fading from view. 
   I caught a cab back to San Agustin and packed what few belongings I carried from venue to venue. Because of the stormy weather, the draft in my chamber no longer felt like a respite from insane heat, but chilly. I shivered in the candle-lit gloom whilst folding my shirts. As always, shadows played on the walls; the Bible fluttered. 
   Suddenly there came a knock at the door. I opened it to find our conductor, Simone, standing at the threshold. Immediately it took me aback, for the look upon his normally thoughtful, slightly flustered face (the face of a Tuscan poet, if I may be so bold as to add, fiercely in love, searching the hills of his homeland on a sunny day for that one line, that one magical string of words proper enough in harmony and complexity to convey the burning of his heart) had become stern and calculating. He did not move. His tall, lean frame seemed to give off waves of coolness, in chorus with the draft. I bade him come in. He refused, then imparted upon me this piece of unpleasant news: 
   I was to leave San Agustin at once. Something I had said or done had caused the bishop to become unhappy with me. Simone would not tell me what that something was, though I, in reeling astonishment, all but begged to know. Whatever it was, Simone seemed to believe it, too. Throughout his short visit he continued to look at me in a way that suggested a longing to raise his boot and step, with disgusted ferocity, upon the face to which he’d been forced to speak. 
   “Simone, really,” I began afresh, having retreated and regrouped my senses best as I knew how. “I’m certain we have a simple misunderstanding, nothing more—“ 
   “I’m afraid not, Horatio,” the other rejoined. “The bishop is quite adamant about having you gone. And the choir, though together for only three more shows, shall have none of you either.” 
   “ Smettila!”  I nearly barked, my own anger beginning to boil.  “Questo non ha senso!” 
   But the conductor’s own demeanor did not change. He looked at me, cool and insistent, for several seconds before allowing himself to gaze past my shoulder, where no doubt he discovered the bags I’d been packing. 
   “It would seem that you’re well aware of the circumstances already,” he remarked with perhaps a nip of sarcasm. 
   “Not at all,” I replied. “I planned to stay at San Agustin for the remainder of our run.” 
   Simone shook his head slowly. He still had not entered the room. 
   “So I’m to leave right now?” I felt compelled to ask. 
   “Correct.” And at this point Simone at last began to display some flurry of sympathy. Looking rather sad, he dropped his head and told me the bishop would have come down with the news himself, except that he felt too embarrassed for me to conduct a formal presentation. 
   Confused as much as I’d ever been in my life, I once more beseeched Simone to impart his knowledge of whatever crime I supposedly committed. Again he shook his head, clearly unconvinced of my ignorance. 
   “ Amor, tosse e fumo, malemente si nascondono,”  he whispered, then turned and walked away, leaving me agape. 
   He had quoted an old Italian proverb which means: Love, smoke, and cough are hard to hide. Pertaining to me, I had no idea what it was supposed to mean. 
   I spent that night on the streets of Intramuros, bags in hand, newly alone in an alien world. After dinner I bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked several in a long, dark passageway under the fortress walls. During this interlude I came to the conclusion that whatever it was I had done to upset the bishop scarcely mattered amidst the immediate timeframe of things, as these were to be the final days of the choir anyway, and we shan’t be seeing each other ever again. Faces floated in my mind—friends I’d made on the road. We’d shared happy times, drinking toasts in obscure corner bars, celebrating holidays on the roofs of fancy hotels, swapping stories of the girls we’d loved, the games we’d played, the tears we’d shed. No more would we laugh together, or help one another through troubled times. The old friends were gone. It was time to make new ones. 
   As I thought these things it began to rain. At the end of the tunnel I could see it—a curtain of silver upon the empty street, whispering its arrival to the trees, smudging wares in the window of an old shop, long since closed for the night. Streams formed along the curb, carrying off that day’s dust. 
   “So be it,” I whispered to myself, there in the gloomy passage. 
   I was sorry the Lord no longer wished to hear me sing for Him. Perhaps one day I would have another chance. But for now I was on my own, far from the mystic rose of that long dead poet, with its thrones set at great distances to which one could always see, as I felt I could still see, though I stood far from the light of angels. 
   The next day found me at Mrs. Dominguez’s door, deposit in hand. An odd look surfaced on her face, yet she relinquished the apartment key. From there I retired to my new abode and unpacked. Whilst doing so I shouted a greeting to Princess. No reply traveled back from the basement stairs. Indeed, I didn’t see nor hear from her for the next several days, by which time I had begun my gig at the Lyric Theater, singing in conventional operas such as  The Magic Flute  and  Carmen . 
   I bought some furniture for the apartment. Not much, mind you, but I needed a place to drink my coffee and read my books. For the bedroom I put a mattress on the floor, and a fan in the window. That window overlooked the street where, I discovered, children often played after dark, their laughter mingling with the evening air as the lyrics of pretty song do its music. 
   And as the days became weeks, I wondered more about Princess. Several times over that June and July I ventured downstairs to knock on her door. Never once did she respond. I watched the front walk from my window. The postman left packages. Occasionally a boy would come to trim the lawn, or tend to Mrs. Dominguez’s sampaguita shrub. But of Princess I saw nothing. She had either moved away from the building at some point, or had found my company too awkward to pursue. Whichever, I began to let the memory of her slip away, focusing fully on my performances at the Lyric, and paying the rent on time. 
   Then at the beginning of August a typhoon warning came over the radio. I had just settled for the evening in my sparsely decorated living-room, a book in hand, ready to while off an hour or two with music and prose.  You Butterfly  by Andy Williams, one of my favorite tunes, began to play, then was cut off by a weather bulletin. It informed that a rather powerful storm was approaching the Philippines. It would arrive in Manila before midnight. All residents were to prepare themselves appropriately. Having never been through a typhoon before, I had no idea how to conduct myself, but my powers of improvisation were quick, and my mind sharp and keen as a cutting blade… 
   ∞ 
     
   “I hid myself in the closet,” Donati said. 
   Dante tilted his head. “Excuse me?” 
   “Just kidding, my boy, just kidding.” 
   ∞ 
   I battened down the apartment as best I knew how. I also went to check on the well-being of Mrs. Dominguez. She invited me in for dinner with her family, which I accepted, and we made pleasant chatter over rice and sinigang as the wind outside grew stronger. At some point or other I mentioned Princess. It must have been toward the end of the meal. It was full dark by then. Twigs were blowing across the porch, scratching at the door like phantom fingers. The trees had begun to howl. 
   “Will we lose the electricity?” I asked. “If so I should fetch Princess. She’ll be frightened all by herself in the basement.” 
   The cup of coffee Mrs. Dominguez had been about to drink from froze halfway to her lips. She blinked at me for a moment, then began to laugh. “Of course,” she said, “of course. I’ll be sure to check on her as well.” 
   I stayed for a short while longer, drinking coffee and telling stories of my travels. It must have been close to eight o’clock when I at last bid my gracious hosts goodnight. A gale met me on the porch, ruffling my clothes. Leaves scurried over the lawn. Street-lamps flickered. I went to my apartment and made sure a number of candles were readily at hand. I secured the back door. Then I went downstairs to look in on Princess. Not in the least expectant of an answer to my knock, I became quite surprised when her voice suddenly floated forth. 
   “Mr. Donati? Is that you?” 
   “Yes, it’s me,” I answered. “Is everything all right in there?” 
   Only it was hard to know where to send my voice, for her reply did not seem to come from behind the door, but rather, somewhere upstairs. 
   “Mr. Donati? Mr. Donati?” 
   Now I felt compelled to go back up. The steps creaked under my weight. Halfway to the top she called my name again. Her voice was very faint—the voice of a girl on a faulty telephone line. Reaching the top step I had no idea whether to turn left or right. I went left, into the kitchen. Not finding her there, I next opened the door to the back balcony. A gust of angry wind tore it from my grasp. It banged against the counter, rattling a number of cheap saucers and plates. I could already see the balcony was empty, but stepped outside anyway to marvel the coming storm. My hair whipped in all directions. The back lawn howled in a chaos of twigs and flower petals. 
   Certain the power would go out at any moment, I rushed back inside to set up candles around the apartment. Halfway through the chore it happened. The lights flickered once, twice, and then were gone. I stood motionless. Rain began to spatter the window. I went to the curtains to make sure all was secure— 
   And the chair behind me creaked. 
   It was a Louis XV copy I had purchased cheap from a lady in the village who told me her grandmother had died in it years ago. Her story meant little to me at the time. The day had been sunny, the winds calm. 
   Again the chair made a noise. 
   I turned— 
   And there in the flickering gloom sat the body of a wrinkled, withered corpse. A woman, old at the time of her death, with thin white hair, sunken eyes, and gaping jaw. 
   She used to sleep in this chair all the time,  I remembered the lady telling me,  all the time. And then one night she just didn’t wake up. 
   Someone knocked on the window, fast and desperate. Screaming, I whirled round. The curtains were closed, blocking all view to the porch. For a moment the knocking stopped, then started again, even more harshly then before. Somehow I built up the courage to go to the window. I drew back the curtains to see the horrified face of Princess, screaming to be let in. 
   “Mr. Donati!” Five more quick knocks struck the glass. “Mr. Donati! Open the door!” 
   I obeyed her command without hesitation. My mind reeled. She’d been trapped in the storm! Caught outside without protection! I found the door lock, twisted it, and pulled on the handle. The door flew open on rain-swept floorboards. I could see no one, yet felt something cold—colder even than the storm—rush inside. Turning in effort to track its progress, I could see that the chair had at some point relinquished its ghost. Then a noise came from the basement steps. Then the door to Princess’ apartment opened and was slammed shut. 
   The voice of reason spoke next. It implored that I remain put—that I light more candles and wait out the storm as best as my nerves would allow. Yet I could not pursue its logic. Somewhere nearby was a frightened girl who needed comfort. 
   I locked the front door, seized hold of a candle, and descended the stairs. With but one flaming wick as guide, the passage seemed narrow as the inside of a coffin. Shadows danced in time with my light’s fitful glow. I reached the landing on unsteady legs. A low-watt bulb, useless now, hung from the ceiling. Ducking past it, I found Princess’ door unlocked. It creaked as I pushed it open and called the girl’s name. 
   “Please,” I said when she didn’t answer. “It’s only me. Horatio.” 
   Her apartment was pitch dark. Standing at the entrance, I could see only a ghostly outline of the open door, along with a few faded tiles at my feet. Once more ignoring that voice of reason, I stepped inside, raising my candle high. A dry, musty smell invaded my nostrils. To the right was a window near the ceiling. It afforded some light—enough to discern I stood in a narrow, unfurnished room with filthy floors. 
   Then I noticed it. A trail of water led from the door to the back of the long room, where I could faintly make out the shape of another door hanging wide. 
   “Princess,” I called forth again. “Come upstairs with me.” 
   I stepped forward. My shoe crunched the chitin of a dead roach. The door loomed closer, closer. All was black inside. Yet I became certain Princess was there. With each step the floor grew more moist, the water like broken glass, reflecting my candle at myriad angles. As I reached the entrance to whatever room this was, the wind gave a demonesque howl. Boney fingers scratched at the window. They were, I knew, the boughs of a rosebush, though knowing did little to comfort my nerves. 
   I raised my candle once more. The room held only a single piece of furniture: an old rocking chair, moving slightly with the weight of its occupant. 
   “Princess?” I said to the figure in the chair. 
   She looked at me. Strands of black hair fell over her face, giving off the appearance of a girl in a death veil. Her eyes glimmered in the candlelight. 
   “Mr. Donati,” she said in a voice bereft of all music. “Thank you so much for coming. The rain has made a mess of my hair. Could you please brush it out smooth?” 
   “Of course,” I told her. 
   “Put your candle on the floor.” 
   I did as she asked. Her smile chilled me. It was the smile of a woman long buried, painted upon canvas to forever haunt the minds of passing admirers. I was one such admirer, and knew I would never forget Princess. 
   She sat quite still after handing me a brush. I stepped behind her. My left hand plunged into a curtain of black hair cold as flowing ice water. It spilled over my skin, wrapping itself about my wrist and fingers. My right hand squeezed the brush. Slowly, I stroked downward through the curtain, careful not to pull too hard where the bristles caught. 
   “That’s it,” Princess said. Only her mouth moved. The rest of her body was like stone. “Brush out where it catches and snags. Oh! How these ragged rats infuriate me!” 
   I gave her hair another stroke, and then another. Goosebumps rose on my arms. So cold were the inky black snakes of her hair I felt compelled to ask if she’d taken refuge from the storm in a shoveled hole. Yet with time the brush encountered less resistance. The follicles became smooth if not clean. And I brushed, and I brushed, there by the fitful fire, much like de Maupassant’s hero in that old ghost story of his. And at last Princess’ hair turned soft and smooth, an old black curtain in the window of a parlor where hymns are sung, and prayers uttered. 
   Her head snapped round to look at me. On her face remained that smile of the dead, captured by oil. 
   “Thank you!” she breathed in a pretty little gush, then leaped from the chair. 
   Her bare feet were delicate on the floor, her step dainty as a kitten’s. Lightening flashed from somewhere; thunder boomed. And with one final look in my direction, Princess disappeared through the door. 
   ∞ 
   Donati quaffed the second cup of cappuccino prepared for him by Dante while this story unfolded. “A lily bends on currents strong,” he said, “and sometimes you catch it, and sometimes it’s gone.” 
   “What does that mean?” Dante asked. 
   “It means I never saw Princess again. And with good reason. She was dead.” 
   “Stop it,” Dante spoke with a huff. 
   “No. I’m afraid it’s true. The very next day I went to Mrs. Dominguez’s apartment and told her this same story. She said it was impossible. That a girl named Princess had indeed lived in the basement apartment the previous year, but had hanged herself in the stairwell. She’d been engaged to a young man whom she loved dearly. The young man broke off their engagement to marry another.” 
   Dante turned incredulous. “How could a girl let something like that drive her to suicide?” 
   “It was love.” 
   “It was ridiculous!” 
   The old singer gave a tired, cagey smile. “What about Sunny? Don’t you love her?” 
   “Of course I love her. But—“ 
   “And what if she left you tomorrow for another boy? What would you do?” 
   “She would never do that.” 
   “You’re dodging the question.  If  she left you, what would you do? Confront the possibility, and then your feelings.” 
   Dante closed his eyes. He tried to picture Sunny breaking off their relationship. She stood in his imagination, wearing that devious smile she owned. A widow’s peak of red hair burned over her brow.  Dante? I’ve met another boy. A better boy than you. 
   How did that make him feel? 
   Rage swelled in his chest. An urge to find the better boy and kill him took hold. Following that he would need to punish Sunny. 
   His eyes flew open. 
   Donati was still at the table, awaiting an answer. “You look angry,” he said. 
   “I’m infuriated,” Dante agreed. 
   “This concerns me. You are not the sweet, apologetic boy I knew last summer.” 
   “Everyone changes, Mr. Donati.” 
   “But we try not to do that for the worse. This no matter what the bald authors tend to write.  Love, ” he pushed on, before Dante could reply, “is a wondrous fire. Or a cool breeze adorned in garments of sweet rain. Or many other things that make us happy to be alive, in our wasting  prigione  of flesh and bone.” 
   “Mr. Donati—“ 
   “But when it’s perverted it is no longer love. The fire goes rogue. It burns fields and homes. The breeze becomes a storm, knocking down trees. Do you love her, Dante? When you think of her, do all impure temptations flee your heart? Or does she instill an urge to consume, to conquer?” 
   Dante thought of Billy then. Punching him, pounding his face into the floor, had been vengeance. Vengeance taken from its selfish owner in the name of manhood. 
   “I would do anything to protect her,” he said to the opera singer. “Anything at all.” 
   “Very good, young man,” Donati said, in a spiritless tone that suggested he didn’t mean a single word. “Very good.” 
       CHAPTER NINETEEN:  Deployment 
   
    Light from angels uncorrupt repurpose eyes downcast abrupt. 
   
     
   February fourteenth—Valentine’s Day—did not arrive during the school week; thus, it was actually on the fifteenth that Sunny’s plan backfired with utterly disastrous results. 
   Not that the execution lacked brilliance. All of Sunny’s girls did their jobs, possessed of manners both discreet and tactful. It took only half a day to dot the school with crisp copies of the mock love poem they’d been given. Nor did their presence seem overabundant, like holiday decorations (of which there streamed many in pink and red, candy-coating the halls); rather, the poetry tended to blend with those hearts and arrows, so the adult portion of the school scarcely noticed at first. 
   One copy fluttered on a locker door, lifted by an icy breeze which had crept through an untended exit. Another protruded from two oft-read books at the library. Others popped up in restrooms (Dante had planted one inside a stall door of the boys’) and on bulletin boards. All were hidden just well enough, or made pleasant, happy company with the other decorations. Of those in the former group students continued to find copies perhaps  too  well hidden for the rest of that year. One in particular confused Dante. The story reached his ears long after the coming chaos had died down. In late June two boys were playing football on the back field. A pass thrown too hard had gotten stuck in a tree. One of the boys climbed the tree. Near the football was an abandoned bird’s nest—and in the nest, incorporated with leaves and straw, hung one of the copies. 
   Hint number one about something strange going on came at lunchtime. The cafeteria buzzed at a different pitch than normal. Giggles from the girls had lost their whimsical innocence to laughter more mischievous. Their boys were no longer smiling, but sneering and nodding, chewing with mouths open. Repeated glances were cast towards Shaya Blum who, oblivious to the spell cast upon him, sat alone as always, his taped glasses hanging askew, his dirty brown hair in tangles. 
   “So far, so good,” Sunny murmured at one point. Dante gave her hand a light squeeze. He liked the way her freckles burned when she was happy. They were doing that now. 
   But perhaps not for long. 
   Maris Dubois always sat behind them, at the opposite end of the cafeteria. This arrangement typically put her almost directly behind Shaya. Dull theatre, considering the girl had never once—to Dante’s knowledge at least—so much as lifted her eyes to take notice of the other. Like Sunny, she spent lunch talking with friends. But not today. 
   Several times already Dante had turned his head to gauge what reaction this morning’s chicanery was having on Maris. And indeed, she looked quite the changed girl. Every time Dante looked at her she was doing the same thing. Her eyes hovered at the nape of Shaya’s neck, pensive yet somehow detached, as if cast into a sea of dreams. Occasionally one of her friends would tap her shoulder and laugh. Those sitting with their backs to Shaya would often turn to smile at him. These smiles looked not the faintest bit derogatory, or sardonic. Rather, they were the smiles of girls happy for a friend. 
   No,  Dante kept telling himself.  Stop it already. 
   “What’s the matter?” Sunny asked. 
   He jerked in his seat. “Nothing.” 
   “Yes there is. You were looking at Maris.” 
   “Yeah,” he admitted. Caught in the act, what else could he do? “I’m waiting for the fireworks.” 
   Now Sunny turned her head. Her eyes found Maris’ bright splash of blonde hair and narrowed to slits. “There won’t be fireworks today,” she said. 
   “No?” 
   “No. Not all of these…giggles and whispers”—the words oozed with contempt, which was strange, for ruckus ordinarily pleased her—“are about Shaya, you know. Some of it’s about Billy.” 
   “Still? The kid hasn’t been to school for weeks. 
   Sunny whirled on him, snarling. “It’s about  Billy,  okay?” 
   “If you say so,” he told her, unwilted. “But I’ve never heard of a dead person making everyone so cheerful.” 
   “I never told you he was dead.” 
   “He is though, right?” 
   “Maybe.” 
   Talk at the table fell quiet. Sunny’s entourage stared at their plates. Stacey took a hesitant bite of her dessert; Rajani pretended to clean her glasses. That something bad had happened to Billy at the end of January was common knowledge throughout the school. One day he had come to class with a black eye and bruises; the next day, he went missing. No one had seen him since, and according to a number of newspaper articles written about the event, the police had no leads. 
   “Relax,” Dante said to Sunny, raising her hand to kiss it. “It’s all right. I know you took care of him.” 
   For it was imperative, he knew, not to diminish the queen in front of her court.  Though I could if I wanted,  he thought.  Absolutely. 
   “Let’s see what happens for the rest of the week. I think we’ll be fine.” 
   “Dante,” he heard her whisper, “she doesn’t look hurt at all. She looks  happy. ” 
   Sparing another glance over his shoulder, Dante could see that his girlfriend was right. Maris did look happy. Or rather, even happier than usual. 
   ∞ 
   The next day, Shaya Blum ate lunch with Maris and her friends. Jubilant laughter echoed from the table. Shaya’s back was straight, his chest thrust forth. As a knight holds his stature when nourished by nobility, so did Shaya hold his stature today. No longer did he appear a hopeless, hapless boy, lacking beauty in a forest which demanded nothing but. He had changed. The light of love was on him now. 
   “What have we done?” Sunny said with tearful eyes. “What have we done?” 
   Under the table, Dante could see that Maris and Shaya were holding hands. 
   ∞ 
   
