The Other Path Here’s a moment from what I imagined my life would be like: I’m at a cocktail party in a Manhattan penthouse. A tuxedoed gentleman is playing Cole Porter on the baby grand; guests in Dior and Versace are chattering in groups, toasting each other with champagne flutes, admiring the penthouse owner’s recently acquired Picasso. I swan across the room in, oh, I don’t know, vintage Halston, something black and slinky, the sort of thing Liza might have worn to Studio 54 back in the day. “And what do you do, darling?” asks a silver-bouffanted woman of a certain age. (They all call each other darling here. My fantasy apparently takes place in a mid-1930s romcom, or whatever they called romcoms back in the 1930s, so what I’m doing in a vintage ’70s Halston outfit, I cannot tell you.) “Me? Oh, I’m a physician,” I say casually. The guests all stop talking and turn to me, awe and admiration on their faces. “Are you really ?” says the silver-bouffanted woman. “Why, you must be brilliant as well as stunningly beautiful.” Here’s a moment from my actual life: I’m in a large, overcrowded room in a courthouse. A bored college-age kid with a pair of drumsticks is tapping out a rhythm on the radiator. The people who are trying to get comfortable in uncomfortable folding metal chairs are reading newspapers or sending the kid dirty looks. One fifty-ish woman with frizzy gray hair that clearly hasn’t seen the inside of a beauty salon in, well, ever is lying flat on her back on the floor looking up at the ceiling as if it’s got a replica of the Sistine Chapel fresco on it (it does not). I trudge across the room wearing the only clean jeans I could find (clean because I never wear them, and I never wear them because the material is some satanic mix of canvas and sandpaper) and a white T-shirt that’s very comfortable and flattering if you don’t mind everyone taller than you getting a clear look at your boobs. And everyone is taller than me. (I’m four foot nine and three-quarters, which makes me a legal midget in the state of New York. When I told an acquaintance of mine who works on Wall Street about that, she said, “Huh. Can you, like, get something for that? A tax write-off or something?” Short answer--pardon the pun--is no.) The bespectacled thirty-year-old court clerk who is obviously reevaluating his career choices looks up at me and says, “Yeah?” “I think, I mean, I don’t think--I don’t think I should be on a jury. I don’t think I should be here.” “Uh-huh. And why is that?” “Well, I, um, I’m a physician.” He looks at me and does not say, And? “So, I, uh ... I mean, it’s flu season. People are sick. I could be helping them. And, let’s be honest, what lawyer wants a physician on a jury? No lawyer. So I’d just be here wasting everyone’s time. Plus, if I don’t work, I don’t get paid.” The clerk shakes his head. “Sorry, ma’am, that’s not a legitimate reason to be excused from jury duty.” The drumming college kid sidles over to me. “Hey, are you really a doctor?” he asks. “Yes.” I smile modestly. He undoes the top button of his jeans. “Could you just look at this rash for me? WebMD said it could be cancer but I think it’s just an ingrown hair.” “I--that’s not really appropriate ...” He shrugs and goes back to his drumming. I flop down on a metal folding chair and consider my options. I wouldn’t actually mind jury duty, honestly. A few days off from the constant COVID, COVID, flu, drug seeker, COVID, flu, STD check, STD check, flu, COVID ... “And are you vaccinated?” I ask my miserable COVID-positive patients and my equally miserable flu-positive patients. “Do you practice safe sex?” I ask my STD-check patients. “Are you actually kidding me with this bullshit that you’re allergic to all NSAIDs and the only thing that works for you is Percocet?” I refrain from asking my drug-seeking patients. Now, some of them are vaccinated and some of them do practice safe sex and some of them (maybe) are allergic to all NSAIDs, but even a single “No, I ain’t getting vaccinated, I’m not letting the government put microchips in my body!” coming from an overweight white male who’s struggling to breathe because he doesn’t believe any of that nonsense about cigarettes or Chinese diseases is pretty disheartening. All of it is pretty disheartening. Here’s the thing, though: Once you’re about halfway down this path to doctor-hood, somewhere around the end of the second year of medical school, you can’t turn back, you can’t say, Oh, hey, you know what? Funny thing, but it turns out this isn’t really for me because you’ll never be able to pay off your medical-school loans doing anything else. Well, robbing banks, maybe. I put my face in my hands. “Hey. You. Doc.” There’s a voice coming from by my feet. Ah, the frizzy-haired lady. “I’m sorry, did I step on you?” “Nah, you’re good.” She sits up, stands (with some theatrical groaning), sits down in the folding chair next to me. “I’m Irene. Hey, you know what your problem is?” Yes. I took the wrong path about fifteen years ago, and now I’m stuck traveling down this road forever. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. Thank you.” I don’t know why I’m thanking her. “You ain’t fine. You hate your life and you got no way to get out of it, am I right?” “I don’t--” “Oh, cut the crap, I’m psychic.” Fabulous. The icing on the cupcake of my day: trapped in the jury waiting room with a crazy lady. I start to say the usual things one says in this situation-- How delightful, you must have such an interesting life, I’m going to go to the ladies’ room now --but before I can get out a word, I meet her eyes. She looks back at me with a steady gray-eyed gaze-- Athena, the gray-eyed goddess, I think randomly--and part of me says, Wait. “Lillian,” she says. Which is my name. “Yes,” I breathe. “I’m gonna tell you something. You ready? Okay, good. Here it is: This courthouse is about to blow up.” “What? What do you--how do you know?” Irene shakes her head. “Did I not just say? I’m psychic. What, I’ve gotta give you all my bona fides before you consent to believe me? Why is it that the crazy orange man who was running the country not all that long ago can announce, ‘The election was rigged,’ and half the country is like, ‘Oh yeah, that makes perfect sense, I’ll buy that,’ but when I, a certified psychic, casually mention that one building is about to go up in smoke, I gotta quote everyone chapter and verse how I know?” I have no answer to this. And psychics can be certified? “Fine,” Irene huffs, crossing her arms. She looks at me, stares at me, and I feel like there’s a tractor beam between her eyes and mine. “Fine,” she says again, softly. “Lillian Sarah Barden. Capricorn. Your father was some sort of prepper type; you and a couple of other families lived off the grid in the mountains for years. Both parents are dead now. Siblings--one. No.” She closes her eyes, opens them again. “None. The little boy died at the age of three, poor thing. Aneurysm. You’re a physician because--what, you thought you could save kids from that? Please. If the boy had collapsed into the arms of a pediatric neurosurgeon who immediately wheeled him into the OR, he still woulda died. We clear? Okay. You had an affair with your biology professor, and it turned out he was married, and--oh, this is good--you cheated on your MCATs. Just a few answers, but you wonder if it made a difference. You have an almost full bottle of ...” She squinted. “Di-aze-pam? What’s that? Oh, Valium. You have an almost full bottle of Valium at home and you’re contemplating self-harm. You believe I’m psychic now?” I nod. I do. “Good. We’re all on the same page. Now, I don’t claim to know all the technical details here, but there’s a furnace thing downstairs, and it hasn’t been cleaned right in about forty years, and something is stuck somewhere, and so something very unfortunate is about to happen.” “You should tell people! We should tell someone that...” I trail off and she watches me follow that thought to its logical conclusion. “Yeah, we simply must run and tell people that they all have to leave the premises immediately because the crazy psychic lady says the place is gonna blow up. What could go wrong with that plan?” She rolls her eyes. “Here’s where I’m trying to help you out. Now, you just walk out that fire exit there--the fire alarm isn’t working, none of them are, which is part of the problem--and you hustle yourself down the street as fast as your tiny little size five feet can carry you, and after about, oh”--she consults some internal clock--“four minutes, the place will blow, blam! ” She nods. “Yup, nothing left but a crater. They won’t be able to find most of the bodies from this building. Everyone who was in here will be presumed dead. And you, my little friend, will be home free, as they say. No more student loans to pay back, being as you’re dead. No more slogging through a life you can’t bear. Move to Fiji! Move to France! There are ways to get around a lack of paperwork.” The clerk up front is calling out various names. I hear mine. “Tell him you gotta go to the ladies’,” says Irene. “I’m...I just have to go to the ladies’ room, sir!” I call. I can see the clerk’s eye-roll from here. “All right, whatever, make it fast.” He looks at his list again. “Caleb Greene?” “Go on, now,” says Irene. “Go.” “What about you?” “I’m going out the other door, don’t worry about me. You go. Choose the right path this time, huh?” She winks. I turn to look at the fire door, and when I turn back, she’s gone. I grab my things and go, walking briskly at first, and then, when I’m through the door, running. I didn’t look at the time when I left, but it’s probably about three and a half minutes later that an explosion rocks the ground for five city blocks around me. I turn around and see the flames, watch the pieces of debris (and, presumably, body parts) rain down. Sirens start to wail. People are running toward me; I see a mother pull her toddler close and cover him with her body. Someone yells something about terrorists. I could very easily run away with the others. I know how to live off the grid; I could go back to the mountains for a while, decide what to do next. Or--and here’s the thing--I could run back to what used to be the courthouse and try to save at least some of the injured. Apply pressure to a wound, do CPR, help the paramedics triage. Of course, that’d be the end of my escape plans. Someone remembers seeing me alive and well--and I know a lot of the paramedics around here--I’m not going to be able to pull off my “Dead people don’t have to pay back their student loans” plan. Huh. Which path to take this time?