   
   
   Sunny was grouchy for the rest of the week. Knowing her pain, Dante made what he felt were the necessary adjustments, such as carrying her books between classes, and complimenting with extra fervor the boots she wore on Wednesday. Also, her birthday was getting near. She would turn thirteen in less than a month. His mind spun over what gift to buy. As Brenton kept his daughter’s materialistic welfare richly cultivated, choices were limited to things rare, strange, colorful, meaningful, reflective, or some fortunate combination of the five, to which Dante, for the time being at least, could only hope to find clues. 
   On Thursday morning he asked her straight out if there was anything she wanted. “Surprise me,” she told him, slamming her locker closed. 
   Later that day he went to Stacey. Her answer made his jaw drop. “Cigarettes,” she said. “Buy her cigarettes. Virginia Slims. And maybe a cigarette holder.” 
   “Cigarette holder?” 
   “Yeah, you know, like the one Audrey Hepburn used in that old movie.” 
   “Get out of town,” Dante said. He honestly felt his ears were playing tricks. 
   But Stacey was adamant. “Sunny loves that kind of stuff. Classy ladies from the past.” 
   “She never told me that.” 
   Stacey gave him a light, playful punch on the shoulder. “We don’t tell our boyfriends everything, Dante. We expect them to do some detective work.” 
   “But how do I buy cigarettes?” 
   “How did you buy them for that prank you pulled on Maris?” 
   He shook his head. “That wasn’t me. Sunny got those.” 
   “Well, maybe just a holder then,” Stacey allowed. “Check the antique stores. Or those fancy glass kiosks at the mall.” 
   But Dante knew that no shopkeeper would sell such an item to a kid. At dinner that night he asked his mother what a thirteen year-old girl might want for her birthday. 
   She perked up from her salad. “When is it?” she asked. 
   “March fifteenth.” 
   “Dukey, that’s a good puppy! Yes you are! Yes you are!” Dante’s father had the puppy in his lap and was feeding him bits of chicken. He hadn’t noticed his son’s question at all. 
   “Plenty of time yet,” his mother said, relaxing. Her face turned thoughtful. “Let’s see… You could get her a leather jacket. Didn’t you once say she had kind of a spicy element to her?” 
   “That’s right. But she already has one of those.” 
   “When do we get to meet this girl anyway?” 
   Dante felt his chest tighten. Here was a question he’d been hoping to avoid, and until Dukey came along to brush with soft fur and a cold nose the mossy stones of number 54’s disposition, the task had been easy enough. 
   “Well?” his mother pressed. And was that the curl of a mischievous smile on her face? “I’m curious.” 
   “Gootchy-gootchy-goo!” Mr. Torn said, tickling Dukey’s tummy. 
   “I’ll talk to her,” Dante said. “Maybe she can have dinner with us.” 
   Mrs. Torn dropped her fork. “That’s brilliant! I’ll call her mom and we can arrange it!” 
   “We don’t have to do it right away—“ This Dante blurted as, in horror, he watched his mother rise from the table to make a dart at the phone. 
   “Of  course  we do!” she fairly gushed. “I’m dying to meet this girl!” 
   
   Yeah? Three weeks ago you could hardly care. 
   
   Dante looked at Dukey. The schi-tzu was still sitting in his master’s lap, a fluffy little ball of brown and black. 
   “Hi!” Dante said, unable to feel anything but joy at the puppy’s bright smile. Dukey barked and took another bite of chicken. 
   “Dante?” Mrs. Torn said. “What’s Sunny’s number?” 
   With great trepidation, Dante prattled off the Desdemona home’s ten digit number.  What harm can it do?  he kept telling himself. 
   His mother picked up the receiver from her kitchen’s white wall phone and dialed. The usual pause followed while she waited for someone on the other end to pick up. Then someone finally did, which caused Mrs. Torn to jump with a tiny yelp— Ah!  Dante gave her a look, but by then she’d begun to speak, in stammers at first, with a number of uncertain finger strokes through her hair. In less than a minute, however, things seemed fine. His mother smiled. Some pleasant chit-chat followed, during which Dante was able to surmise that Sunny’s mom had been the one to answer the phone. Then Mrs. Torn asked if all three Desdemonas might come over for dinner on Sunday. 
   Dante spit a great gob of chewed chicken onto his plate.  All three? Had the woman lost her mind? 
   “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Torn went on. “What about just Sunny then? Yes, we’d love to have her. You should hear how Dante talks.” She turned to offer him a knowing wink. 
   “Mom,” he scowled. 
   Tinnily, he could hear Mrs. Desdemona saying something through the receiver. 
   “That sounds perfect,” Dante’s mom said. “Five-thirty. On the button. Ha-ha!” 
   
   Wow, Mom, now you’re quoting lame idioms. 
   
   Dukey stretched across the table and stole a piece of chicken from the serving plate. 
   “Now now,” Mr. Torn chided. “That’s got bones in it!” 
   The puppy looked up with the chicken still in his mouth. Dante’s mother said  thank you  into the phone. Suddenly her face turned red. Her eyes fluttered. 
   “Dante? Sunny says to tell you she loves you.” 
   His hand jerked, knocking over a glass of Coke. “Uh…really?” 
   “ Yes,”  she told him, in a tone that implied he’d best reciprocate, lest she be forced to unleash a painful and enduring wrath. 
   “I love you too, Sunny!” Dante sang out. 
   “Oh wow!” Mrs. Torn gushed into the phone. “Aren’t kids just the most precious things?” 
   More tinny talk on the line. Mrs. Torn nodded, nodded some more. The conversation ended not five minutes later. Dante’s mom took a seat at the table, proclaiming that on Sunday night they would have a guest for dinner. 
   “Cool,” Dante said. “I’m glad. Do we pick her up?” 
   “Aw, did you just give Daddy a kiss? Did you?” 
   Dante’s eyes shifted to his father. “Dad? Maybe you should see a doctor.” 
   “Dukey  is  my doctor,” Mr. Torn said. 
   It was hard to argue with that. Dante asked his mom again about picking Sunny up and she said yes. 
   “In Dad’s Bimmer?” 
   “Of course,” she replied, buttering a piece of bread. “Or did you want to rent a Dodge Aspen from  Hertz ?” 
   “Yuck, yuck, Mom. Pass the gravy, please.” 
   ∞ 
   Sunny’s locker slammed closed with as much fervor on Friday as it had all week. Dante was so used to it by now he didn’t even flinch. 
   “Why are you doing this to yourself?” he asked. 
   “Because I don’t like to lose.” 
   Her clothes were traditional this morning—tight, dark, risky. Black stockings rose from black boots along slender curves to the hem of a jeweled skirt. Over this she wore a red, sleeveless kitty blouse with black buttons undone past the dainty twig of her clavicle. But of course it was her eyes—flaring green as always—that commanded most of Dante’s attention. He gazed into them now, a little afraid of how to proceed. 
   “You haven’t lost,” was all he could think to say. 
   “What have I done then, Dante?” 
   “Um…” 
   She might have slapped him for this show of stupidity, except that something past Dante’s shoulder had suddenly caught her attention. Turning to find out what, Dante came almost face to face with Norwalk Middle School’s newest, hottest couple, Maris and Shaya. 
   They walked hand in hand down the hall, orbited by a smattering of friends. Maris wore a long white skirt with purple top; Shaya wore pressed blue jeans and a green dress shirt. Dante spared an extra few moments to consider the boy. How did he look today as compared to before he’d met Maris? His spirit seemed as the timeline of Egypt, written backward to that era before the warble of the world’s axis shifted, and the temples were verdant, and streams of clear water gurgled along the streets of that ancient, unknown city written of by Manetho. No longer did Shaya need dream of what might have been, or once was. His eyes were bright and clear. His gait was confident. He stood as tall as Dante, yet seemingly bereft of that misty ghost which idled in the halls of Dante’s own mind, the whisper of remorse, and of further difficulties yet to come. Hence in a way he was taller, though when Sunny’s poisonous question caused him to stop, their eyes were level. 
   “What do you think you’re doing?” Sunny hissed. She wasn’t looking at Shaya, but Maris. And her green eyes demanded a response. 
   Maris stopped. “Hello, Sunny,” she said. “We’re just on our way to homeroom.” 
   “And did you have to pass by my locker?” 
   “I’m afraid so,” the other replied. Then, with an innocent smile: “Did you want us to pay a toll?” 
   Some of the other kids laughed. Shaya looked at Dante. To judge by his somewhat confused expression, Dante guessed he was still a trifle lost in the woods with what lay between these two girls. And who could blame him? Dante didn’t always feel certain of the terrain either. 
   Sunny took a step towards Maris. It shushed the hall in an instant. Dante took a step forward as well, but was careful to remain behind Sunny, lest he intervene with the females, who had somehow developed, over the past few moments, a boundary around them. 
   “I think what you  should  do,” Sunny told her, “is use the outside entrance from now on, rather than glide through here on your perfect little wings of divine joy.” 
   “Really?” Maris said. She had not backed away. Quite the reverse. The two girls stood almost nose to nose in the wheel of their shocked, silent friends. “Perhaps you’re right, Sunny. Perhaps your locker isn’t the best thing to see at the start of a new day.” 
   “And I could do without your blinding blonde hair and fluttery blue eyes starting mine off like crap.” 
   “But you forget that this is a  public  school, Miss. And even if it weren’t, I can still use any hallway I like to get to class.” 
   At Maris’ usage of the word  Miss , Sunny began to show her teeth. Not only had the tone of its delivery been sarcastic, but Dante thought the appellation itself irritated Sunny. How much longer would that symbol of singularity rest before her name? 
   Narrowing her eyes, she spoke to Maris: “You are all the colors of the rainbow, girly. How nice. A pretty weapon laid down to declare peace from above. But you see, the war isn’t over.” 
   “No,” Maris agreed. “It goes on. Within you. And you know what the saddest part is?” 
   “Tell me.” 
   Maris looked at Dante, at Stacey, at Rajani. “You’re striking iron for all of these children. Children who might still be saved. And saved they will be. Because Sunny—“ 
   “Shut up!” 
   “You’re not in charge. No matter what they think of you, you’re not in charge.” 
   “Get out of here!” 
   “Okay,” Maris said. “Shaya?” Her hand reached out. Shaya took it. “Don’t worry,” she told Sunny as they began to walk. “We won’t come back this way again. If you don’t want.” 
   “Good.” 
   Dante watched them all go—Maris and her friends. Their gaits were steady and calm. And despite the acquiescence to Sunny’s demand, no one looked defeated. 
   Sunny did. Her eyes had fallen to her boots; her shoulders were slumped. Knowing these things would never do, Dante put his arm around her. He put his hand under her chin and lifted it gently. 
   “Hey,” he said. “You all right?” 
   “Peachy,” she said. 
   “You look ready to burn the whole world.” 
   “Always, Dante. Always.” 
   The homeroom bell went off. Kids began to scatter in different directions, juggling their books. Dante and Sunny remained put. Sunny looked down the hall where Maris had disappeared until the ruckus died down, and they were alone. 
   “Walk me to the girls’ room,” she said, still looking—looking, as if she could somehow see her adversary, glowing down at the bend. 
   Dante walked her. He expected to be left waiting while she fixed herself up, but instead she bade him come in. A slightly different version of the bathroom he normally used came into view. The lights were brighter. The stalls were pink instead of green. There were no urinals. Boxes of tissue paper, also pink, bordered the mirror. 
   Sunny gave him only a moment to notice these, for in the next, she had fallen into his arms, face streaming with tears. 
   “Hey,” Dante whispered, gathering her close. 
   “She’s right, Dante,” her voice sobbed. “She’s right.” 
   “No she’s not.” 
   Tears spilled onto his shoulder. Dante let them. 
   
   When a woman cries you have to let her. It isn’t the same as with a man. She’s not being weak, but strong. She’s purging feelings. 
   
   It was one of the few pieces of wisdom he’d gotten from his father over the years. Doubtless he’d been drunk at the time, but Dante called it up now, pulling Sunny in even closer, careful not to let her fall. 
   “I can’t do anything. I don’t have power at all.” 
   “Don’t say that.” 
   “She’s better than me. She’s perfect.” 
   “Sunny.” 
   “Why, Dante? Why is it like that?” 
   “Sunny?” 
   She looked up at him. Her make-up was a mess. Strands of twisted red hair hung over her eyes. The freckles on her cheeks looked ready to catch fire. She was the most beautiful, fascinating girl Dante had ever known. 
   “Do you know why that poem I wrote worked so well?” 
   “No.” 
   “Because it’s not about Maris. It’s about you. Every word I wrote, I was thinking of you. I thought that would make a fool out of Shaya, letting you sign his name beneath my feelings. But I’m the fool here, Sunny. I should have known love is nothing to be embarrassed about.” 
   “I’m not even sure I know what love is, Dante. I use the word all the time, but in my family it’s different. Physical pleasure is what drives us. We choose our partners like…plucking fruit from a tree.” 
   This last was spoken as if she herself couldn’t believe it was real. But it was. Looking into her eyes, Dante found evidence everywhere. 
   “Is that how you feel about me?” 
   Her answer was immediate. “Yes. But I have to be careful. We’re still evaluating you.” 
   “We?” 
   “Me. My mom. My dad. Because once you’re in, Dante, you’re  in.  You become my lord and master forever.” 
   Dante blinked. Here was an odd piece of information. “You mean you become  mine ? Like property?” 
   “That’s right.” 
   He looked at her for a long time, there in the bright bathroom light. The idea of claiming Sunny excited him. Hitherto this moment he’d never thought of their relationship that way. Now, suddenly, that was exactly the way he wanted it. 
   “Interesting,” he told her at last, giving her body a yet tighter squeeze. 
   Sunny gave a little  mmn  sound with the extra effort it now took to draw breath. “But it isn’t love, Dante. You can call it that, and it’s nice. But that isn’t what it is.” 
   “Okay.” 
   “Say you love me whenever you like.” 
   “But you won’t believe it when I do?” 
   Her head gave a tiny, reluctant shake. “I wouldn’t know how.” 
   He kissed her. “Don’t worry. I’ll go on loving you anyway. And hey,” he added, “if you don’t know what love is, then how do you know what it isn’t?” 
   That made her laugh. “Point taken, dear. May I clean up a little at the sink?” 
   “You may,” Dante said, releasing his hug. 
   He watched her wash and fix her make-up. Occasionally she would look at him through the mirror to grin, or stick out her tongue. 
   “You’re feeling better,” Dante observed, before sticking his own tongue out. 
   “I am. One hundred percent.” 
   “Thank you, Sunny. Now I feel better, too.” 
       CHAPTER TWENTY:  Sunny Comes To Dinner 
   
    On the thirtieth floor of a tower stone cold, Dante fought to his spirit withhold. 
   
     
   It was midnight. The power was out. Back-up generators provided dim orange lighting in the halls and some of the meeting rooms. Otherwise, shadows prevailed. Blackness hovered at either end of the room Dante occupied. Before him stood a long table of imitation wood. It gleamed by candlelight. Empty swivel chairs, some of them pulled out as if recently vacated, circled its top. 
   “There’s something looking for you,” a voice whispered. 
   Dante squinted to make out its owner. A tall, masculine shape stood on the other side of the table. Clues to its identity lay hidden in its posture, as well as the roundness of its belly. 
   “Mr. Donati?” 
   The opera singer stepped into the candlelight. His face looked calm. A vague smile turned the corners of his lips. Yet this was not a face of happy tidings. Bad trouble lurked nearby. 
   “Remain calm,” Donati said. 
   “Where am I? What’s going on?” 
   “We’re on the thirtieth floor—“ 
   He was interrupted by a long, high-pitched shriek from below. The shriek sounded female, though not necessarily human. 
   Dante looked at the floor. “What was that?” 
   “Echidna,” Donati replied. 
   “Who?” 
   “A very large, powerful creature that wants to eat you. She’s on the twenty-seventh floor. This is the thirtieth. Dante—“ 
   Another shriek, this time from directly beneath their feet. 
   “Leave the building, Dante. Go straight down. Don’t stop anywhere.” 
   “Does the elevator still work?” Dante glanced at the door. It stood open. Beyond he could make out—just barely—dim glare on glass walls, a polished floor, a drinking fountain. He turned back to Donati. 
   But the opera singer had gone. Vanished. Dante was alone. 
   
   Leave the building… 
   
   He went into hallway on trembling knees. The harsh orange eye of an emergency light glared from the ceiling. To his right lay an exit—the stairs. In the other direction were doors to an elevator. 
   He chose the elevator. To his relief, the down arrow came on when he pressed it. A motor whirred somewhere. Cables spun. Then the doors whispered open on an empty car lit weakly by a dying bulb. 
   Dante stepped inside. His finger searched duel columns of numbered buttons. He pressed the letter G. And like curtains over a stage, the doors hushed closed. 
   Except the show hadn’t ended. Was, in fact, only beginning. The car descended. A red digital read-out near the ceiling moved from 30 to 29. From 29 to 28. Dante held his breath. His lungs were far stronger than Sunny’s. Once he had lasted for two minutes underwater. 
   28…28…28… 
   …27. 
   The car jerked to a stop. Letting out his breath, Dante watched in horror as the doors slid open. The hallway beyond, silent as a buried coffin and nearly as black, seemed to reach toward him, chilling his heart. Visible though the gloom lay a trash can, tipped on its side. Garbage littered the floor in a spray. Something had hit the can hard. 
   From down the hall, faintly, came a slithery bump. Glass shattered. 
   Dante pressed the G button again. The doors vibrated on their tracks and slid closed. But the car would not move. Looking up at the display, Dante willed it with all his might. It did no good. The red number 27 refused to change. Instead, the doors slowly moved back open. 
   Now the can was gone. A body, female, lay in its place. Had that been what it was all along? The head was severed. Dead, horrified eyes shimmered through a thick veil of black hair. 
   Once more Dante pressed the G button— 
   And Echidna, wailing, swept into the car, seizing Dante’s throat with thorny claws. He didn’t have time to see much. A pair of yellow eyes, a hissing head of snaky hair, drooling venom. Hungry screams deafened him. Snapping teeth tore him to bits. 
   Dante’s eyes flew open. 
   He was in his bedroom. Early morning. Light from State Street’s arc-sodium lamps touched the bed, the desk. His watch read 3:27. 
   “Sunday,” he said to the ceiling, between deep breaths to slow the race of his pulse. 
   Dinner day with Sunny. Try as he might, Dante still couldn’t get his mind around how things were going to go with her at the table, munching away on bread and pasta with his parents. 
   
   No poisonous snakes, please. 
   
   His head settled on the pillow. No snakes—that didn’t seem like a tall request. But with a girl like Sunny, he had to consider whether it might already be too late to ask. 
   ∞ 
   Everything went fine until about half-way through the meal. 
   They picked Sunny up at 5:30 on the button. She was waiting on the porch, dressed in a yellow cotton skirt and soft blue sweater. A leather jacket, open, hung on her shoulders. Tiny jewels rimmed its pockets. 
   “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Torn!” she sang, springing down the stairs in her traditional black boots. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!” 
   She and Dante held hands in the back seat while Mr. Torn navigated the car between large, puffy flakes of gently falling snow. From the passenger side Mrs. Torn, cradling Dukey in her lap, smiled over and over at Sunny, until Dante felt the rear-view mirror must soon arc into a smile too. 
   “Dante told me you were beautiful…oh, probably a hundred times. I never  doubted  him, of course, but he  does  have a tendency to exaggerate—“ 
   “Mom!” Dante shouted. 
   “Not this time, though. You really are very beautiful.” 
   “Thank you, Mrs. Torn.” 
   “Mom.” 
   Once home Sunny insisted on helping in the kitchen. This pleased Dante’s mother even more. Dante watched her cut garlic bread. Her tiny arms—bare now that her jacket was off, and the sweater sleeveless—moved with dainty, feminine confidence. Each cut looked precisely like the last. Not a crumb touched the plate. Nor, for that matter, did the blade of the knife, as it did so often when he or his father cut, protesting their clumsiness with glassy, jagged barks. With this same confidence she sliced onions and brushed them into the sauce. Then she helped set the table, arranging the silverware just how Mrs. Torn liked it, though she’d never been told. 
   “Perfect,” she said, standing back to admire her work. 
   Mrs. Torn had to agree. “It is, Sunny. Wow, do I love having you in the kitchen. I wish you could come over every night. Dante? You lose this girl and I’ll chuck you out your dad’s rover at full speed!” 
   “Speaking of Dad, where is he?” 
   “Where do you think? In the living room with the dog.” 
   A dinner of quiet, thoughtful conversation followed. Dante and Sunny sat across from one another, exchanging diagnostic glances. Occasionally the toe of her boot would give his leg a flirty brush. 
   “Have you lived in Norwalk all your life?” Mrs. Torn asked. 
   “No,” Sunny replied. “I was actually born in Ravenna. Portage County. But my dad moved us here when I was very young.” 
   “What does Mr. Desdemona do for a living?” 
   Dante’s eyebrows perked up at this. All year he’d never once asked Sunny about Brenton’s occupation. What  did  he do, anyway? 
   “He’s president of a company that services very old boilers,” Sunny said. “New boilers, too, but it’s the old ones that bring in the money. Parts for those are so hard to find. Hardly anyone makes them anymore.” 
   “And no wonder,” said Mrs. Torn. “Aren’t those things dangerous?” 
   “The old ones? Absolutely. You never want to get near one with low PSI tolerance.” Smiling, Sunny put down her fork and made a sweeping gesture with her hands. “Boom! You know?” 
   “Not intimately, thank goodness. But I can imagine well enough.” 
   “Mrs. Torn I’d just like to say that this pasta is delicious. It tastes just like my own mom’s. I love it.” 
   “Why thank you!” 
   The boot touched Dante’s leg again.  How am I doing?  her face asked over the table. Dante reached down to give her bare knee a gentle stroke. There were freckles on that knee, he knew. Cute ones. They would drive him crazy if he let them. 
   “Dante tells me your grades at school are very good,” said Mr. Torn. 
   “Yeah,” Sunny told him. “I keep my head above water.” 
   “You do better than that according to him. Straight As.” 
   “Reading interests me. Non-fiction. My dad says fiction is a waste of time.” 
   “He’s right,” came Mr. Torn’s assertive reply. “Very, very right. I’m always trying to get Dante away from his comic books.” 
   “I don’t read comic books, Dad,” Dante protested. 
   Mr. Torn grinned. “How sheepish your face suddenly looks. Would you care to show Miss Desdemona some of the posters in your room?” 
   “Yeah, Dante,” Sunny came in, voice purring. “Show me your room.” Then the flare in her eyes dimmed a little. “I’d love to see your posters.” 
   “Wasn’t there some excitement at your school last month?” Mrs. Torn asked. “A student disappeared?” 
   Sunny took a sip of Diet Coke before answering. “That’s true,” she said. “Billy Large. Funny name for a kid so short.” 
   “Did you know him?” 
   “A little. Dante knew him, too.” The green eyes flared again. “Didn’t you, dear?” 
   “I sure did—“ 
   But his mother’s face had burst into joy before he could finish. “Oh my goodness, Sunny, are you calling him  dear,  like he’s your  husband?  That is so,  so  cute!” 
   Dante dropped his fork. “Mom! We’re only thirteen!” 
   “Sunset Desdemona Torn,” Sunny said, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah. It sounds nice!” 
   “It sounds  beautiful! ” Mrs. Torn gushed. 
   “Yes, Dante,” Mr. Torn arrived with his two cents. “Perhaps  Captain America  can be your best man at the wedding.  The Fantastic Four  can cater.” 
   Sunny began to giggle. 
   “The ice is getting thin, people,” Dante warned, though he too had begun to laugh. “Time for my good deed for the day. I’ll fetch dessert.” 
   His mother rose to help. Dirty plates were cleared away. Clean, small plates took their place. Sunny offered to put on coffee. Mrs. Torn sniffed and said she would have none of that from a guest who had been so pleasant to spend an evening with. Sunny’s response was somewhat cryptic, and cast a strangeness over the table that would not lift until, an hour later, she went back home. 
   “But I can’t leave Dante to be punished all alone for his good deed,” she said. 
   “Who said he’s going to be punished?” Mrs. Torn asked, filling a decanter with water. 
   “All good deeds get punished, Mrs. Torn. I think they do anyway.” 
   “Oh, pish-posh!” 
   But Sunny was insistent. As the smell of coffee permeated the room, and ice cream was scooped into pretty little parfait glasses, she told a story about two brothers who loved each other dearly. They lived long ago, in a time of peace between two great wars, in a city of corruption. Whilst growing up their parents taught them to care for one another, and to never betray the family, nor honesty, nor valor and courage. It was a lesson easily learned, as each brother seemed to naturally love the other. Favors passed between them like flower petals between two gardens, caught up in the trees with their lovely scents of lilac and primrose and sweet alyssum. They loaned each other money. They helped with choosing gifts for their ladies. One brother proved quite adept at repairing automobiles, and would always make certain his sibling’s Jordan ran smooth. The other was a gifted painter whose works sold well. He did many pieces for his brother, never once charging him a single cent. 
   Things went on this way until the end of that wondrous, lost decade, or close to it, for the stock market had not yet crashed when one brother, the auto mechanic, decided to open a small café in a district of the city lacking such. He asked his brother the painter for a loan, and you can just guess what that brother said. The café opened not a year later. It served coffee, cake, pie, tea. A little pasta, a little ice cream. Tomato soup with delicious sprinkles of oregano. 
   But it didn’t last. Oh, no no no. Most business go under five years or less after opening day. For the auto mechanic brother it was less. One evening, six months after the café’s ribbon cutting ceremony, a robber came through the door. He pointed a gun at the brother and demanded he empty the cash register. The brother complied. It did not matter. The robber smiled and shot him in the head, killing him instantly. 
   News of this incident absolutely crushed the painter brother. The blame was his. All of it. Had he not given that loan to open the business, you see… 
   Well, tragedy would have been averted. Both brothers would have lived full, happy lives. Instead, the painter began to drink, which was really too bad, since all of this happened during an era of prohibition. Alcoholic beverages were not only hard to come by, but quite illegal. The brother was eventually caught and arrested. Wracked with guilt, sick from withdrawal, he died miserable in prison. One good deed was all it took. The perfection of love gleamed perfect no more. Or rather love, it seemed, had died by its own hand. 
   “Suicide,” Dante said, thoughtfully poking a spoon into his ice cream. 
   “That’s how it played out,” Sunny agreed. “And then there’s the story of Breezy, the little fairy who tried to steal back her friend’s pearl from the bottom of a giant’s fish aquarium. Things did not end well for her. Oh no.” 
   “Tell it,” Mr. Torn said. “I’d like to hear.” 
   And Mrs. Torn: “I thought you said you didn’t like fiction.” 
   “I don’t,” replied Sunny. “But what happened to Breezy isn’t fiction at all. My father insists it happened for real.” 
   “To a fairy?” Mrs. Torn asked. She was smiling. Maintaining her politeness. 
   But if Sunny noticed such condescension, she didn’t let on. “To a fairy,” she said. “Breezy Woods was her name. She lived near a farm just up the road from here, a long, long time ago…” 
   ∞ 
   Spring swept through the trees in bright petals of pink and yellow. This because a garden near the edge of the wood was in bloom, as the warm winds of May had arrived, and the flowers were spreading their joy. And if one were to follow these petals into the woods, leaving footsteps in the moist, rich dirt from last night’s rain, he or she would most assuredly never find, even after hours of brooding, patient pursuit, amongst the squirrels and the chickadees, a tiny, winged creature, such is so often described by that gifted Scottish author who once told of little lost boys, and iron bars which closed out dreams. No, never. Never once would one come across a fairy. 
   But of course they exist. And yes, most of the things you’ve heard about them are true. For instance, they are quite mischievous. They love to play tricks on humans, some of which are indeed nasty. I once knew a female fairy who managed to sprinkle a rather sweet-smelling and delicious detergent in with a farmer’s cat food. The cat became poisoned and died horribly, while that fairy’s friends all laughed. 
   Female fairies are generally smarter than the males, but also much smaller, as well as considerably weaker. They cannot fly as fast, nor lift heavy stones. However their leadership skills, as you may imagine, are superb. They love to plan out projects, then put the males to work, bossing them all over the grove. Nor do the males ever mind. Most of them are in love, even to this day, for female fairies are like those petals that sweep in the spring, colorful and dainty and ever so pretty. And when a female fairy gets an idea in her head… 
   Oh! Oh, they are even more so! 
   Her eyes become as slivers of snow, all alight in a blizzard caught up in the rage of that great thunder god. And her cheeks flush with the glow of our fifth planet’s red storm, and her tiny, devious mouth curves into a smile that speaks tomes about plots conceived at midnight, where candles burn in basement rooms, and whispered words slither from oak beamed shadows. 
   These things happened to one particular female fairy quite often. Her name was Breezy Woods. She was, of course, small and pretty. She had short, brown hair with locks that sliced through the air, especially when she flew. She wore a pink top and skirt, stolen from the cloth of a child’s nightgown one night, whilst the child slept in that very same gown, to wake up next morning with holes along the hem, which her mother took to be the work of bed beetles. Breezy had brown eyes the color of moist acorn. The freckles on her cheeks were like sprinkles of warm cinnamon. And please let us not forget her wings, which were slightly longer than most, and more slender, and when in the light captured similar hues to that great bow laid down in peace long ago by the god of Israel. 
   She was gorgeous, is what I’m trying to say. A lovely, lovely little lass. And her pretty head was so full of ideas on how to improve the grove where she lived. And she implemented them often. And what’s more, she didn’t like to lose. 
   “Breezy! What are you thinking of now?” 
   These words came from her friend, Taxi, who liked to fly into childrens’ rooms at night to steal the tiny stuffed toys they sometimes collected. 
   Breezy smiled. It was a pretty smile, yes, but also rather serpentine. “I’ve made up my mind,” she said. 
   “Not again?” 
   Breezy had been sent to the square to fetch water from the well. Not looking at her friend, she lowered the bucket until a faint splash echoed from below. As I recall, that morning was quite lovely. Fairies walked in droves along the streets of their little wooden village, enjoying the sun. Birds twittered from on high. And happiness, at least for the time being, seemed to glow from every obscure place that happened to catch the sun’s rays. 
   “Again and again and again,” Breezy sang. “At which it stays until I change it. But not this time. Goodness, no.” 
   “What are you on about?” Taxi demanded to know. She was somewhat taller than her friend. More gangly. Breezy loved her because many times, whilst trying for those stuffed toys, she got caught, and came home with the wildest stories to tell. 
   Breezy began to crank the bucket back up. Weighed down with water, it strained her puny arms, and she grunted as she spoke. “I’m on about the pearl.  Mmph!  The pearl at the edge of the forest, where the giant— gn!— lives.” 
   “Oh,  that ,” replied Taxi. 
   Gritting her teeth, Breezy gave another pull on the handle. This time it wouldn’t budge. Her muscles were utterly spent. “Get a boy,” she groaned. “Now.” 
   Her friend dutifully fetched one of the passing males, who had no trouble pulling the bucket up. Afterward, Breezy’s eyes flared. “Yes,  that! ” she gushed. “The pearl of the southern sea! The one stolen from our great-great-grandparents by  his  great-great-grandparents!” 
   “Breezy, we’ve been daring each other for years to steal it back. We both know it’s too dangerous.” 
   “Too dangerous,” huffed the haughty sprite, “for  some.  As in, girls who tend to bump their hips against dirty dishes, or trip over piled carpet.” 
   “Ladies?” the male fairy cut in. “Am I done?” 
   “No, you’re not!” Breezy snapped. “Carry the bucket to Gossamer Gwendolyn’s house! She’s the one needs water!” 
   “Yes, ma’am.” 
   When he’d gone, Taxi repeated her fear about stealing the pearl. “It’s at the bottom of his fish aquarium, you know,” she warned. 
   Breezy folded her arms over her chest and nodded. 
   “And how long can the great Breezy Woods hold her breath underwater?” 
   “Almost half a minute,” she said proudly. 
   Actually, it was more like twenty seconds, with some kicking and squirming thrown in. 
   “And besides,” Breezy went on, “if I run out of air I can just swim to the top.” 
   “He keeps two black convicts in that tank. They’ll eat you.” 
   “Not if they’re busy eating something else.” 
   “Breezy…” 
   But Breezy’s cheeks were red. Her eyes looked cold and cutting. In a word, she was determined. 
   “When are you going?” Taxi asked. 
   “Tonight.” 
   “Take one of the men with you.” 
   Breezy stamped the ground with one of her little brown boots. “No. The men are clumsy and noisy. They’ll wake up the giant.” 
   “What if he wakes up anyway?” 
   “Now I’m offended. I’ve never woken up anybody. You know that.” 
   “Sorry. Can I see the pearl when you come home?” 
   “Everyone will see it, my dear,” replied Breezy, standing on tip-toe to hug her friend. “Everyone.” 
   ∞ 
   She used a crevice in the attic window to get inside, careful of spider-webs, and rats, and roach traps and stray cats. Wings sparkling in the moonlight, Breezy next flew down a flight of old wooden steps. A dark hallway led past the giant’s bedroom, which she easily avoided, to an open door at the far end. Inside that door was a den. And inside that den… 
   Dainty as a butterfly, Breezy alighted atop the aquarium. It was long and rectangular. The shape of a coffin. Moonlight glowed in its deep waters. This pleased Breezy a little bit. She would be able to see while she dove. It also upset her. Deep waters they were indeed. For the first time Breezy began to seriously wonder about the capacity of her lungs. 
   Stop wondering and find out!  her thoughts chided. 
   But first the fish. From a small petal-pouch around her waist, Breezy removed several slices of fresh minnow meat. She tossed them into the water. Instantly, the convicts swam up to gobble them whole. Ah, yes! This was going to work! 
   She took off all her clothes before going on that final, dreadful, deadly swim. And let me just pause here to mention how pretty she looked, standing naked before the water, her slim, soft body all aglow in the moon, her wings like the blades of polished swords, her pointed ears listening, listening oh so intently, for any sound down by the giant’s door. But they just couldn’t hear anything, you know? Not that they were bad ears, but that the giant was so very quiet, and of course he knew where to step so the floor-boards didn’t creak, and could hold his breath for a long time, much longer than a female fairy, so that Breezy just…didn’t…hear him at all. 
   Her bare, boney chest filled with a practice breath. And another, and another. And when her lungs felt good and ready to go, Breezy tossed some more minnow meat into the water. The convicts attacked. Good for them. They were probably both male. Noisy and stupid. 
   Breezy took another deep breath, and this one she held before diving into the water, making nary a splash with her glass-shard frame. Down, down, down to the bottom she swam, kicking her legs. The pearl rested on a mound of stones between two large rocks. It looked like a moon itself. Its pale glow made Breezy’s heart skip a beat. 
   Happy thus far with her adventure, she swam up for air. 
   “ HAHH!”  she gasped, breaking the surface. 
   A shadow fell over the water. Breezy screamed. The shadow belonged to the giant. Now his face loomed above her, grinning. 
   “And whom do we have here?” he inquired. “A pretty little insect. I thought I heard wings outside my door.” 
   Screaming some more, Breezy made to climb from the tank. But her wings were all wet. She couldn’t fly. 
   “A late night book is just the tool,” said the giant, “to catch a fairy in your pool! Reading keeps me awake!” 
   With his thumb and index finger he plucked Breezy from the tank. Now for a human to touch a fairy—especially a  female  fairy—is absolutely and utterly beyond all question anathema. Imagine how much more delicious it was for the giant to seize one who wore no clothes! 
   “I can feel your teensy, tiny little heart,” the giant said, raising her before his eyes. “Fast as a humming bird’s.” 
   Breezy kicked and squirmed to get free. Her small breasts heaved. When a fairy is out of breath her lungs sing like steam escaping from the world’s tiniest tea pot. Breezy was very out of breath indeed. 
   “ Help me!”  she screamed.  “Somebody help me!” 
   Nobody came to help her. Instead the giant began to stroke one of her wings in a thoughtful way, no doubt admiring its shape, its texture. If asked, he would probably count it among the most beautiful fairy wings he had ever seen. 
   “Now this will only hurt for a moment,” he promised. 
   And with a quick jerk of his wrist, he pulled Breezy’s wing right out of her back. 
   “ EEEEEEE!”  Breezy shrieked.  “My wing! My wing!” 
   The giant held the severed wing before her disbelieving eyes. “So it is,” he said. “Yes. But it looks as if my convicts are still hungry.” 
   He dropped the wing into the water, where it was devoured instantly. Then he tore off Breezy’s other wing and did the same. 
   “ NO!”  the little fairy kept shrieking.  “NO! NO!”  Tears gushed torrents down her cheeks. Even if she were to somehow survive this horrific encounter, she would never fly again. 
   The giant’s thumb moved to her throat. There it began to stroke, ever so gently, Breezy’s delicate skin. 
   “I’m dreadfully sorry,” he said, “but you really must pull off a fairy’s wings before you eat her. They taste awful to humans. And the pieces tend to get caught in our teeth.” 
   Breezy’s eyes bulged in terror. She drew a breath to say something. I don’t know what it could have been. Nor does it matter today in the least. She couldn’t get a word out before the giant popped her whole into his mouth. 
   Female fairies taste just like sugar cubes. That’s what I’m told. You can eat them raw, or you can boil them in water and serve them with your holiday ham. I have a fairy cookbook somewhere in my bedroom. Perhaps one day I can show it to you. 
   Anyway, the giant preferred them raw. His tongue licked her a number of times, enjoying the softness of her skin, and of course the taste, and most of all, he loved how she squirmed to get free. Occasionally he would pull her out of his mouth, her body all covered in spit, to lick her like a lollipop. The whole sordid ordeal took several minutes, I think. Perhaps even longer. 
   But sadly, it did have to end. It was late at night and the giant needed his sleep. So with a sigh of regret, he put the screaming little girl back into his mouth, and bit down hard, crunching her delightful, delectable little bones. 
   ∞ 
   “Good Heavens, Sunny!” Dante’s mother gasped. “What would the moral of a story like that be?” 
   Sunny looked at her. The coffee was long gone. Rims of empty mugs shined. There was a bit of lip-stick on Sunny’s, and of course Mrs. Torn’s. “Always,” she said soberly, “make sure you have a strong man to protect you.” Now her eyes moved to Dante. “Always.” 
   “And has our Dante been protecting you well so far, Sunny?” Mr. Torn asked. His face looked straight as the horizon of an obsessionist’s landscape, and his voice was deadly serious. 
   As was Sunny’s voice, when she replied, with green gaze still on the boy in question: “He takes wonderful care of me. Wonderful care. I always feel safe when we’re together.” 
   Mr. Torn smiled. “Good lad,” he said to Dante. 
   And Dante thought later that was the first time he ever sounded proud of his son. 
   “But Sunny, really,” Mrs. Torn put in. “I must repeat what I said earlier about your not liking fiction. That it’s a waste of time.” 
   “So it is,” the girl said. 
   “So what was Breezy’s story then, if not fiction?” 
   “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Torn. Allow  me  to repeat: Breezy’s story is true.” 
   “Preposterous!” 
   “Not at all. You see…my father was the giant. And he still has that fish aquarium.” 
   “And the pearl?” Dante asked. 
   “Still at the bottom,” Sunny said with an evil wink. “Safe and sound.” 
       CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:  The Ides of March 
   