“Do you want to stay at my place tonight?” I asked. “Nah, man,” Matty replied. He sounded calm in his voice, but his eyes showed fear. “It’s no problem if you do, Matt, my mom will understand,” I tried to assure him, “Besides, my dad doesn’t have to work tomorrow so he can take us fishing in the morning down at Salmon Creek.” “No, really, its okay,” Matty insisted. His dad was drunk and screaming at his mother. It was like this often, usually with Matt or his mother bearing the wounds of Mr. Galway’s inebriated rage. “Do you want me to at least come in with you?,” I asked. I hated to leave the twelve-year-old at this chaotic house. I was big for my age and my old man had taught me how to fight, I figured I could at least give Matt some breathing room to run out if his own dad came after him. From the street, we could hear Mr. Galway screaming threats to give his wife a beating if she didn’t stop crying. It only made her cry harder. “I’ve dealt with him before like this,” my friend told me. His eyes were screaming help now. He was too polite to take my offer. “Don’t worry about it.” “Alright,” I told him with reluctance, “but if you still are up for fishing tomorrow morning, my pop and I can puck you up.” “You don’t have to, but thanks man,” Matty said. He loved fishing even more than I did. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning to take a few bass out of the creek.” “Maybe I can convince the old man to take us for a burger and milkshake after,” I tried to sound hopeful before the kid had to go to his personal hell of a house. He really didn’t deserve to live in a place like this. “Have a food night man,” Matt said as he approached the splintered front door of the place. “You too,” I called over my shoulder. I knew I shouldn’t have said that because Matt wouldn’t have a good night unless his dad passed out early. A sick feeling hit my stomach. I heard the blast of Mr. Galway’s twelve gauge from my own front yard two blocks away. I wake up in a cold sweat. Thirty-six years-old and still haunted by the death of my childhood best friend. That vile man had the wretchedness to take his own son’s life then plead insanity and drunkenness for a lesser charge over facing a real sentencing like a man. I was told that Matt didn’t suffer when he was killed, but that had never offered me any comfort. The poor kid had suffered his entire twelve and a half years of existence before having his opportunity to grow up and move away even started. If only I had persuaded a bit more to get him to spend the night watching horror movies in the basement all night. My parents would not have minded at all. My wife stirred in her sleep as I stood up and checked the clock. Two twenty-six o’clock. I knew sleep would not come back to me tonight- thankfully it was Saturday so I didn’t have to worry about a fatigued day at work, but my recurring dream was punishment enough. I slowly got out of bed and crept out of the bedroom to allow my wife to continue her slumber and crept downstairs. Finding a pair of jeans and a t-shirt in the basket of clean laundry on the couch, I threw the clothing on with a pair of old sneakers and walked outside. Long walks around the neighborhood were the only thing that helped a bit after memories of my childhood best friend being murdered happened. At least I knew that the old bastard that killed Matt had been beaten to death in his jail cell seven months after the murder. I turned the corner off of the street my house sat on toward the park down the way a little. I figured it would be desolate enough with adequate lighting along the walking path to clear my head. A figure stood in the distance. He was blonde with green eyes and a smile that appeared like he was proud of himself for causing mischief. Id seen the face every day of my childhood and in my darkest nightmares as a teen and adult. I thought he was dead, but he was. I approached the child nervously as he stood grinning. “Hey, Cameron,” the boy spoke happily in his usual excited tone. My mouth went numb and a new sweat beaded on my hairline. “H-hey, Matty,” I said timidly. “Long time no see, pal,” it was like the kid had never remembered what happened all those years ago. “Wha-?” I tired, took a breath then, “How?” I was lost for words, “I mean, what are you doing here?” “I won’t be long, Cameron,” the child’s face went from a bustling twelve-year-old’s to a grown man’s expression. “I’m moving on soon, but I wanted to pay one final visit before going.” “What do you mean?” I asked. My mind still felt like a piece of taffy being stretched around by one of those mechanisms in a candy shop. Marty’s pale ghost smiled again, “I can’t tell you exactly, but I think you know,” he said, turning his face toward the night sky. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you would be okay, I know that this hasn’t been easy on you for the last twenty-four years. Lets take a seat.” We strolled over to a bench along the park’s pavement walking trail between two amber light poles. Matty seemed to glide across the dewy grass rather than walk. We took a seat on opposite ends of the wooden bench. “Don’t worry, no one will notice us should they happen to come by,” Matt read my mind, nervous about being seen alone in the park with a juvenile. That never looks okay. Matt laughed his contagious cackle, again, knowing what I was thinking. “Man, you haven’t changed much at all.” My mind calmed a bit at my old pal’s joking. It was true, I’d always been a nervous wreck about appearing like I’m doing something wrong, even when I wasn’t. “Matt, I still don’t understand.” “And I don’t expect you to, Cameron, you’ll learn many years from now, but for the moment, just go with the flow,” the childish grin had once again given way to a caring adult expression, “You need this more than you nay realize.” I didn’t know what he meant, but I was elated to talk to the best friend I’d ever had in life. “First off, Cameron, I have to say how proud I am of what you have done in life,” Matt began, “I’ve spoken to your grandparents too and they are ecstatic about what you have done. Three books on the Bes Seller list, a beautiful wife that loves you more than anything, two amazing children that are growing up to be as great as their old man, and a perfect house in a town that you cherish. You gave done so much more for yourself than mist people can even dream of. It’s outstanding.” Matt told me. He added, “I know you don’t feel comfortable whenever someone compliments you, but you have to know how well you have done in life.” A tear formed in my eye. I hadn’t seen my grandparents since my grandmother’s funeral three years after my grandfather’s. How had Matty talked to them? “Thank you, Matthew,” I had never called him his full name almost as long as I knew him- it felt odd to say, like I called him by the wrong name, but something compelled me to, “it means a lot. I just wish you could have had the same opportunity.” “We all have a time, Cam,” Matt said, “don’t feel guilty about your own successes just because I had to leave earlier.” This time, instead of a tear forming, a river flowed out of each eyelid. “It’s just not fair!” I exclaimed through the sobs, “You were supposed to have your own successes in your work, have a happy wife and children right with me. You never deserved to grow up in a house that was falling apart with an abusive father that drank too much, I mean- why you?” Matt though over my question as I unsuccessfully attempted to pull myself back together, “I was given a different set of cards than you. Its no one’s fault, we just have to play the hand we are dealt.” Matt spoke like he was one hundred years old, “Don’t feel bad about me, I’ve learned a lot since dying and I would never give up this knowledge for anything. I can’t wait to show you some of the great stuff I found!” He was acting like his childhood self again. “But, I miss you, I miss our adventures, I mean, you never even got to kiss a girl before, Matt!” I said. Matt’s ghostly pale face almost blushed with his evil grin again, “Actually,” he said then paused, “I kissed Marissa McClain at her parent’s Fourth of July party the summer I left.” I exploded with laughter at that. He knew I had the biggest crush on Marissa McClain back in the day, most of the boys did back then, “You did?! That’s awesome!” “I never told you because I didn’t want to upset you, but she snuck me off to the barn behind her house and we kissed for a while during the fireworks. Sorry man,” He was laughing himself. “Nothing to be sorry for,” I said still howling with laughter, “so that’s where you disappeared to.” “Yeah, I’ve got to say, I did enjoy my time,” Matt said guiltily but still smiling. “I’m sure you did, you sly dog!” it was incredible go talk to him like we were twelve years old again. “Those were good times, Cam,” Matt said in sincerity. “It was a great escape from home and it allowed my to live a fun life.” My laughter stopped as new tears streamed down my cheeks as I thought about all the old times running around the small town we lived in. “I just wish you could have lived longer, it eats me up that you had to go out the way you did and so soon,” I said. “Cameron,” Matt grabbed my shoulder, “that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Stop worrying about me. I’m here to let you know, that there is no animosity or grudges held against you. We all go at one point and you have to cherish the good times. You taught me to enjoy life. You were the one that showed me how to have a good time and forget about anything bad that was happening at home.” “But-“ I began. “No, but, Cameron,” Matthew said sternly, “You need to get over this guilt or it’s going to kill you.” He stood up from the bench, “Enjoy your life and don’t dwell on the past. I’m enjoying myself. I want to see you do the same. Can you do that for me?” “I’ll try, Matthew,” I promised through my tears. “I’ll keep an eye on you along with your other family up here, you’ll see me again one day,” Matthew’s form disappeared with a final, “Enjoy.” Spoken in the wind. I walked back to my house in a daze. The sky was showing the signs of illumination before the sun came up. I met wife in bed, who was awake now. “Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked with concern. I could only shake my head as I bawled my eyes out into her shoulder. I let all of my regrets and self-hate go away with those tears. Though, I still missed Matt every day, I learned to enjoy life and the nightmares ended. Sometimes, I could even detect a hint of him watching over me.