    There are among boys no one virgin. A virgin is a girl, until as such she gives it to her man, a token of something strong, be it love, or lust, or the heartfelt wish of a woman inside, impatient to burgeon. 
   
     
   Sunny’s birthday fell on a Monday. As promised, Dante would of course spend it with her, only it would be at school. By no means did this create a deterrence for what happened over the following weekend—or more specifically, on Saturday night, while Brenton was away on business. Brenton only, for Sunny’s mom had decided last minute to stay home with her daughter. This made not the slightest difference either. 
   Dante’s father drove him to Sunny’s house. He, Dante, was to stay the night there. The pretense existed in form of the birthday party, which, Dawn Desdemona informed Mrs. Torn, could run late, as Sunny was now an official teenager. Would it be an issue for Dante to sleep over in the guest bedroom? 
   Dante overheard this telephone exchange at the kitchen table Saturday morning, fully aware of its content. He had planned it all week with Sunny and her parents. Watching his mother nod, he took a bite of toast. The butter had melted into the bread just right. Just perfectly right. 
   Sunny’s porch greeted him with a cold March wind. Dead foliage swept his legs, enticing him to the door. Dante knocked. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, purple dress shirt, and black pants. Half a dozen terra-cotta roses rested in one hand. In the other, a small white box. 
   The door clicked and was pulled wide. A slightly taller version of Sunny smiled in the form of Mrs. Desdemona. Gushing welcomes, she led Dante into the living room. The lighting was dim but pleasant. He remembered its sweet odor of pipe tobacco. It greeted him now. The books were also still here. Shelves of ancient-looking volumes, bound in brown and red. One title in particular stood out:  Tuet Enormity Among The Stars. 
   “Dante?” Mrs. Torn said. “Could you make a fire? I forgot to have Brenton do it before he left.” 
   “Of course, Mrs. Desdemona. No problem at all.” 
   Her eyes, every bit green as Sunny’s, shimmered. “Thank you. I just love having a man in the house. Sunny too. She’s upstairs, by the way. Give her just a few more minutes.” She looked at the flowers. “Are those for her?” 
   “Three of them are,” Dante said, before executing a tricky maneuver to get three others free. “These are for you.” 
   Mrs. Desdemona took them with chest heaving for air. “I’m overwhelmed! Thank you very much!” 
   “My pleasure.” 
   “Let me put these in water and check dinner!” 
   She disappeared into the kitchen. Dante could now smell cooking food in delicate association with the cherry tobacco. Putting Sunny’s gifts down, he set to work on the fireplace, getting a healthy flame alight just as the sound of clicking heels approached from behind. 
   “Guess who?” a girly voice purred. 
   “Hello, beautiful,” Dante said, without turning around. 
   The flames seemed to grow higher for a moment. A curtain of heat brushed Dante’s face. He stood to his full height, then turned to find Sunny shining in the darkness. She wore a green, sleeveless kitty blouse with a short but serious black skirt. A silver-studded belt hung from the skirt. Her shoes—high-heeled, open-toed—were sleek and sexy. She thanked Dante for coming. Ever so slightly, her head tilted as she spoke, capturing the blaze in her emerald eyes, setting them in turn alight, so that they shimmered with the playful iridescence of her jewelry, bracelets and ear-rings, rendering her as a star that sparkled in solitude, adrift from any galaxy, bereft of satellites, alone until this night, upon which Dante knew her vacant system would become binary. 
   “You’re as lovely as I’ve ever seen you,” was all he could think to say. 
   “Thank you, Dante. I know you mean that.” 
   Her flowers were on the coffee table. Dante picked them up. “Happy thirteenth, Sunny. This is yours, too,” he added, reaching for the little white box. The box was decorated with a blood-red bow. “Would you like to open it now?” 
   The flowers sighed their fragrance as she kissed the corner of his mouth. “Later. Upstairs.” 
   “Almost time to eat,” came Mrs. Desdemona’s voice from the kitchen door. She leaned on the frame, wearing a smile that knew everything. “I’ll just borrow Sunny for a few minutes, Dante, if that’s all right.” 
   “Certainly,” Dante said. 
   And Sunny, arching a brow: “We’re having oysters tonight, Dante. Do you like oysters?” 
   “I’ve never tried them.” 
   “Oh,” she replied, in the voice of a detective who has just discovered a clue. “So it’s a night of firsts for both of us.” 
   They ate by candlelight, speaking softly of things mundane, such as work and school. Dante mentioned an approaching biology test, which made both ladies laugh. Like the rest of the house, the dining room was dim, adorned in silence. Barely visible paintings idled in cedar wood shadows. Dante was able to recognize one as a Bosch. Others were portraits. Dead relatives, perhaps. One had a face covered in thick hair. Its two eyes, more canine than human, regarded Dante from the depths of thousands of fine brown strands. 
   “Stephan Desdemona,” Sunny’s mother said, noticing Dante’s scrutiny. “Sunny’s great-grandfather. He suffered from a rather aggressive form of hypertrichosis.” 
   “Ah,” Dante said with genuine interest. “Is there a gene in the family?” 
   “Indeed there is. It tends to skip over the females, lucky for Sunny.” She hesitated. “But one of her children may be born with it, you know. Perhaps even more than one.” 
   “She isn’t serious,” Sunny put in. 
   “But of course I’m serious, dear.” 
   “Mom.” 
   “It’s perfectly all right,” Dante told them. “I read about hypertrichosis in one of my dad’s encyclopedias. The wild hair doesn’t at all reflect what’s beneath it. Many sufferers were quite well educated and articulate.” 
   “Not Stephan,” Sunny’s mom said. She looked at the painting. Her voice changed to one of admiration. “He used to eat his meat raw. Sometimes he would walk around on all fours. And his voice was so like an animal’s, you’d insist—“ 
   “That’s enough, Mom,” Sunny warned. 
   The other woman seemed to agree. Dismissing the painting, she smiled and asked if anyone would like more wine. Sunny nodded. “We’ll take the bottle upstairs to my room, Mom.” “That’s fine,” Mrs. Desdemona said. “I’ll rechill it for you.” 
   She rose and went to the kitchen. There came the sound of ice clattering into a bowl. 
   “Are you nervous?” Sunny asked, peering around one of the candles. 
   “No,” Dante told her. “Not at all.” 
   “Good. Because I am. A little.” 
   “It’ll be all right, Sunny. I promise.” 
   Mrs. Desdemona reappeared with a silver bucket full of ice. The wine bottle lay in it like a wrecked galleon upon Antarctic seas. “All right, children,” she said, placing the bucket on the table, “I believe it’s time. Sunny?” 
   “Yes, Mom?” 
   “Do you remember everything we talked about?” 
   “Yes, Mom.” 
   “Good. Dante?” 
   “Yes, Ma’am?” 
   She looked at him for a moment before speaking. Her green eyes were level, serene. Twin fields on a calm night. “Give her what she needs. She’ll tell you what that is, don’t worry.” 
   “I just need to find out first,” Sunny put in with a giggle. 
   “Don’t be nervous,” her mother told her. “Just…follow your appetite. Think of how you feel when you look at Dante, and  indulge.  Be gluttonous. Take what pleases you.” 
   Dante listened to this exchange, deeply charmed to be spoken of like he were a drink of particularly satisfying vintage. Eventually Mrs. Desdemona finished with her last minute pep-talk. She gave Dante permission to stand. He did so, picking up the wine. Sunny stood next. Mrs. Desdemona hesitated one final time before letting them leave. Her eyes moved from one to the other, making certain, perhaps, that nothing remained to be said. At last she smiled. She nodded at her daughter, then at Dante. 
   “Go upstairs,” she said. “Have fun.” 
   ∞ 
   The door to Sunny’s bedroom was red. It had a gold knob on it. The knob gave a graceful click under Sunny’s hand. Once the door was open, Sunny led Dante inside. 
   Her shoes clicked on hardwood flooring. She switched on the light, revealing a surprisingly conventional girl’s bedroom. Red, pink, and white were its main colors. An arrangement of stuffed toys lay on a neatly made canvas bed. Next to the bed was a small bookshelf lined with curly-cued titles. A vanity mirror, scattered with make-up, stood near a white dresser with crystal handles. 
   Sunny went to the window, pulled the curtains closed. She invited Dante to put the wine on the vanity table. He did so, then reached into the pocket of his coat. He’d put her gift there on the way upstairs. Now he proffered it again. 
   “And what is it?” Sunny asked with an arched brow. 
   “Something I hope is a good reflection of you.” 
   She pulled the ribbon off the box. Her fingers took hold the lid. Here Dante noticed for the first time how long her nails were tonight. Long and perfectly manicured. 
   Sunny lifted the lid. She looked in the box…and gasped. “Oh wow. Oh my goodness, Dante. Is this bloodstone?” 
   “It is indeed,” he said. 
   Another gasp filled her chest. Lifting the ring from the box, she said: “This is the coolest thing I have ever seen.” 
   “It should fit. I had to be very sneaky about finding your size.” 
   “Oh, you  have  to be the one to put it on for me, Dante. Please.” 
   He slipped it onto her finger, where it fit perfectly. The gold band shined. The stone glowed. It looked so alive Dante thought at any moment it might blink. 
   “I can’t wait to show my mom,” Sunny said, turning her hand to admire the ring from all angles. 
   “Is this really how it is in your family?” Dante asked. “When girls turn thirteen?” 
   “Not for every girl, no. Just the ones who are very serious about a boy she’s found. Hold out your hand.” 
   Dante raised his hand. Sunny placed her ringed one into it. Soft and tiny, it became enveloped on the instant. Dante closed his fingers around the palm, taking care not to cause her pain. He heard Sunny’s breath catch. 
   “Did you meet my cousin?” she asked. “At the hotel?” 
   He laughed a little. “Yes. Is that another Desdemona clan ritual?” 
   “Sometimes. If the girl is nervous, like me. I need you in control, Dante. Confident. Because I’m not.” 
   But Dante had to wonder about this. In total paradox to her confession, Sunny took a step backward and slowly unbuttoned her blouse. It came open on a dainty, fragile-looking chest, lightly freckled about the ribs. More freckles sprinkled her narrow shoulders, which came into view when Sunny let the blouse fall. A black brassiere cradled her budding breasts. Taking a breath, Sunny reached behind herself. There came a tiny click of a clasp letting go. Her straps went loose. 
   “Sit down on the bed,” she purred. 
   Dante stepped backward and put himself on the mattress. Sunny gave him a playful smile. The brassiere dropped. Dante took the view in, enjoying the gentle, almost undetectable curve of her young breasts, the sharpness of her nipples. 
   From here Sunny opened her skirt. The zipper revealed a pair of black panties pressed tightly over the arcs and crevices of a girl’s most sacred places. Carefully, Sunny slipped the skirt over her waist and let it fall to her shoes. 
   “Good,” Dante told her. “Very good.” 
   She swallowed. “Do I get undressed all the way? I mean like right here?” 
   “Leave your shoes on. The rest I want to see.” 
   “Can’t I take my panties off under the covers?” 
   “No. Take them off now.” 
   Letting out a breath, Sunny hooked her thumbs under the band of her panties. Slowly then, she began to pull. Lower, lower. Her vagina appeared as a short, dark slit sketched lightly with new grown hairs. It looked tight and fresh as a shut flower. The panties slipped to Sunny’s knees, and then her ankles. Her shoes clicked as she stepped out of them. 
   “Very pretty,” Dante said, drinking the view of her nakedness in. “Very pretty.” 
   “Thank you,” she said. 
   “Can I get a pretty smile to match?” 
   Tossing her hair, Sunny flashed him a playful, girly smile. 
   “There it is,” he said in appreciation. “Gorgeous. Now turn around.” 
   The smile faltered. “Turn around?” 
   “Yes.” 
   Her green eyes fluttered for a moment. “Uh…why?” 
   But of course Dante knew she was only loving the game. Narrowing his gaze, he told her again, more forcefully: “Sunny,  turn around. ” 
   She gave a quick nod, then followed his command, revealing the flow of her hair down her narrow back, and the small, shallow crevice of her butt, dotted lightly with freckles on either side. 
   “Dante?” she asked in a worried tone. 
   “Relax, honey. You’re doing fine.” 
   “Thank you.” 
   “And whose little girl are you?” 
   “Yours. I’m yours, Dante.” 
   “I am your Lord and Master.” 
   “Yes, Dante.” She swallowed. “Sir.” 
   “Turn around.” 
   His command was followed on the instant. The smile Sunny wore was that of a mischievous imp whose eye had caught some particularly satisfying fruit. 
   “Sir?” she asked, arching a brow. 
   “Yes, Sunny?” 
   “May I take you now? My mother…she told me to be gluttonous.” 
   “I know she did. And I want you to be. I want you to have everything.” 
   “Thank you, Sir.” 
   He smiled. “Come over here, baby.” 
   And she  did  take him, though from underneath, in the missionary position, locking her legs round his body, scratching him with her nails, biting his shoulder. And he in turn stabbed the breath from her lungs, until her air was in such short supply she was forced to arch her back, bringing forth the bones of her chest as if to signal for reprieve, which Dante, enjoying every desperate gasp she drew, did not give, even as those gasps became higher and more jagged, the gasps of a drowning girl; though instead of fainting, she dared him pull her deeper, dared him with words he had never before heard her use: words from back alleys at midnight, littered with trash, where no winds blew; words from the wharf, vomited at torn sails and cracked masts; words from the circles below, written of in a time long lost, where winged beasts made foul each breath of the eternally damned. 
   And when it was over she lay in his arms, rational again. She talked about the girls at school—her minions. All of them, she told Dante, knew about their weekend together, and were dying for news. She couldn’t wait to show them her ring. She even wanted Maris to see it. Her even more than the others. Let Shaya try to find a gift remotely as good. It would never happen. Never. Maris would turn green and grit her teeth every time they passed in the hall. 
   “And I’ll just laugh when she does,” Sunny said under the covers. “By the way, I’m going to cook breakfast for you in the morning. How do you like your coffee?” 
   He smiled and told her with cream only. 
   “Got it. No problem. Are pancakes and sausage okay?” 
   “That sounds perfect,” he said. 
   She giggled. “I feel like a  wife.  It’s so cool! I mean, yeah, I said my family doesn’t do traditional marriage, but it  feels  like it now, you know?” 
   “I do, Sunny,” Dante said, and meant it. Seeing the ring on her finger made him feel like a husband. 
   “And at school, it’s like…I’m in charge of everybody. I’m the queen. And you’re in charge of me.” 
   “King,” Dante said. 
   “Exactly, exactly.” 
   They lay together in silence for a few more minutes. As always, Dante enjoyed the sound of Sunny’s breathing, which was steady now, fully caught up. 
   He lifted the cover to find her wearing that same smile from before—the one of the mischievous imp. 
   “Let’s do it again, Dante,” she whispered. “Please.” 
   Dante smiled back. The fruit was hers. So of course, he let her take, and eat. 
       CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:  Dogs On Ice 
     Caves in the cold beckon wandering souls. But where do they lead, and to what bell that tolls? 
     
   On the way home from Sunny’s, Dante asked to be dropped off at number 114. His father nodded and said that was fine. He congratulated his son on being a good friend. This made Dante cringe a bit. In truth, he hadn’t been over to see Donati in quite some time. To make his father’s praise even more ludicrous, he found he wasn’t missing the old man much. After all, Sunny was doing more than a splendid job watching after his companionship needs. She and her clique of friends had given him a sense of self-worth he’d never known obtainable. 
   There stood another reason for his recent reluctance to visit the old man. Dante knew that the longer he stayed away, the more chores Donati would ask him to do around the house. It didn’t please him in the least to imagine how much dust had gathered on the furniture by now, or how many soiled dishes—caked with dry brioche—had piled in the sink. 
   Dante frowned. Perhaps he should cancel his visit. Tell his father to keep driving. 
   No, no. That wouldn’t do. Number 114 was already falling apart around the opera singer’s bulbous ears. He needed a caretaker. Correction: The  house  needed a caretaker. Thinking of it that way made Dante’s frown deepen. Did Donati even deserve to live in such a fine old place? Bah! It was Greek Revival, and he Italian. How ludicrous was that? Their mythologies were criss-crossed. Meshed together in awkward, senseless fashion. A painting of mixed styles, portraying a dedication to nothing save chaos. 
   Nor could the house be blamed for such sacrilege. It was Donati’s fault. He’d been the one to pick up his roots. He’d come to Norwalk, purchased one of its finest pieces of history, and cast it to sorrows of decay. 
   Shame on you, old man,  Dante thought, suddenly angry. 
   It was the final straw. He turned to tell his father never mind about the visit. But by then it was too late. 
   “Here we are,” Mr. Torn said, pulling the car to the curb. 
   “Thanks, Dad.” 
   “No sweat. I’d come say hi to your friend, but I need to get home and walk Dukey.” 
   Dante laughed. “He’s a good dog, Dad.” 
   “He’s a  wonderful  dog.” 
   As a numbing gel snuffs the pain of a sore tooth, so did the thought of Dukey extinguish Dante’s anger. He stepped from the car and waved goodbye to his dad. 
   March punished him for his arrogance. A cold, brutal wind swept round Donati’s house. Dante staggered. Dead leaves, exhumed from February snows, rattled up the walk. Following them, Dante went to the door and knocked. No one answered, which did not surprise him. Chances were the old man’s hearing wasn’t all that great. Worse in wind like this. 
   He knocked again. This time his effort was rewarded. A voice—Donati’s—called from inside the house. 
   “ Dante? Is that you?” 
   However bad his hearing might be, the opera singer’s vocal chords worked just fine. 
   “It’s me!” Dante called to the upper windows of the house, from where it seemed Donati had called. 
   “ Help me, boy! I need help!” 
   “Where are you?” 
   “ I’m upstairs! I’m in trouble!” 
   With mounting concern Dante tried the door. It was of course locked. 
   “You need to open the door, Mr. Donati! I don’t have my key!” 
   “ There’s an old flower pot on the step! Dump it over!” 
   Dante looked down. The pot had already toppled, courtesy of March. When Dante flipped it upside-down a key fell out. He picked it up, used it, and in a flash took to the stairs, calling Donati’s name. 
   The opera singer stood at the end of a long hall lined with doors. Behind him lay another flight of steps, smaller and cruder than the main flight. 
   “Ah!” he said, tightening the belt of his robe. “You’re here!” 
   “What’s wrong?” Dante demanded. 
   The old man gestured toward the stairs. “I need you to take some pictures of the attic bedrooms. For an article I’m writing,” he explained, when Dante became incredulous, “about the house.” 
   “Is that all?” 
   “Yes. Were you hoping for more?” He disappeared inside one of the hall’s many doors and came back with a Polaroid Instamatic camera. 
   “Why didn’t you just come down and let me in?” Dante then asked. 
   The old man affected to look pained. “I cooked pasta,” he said. 
   His reply made no sense whatsoever. “That’s nice,” Dante told him. “What happened? Did it come to life and pigeon-hole you?” 
   “That,” the other said with a smile, “is closer to the truth than it sounds.” 
   Rolling his eyes, Dante took the camera. The attic stairs went to a half-landing, then up to a short hallway with a small, wooden door at each end. Each door, Dante found, let on a tiny bedroom, neither of which looked to have been slept in for years. 
   “Try to get maybe five pictures in each room!” Donati called up. 
   The silence of time overrode him. The silence of a lost era, which now, suddenly, had crept forth to whisper in Dante’s ears. Stepping into one of the rooms, he felt like he should hold his breath. Gray light shined dimly through a crooked window. A tiny fireplace, unlit for perhaps decades, slept soundly in one corner. In another lay the remains of an old sewing loom. The walls were made of simple wooden planks. Someone had carved a heart into one. Another bore a name:  Louisa. 
   Dante tried to picture girls sleeping up here after a day at school. The leap proved difficult at first. Over a hundred years had passed since they’d giggled under their wool blankets at midnight. But through exposure he managed to succeed. The giggles became syllables, the syllables, words. Whispered secrets near a winter candle, let loose in the room to swirl on a rogue draft, and be gone up the chimney. And with the scene came a nameless poem Dante had once, years ago, read under his own blankets. 
     
   
   Set flame to the wick of some memory, 
   
   
   Idle in this room for a century, 
   
   
   And share with me a secret story, 
   
   
   Told by a girl in her youthful glory, 
   
   
   A girl now a ghost in a garden of stone, 
   
   
   A girl now a ghost, but no longer alone. 
   
     
   “ Louisa! Louisa! Do you think he’ll come tonight?” 
   
   And from another bed in the room comes the smile of a girl with mischievous blue eyes. “Of course he’ll come! We’re in love!” 
   
   “ But it’s cold and windy. Suppose he gets hurt?” 
   “ Never!” 
   
   Giggling from Louisa’s friend. Her freckled face glows by candle-light. “You’re so lucky! Has he kissed you yet?” 
   
   “ Oh Darci! He kisses me every time we meet!” 
   “ So you’re his? You belong to him?” 
   “ Forever, Darci. Forever.” 
   
   Darci brushes a lock of red hair from her face. The wind blows stronger. A draft slips through loose window panes, agitating the candle. Shadows dance on the wall. Both girls gasp, then laugh, then giggle some more… 
   
   Dante took pictures in both bedrooms. He went downstairs and gave the photos to Donati, who shuffled through them. Pretending, Dante surmised, to be analytical. He paused over one, shrugged, then smiled at Dante. 
   “These will do fine,” he said. “Thank you. Would you care for some breakfast?” 
   “Already had it,” Dante said. 
   “Cappuccino then.” 
   “Sure.” 
   The old man’s slippers dragged on the floor as he went to the stairs, then down. Following him to the kitchen, Dante saw about what he expected: dirty dishes, unwiped counters. The microwave door was ajar. Dante pulled it wide. Pasta, still moist from whatever disaster had occurred here recently, gooped its innards. 
   “You need a wife, mister,” Dante said before he could check himself. 
   “Bah!” Donati replied. He fired up the cappuccino machine, forcing Dante to speak louder. 
   “Does that mean you don’t want one or you’re frustrated I speak the truth?” 
   “It means mind your own business!” 
   “Second one, then,” Dante muttered. 
   They took their cups to the living room. Leaving the kitchen pleased Dante no end, though he knew he’d need to clean it later, else nobody would. Donati sat down heavily in his chair. His cup hit the table. 
   “I want brioche,” he said grouchily. “But since you’re not having any I won’t bother.” 
   Dante gaped. “That’s ridiculous. Have some.” 
   “Oh no, no,” the other insisted. “It’s bad for my health.” 
   “So is leaving linguine to turn green in your microwave. And speaking of that, what sort of a real Italian nukes his pasta?” 
   “The sort who gets gas from cheap olive oil.” Donati peered over the table with narrow eyes. “Have you ever farted under your covers at night? Accidental suicides have happened that way. I once knew a man who pooped himself in a dream.  Cacca te stesso.  And when he woke up—“ 
   Dante began to laugh. He could no longer help himself. 
   “And when he woke up, my dear boy, there was a log between his legs, and not of the kind homosexuals describe over bagels and chocolate mocha.” 
   He took a moment to stare at Dante, who was now laughing too hard to respond. 
   “This,” he went on seriously, “was a tragedy. A catastrophe. The man leaped from his bed and ran away screaming. Only he shouldn’t have panicked. Jumping off the mattress caused it to spring. The poop sailed into the air—“ 
   “No!” Dante yelled, choking on his cappuccino. 
   “Yes, I’m afraid. It sailed into the air and landed on his head. It’s not funny!” 
   “But it  is , Mr. Donati, it is!” 
   “Good. Now you won’t be so grumpy about cleaning the house.” 
   “So you detected that?” 
   “It was coming off you in waves. As for that poor, unfortunate man…” 
   Dante leaned closer. He had to hear the rest. 
   “He’d been despondent about going bald. But never again. And whenever he looked in the mirror, he called himself poophead. Now then!” Donati drained his cappuccino in one gulp. On the mug were the words  Italian Girls Love Long Piedi.  “Another story. Eh? One that involves me, and is far more recent. Just last night in fact.” 
   “I’m game,” Dante said. 
   “Excellent. You know I was once a dog lover?” 
   Dante’s hand had been reaching for his own mug. Now it froze. “Um…” 
   The old man’s features shriveled. “Not  physically.  Good heavens, boy.” 
   “No! I know you didn’t mean it like that.” 
   “I meant I enjoyed their company as friends and companions,” Donati went on, relaxing. “Over my lifetime I must have owned…oh, eight. Perhaps ten. Starting with my boyhood in  Nascosto.  But two in particular stand out. They weren’t only friends. They were my best friends. My heart let them in. The heart is a very choosy, very selfish muscle, Dante. Its doorstep is a place of instant judgment. When one meets another, they each put the other up. They are cold and severe as the most impeccable butler. Their ties are straight. Their tails are pressed sharp. An eyebrow may arch; a nostril may sniff. A gloved hand may reach for the door, prepared to close it and turn the lock. Oh yes, boy! We are hard markers all! In…or out. The heart chooses. The head copes. And should that butler decide to close the door—ah! But the one rejected is in for a fight, assuming of course he still wants to come in. It could take months, or even years, to change another’s heart. But when the butler lets you in, why…you’re  in.  And you may never leave, even beyond death. A most comfortable room awaits you upstairs. The bed is soft, with counterpane thick and cool. And there is tea in the breakfast room, and whiskey in the library. Knowledge. Laughter. Pain. Memories. They are all there for the one who passes judgment, as that one holds them all for you. Even beyond death. 
   “Freddy and J.D. were let into my heart. One was a border collie, the other a briard. Both are gone now. In the physical world they are gone. But of course”—smiling, Donati tapped his chest—“in here they remain.” 
   Dante nodded. It was a silly way to respond after such a long speech, but he had no words of his own. He could only think of Dukey. Dukey had gotten into his father’s heart. And there he would stay forever. 
   “I dreamed of them last night,” the man sitting opposite continued. His eyes had roved to the living room archway, as if both dogs had somehow appeared and were wagging their tails. “Strange. One I owned as a boy, the other as a man. Yet there they were, romping together like old friends. I was in a house I never knew, sitting on someone’s couch. Behind me was a window. It was open. Across from me was a girl with long brown hair, and we were talking about paintings. Different styles. She was defending realism, while I remained headstrong toward abstract. Suddenly there came the sound of paws on the frame. I turned, startled. Then the paws—eight of them—were in my lap. Happy barking flooded my ears. Overjoyed, I hugged both dogs. Each died in terrible pain, yet here they were again, young and vibrant as puppies. You can’t think how amazing it was to see them thus. Distemper took Freddy in the prime of his life. He died in my arms, wracked by convulsions. J.D. went old. A degenerative hip took him. He lay in his bed for a month, weeping with pain. Finally I could bear it no more. I took him to the vet and had him euthanized.” 
   Here the old man paused to blink away a tear. “More cappuccino?” he asked, in a surprisingly level voice. 
   Without waiting for a reply he took both mugs, rose, and went to the kitchen. Seconds later the machine whirred to life. Over its din the singer asked if Dante owned a dog. 
   “A puppy, yes,” Dante called. 
   Donati shuffled back into the room. Their mugs were now on a tray. Alarmed at how precariously they rattled, Dante helped him place the tray on the table. 
   “Thank you, my boy,” the singer told him. “One day I’ll teach you how to make good cappuccino. Then you’ll be the one to fetch it.” He winked at Dante, putting his butt back in its seat. 
   “I know how to make a fire,” Dante said, nodding at the room’s cold hearth. 
   “Most kind,” Donati said. “But I believe this story calls for a bit of a chill.” He lifted his mug, quaffed its contents. A long belch followed, which made him shake his head in disgust. “Damn!” he said. “Your baking company here in America, Nestle. They think their milk disappears quickly because it tastes so good. Let them try my cappuccino! How that chocolate bunny’s ears would droop in shame!” 
   “I believe you,” Dante said with a laugh. 
   “But enough about bunnies. I was speaking of dogs. My very own, dear and dead, back from their graves, if only in a dream. They each licked my face about a dozen times, then jumped back out the window and disappeared. My heart wailed the injustice of it. Having thought them gone forever, they’d come back, only to whistle off down the lane once more, leaving me alone with this final, friendly memory. I wanted more. Selfish! Bah! I know. But I’ve already described to you the chambers of our hearts.” 
   “Did you chase after them?” Dante asked. 
   “Indeed I did. Right through the window I went. My feet landed on an oil-stained driveway. I slipped and fell on my  culo.  That’s my ass, boy. It slowed me only for a moment. Then I was on my feet. I ran to a street lined with maple trees, much like the one we live on. A red convertible car was parked at the curb. I had never seen its like. Sleek and stylish. Slumped at the wheel was a man who took no notice of me. He looked dead. Perhaps he was. I might have stopped to check, but one of the dogs—I think it was J.D.—barked my name.” 
   Dante blinked. “Your name?” 
   “In his own dog way,” Donati said. “I looked toward the sound, and saw that both animals had run to a small bridge with an ornate railing. Barking with joy, they leaped over the railing like rabbits.” He laughed. “Oh goodness. Here we are back to rabbits. Do you know I once saw an amazing magician named Bloomcraft who owned an impeccably trained rabbit. Salto!” he said, jumping a little in his seat. “I remember the rabbit’s name was Salto. But now I’m just trailing off, aren’t I?” 
   “Not at all,” Dante said. 
   “Ha! Don’t be polite with me. Where was I in the story?” 
   “The dogs jumped off the bridge.” 
   “Yes. Yes they did indeed. So I went to the bridge and peered over the railing. And do you know what I saw? Both dogs grinning up at me from a field of tall grass. Wind blew over the field, making the grass undulate. I could see J.D.’s fur ruffling, and Freddy’s collar—his collar!—shining in the sun. How I wished to join them! But they were out of reach. A hundred feet down from where I stood. Then an even more terrible thing happened. The dogs turned and ran away. I watched from the iron bars of the bridge their bodies—romping in the grass—become smaller and smaller. Tears flooded my cheeks. I screamed their names. And wonder of wonders, somebody heard. A ramp of dirt appeared just over the rail. It led gently down to the field. Wasting no time, I leaped from the bridge and continued my pursuit.” 
   A loud crash from deep in the house made Dante jump and knock over his mug. The mug was empty, but by instinct Dante snatched at it. He missed. It fell to the hardwood floor, where its handle struck and shattered. Bits of glass flew in all directions, 
   “Please tell me,” Dante said, humiliated, “that mug wasn’t worth anything.” 
   The sad look on Donati’s face was not reassuring. “It was, actually,” he sighed. “A family heirloom. My—my father made it for me. Oh, Dante!” 
   To Dante’s absolute horror, the old man covered his face and began to weep. His shoulders shook with sobs. 
   “Mr. Donati I’m so sorry!” 
   “Don’t be,” the other moaned. “What’s gone is gone.” 
   “Mr. Donati!” 
   The old man lowered his hands to reveal a devious, devilish grin. 
   “Actually, boy, my father knew nothing of ceramics. I think he tried pottery once.” Donati raised his index finger. “ Once. ” 
   Clutching his chest, Dante slumped in his seat. “Oh my goodness,” he panted. “Why would you do that, Mr. Donati? Why?” 
   “To prove to myself I can still perform,” Donati said. 
   “That’s ten years off my life I’ll never get back. What made that big crash?” 
   “Undoubtedly the mourning room door. The knob is broken and sometimes I forget to slide the latch.” 
   Donati once again rose from his chair. Dante followed him to an empty room in back of the house. Here the old man’s suspicion was confirmed. A door that let on the back yard hung open. The jamb looked beaten and bruised. Dante went to it. He caught the door as it swung on another gust of wind. 
   “Brr!” Donati said from behind him. “One day that door is going to fly off its hinges and blow away. That will be my fault. I’m too old to fix it and too forgetful with the latch.” 
   “I’ll fix it,” Dante said. “All it needs is a new knob.” 
   “Too old and too forgetful,” Donati repeated, as if he hadn’t heard. 
   “You’re beating yourself up over a broken door.” 
   “This house doesn’t deserve me.” 
   Dante opened his mouth to accuse the old man of being ridiculous. The words would not come. How could he refute such a claim when, stepping from his father’s car an hour ago, he’d been in full support of it? His eye went to the walls. Like in other rooms of the house, they were peeling. Holes from nails pounded and pulled dotted their uneven surface. Overhead was an empty light socket, charred black. Its screws were missing. Someone—possibly Donati—had duct taped it to the ceiling. It looked ugly and crooked. 
   “Anyway,” the old man said with a sigh, “forget the dream. Who cares? They were just a couple of dumb dogs.” 
   He turned to go. Dante let him get a few steps before giving chase. He told Donati to stop, to come back and finish the story. But the other would have none of it. He opened a second door off the hallway and descended a flight of wooden stairs. The stairs led to a cobwebbed basement for which Dante, hesitating at the top, didn’t quite have the nerve. 
   “Come down,” Donati said from the bottom. His hand beckoned. “Come.” 
   “No thank you.” 
   “Why not? Scared?” 
   “A little,” Dante admitted. 
   Donati regarded the cobwebs. They hung in snarls from ancient beams of wood. Their spinsters, as well as their spinsters’ spinsters, were long dead. Dried up on the dusty floor. 
   “What happened in the dream?” Dante asked. 
   “Same thing that’s happening to you right now, boy. I got scared. The dogs led me into a cave of ice that closed in hard after a few steps. It was dark and cold. I could see my breath. My fingertips grew numb. The passage became more and more narrow. Soon its icy walls were all but crushing me. Nevertheless I could still hear my friends up ahead, barking.  Just a little further,  those barks seemed to say.  Just a little further.  Then I did a most foolish thing. I looked over my shoulder. The poet Virgil told a student of his never to do that. Why? Because we must leave our sins behind us, boy. We must endure the pain of cleansing. Of becoming pure.” 
   But Dante still would not come down the stairs. “I don’t understand,” he said. 
   “When I looked back I saw Princess, standing in a ray of sunlight. She was naked. Naked and inviting. She held out her arms to me. At once I forgot about the dogs. Mindful of the ice, I moved toward her. But as I exited the cave she disappeared, and moments later I was awake in my bed. Tears welled in my eyes. I knew I’d been given a chance, and missed it.” 
   “A chance to be with Princess?” 
   The old man bared his teeth. “NO, boy. For God’s sake, can’t you reason anything out on your own? Somewhere on the other side of that ice are my friends. They wanted me to come and run with them again, as I had in my youth. We were healthy and strong.” Donati’s head lowered in shame. “But I couldn’t go. I was frightened. I was tempted. I couldn’t go.” 
   “It was only a dream, Mr. Donati.” 
   “You think so?” 
   “Yes. And I don’t put stock in dreams. When we go to sleep the mind gets bored and babbles whatever memory it happens upon. Those memories form a huge stockpile, ripe for sifting. Except everything in it is useless. Now come out of that basement.” 
   They went back to the living room without further exchange. Donati dropped heavily into his chair as if he’d come to the end of a long journey and his strength was spent. “I have faith,” he said, without lifting his eyes from the table, “that those dogs are still there. Do you know what faith is, Dante?” 
   “It’s the belief in something you can’t see.” 
   “Yes. Very succinct. Do you have it?” 
   “What? Faith?” 
   “Yes, boy.” 
   Dante’s answer was immediate, self-satisfying, and cold as the wind on the windows. “No, sir. Not remotely.” 
   It seemed to weaken Donati even further. His eyes rose desperately from the depths of his empty mug. “But Dante—“ 
   “If I can’t see it, it isn’t there. Period.” 
   A long silence followed. Dante waited patiently for the other to break it. After all, the hammer and chisel of his own speech had done their work. He had nothing further to add. 
   Finally the other seemed to realize as much. He asked if Dante would please tidy up his kitchen, and perhaps do some dusting around the downstairs fireplaces. 
   “You see the mess, yes?” he added with a tiny smile. 
   “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.” 
   “Thank you, boy. Thank you.” 
       CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:  Sunny and Maris 
     “I may never do you right, but will always do you proud. My heart knows no sun, and your own it shall enshroud.” 
     