I lasted about three years as a substitute teacher. I would fill in at this one school just about every day. The school was mostly made up of a minority population and the school was in a very impoverished area. It was nearly impossible for the school to keep permanent teachers. The kids really suffered from the lack of having a consistent teacher knowing the kid’s quirks and their idiosyncrasies. Also, unfortunately the teacher was the only assurance for some of the kid’s to see their basic needs were being met. I remember seeing the despair in a seven year old’s face, then I had to try to figure out how to make that kid feel comfortable for at least a short while. Sometimes just by giving the kid a snack would help. Other times nothing would help, because the kid was digesting whatever insanity they faced the previous night at home. I really wanted the kids to feel safe and it broke my heart seeing them unkempt, nervous, emotionally unavailable.... Some of the kids were so quiet that they were almost forgotten. The “bad kids” instinctually knew in order to get their basic needs met they needed to do something to garner attention. I class hopped all year long, but I would spend a few days at a time in each class. I finished my first year and had a sense of fulfillment that I made it through the whole year. The summer went by fast and the next year started. Now I felt like a seasoned veteran and I picked up on more trends of the school and the kids. I did the same thing as the previous year. I went from class to class. I was a little disappointed that some of the kids moved onto private schools or were switched to being home schooled, but ultimately it may have been in their best interest. A few weeks into the school year all of the kids knew who I was and I knew them. About half way through the year two of the students were taken out of the school to be home schooled. I learned this when I would take roll call and there names were crossed out from the list. I was surprised the two kids were being home schooled, because the two kids had issues with their basic needs being met. I tried to give the parents the benefit of the doubt because sometimes you could put the kid’s favorite food in front of them and they still wouldn’t eat it or you could hand them a tooth brush and unless you wanted to force their mouths open they weren’t going to brush their teeth. These two kid’s were somewhere in the middle, where they weren’t the worst as far as there needs not being met and they weren’t the best. They were quiet and just kind of blended in. I really couldn’t focus on the two that left, because I needed to focus on the kids still present and the problems at hand. However. I was left pondering about the two kids who were dis enrolled and left under the pretenses of being “homeschooled”. I was surprised their parents or guardians actually took the time to enroll them in a homeschool program considering what those two kids looked like on an average day. Once again the school year was winding down and unfortunately the summer flew bye and I was back at school. It was really cute that the kids remembered me from the previous year and I remembered them as well. I also wasn’t shocked that the school from grades one through eight only had one permanent teacher. There were multiple home room’s for each grade as well. The school did a horrible job at teacher recruitment and none of the new grads wanted to step foot in the school because of the impoverished area. I got used to parking my car up the street by an abandoned house that had no windows, but a kid right out of college couldn’t see past that or the virtual minimum wage pay. The only consistency the school had was the principle. She had been there for years. She had no time for nothing. she would interview one counselor / social worker only to see them leave after three months. The principle was always on the phone putting out whatever fire that needed to be addressed. It was so bad that I had to create my own lesson plans as a substitute teacher and the principle would blindly approve whatever I wrote down. The school was just complete and utter chaos. once again, right before christmas break during roll call, for one of the third grade classes, I discovered one of the kid's had dis enrolled from the school. Almost, the same MO, where the kid was one of those kid's that just blended in at this school, but would have every government run agency swarming to ensure the kid was ok at any suburban school. I checked the school records and the kid's reason for being dis enrolled was "homeschool" and once again I thought it was really odd a guardian would take that initiative. I wanted to learn the process for a kid to be enrolled as "homeschool". I learned that it only required that the guardian fill out the government form and for the school to keep a copy of the form. I managed to go to where the records were stored for the school. I found the "homeschool" forms for the two kids last year and the one kid this year. I was surprised on how formal the "homeschool" forms were filled out. i was expecting misspelled words with horrible penmanship. I made a copy of the forms because I had learned how horrible it was to retrieve anything from the school. Everything got lost or misplaced. During, the Christmas break I decided to follow up on the three students. The "homeschool" forms had their phone number's and their addresses. I felt extremely awkward and what I was doing wasn't completely legal. I wanted to avoid calling because what was I going to say "I was your kid's substitute teacher and ...". So what I did was I parked my car close to where the address listed was given on the form, which was also extremely awkward and besides the fear of being in my car in the neighborhood, I felt like everyone was watching me. I tried to give the illusion that I was in my car for a reason. I was always reading something with the hopes that the locals thought I was some kind of local authoritative figure or perhaps even that I was working undercover, which I sort of was doing. I sat in that car all day and I didn't see the “homeschool” kid at all. I did see a few grown ups come and go but I didnt see the kid. I decided to go to the next kid's house address that was listed on the "homeschool" form and pretty much with the same outcome and then onto the last kid's house with once again the same outcome. I just left it at that and the Christmas break was just about over. After, the first day back I decided to muster enough courage and actually call the "homeschool" kids. Two of the lines were disconnected and one of the lines rang and rang with no one answering. I couldn't just drop this at this point. I had to take it to the next step and and knock on the kid's door. I was beyond petrified on the reception that I would receive at the front door and to be honest some of the adults who I saw leaving the homes were down right scary. So, after school with my school ID in hand, I walked to the first "homeschool" address. I waited a minute before I knocked on the door to talk myself up and muster enough courage that I needed. I knocked and an adult woman answered the door and said "what do you want". I mumbled a few words of who I was and then asked how the kid was doing? she looked at me and said "There ain't no kid here" then I said "do you remember the last time you saw ... " she raised her voice "like I said there ain't