   Sunny had whispered this promise in bed, sometime after midnight, as she and Dante were drifting off to sleep. He’d thought it strange, not because it rhymed, but because he knew full well that her heart had already done the deed it spoke of. The knowledge pleased him. Nor was it an exaggeration on her part. The temple of Sunset Desdemona was dark, its chambers countless, its corridors labyrinthine. And as the years passed it would grow even larger, confounding its resident—Dante—with even more doors that opened on doors, windows in the floor, and spiral staircases that stopped at the ceiling. 
   But on the Friday following his less than pleasant visit to Donati’s home—a day that would end with Maris stealing Sunny’s bloodstone ring—she seemed innocent enough. Almost harmless. 
   “Hey Dante!” she sang as he opened the door of her dad’s car. 
   Holding her hand, he escorted her from the back seat. Her red hair caught the sun and for a moment seemed to flash. 
   “Mr. Torn,” Brenton purred. “Good morning.” 
   “Good morning, Sir.” 
   “Is my daughter being a good girl at school?” 
   This was a question he’d been asking at random intervals throughout the year. Today Dante had a response ready and waiting. 
   “Only when the teachers are looking, Sir.” 
   “Ha! Now that’s how it’s done!” Brenton’s shrewd eyes went to Sunny. “See you after school, young lady.” 
   “Bye, Daddy!” 
   Dante closed the door. He took Sunny’s bag. Then he walked her to the school entrance with her on the inside, away from the sidewalk edge. Several of Sunny’s girlfriends waved hello. Sunny waved back. She was dressed in her typical short black skirt with buckled boots. Beneath her trademark leather jacket Dante could see flares of a yellow blouse. 
   “I have a surprise for you,” she said, as he pulled open the door for her. 
   Dante raised his brow. 
   “I know, I know,” she went on, “you hate surprises.” 
   “Well, usually,” he had to admit. 
   “But this one I couldn’t resist.” 
   She got no further before Stacey appeared, swooping in from the crowd of students like a small, black bird. “Sunny!” she sang. “What are you doing this weekend?” 
   Sunny put her head on Dante’s shoulder. “Spending it with my Mister here,” she said. “What about you?” 
   “I don’t know yet, but”—Stacey raised her thumb and pinky—“call me tonight? Saturday night too?” 
   “Sure,” Sunny grinned. She looked up at Dante. “That is if we’re not busy.” 
   “Wow! See you guys at lunch!” And Stacey disappeared even quicker than she’d shown up. 
   “Heck,” Dante said, staring into the crowd, “call her even if we  are  busy. That’ll really flip her wheels.” 
   “Not a chance.” 
   “Sunny? Baby? Beautiful? Sweetheart?” 
   “Yes, darling?” 
   “How many of your friends know about what we did last Saturday?” 
   She looked appalled. “Are you kidding? That was the best night of my life. I told them all!” 
   “Well…thank you. Thank you.” 
   Doubt flickered on her face. “You didn’t tell your friends, right?” 
   “No.” 
   “Whew!” she gushed. “Thank  you.  Girls are allowed to talk, Dante, but boys”—she shook her head—“no. No way.” 
   He laughed. “Understood.” 
   “Look at you blush! It’s so  cute!” 
   They walked to her locker, navigating the traffic with practiced ease. Dante wondered if Sunny knew he didn’t have any friends to tell. Associates maybe, but no real friends. 
   She dialed the combination with her breath held. It was a carrot she occasionally dangled ever since Dante’s own locker had jammed last year, forcing her lungs past their limit. Smiling, she now pulled the latch, opened the door, and let the breath out. 
   “Good girl!” he said. Then: “Weren’t you going to tell me something about a surprise?” 
   “Oh yeah! I almost forgot! My home economics class is having a baking contest this morning.” Her expression turned bitter. “Me and Maris are going head to head. And  you, ” she went on, poking a finger at his chest, “are going to be one of the judges.” 
   Dante’s mouth fell open in shock. 
   “Yeah,” Sunny said, “that’s good. You’re going to be eating, so your mouth needs to be open.” 
   “Sunny, I’m not sure I’m qualified to judge a baking contest,” he managed to say. This was a lie. In fact, Dante  knew  he wasn’t qualified. He’d never judged a contest in his life. Judging one with his own girlfriend as a contestant was no way to break into the field. He was suddenly terrified. What if he chose wrong? What if he picked Maris’ dish? 
   Hope flooded his chest. 
   “Wait,” he said. “Will the dishes be tagged with your names?” 
   “Nope. It’s a blind test.” 
   Ack!  cried Dante’s hope, as it died horribly. 
   “And what  are  the dishes?” he asked. 
   Sunny raised her hands in mock revelation. “Chocolate. Chip. Cookiiieeees,” she intoned. “My mom’s recipe, which I know by heart, shall put Shaya’s little girl scout to shame.” 
   “Shall, Shaya, shame,” Dante said, trying his best to keep cool. 
   “Yesshh, my dear. Come to the home ec room after second period. Tell Mr. Hogan to kiss your butt if he gives you any trouble.” 
   “I can’t. He might take me up on the offer.” 
   “Good point.” She put a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. “He’ll give you a pass, don’t worry. The teachers have it all arranged.” 
   “Sunny, are you sure you want me to do this?” 
   “Children?” Mr. Wolfe called from his classroom door. “Plan on loitering in the halls all day?” 
   “No, sir,” Dante and Sunny said together. 
   “Then get in here, both of you.” His eyes narrowed. Dante noticed he hadn’t been shaving well of late. His beard looked gray and scraggly, as if a skunk had decided to take up residence on his chin. “You two are a couple, right?” 
   “Yes, sir,” Dante told him. 
   “Aww,” he let out sarcastically. “How sweet. At least for about five years. Then she’ll leave you, probably on Christmas day. You’ll get drunk under the tree, staring at the presents she never opened.” 
   Sunny laughed. 
   “Oh sure,” Wolfe said, “you think it’s funny now. Floating on your little pink cloud way up in the sky. But that cloud is going to  dissolve , children. And when it does”—he whistled, curving his hand to look like a plummeting jet—“prepare for impact!” 
   Holding hands, Dante and Sunny walked past him. Both concealed their smiles by keeping their eyes fixed on the floor. 
   “Merry Christmas, Wolfe!” Dante heard the teacher say. “I’m leaving you for a garbage man! A  garbage man!  She always insisted on taking out the trash and I could never understand it. That’s a man’s job, I told her. ‘Oh no, no, honey, I got it.’ She got it all right.” 
   “Don’t get mad, Mr. Wolfe,” Dante said under his breath, “get Glad.” 
   “Torn!” Wolfe bellowed, while Sunny burst out laughing. 
   “Yes, sir?” 
   “Detention! This afternoon!” 
   ∞ 
   Sunny’s home economics room was in the old wing of the school. Dante knew it well, as he also took Shop here. Not that this fact held anything to do with its special place in his heart. No, no. It was the dark, disused bathroom at the end of the wing he would always remember with fondness. Last year he’d gone into that room with a stain on his shirt. Minutes later Sunny had followed. That made her the first ever pretty girl to be curious about what he was doing. 
   Her presence had given him a surprise that day. Today her absence did the same. Dante opened the home ec door to find about ten girls—none of them Sunny or Maris—seated at long black tables on either side of the room. In between the tables were two empty desks facing the kitchen area. But the stoves were vacant, as were the sinks. 
   “Hello,” Dante said to the girls. He noticed that one of them was Rajani. “Am I in the right place?” 
   “You are!” came a voice from his left. 
   A tall, bespectacled woman had swept in from a side door. She was thin, with brown hair wrapped tightly in a pony tail. Dante thought she looked like a trailer park refugee from 1978. 
   “I’m Miss Cross, the Home Economics teacher,” she said. “Are you Dante?” 
   “Yes, ma’am.” 
   “Right this way.” She led him to yet another side door, this one closer to the front of the room. “In here,” she said. “Put on a mask and a white robe. Try to cover as much of yourself as you can. That way none of the girls will know who you are.” 
   “Why all the secrecy?” Dante asked. Miss Cross’s excitement amused him. She was fairly bustling him into the room, the way a mistress might do in effort to hide one of her suitors from the family. 
   “Bias, Dante!” she explained. “Bias! None of the girls can know you any more than you can know them! Now shoo! Shoo!” 
   Dante had more questions but couldn’t ask them before he was pushed into a long, narrow closet. He turned, opened his mouth to speak, and Miss Cross slammed the door in his face. 
   “Hello,” a friendly, cultured voice chimed from the softly lit recesses of cookware and cook’s whites. 
   Dante spun around. A boy his own age stood in the room with him. He wore a straight smile, crooked glasses, and a messy mop of brown hair. It was, of course, Shaya Blum. 
   “So you’re judging, too,” Dante said. A coil of beautiful contempt, iridescent, like that of a poison asp, stirred in his belly. 
   “I am indeed,” the other boy answered. From here he proceeded with a most loathsome act: He held out his hand. 
   Dante had no choice but to shake it, which he did, but with prickly coolness. 
   “May the best lady win,” Shaya said. 
   “Right.” 
   A rack of white coats stood nearby. Dante chose the longest one on it. It was by no means long enough. The lower half of his denim pants was fully exposed. 
   “Shoes,” Shaya said, nodding toward Dante’s boots. “You must take them off. Please,” he added, when Dante scowled. “That way Sunny won’t recognize you. See?” He pointed to his own feet, which were clad only in socks. 
   So Dante took off his shoes and laid them aside. “Ask me to take off my pants and I’ll punch you.” 
   “Understood.” 
   Now both boys turned their attention toward the masks. Five identical faces of powder white plastic hung on the wall. Five pairs of bulbous lips, hurriedly smeared with red paint, grinned without sustenance for their joy, as if over a great many years spent in this dim closet they had quietly gone insane. 
   Dante chose one and held it by a cheap rubber band stapled to its sides. Seconds later a light knock hit the door. It was Miss Cross. She asked them to please make sure their masks and robes were in place. 
   “Here we go,” Shaya said, taking off his glasses. 
   Both boys put on their masks. 
   “Ready?” Miss Cross said from outside. 
   “Ready,” Shaya and Dante said together. 
   The door swung open. Miss Cross looked at them both for a moment only, then beckoned for Shaya to come forward. She told Dante to wait. 
   “Wait?” Dante asked. 
   Miss Cross shushed him violently. “No speaking! Yes, please wait here.” 
   And once again she closed the door, this time to leave him by himself. 
   Dante lifted the mask. Its lunatic expression could in no way be compared to his befuddlement. How exactly was this contest being judged? Putting his ear to the door’s keyhole, he listened for clues. The room beyond was hushed, or nearly so. Softly spoken words, too delicate for interpretation, flitted to and fro. One of the girls giggled. Another sighed. 
   Several more minutes passed, by which time Dante had given up wondering and was seated on a box in back of the closet when Miss Cross knocked again. He leaped to his feet. 
   “Are you wearing your mask?” the teacher called. 
   Dante put it on and whispered it was okay to open the door. She did so. Still wearing his own mask, Shaya stepped inside. His robe billowed. He looked to Dante like a priest on his way to a sermon. 
   “Come this way,” Miss Cross said. “And remember: No speaking.” 
   The audience of young girls regarded him. Some frowned, others smiled. Two other girls—Maris and Sunny—stood in front of the room, at opposite ends of the kitchen. Sunny looked stern. Expressionless as a Greek statue from early classical days. On Maris’ face hovered the tiniest hint of a smile. 
   Miss Cross motioned for him to take a seat at the desk on the right. Dante looked intently at his girlfriend, conveying with his eyes—or hoping to—that this was  him , Dante. Only she refused to return his stare. She had glanced at him only once when he’d stepped from the closet. Now her eyes were fixed on Miss Cross. 
   “You will be given two plates,” the teacher said, “each with a large cookie on it, cut into four pieces. You will also be given a glass of water. You will eat one piece from one cookie, drink from the glass, then eat a piece from the other. Please nod—and  only  nod—if you understand.” 
   Dante nodded. 
   “Each girl,” Miss Cross continued, “begins the contest with forty points. The first piece you eat from each cookie is free, but after that, each piece you eat costs the girl who baked that cookie ten points. Therefore, the sooner you choose the winner, the more points that girl’s cookie will have. Please nod if you understand.” 
   Dante nodded. 
   “The cookie you choose as the winner will receive ten extra points. Our other judge has already made his decision, and the score has been tallied. I will act as a tie-breaker should the need arise. Please nod if you understand.” 
   For the third time, Dante nodded. Never once did his eyes leave Sunny. 
   “Very well,” Miss Cross said. 
   She left the room and returned with two plates, each with a chocolate chip cookie on it, cut into four equal pieces. They were indeed big. Each quarter looked to be slightly larger than Dante’s palm. Miss Cross put a glass of water in between the two plates. 
   “You may begin,” she said. 
   Dante looked at the cookie on the right, reached for it, then chose the left one. It felt warm and moist. His fingers sank delicately into the crust. Lifting his mask, he put the piece into his mouth. Its taste worried him. There was absolutely nothing wrong with it. The chocolate chips, lightly melted, were bathed in warm, sweet dough. The whole mouthful practically dissolved on his tongue. What if the other cookie tasted just as good? How would he decide? 
   “Water,” Miss Cross told him. 
   Dante drank, rinsing the last residue of perfection away. He reached for a piece on his right. Its texture did not respond quite as willingly as the first. Moving his thumb and index finger, Dante could feel small, tantalizing flecks of crust trace the grooves of his skin. He raised the piece to his lips, hesitated, and ate. 
   It was crunchy, but only just so. The flecks broke willingly between his teeth like minute pieces of candy, while the chocolate chips melted just as perfectly as the first. Dante nodded at Miss Cross, then drank some water. Now each girl’s plate had three quarters left. 
   “Do you wish to taste?” Miss Cross asked. 
   Dante nodded. 
   “From which plate?” 
   Here the first real dilemma of the game presented itself. The cookie Dante chose would cost the girl who baked it ten points. Of course he could always eat again from the other plate, costing  that  girl ten points… 
   Which would only delay the inevitable. 
   Helplessly cornered, Dante chose left. He chewed, swallowed. Everything melted like hot butter. The cookie was delicious.  Perhaps,  he thought,  I should eat all from both plates.  But later on Sunny would doubtless chide him for being inept. For escaping danger through an easy passage. 
   “Do you wish to taste?” Miss Cross asked yet again. 
   Dante set the water glass down and nodded. 
   “From which plate?” 
   This time he went directly to the right. The crunchy little flecks tempted him all over again, melting into the chocolate with soft little sighs of sweet surrender. The cookie was delicious. 
   Almost reluctantly, Dante followed it with a drink of water. 
   And of course, from Miss Cross: “Do you wish to taste?” 
   Dante looked at both plates. He had made up his mind. Yet one final decision remained: Should he eat one more bite from the losing cookie? 
   “Do you wish to taste?” Miss Cross repeated. 
   Grinning beneath his mask, Dante nodded, chose the losing plate, and tasted. When Miss Cross asked her question again, he shook his head. 
   “Very well,” the home ec teacher said. “Please point to the winning cookie.” 
   Dante did. He felt almost certain he had chosen Sunny’s. 
   “Very well.” 
   A look of disappointment fell over Miss Cross’ face. Frowning, she led Dante back to the closet, where he waited with Shaya until the end of the period. He—Shaya—asked Dante about the cookies. Were they hard to judge? Didn’t he find both perfect? Dante refused to answer. He stood as close to the door as he could, waiting for the school bell to ring. 
   They were allowed to leave only when all the other girls had gone. But Sunny was waiting in the hall. She gave Dante a hug, kissed him on the cheek. Later that day he found out two things: 
   That the winner of the contest would not be announced until Monday. 
   That Shaya had taken only one bite from each cookie. 
       CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:  Win On The Road 
     A chase through history, a final duel, snatches the breath from a lover cruel. 
     
   The end of the day found Dante dumping books in his locker, his arms the shovel of a truck, the books, trash. Wearing a demonic scowl, he took a moment to regard them before slamming the door. They lay in a heap—math, science, history, health. All had homework assignments due on Monday. Dante refused their entreaties. He had different plans for the weekend. 
   Someone grabbed his shoulder just as the door slammed shut. 
   “What is it?” Dante asked, noticing the rigid look on Sunny’s face. 
   “Trouble,” she said. “Follow me.” 
   She led him down the hall, ignoring a number knowing grins from various female imps. They went to the front walk, where Mr. Desdemona’s Jaguar sat purring with a very similar grin. Sunny opened the door and leaned inside. 
   “Hi Daddy!” Dante heard her say. “I’m staying after school today. Detention.” 
   “What did you do this time?” Brenton asked. 
   “Spiked Mr. Hogan’s coffee with estrogen. I think he’s gay now.” 
   “Bad girl!” 
   “I’ll have Dante walk me home. Bye!” 
   The Jaguar purred off. Dante watched it go without knowing what to think. Once it was out of the parking lot Sunny took him to the bike racks. Here she revealed, briefly and without ceremony, the true source of her trouble. 
   “My ring,” she said. 
   “What about it?” 
   Her hand shot into the air. The fingers were empty. 
   “Stolen,” she explained, before Dante could react. “By Maris.” 
   “No,” Dante said. “That’s crazy. How?” 
   Sunny’s freckles disappeared under a flare of red. “Never you mind  how,  Mister. She has it and I’m going to get it back.” 
   “So she just pulled it off your finger?” he asked, daring the coals of her rage. 
   She wouldn’t answer. Clutching Dante’s hand, she pulled him up a wide gravel path. Other students, sensing her determination, cleared the way. The path led through a line of tall, naked trees, and then to a series of backstreets. More students, all on their way home, walked here. Clean, modest houses with short driveways seemed to smile cheerfully as they passed. Dante’s eye jumped from one student’s back to the next. He could pick out no one as Shaya, or Maris. 
   “How do you know she stole your ring?” he asked Sunny. 
   Her own gaze was fixed on the end of the street, where Dante could see a handful of other kids turning left toward Stoutenburg Park on Norwood Avenue. None of them looked familiar. 
   Dante stopped. His hand tightened around Sunny’s. It was an easy business to make her stop too. As music is scratched from a vinyl surface by inelegant fingers, so the rhythm of Sunny’s walk became broken. Her head snapped round, green eyes flaring. 
   “Answer me right now,” Dante said. 
   The eyes cooled slightly. Nevertheless she tried to yank herself free from Dante’s grip. When that failed, she took hold Dante’s hand with her other arm and doubled down. Still it wasn’t enough. Not even close. 
   “Let go!” she cried. 
   “Tell me why you think Maris has your ring.” 
   Sunny replied by balling her fist and beating Dante’s hand as hard as she could. He barely felt it, but did notice her nails, which would likely cut well if she decided to scratch. 
   “ Please,  Dante! We’re going to lose them!” 
   By now a number of other kids had noticed their antics. Curious stares came from every direction. Dante didn’t care. “So tell me,” he said, maintaining his grip. 
   The beating stopped. Blinking away tears, Sunny said: “I saw her in the restroom. At the sinks.” Her whimpering rose to an infuriated scream. “I took off my ring for  five seconds  to wash my hands! And she  snatched  it, Dante! She snatched it and ran!” 
   Dante let her go. Though still not convinced, he’d heard enough for the time being. He followed Sunny to the end of the street. Here a large park they both knew well enough opened all the way to a much wider, much busier Norwood Avenue. Norwood would eventually lead them to Benedict Avenue, and Benedict Avenue to downtown Norwalk. 
   Toddlers, with parents hovering close by, played on the swings and slides. This in spite of the gray March weather. Dante remembered once wrecking his bicycle here. His elbow had been torn open. Gushing blood, he’d cried all the way home. 
   “I still don’t see her,” he told Sunny, who had gone back to leading him by the hand. 
   “I do,” she replied, without turning her head. “They’re down by West Elm.” 
   “You’ve got some sharp eyes.” 
   “Yeah. But Maris also shines really bright.” 
   She dropped this last comment like a burdensome bag of bricks. Dante could almost see it spilling on the park grass, polluting it, making it ugly. Stepping over them, he let Sunny soldier him on. 
   West Elm Street was about half way to Benedict. Here Sunny turned left. The street was wide and newly tarred. Elm trees towered over homes older and larger than the ones behind Stoutenburg. At the end of the street was a harsh curve that bent left onto South Pleasant Street. South Pleasant dipped into a valley where another park appeared. At the bottom of the valley the street bent right, then up the hill to West Main. Dante caught a glimpse of Donati’s mansion before they reached it. Then they were in the valley. 
   “They’re at the top of the hill,” Sunny said. 
   “If you say so,” Dante told her. “I still don’t see them.” 
   She looked left into a wooded area that divided Pleasant Street from Norwood. “There’s a path back there. It leads to the school.” 
   “I know. I’ve used it.” 
   “Too dirty for Mr. and Mrs. Blue Sky Baby.” 
   “Probably.” 
   They went up the hill. An elementary school stood at the top. Beyond that, at the corner of West Main, was number 114. Dante glanced at it, wondering if he’d see the old man in one of the windows. His eyes were stopped short by a sign on the front walk. It swung from its post on a light, chill breeze. 
     
   FOR SALE 
     
   “What’s the matter?” Sunny asked, when Dante’s stride hesitated. 
   He couldn’t answer right away. The sign was from a local, well-known realtor. It looked weathered, as if years had passed since its pounding. The hooks were rusted. Now they began to squeak, as if in acknowledgment of Dante’s presence. 
   “Nothing,” he said at last. 
   “Then let’s go.” 
   And as she led Dante off he didn’t see the old man in any of the windows. There weren’t even curtains. 
   About a quarter mile down West Main they arrived at a humongous church. Methodist. By this time Dante had spotted Maris and Shaya. Her coat was white, his black. Upon seeing them Dante had offered to go and get the ring. Sunny refused. They were being baited, she told him. Strung along. To where exactly? She didn’t know yet. But she wanted to. She wanted to show Maris that she could play any of her silly games and win them all. 
   So they continued their pursuit from a distance. Maris and Shaya didn’t go into the church, but turned left on State Street (right next to Dante’s own house), where nothing happened for another quarter mile. Then they came to second church, this one Catholic. Like the one they’d just passed, it was old and huge. Its mighty steeple acted as a lightning rod in bad weather. This happened about once every other year, blasting roof shingles onto the street below. 
   A wide, ornate entrance of marble and oak wood beckoned worshippers inside. Maris and Shaya went to it and stopped. Sunny motioned for Dante to move behind a tree. He saw Maris point to the church, then back up State Street. Shaya nodded. They went up a flight of curved stairs. At the top was the entrance. Shaya held the door for Maris. They stepped inside and were gone. 
   “Right,” Sunny said, frowning. “I can’t go into the nave.” 
   “Why not?” Dante asked. 
   “We’ll go around back instead. They won’t be expecting that.” 
   The skies had been gray throughout their entire journey. Now a light rain began to fall, pattering the streets. Dante followed Sunny to the back of the church, where it became an elementary school. Crayon-colored drawings decorated clean windows all aglow with warm, sheltered lives. With them came a different kind of problem. Classes had just let out, and there were kids on the playground. Nuns called for them to come inside out of the rain. They listened, but only just. Screams and laughter filled the air. 
   Sunny took one look at all of it, shook her head, and led Dante to the end of the school building, where it met the church. A door with a metal push bar told them to go away. Ignoring it, Sunny pushed the bar. Next moment they were in a dark, silent hallway, very long. The door clicked shut. Smells of cedar wood and incense descended upon them. Other doors, all closed, brooded in deep shadows. At the far end of the hall Dante could see a candle flickering. 
   “Let’s keep moving,” Sunny whispered. She didn’t sound quite so determined anymore. 
   “What’s the matter?” Dante asked. 
   “Scared.” 
   “Of what?” 
   Her eyes squeezed shut. “Upward-going souls, Dante. But I’m all right. Let’s just do this.” 
   They started toward the candle. Sunny’s boot heels clicked on bare wood. Closer, closer. Though soft lights in the ceiling provided some glow, it was the candle Dante stayed fixed upon, as if its light were the only light, and somehow Sunny’s ring would appear next to it. 
   They came to a T intersection. The candle rested on a plain wooden table too small to use for anything else. On the wall above it hung a crucifix that made Sunny recoil. 
   “I’ll go this way,” she said, stepping backward. 
   “Alone?” Dante asked. 
   She glanced fearfully at the crucifix. Then: “I would like to be alone when I find Maris, yes.” 
   “Sunny, what are you going to do to her?” 
   “Nothing,” she insisted. “I just want my ring back.” 
   “That will happen faster if I’m with you.” 
   “It’ll happen faster when I make her regret ever stealing from me.” 
   “Don’t hurt her, Sunny. Like you said—just get the ring back.” 
   Sunny’s green eyes did not shine in the candle glow. They were like lamps that had been put out. But her teeth gnashed as she asked whether or not that was an order. Dante told her it was. 
   “Don’t worry then,” the girl replied in mock deadpan. “She’ll be perfectly safe.” 
   “What if I find her first?” 
   “You won’t. May I go now?” 
   “Yes. Good luck.” 
   Sunny stepped backward, until her body seemed to dematerialize in the gloom. Dante went the other way. There were fewer doors in this direction. He supposed that would make his job, whatever it was, easier. On the left a long window gave him a view of the nave. It was all but utterly black. He could see ghostly outlines of wooden benches. A lectern. A huge golden crucifix. The crucifix was lit so the weeping, suffering figure of Jesus, ten feet tall, could more conveniently shame his congregation. 
   Dante shook his head. This was no place to heal the sick, or have prayers answered. Were a sick baby to be carried to the lectern by Pope John Paul himself, that baby would eventually die. Prayers did nothing. Hope. Faith. Nothing. The phone to Heaven was a toy. Had to be, because Heaven didn’t exist. And even if it did, why, God would test one’s faith in Him by killing someone he loves. So His followers seemed to believe.  Oh, the Lord made my little boy die of cancer to test my faith in Him. I believe, I believe. Praise Jesus, I believe.  Dante didn’t get it. If God resided in all beating hearts, why were tests necessary? 
   “Tell your dad,” Dante said softly to the crucifix, “to just go ahead and give me an  F. ” 
   “Wisdom,” a voice responded near his shoulder, making him jump, “does not come from test scores.” 
   Shaya smiled peacefully in the gentle light. His eyeglasses twinkled like stars. 
   “If indeed that’s what you meant by  F. ” 
   “And where did  you  come from?” Dante was compelled to ask. 
   “I’ve been waiting around for you. And Maris for Sunny.” 
   “She’d like her ring back.” 
   Shaya nodded. “I know. She’ll get it.” 
   “Since when have followers of Christ thought it okay to steal?” 
   “Since the motivation for it is someone’s soul. Wouldn’t you break a car window to save a suffocating child?” 
   “Sunny isn’t suffocating.” 
   “She will be. She can’t breathe in the nave.” 
   Shaya took a step forward. Dante, though by no means on his home turf, stood his ground. “Is that where Maris is?” he demanded. “The nave?” 
   “That’s where everything is, Dante. And that’s where it’s all going to end for Sunny.” 
   “What are you talking about, you brain-washed, fanatical loon?” 
   Unscathed by this insult, Shaya continued to smile. “Saving a soul,” he replied. 
   “Sunny doesn’t need saving.” 
   “I know she doesn’t, Dante. I know.” 
   It was time to leave, Dante knew. To go get Sunny and quit this place, ring or no ring. But first he had to punch Shaya in the jaw. He balled his fist, swung it— 
   Shaya blocked it. His arm was like concrete. Pain shrieked through Dante’s bones. 
   “Don’t make me hit back,” the peace-loving boy said, sickeningly docile. “Please. Just wait here until it’s finished.” 
   Dante swung again. This time Shaya ducked. And when he came back up, a punch of his own caught Dante under the chin, laying him low. 
   “Sorry,” he heard Shaya say, as the church shadows grew darker. “Sorry.” 
   ∞ 
   Sunny watched her boyfriend disappear down the hall. Her end was not so dark as his. Not that it mattered. Her eyes worked perfectly well in low light. She walked pertly to the end of the hall, ready to snap Maris’ neck if need be. A window on her right let on the church nave. It was dark, but Sunny saw everything—benches, a lectern, Maris—just fine. 
   Maris! 
   She stood near the lectern, holding up Sunny’s ring. Behind her was a huge golden crucifix. Its light glowed in Maris’ blonde locks, setting it afire like the mane of a holy mare at the chariot of Elijah. Not unsettled in the least, Sunny went to the end of the hall, where a wooden door opened onto the nave. Her hand reached for the latch— 
   And froze. 
   To enter the nave, she knew, would automatically put her on borrowed time. The power of God and Christ would act as poison in her lungs, killing her within minutes. 
   Go back then,  she told herself.  Get Dante. He’ll take care of this. 
   Yes, he probably would, and Sunny was sorely tempted. But what she’d implied to him earlier was true: This wasn’t his fight. This was Sunny versus Maris. Darkness versus light. Truth versus lies. 
   
   Yes, but…how long can you hold your breath again, girl? Thirty seconds? Make that twenty-five if you’re moving around. 
   
   Sunny took several quick, deep breaths, getting her lungs ready for a workout. She looked back through the window. Maris was still in the nave, still waiting. 
   All right then,  Sunny thought,  here I come. 
   She returned to the door and inhaled the deepest breath she could— AHHHHHHH!  Then she pulled the latch. The door clicked open. Knowing she didn’t have time to waste, Sunny went inside. 
   The pressure was immediate. A gentle squeeze from a cool blue hand. It bore down on Sunny’s chest, teasing away her air. She moved swiftly towards her adversary, who by now had noticed her presence and offered a welcoming smile. Sunny got halfway up the aisle when the door closed and locked. Stunned, she whirled on her heel. A young priest stood at latch. In his hand was a small gold key. On his face, unflinching severity. 
   Like so many drowning victims, Sunny realized the depth of her dilemma just as she began to run out of air. Her eyes scrambled over the empty benches for another door, another way out. All were too far off. Her small chest was hurting bad. She needed air. 
   “Don’t fight it,” Maris said, stepping gracefully from the lectern. “Just lie down. Lie down and let go.” 
   Sunny’s hands clasped over her lips. It was all the defense she had against breathing in. Her diaphragm buckled. She fell to her knees. 
   “That’s it,” said the other girl in a whisper. 
   Now completely out of air, Sunny was forced to inhale. Daggers rushed through her lungs. Tiny pieces of broken glass that made her scream in agony. 
   “This is a church,” the young priest said, from what sounded like a million miles away. 
   “My apologies for the noise,” Maris replied. “But really, once we begin, it won’t take long.” 
   Crumpled on the floor, unable to move, Sunny shrieked Dante’s name. She could see the priest’s black shoes. He had come to her side. Something wet splashed the back of her neck. The pain it caused was unspeakable. Screeching fire in a high wind. Gnawing teeth of a rabid bat. Unflinching sunlight on shadows centuries old. 
   “All Holy Saints of God,” the priest incanted. 
   “Intercede for us,” Maris said. 
   Sunny’s arms closed over her head. Her whole body shook with cold, as if walls of ice were closing round her, bending her bones. 
   And the priest: “Be merciful.” 
   And Maris: “Spare us, O Lord.” 
   “ Dante! Dante please help!” 
   “Be merciful.” 
   “Graciously hear us, O Lord.” 
   “ I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!” 
   “Then stop  trying,  Sunny,” Maris said, kneeling next to her. “Let go.” 
   “From evil, deliver us, O Lord,” the priest continued. 
   Sunny turned her eyes to Maris. She was smiling affectionately, and her eyes were full of light as the cell of Peter in that time when his chains were loosed. And her words were the same as that one who loosed them. “Follow me,” she whispered, “follow me.” 
   And Sunny turned her eyes back to the floor of the church, beneath which her true father dwelled, pragmatic and just, unbound by complexity, impassioned, imprisoned. A creature who, observed without fear, took flight from his low tier, wings afire with that excessive purpose no one being should call his own, or tether in a cage for to acolytes be shown. 
   And Sunny called forth his name, and he heard, for the window of the nave was suddenly smashed to pieces, and there came the sound of its explosion, and darkness from the other side, and the darkness arrived, reaching for its mistress, gathering her in its embrace, while her screams stopped and moved to other throats less accustomed to what faith could not do, and what sometimes came to undo it. 
   ∞ 
   Dante awoke on the hall floor. There was blood in a pool around his lips. Shaya’s punch had knocked out a tooth. He raised his head, hoping to get a sense of how long he’d been out. The feat was scarcely possible, though his surroundings told a lie. He lay alone in the hall, as if an entire year had passed. There were no sounds, no movements. Even the candle flame was steady. 
   Spitting blood, Dante got to his feet. He called Sunny’s name. Her answer came in the form of a scream. 
   “ Dante! Dante please help!” 
   His eyes flew open. Dante’s purpose came to life. His sluggishness disappeared. He ran to the other end of the hall, saw the nave entrance, and went back. Somehow he knew that entrance would be locked. No problem. The nave had a window, and Dante, a bludgeon. He yanked the table from underneath the candle in one swift move. The candle flew off like a rocket. Holding the table by its legs, he went back to the window, lifted, and smashed. 
   Glass flew in a piercing spray. It covered the floor, the benches, its chaotic music echoing off illusionistic vaults high above. A blonde girl whom Dante took to be Maris screamed. A priest leaped backward from a crumpled shape at his feet. One look told Dante everything he needed to know. Dropping the table, he ran towards the shape. The priest intercepted him. 
   “ Deliver us!”  he screamed.  “Deliver us from the snares of the devil!” 
   Dante gave him a hard shove. The priest stumbled backward over a bench. His Bible struck the floor on its spine, flopping open to who alone knew what page. It mattered not at all to Dante. Calling Sunny’s name, he knelt beside her. She didn’t answer. Her breath came in short, wheezing strokes. 
   “It’s all right, baby,” he told her, “I’m here, I’m here.” 
   He scooped her from the floor. From here there were two ways out—front door or back. Wanting Sunny clear of the church as soon as possible, he chose the front. But first… 
   “I believe you have something that belongs my lady,” he snarled at Maris. “Hand it over. Now.” 
   The blonde girl, clearly frightened by his appearance, trembled. She took a step backward. Glass crunched under her foot. 
   No. That wasn’t right. It hadn’t come from Maris’ foot. There was someone standing behind him. 
   “Why don’t the two of you stay awhile longer?” the pleasant, peaceful voice of Shaya Blume inquired. He moved towards them from the back door, toeing aside debris. “We don’t have to tell anybody about this mess. I’ll even clean it for you.” 
   “I need to get Sunny out of here,” Dante said, “or so help me, kid, you would need an  army  to protect you.” 
   “I have an army, Dante. And so do you.” 
   “What are you talking about?” 
   Shaya’s head shook slowly, as does a teacher’s with a pupil too dim for his lessons. “Put that girl down.” 
   Dante turned to go. He simply didn’t have time to fight Shaya—not with Sunny dying in his arms. But then if Shaya decided to chase him, he would put Sunny down and hurt the kid bad. Get every nickel of his money’s worth. 
   Shaya didn’t chase him. Dante made it to the other side of the nave. Here the church’s front door stood open a crack. Through it he could see a torrential spring rain pelting the steps. 
   “One last chance, Dante,” Shaya called. “Come back to us. Cross God’s garden. There are still plenty of empty seats.” 
   He was still at the far end of the nave, an arm around Maris’ waist. Their faces beckoned. 
   “Please,” Shaya said, outstretching his hand. “Please.” 
   A tremendous crack from the lectern made everyone jump. It sounded as if something huge had broken, or come loose. This was precisely the case. Dante noticed that the crucifix, straight and firm mere moments ago, had taken on a terrible forward list. Even as he watched it moved again, creaking like the mightiest gate known to man. 
   “Hurry Dante,” came Shaya’s final, begging plea. “Hurry.” 
   But Dante would not hurry, nor even move. With a deafening smash the crucifix fell between him and Shaya. A hundred congregational benches were pulverized on the instant. Pieces of wood sprinkled Dante’s hair. Others dashed the walls, the windows. A cloud of dust rose from the crash site, revealing the tragic countenance of Christ, now turned on its side. Tears had been lovingly painted on his face by some meticulous, talented hand. They were fake. 
   The tears on Shaya’s face were not. As Dante turned to take Sunny outside, he noticed, all too clearly, that the boy was crying. 
       CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE:  Convalescence 
     He watched over her that night, as she slept in downy respite. 
     