no kid here" and slammed the door. I decided to go to the next two "homeschool" house's and once again I basically got the same responses. The next week at school I nonchalantly asked the other kid's if they seen or heard from the "homeschool" kids and each one pretty much said that before the kids left for "homeschool" the only time they saw them was during school time. So, now I was at a dead end. I had taken notes of all the steps I had taken. I reexamined the "homeschool" forms and pretty much saw what I already knew. The form's penmanship's were very similar. From reading hundreds of handwritten papers, I learned that everyone has there own style and even if you were to try to conceal a particular way you wrote the letter "A" eventually you would slip up in a word and revert back to how you would typically write. That's what I noted in the "homeschool" forms. They were all different but if you looked hard enough you would see similarities. I dug a little deeper and went to the main office to see if anyone recalled what guardian dropped off the "homeschool" form. I asked the guidance counsellor and she said "I just started two weeks ago ..." and then I just tuned her out. I was just sick of hearing that. At the end of the day, I reluctantly went to the principle. I knew what I was doing wasn't by the rules. It was probably border line illegal. I remember the principle's hair that day was in every direction and she just looked like she was at her last wit. I explained to her what I was doing regarding the "homeschool" kids and I basically asked her if she had any ideas. She didn't say a word and basically just shook her head no looking completely defeated. Then, the next week started and I went to the office and to drop off my lesson plan. I just happened to see a very poised woman who had to be in her early 70's talking to the guidance counselor. She caught my attention because she mentioned the word "homeschool". The woman had a very calming voice like a very liked kindergarten teacher. She was dressed very nicely and just overall looked very pleasant. almost like the Grandma you wished more of these kids would have. I finally felt relieved and a bit embarrassed. I rarely saw the kid's parents / guardians especially being the substitute teacher. But at least now, I was actually able to see the process with my own eyes. Now it's springtime and I'm doing my typical rotation throughout the school. One day I was doing roll call and one of the kids I saw a line through their name meaning the kid was no longer at the school. I remembered that kid. Pretty much the same MO as the previous "homeschool" kid's as being Quiet, emotionally not available, ... Basically, if I didn't see the kid's name with a line through it then I wouldn't know the kid was gone nor would anyone else. I went down to the records office to see where the latest kid went to. I found the file and saw the “homeschool” form. I looked at the form and once again the penmanship didn’t seem to fit the kid’s suspected home life. Once again, I saw the same pattern with the other three. The penmanship on the forms were almost intentionally made to look different. Once more, I was able to match the date on the form with the chance encounter with the elegant looking woman in her 70’s I had in the near past. Something just wasn’t right. I spoke to the guidance counselor and amazingly she was still employed, but she really had no additional information regarding the woman or the kid. Then, I pretty much followed the same steps as the previous three kids and came out with pretty much the sam results. The kid wasn’t at the address and the phone was disconnected. At this point, I really wanted answers and just some assurance the “homeschool” kids were ok. I thought to myself Let’s face it, it’s rare for one of the kids to move on to bigger and better things it does happen but it’s rare. If the four kids were dis enrolled because the parents moved and transferred schools, I would have been like ok that’s understandable and then I could just follow up with the new school’s if necessary. But with the last “homeschool” kid it was just literally days since the kid left to be homeschooled and no one at the address given on the form had any idea what I was talking about. I checked the initial school records for the “homeschool” kid’s when they first enrolled at the school. The forms were typically half hazardly filled out with a lot of information missing. A lot of times, the family members didn’t want to give away information because of whatever illegal activities they were involved in. The school rarely if ever checked if the kid was in the right school district. I'm not sure if it was because of just being disorganized or if the district really didn't want to cause any barriers for the kids to attend school. At this point, I had to go the police. I showed up at the police station and waited around for a couple of hours. Finaly, one of the detectives met with me. I could tell he was only half listening to me. I think when I said "substitute teacher" was when the detective became disinterested in what I had to say. I showed him the "homeschool" forms, which he didn't even look at. He said "where were you trained to decipher handwriting?" I kind of muttered in embarrassment. He must of looked at his watch 10 times for the five minutes I spoke with him. Eventually, I left and there was no business card given to me. He didn’t even say give me a call if you find anything else it was basically get out and thank you for wasting my time. I felt like I was punched in the gut. Nobody cared in what I found or had to say. It was the weekend and I had time to gather my thoughts. I have only been at this school for a short time and was able to pick up the "homeschool" pattern of kids basically disappearing. I said to myself there must be countless more “homeschool” kids possibly in this school alone. Unfortunately, the school didn't have a report, I could run to see what kids were dis enrolled as "homeschool". So I thought and I thought then I realized the only way was going to be looking through yearbooks. I decided to focus on the years and the grades of the kids I encountered and still should have been in the school. I took as many of the yearbooks I could from the School's basement department. I flipped through yearbooks and quickly ruled out any of the kids who were still enrolled at the school and I highlighted any kid that I didn't recall seeing Of the kids I didn't recall seeing, I found about 20 kids. Then, with the 20 names I painstakingly looked up the names in our schools record department. From the records, about 15 of the kids were listed as "transferred". I actually called the school's of the 15 kids and the kid’s were all fine. Then with the remaining five kids, I found something extremely unsettling. I saw the "Homeschool" form's in each one of the five kid's folders. I now had five additional "homeschool" forms. Two of the forms it looked like the writer either felt brazen or nearly just got sloppy. Though two of the forms were about five years apart, the penmanship had way to many similar characteristics. I figured I had to follow up with each of the five additional forms. As I suspected, at each address I went to listed on the "homeschool" form, no one had any idea what I was talking about. At this point, I had my folder with all the copies I made and all of my notes. I demanded to