   A lamp on Sunny’s dresser gave soft golden glow. It wasn’t much to read by, but Dante remained content, paging through one of her books with little regard for the words. His chair was next to Sunny’s bed. She was asleep, and seemed at peace. Her muscles were relaxed, her breathing steady and clear. Still, Dante would not leave her side, nor even sleep until he was certain the blinding light which had almost killed her was set, gone once more beyond the horizon of their ideals. 
   Brenton had of course been furious over what happened. He’d picked them up from a nearby grocery store (after the phone booth Dante used to call him almost didn’t accept the lonely, beaten quarter he dug from his jeans) in fierce incredulity. How could they be so stupid? he kept wondering aloud. What made them both think that a church was a safe place to go? He ran a stop sign, then almost hit a pedestrian. After that he went right back to it. Especially with Sunny. Stupid, stupid girl, he called her. Spit at her in the rear-view mirror. What was next? Cave diving without an oxygen tank? Nude calisthenics with Tilikum the crazed killer whale? 
   He’d calmed down eventually, with Dawn’s help. They arrived at Sycamore Hills to find Sunny’s mom pacing the kitchen. She swooped on her daughter, not with anger but compassion, asking a dozen questions about what had happened, and why. Then Dante carried her upstairs (though Sunny protested this, he feared for her balance on the steps). She took dinner in bed, sending both mother and father on fetch-quests for wine, fruit, and a number of other delectable amenities. By nightfall she was asleep. Dante held her hand as she drifted off. He asked once more if everything was okay. She insisted in the affirmative while at the same time making clear he was not to budge from that seat. Dante promised to remain put come rain, sleet, or crazed killer whales. That made her laugh. And of course no killer whales did come, and here he still sat, as the clock on her bookshelf crept past 10PM. 
   At 10:15 Dawn Desdemona came in with a tray of food. There was bread, soup. Mashed potatoes. Cooked carrots. A glass of wine. 
   “Dinner,” she whispered to Dante. “How is Sunny?” 
   “She seems all right,” Dante told her. “Sleeping like a kitten.” 
   “I don’t think Brenton will ever let her walk home from school again.” 
   “Understood. I promise to be more careful with her from now on.” 
   The older version of Sunny smiled. It looked nothing like her daughter’s deviant sneer, but warm and kind. “I’m sure this wasn’t your fault. She’s a handful, this girl. Even we have trouble controlling her. You have your work cut out for you, I’m afraid.” 
   “It’s nice work,” Dante assured. 
   “Yes. I know.” 
   It was near midnight when Sunny woke up. Dante was standing at her window, which overlooked the fairway of a golf course. At this hour the bunkers were empty, the pine trees dark.  How would I play this hole?  Dante wondered. It was a par five. Dogleg fairway. He would swing hard from the tee, get his drive over the elbow. Doubtless other golfers had tried as much, only to die for their ambition in an unkempt graveyard of hungry pines. 
   “Hey you,” Sunny whispered. 
   He was at her bed in an instant. “Sunny! How are you, sweetheart? Anything hurt?” 
   “No,” she said, after a light kiss on his mouth. “I’m okay. What about you?” 
   “Everything’s here but your ring. Which I will get back.” 
   “Don’t worry about that right now. You look tired, dear. Get into bed with me.” 
   She moved over to make room, then lay on top of him, lips ready with a million kisses. “Thanks for getting me out of that place, Dante. Really. I thought I was going to die.” 
   “It seems that’s what Maris and Shaya wanted. You dead and me converted.” 
   “Oh yes. It was a trap.” Her kisses had edged down to his chest, and weren’t done with their journey. “Sweetheart?” she whispered. “Is the door locked?” 
   “No, it isn’t.” 
   “Aww. Guess we’ll just have to take our chances.” 
   Dante caught a glimpse of green eyes burning brighter than ever before she sank beneath the covers. No one came in. When it was over Sunny lay quietly in his arms. Content with the whole world—at least for now—Dante stroked her hair. His mind wandered back to the church. What exactly had happened there, and what did it mean? 
   “I don’t understand,” he said to the ceiling. “If Maris and Shaya are so good, how could they commit murder?” 
   He didn’t expect Sunny to hear the question. But she was still awake, and had opinions to share. 
   “I’m not human to them. I’m a demon. A daughter of darkness.” 
   “Is that true?” 
   “Yes,” she said, after a moment’s pause. “But that doesn’t mean they understand me. Or even have a grasp on my intentions.” 
   “And what are your intentions?” Dante felt almost forced to ask. The answer frightened him. 
   His fears, however, were proved groundless when Sunny said: “To be your wife. Forever. I hope you’re ready for that.” 
   Dante assured her that he was, though at thirteen the idea of marriage was little more than a range of distant, snowy peaks on the horizon of their trail way. Or a vision of God Himself, or the devil. 
   “Daughter of darkness,” he said, chasing down the lane of this last thought. “So you’re like…the daughter of Satan?” 
   She laughed. “No, no. Satan is an apprentice to Lucifer, a word that means  son of the dawn.  I have trouble trusting deities, great and small, as do my parents, and my grandparents, and so on.” 
   “Your family,” Dante said. “Has it renounced God?” 
   A deep sigh came from beneath the covers. At first Dante feared he may have distressed or offended her, but Sunny’s next words sounded far from both. “A long, long time ago,” she said, with profundity beyond her years. “In  The Gospel Of Judas  we read that God isn’t a person at all, but a magnificent cloud of light, peace, and knowledge. The cloud demands no pain from man, no sacrifice. But there are lesser gods that the cloud created. Angels too. And they demand suffering. And blood. Death. It pleases them. These are the gods we renounced.” 
   “I don’t understand,” Dante said. 
   “Of course you don’t. It’s a lot to take in.” 
   “ The Gospel of Judas ? That isn’t in the Bible. None of the ones I’ve read anyway.” 
   “Not anymore it isn’t. It was cut. Removed. By priests long dead who felt a traditional story of good versus evil would far better suit the palates of Christian and Catholic readers.” 
   “But Sunny…” He lifted the cover to find her green eyes shining right where he’d left them. 
   “Yes?” she said. 
   “I think it’s somewhere in Deuteronomy that nothing is to be added or taken away. No commandment.” 
   “Commandments,” Sunny told him. “But not stories. Stories were most definitely taken away.” 
   “More than one?” 
   “More than one. Jesus was also said to question the motives of the lesser gods. But none of his disciples would budge on the idea that lesser gods were in fact angels of the one true Lord. None but one disciple, who was Judas.” 
   “Who gave Christ over to the Romans for sacrifice.” 
   “Yes, Dante. He did. But on Christ’s command.  ‘…for you will sacrifice the man that clothes me.’  Jesus is said to have spoken those words to Judas.” 
   “But why would Jesus want that?” 
   “I don’t know. I really don’t. Maybe he felt his own sacrifice would be so ultimate that the lesser gods would have no choice but to lay down all other demands. That’s speculation. I can tell you that Judas understood, through the teachings of Jesus, that God is a cloud of light. A realm to be entered and dwelled upon. Jesus is there now. I think Judas is too. As for those lesser gods…” 
   She trailed off. After a moment Dante peeked under the covers to find a girl biting her lip in deep thought. Eager to know where these thoughts would land, he waited, until at last she said: “They’re still out there. And still asking for sacrifice. Pain. Sickness. They see a two year-old toddler with a brain tumor and do nothing. Puppies dying of distemper. You can pray to them if you want, but they won’t answer. They don’t care. They’re lost, and spiteful, and they’ve guided man into the woods, and now man is lost too.” 
   She went back to sleep without saying anything else. Having much to think about, Dante nodded off as well. He woke up once more that night, at around 3:30, a time when, according to one man who liked to write about the future, and who died an untimely death, our minds are most in tune with the stars, along with what messages may be passing between them. Turning his head to look at the time, he noticed a sheet of paper folded beneath the clock. Dante pulled it free, opened it. It turned out to be the poem he’d written for Maris. The prank poem, meant to embarrass Shaya, but instead had drawn him from his cave, like dawn over the trees, or perhaps a midnight star that shined brighter than the rest, and led the way. 
     
   
   
   
   
   When I see you at school I cannot read, 
   
   
   Be it Twain or London or Sewell; 
   
   
   My mind rather goes with the gentle lead, 
   
   
   Of my heart when I see you at school. 
   
     
   
   When I see you at noon I cannot eat, 
   
   
   For these feelings profusely strewn, 
   
   
   I gather resigned become replete, 
   
   
   In my heart when I see you at noon. 
   
     
   
   Leave me awake; leave me asleep; 
   
   
   For what is a dream without you? 
   
   
   Test letters in red—go bend, go break! 
   
   
   What more can a dreamer do? 
   
     
   
   When I see you at home I cannot find, 
   
   
   Such meaningful lines for a poem, 
   
   
   May with my love become entwined, 
   
   
   In my heart when I see you at home. 
   
     
   
   And when I see you at night I am freed, 
   
   
   And by countless stars softness light, 
   
   
   I redress the pain and confess the need, 
   
   
   Of my heart when I see you at night. 
   
     
   He went to school the following Monday after telling a number of lies to his parents over the weekend. A dentist appointment was made for his broken tooth. Meaning to ask Maris about Sunny’s ring, he looked for her in the halls. That turned out not to be necessary, for she found him. 
   During lunch with Sunny’s girls (the queen herself was absent, at the insistence of her parents), Maris wordlessly passed by the table. Her hand reached out, dropped the ring next to Dante’s plate, and was gone. 
   ∞ 
   Things were quiet over the following days. Sunny returned to school. Her minions had questions, but they were few, and almost painfully tactful. In the middle of the week Dante made a discreet visit to Miss Cross’s home ec room. He asked her who won the baking contest. 
   “Maris,” she said, in a rather self-satisfied tone. 
   Dante cursed at her, and just like that, got himself suspended. 
   He used the free time to check up on Donati. He walked to number 114 on a windy, rainy morning, while all the other kids were at school. Spring was in the air. Scents of flowers in bloom swirled through the sky, happy for the coming warmer days. 
   FOR SALE the sign told Dante again, once he’d reached the house. Ignoring it, he went to the door, knocked as hard as he could. When no one answered he thought about breaking inside, but common sense, having failed him once during the week already, this time came to the rescue, and he decided to call the number on the realtor’s sign instead. 
   Number 114’s agent had the voice of an old woman. Wrinkled yet pleasant. Eager to sell. Having no idea Dante was only thirteen, she invited him for a meet-up at the house. Dante thanked her and said that he was really only interested in the home’s previous owner, Horatio Donati. 
   Here the woman’s tone became confused. She told him no man by that name had ever owned the house or, as far as she knew, ever lived there at all. From here she returned to her sales pitch. The Wooster-Boalt house, as it was known, had actually been unoccupied for five years, and though the interior could be described as something close to dilapidated, its foundation was solid. Restoration would require work, and time, and money, but it was all worth it. Absolutely worth it. Would Dante please pause to reconsider a meet-up? 
   Dante thanked her again, and promised to talk things over with his dad. Then he went to the public library, which was but a stone’s throw from his house. He delved through several books on opera singers and their careers. On occasion the name Horatio would pop up, but none with the last name of Donati. Furthermore, upon studying a shelf of books about Italy, he could find no mention of a  Nascosto Villagio , past or present. 
   Frustrated, he walked back to number 114. This time, after knocking on the door again, he peeked through the lower windows. No one peeked back. Every room he could see looked empty. Buried under years of dust. Or in other words, exactly as they had always looked to Dante. The one real difference was this: The table where he’d often breakfasted with Donati was gone. 
   That night, after a cold, quiet dinner with his parents (both had been deeply puzzled by his outburst at school, to the point were they weren’t certain how to discipline him), he sat with Dukey in the kitchen. The little schi-tzu was smiling. He had a squeaky toy in his mouth. 
   “Well come here!” Dante said playfully. 
   The puppy jumped into his lap. He barked, licked Dante’s face, barked some more. 
   “Are you a good puppy? Huh? Are you?” 
   Dukey barked that he was indeed a good puppy. Maybe the best puppy in the whole wide world. 
   “You are,” Dante told him. “You are.” 
   He put some ice in Dukey’s water dish, and then filled the dish with clean water. The schi-tzu drank. 
   “See you in the morning, little guy,” Dante said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here.” 
       CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:  In Memoriam 
   
    He is but a memory, and the road behind covered with leaves, and his shine is faint, through far away trees. 
   
     
   Many years later Dante went on a business trip to Florence, Italy. Among his peers he was envied, for the business in question took only half a day, and his booking at one of that city’s finest hotels lasted a week. He returned to the hotel when his work was done. Here his wife eagerly stripped him of his suit and tie and, upon adorning him in more casual attire, dragged him back to the cobbled streets. 
   They ate lunch at one café, drank coffee at another. Both of these stood in Florence’s Oltrarno District, a place of many narrow, secret streets where craftsmen lived behind recessed doors, peddling their creations. Dante and his wife strolled these streets with no particular destination in mind. Signs swayed on an afternoon breeze. An old woman swept dry leaves from her doorstep. She smiled. 
   “ Ciao,”  Dante and Sunny told her. 
   “ Buon pomeriggio,”  she replied. 
   A smell of cut flowers hovered at the next corner. Dante bought a bouquet for Sunny, while behind them a group of girls played  Strega Ghiaccio . The girls all had scabbed knees and scraped elbows. Delirious smiles. 
   Piano music lilted from an upper window. Someone—a man—was singing. At the end of the street came an unexpected courtyard. It seemed hidden. Tucked away in a rain of flower petals. The petals gathered at an old stone fountain. Dante led his wife to the fountain’s ledge. They sat for awhile, holding hands. 
   Across the way was a wall with writing on it. Graffiti. It looked arranged, however. Structured in lines like a book. Curious, he asked Sunny to join him for a closer inspection. The wall was high—about twenty feet—and old. Ancient even. Its huge, flat stones were cracked and faded, as were the words written upon them. Dante’s Italian was rough, but it was an easy job to see the words were, in fact, obituaries. Names, some carved, others simply written in chalk, sprawled over the stones. Beneath them were years. Numbers signifying a birth and a death. Some of the names had poems written next to them. Others were decorated with hearts and professions of love. 
   Here Dante also discovered where all the petals were coming from. Flowers lay strewn at their feet. Old and dry, new and fresh. Dante searched them in hope of finding something to write with. An old piece of stone would do. 
   At first there was nothing of the sort. A few melted candles snoozed on charred saucers, but Dante didn’t feel he could get any of them lit for long enough to burn his own message into the wall. He asked Sunny for some lipstick. She looked at him, puzzled. When he explained she told him there was no way she would allow him to dirty up her cosmetics in such fashion. And besides, it wouldn’t work. Both the wall and her lipstick were dark. He needed something lighter, like chalk. 
   Deciding that she was right, he went back to searching the flowers. As he was about to give up something caught his eye—a shard of rock, painted white. Doubtless it had come loose from a corner and been kicked, or perhaps delivered here by current one rainy night. At any rate, it looked perfect. Pushing a flower aside, Dante retrieved it. He put its broken point to a blank space on the wall. Then he tried to write. 
   
   Horatio Donati. 
   
   “Well what do you know?” he said to Sunny. “It works.” 
   “What made you think of him after all these years?” 
   He shrugged. “I don’t know. Being in Italy I guess. Seeing those happy kids. Hearing that man sing.” 
   “Anything else you want to write?” 
   “Indeed.” 
   Using his best guess, Dante wrote the year of Donati’s birth, along with that of his death. He needed the local language for what came next. Three words. 
   
   Cantare. Ridere. Amore. 
   
   Carefully then, he placed the stone back in its previous place. Sunny put her head on his shoulder. A lock of her red hair blew in front of his eyes, fell, came back again. 
   “Everything okay?” she asked 
   “Oh yes,” Dante told her after a moment. “I’m happy. Very happy.” 
   “Me too, Dante,” Sunny said, with deepest affection in her tone. “Me too.” 
     
   
   August 2017-October 2018 
   
     
   
                       
   
   Fine 
   
   
     
   
   Thank you for reading. Please leave a review of this book at your place of download. You can’t think what it does for an author to know that people care. 
   
   
       
   
   
   
   
     
   Tag Cavello was born in Norwalk, Ohio in 1971. Today he lives in Manila, Philippines with his wife and two daughters. 
   (Photo courtesy of Tronix Imaging Center, Festival SuperMall, Manila, Philippines) 
                                       Here are some other places you can find this author: 
     
   Twitter: TagCavello 
     
   Blog: coffeewithzombies.wordpress.com 
     
   Instagram: tagcavello 
     
   DeviantArt: TagCavello 
     
   
   Other books by this author include: 
   
     
   
   Double Dutch and Other Stories 
   
     
   
   Regions Of Passion 
   
     
   
   Crystal Grader 
   
     
   
   Splattered 
   
     
   
   Secluded Worlds: 24 Short Poems by Tag Cavello 
   
     
   All works are available at  https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/dammyl1971 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
                    Desdemona by Tag Cavello (1971--) 
   This book is a work of fiction. All events that occur within come from the author’s imagination. Any non-fictional relation to characters or events within, living or dead, is purely coincidental. 
     
   Cover art by Tag Cavello 
   
   
   Publication Date: October 9th 2018 https://www.bookrix.com/-vbf3bfc4f217c65