meet with the principal and she made available a time and date. I showed up tobthe meeting with my evidence in hand. I explained again to the principal what I uncovered and the additional five "homeschool" kids who had disappeared. She listened to what I had to say and then she said "who told you to do this?" I replied "Do what?" She said "snoop around files ... call parents ... who told you to do this?" I said no one. Then she said I violated multiple school violations and I wasn't allowed back in the school. She made me hand over whatever copies I made and whatever notes I had. I was now out of work. The school year ended. I worked in a retail store that summer that was just down right depressing. I figured with the new school year starting maybe I could find work at a different school in a different district. The school I applied for was just as equally as bad as the previous one. As long as I had a bachelors degree and no criminal record, then they would hire you on the spot as a substitute teacher. This year was going to be different. I was there to teach and to be nice to the kids and that's it. I was not going to be a detective, that was over and done with. The school year was breezing by and I was used to going from class to class. I wasn't looking for any patterns. I just did my assignment and then went home. Then it happened. I saw that elegant woman in her 70's. She was talking to the guidance counsellor at this new school. My head was in a different dimension. It was like seeing your dead grandmother. I was in complete shock. I just stood there. She had the same calming voice. She was dressed impeccably but not overly showy to draw attention to herself. I was frozen. I could tell she didn't recognize me. I saw her give the "homeschool" form to the guidance counselor and then she proceeded to exit. I snapped back from my shocked state and I popped my head into the principle's office and said "i'm not feeling well I have to go." Then, I quickly got in my car and I followed her. I drove for nearly two hours and eventually. she pulled into one of the nicest houses I have ever seen in one of the most richest neighborhoods that I had ever been in. She had a gate that opened and closed electronically. I stayed on the road for a little while just to take notes. There was zero evidence of any kids being on her property, but I did notice a pool company was servicing her pool. Eventually, I saw the pool van leave and I was able to get the name of the company. That same day, I called the same pool company and applied for a job. The pool company was desperate and I lied and told them that I was experienced and I owned my own business for years. All I wanted was to get the company's pool van so I could get through that woman's gate. Within two days the pool company gave me a van to drive and an assignment of where to go. It was a Saturday, so I didn’t have to worry about missing school. I ignored the pool company’s assignment and went right to that woman's house. I got to the gate and used the intercom and explained that we forgot to do something the previous day. She opened the gate and I proceeded to the pool area. I stood by the pool and was just trying to take in everything and was just looking for any type of clues for anything. I knew something just wasn’t right. I still saw no kids so she wasn’t a philanthropist trying to help underprivileged kids. I must of stood by the pool for a half an hour in my company issued pool uniform. The woman eventually came out and very cordially welcomed me. She just had one of those very calming voices and she was very hospitable. I made up some mumble jumble problem with the pool and then I started to do some small talk to try to get any information about her. I said “I’m going to try to get this pool fixed as quickly as possible so I could visit my child in the hospital”. I said that so she would say something like “yeah I’m a mother” or “l’m a grandmother”. I then went on and made up a story about my child having special needs and how involved I was in this non-profit agency and she had absolutely no follow up responses. It was like kids to her was a completely different planet. She maintained her nice demeanor the whole time and brushed off anything I said or was completely sympathetic to me for working in a non-profit company. I knew I didn’t have much time left and I really had no evidence of anything. Then, I realized I had to say something. I said “well let me get this done because I don’t want to have to drive two hours back here from ...” and I actually gave the school’s name. Then, I witnessed something that I have never seen before. I observed a sheep turn into a wolf within a blink of an eye. The cordialness was gone. She said “say that again.” She didn’t say it in her typical voice. It was like she just wanted me to confirm what I said. So I reiterated the school’s name. We both looked at each other and I said “who are you?” She just continued to look at me and I said “who are you?” She took off her wig and she now looked like someone in her 50’s. She gave me a death stare. She knew I uncovered her. I said “where are those kids?” She didn’t say “I have no idea what your talking about?” or “excuse me?” She then got on the phone, which she pulled from her blouse pocket and on the phone she said “come right now” and she looked directly at me the whole time like she was going to kill me. At that point, I felt extremely uncomfortable and thought I have all the information I needed. I got into the pool van and I manually forced the front gate opened and left. I was a little relieved that my hunch was right but I was also extremely afraid. Whoever that woman was she knew where I worked and even if I quit my job the school had my information on file. After returning the pool van I headed back home. I really needed a few days to compile everything I had and come up with a plan. I actually waited a week and decided to return to that woman’s house. I was shaking during the whole two hour car ride. From about a block away, I could smell the familiar scent of burnt ambers. As I pulled closer to her house, I realized that the house was completely burnt down. Nothing but ashes. I saw one of the neighbors jog bye and I asked what happened. Based on the story and the date the neighbor gave me, I realized the woman or somebody else torched the house right after I had left the week before. I asked the neighbor if he knew the woman who lived in the house and he said besides exchanging casual greetings he said he knew nothing. He said the house was so completely engulfed in flames there was no way of telling if she died in the fire. I never returned to that school or any other teaching job. All I had was a list of those “homeschool” kids. Months went bye and I figured would never hear anything again regarding those kids. Then, I was scrolling through the internet and I came across this court case, where a jail house rat was looking for leniency based on information she had. The jailhouse rat said that her cell mate confided to her that she sold her kid for drug money and she knew horrible things were going to happen to her kid, but she didn’t care because all she cared about was getting drugs. Continuing to read the story from the jailhouse rat, I started to dry heave, then I actually vomitted because the jailhouse rat mentioned the principal from the original school was involved in the child selling scheme.


The Addendum begins the night she apologized to you for breaking your heart. The wound was still open then: despite what you told yourself, you had loved her, a little bit. As you remember it, Kate’s late and you’re drunk. The pizza parlor is nearly empty, or at least the beer has made it seem that way. Leaning forward over the table in huddles, the other diners speak quietly, and you note their sad but tacit understanding that this is not a trendy place to be on a Saturday night. A waitress with a midwestern accent comes and takes your order, and there is an awkward silence while you read the menu. You order another pint of beer and a pizza for you and Kate to share. While you wait, you fiddle with a pen: you’re nervous, this night had been a failure. The Addendum is your second chance. The Addendum, as you have decided to call it, adds significance where you think there is some. There is something missing, something to do with your understanding of your relationship with her. This search for understanding brought you to the night in the pizza parlor: the night that she had tried to apologize, and you had brushed her away in hurt. The two of you had walked off, sad and broken. You were unwhole. You are unwhole, still, but this night holds the key to forgiveness. So you’ve decided to revisit the conversation at the pizza parlor and say what you think was left unsaid. To you, there is a catharsis in adding meaning. You used to ask yourself why you still think of her. Why, even now, the urge to write about her is just as strong as when your memory was hazy with fetishism and pain. You think you know the answer, but, just as saying something out loud gives it substance, it needs to be written down. Looking across the dim room, you see her standing in the doorway. She has bangs now. They suit her well. Seeing you, the look she gives - one of compassion and mercy - makes you feel defenseless, even as she approaches the table. She squeezes into the other side of the booth, and there is a moment of silence because you’re drunk and you know she is going to apologize. Several moments pass before you break the silence. “Do you remember the first time we met?” “You know that’s not why we’re here.” “It was on the beach. Imagine this,” you say, as if into thin air. “My mom had just told me that I’d have to pay for my own tuition. She couldn’t care for both me and Solstice. He was too much for a single mom, with all the drugs and whatnot. I don’t blame her, but I’m nineteen at the time. Can barely cook, can barely take care of myself. And the first person I see is you. You were painting the birds, those little white ones that scurry along the sand. Can barely fly.” “Listen. I’m sorry. I- ” “-They were snowy plovers. That’s what they were called. And I remember how abstract your paintings were. How you seemed to be able to capture a single feeling from blotches of paint. I think it was, like, *vulnerability*. Because they were vulnerable don’t you think?” “Yeah, they are. But I didn’t mean to bring you here to talk about the time we first met. I really hurt you, and goddammit I’m trying to apologize.” And Kate grabs your hand, and there’s nothing you can do except, for the first time, listen. “There’s no need to apologize.” “I know,” she says quickly, then catches herself, “Scratch that, I do need to apologize.” “It’s alright.” “No. It’s not alright, it was reckless of me to hurt you in the way I did. I knew I could never love you, but I led you on anyway.” “You didn’t know what you wanted. It’s alright,” you say, looking down with a sad smile. She stares at you, her eyes stubborn but tender. After some time, she sniffs a bit and says, “There was a time when I saw you sitting on the couch. I already knew that I would never love you back, but you had just said something funny but also sad, and I remember, that at that moment, I wanted to hold your hand.” She smiles a bit. You sit back in silence, pulling your hand away from her. Taking a bite of a slice, and thinking, you let the time drag on in a lazy drawl while she waits. You decide to go off-script; about to change how the conversation ends because this night had been the end of things. The two of you had walked off hurt, never to speak again. Things shouldn’t have been that way. With The Addendum, it would not be that way: you’re about to let her in on the secret. You look around the parlor for a second, then, leaning over the table, you begin. “It’s been years since we’ve last spoken, but I think about you a lot. Much more than I should, I think.” You pause to let what you’re saying to register with her. She looks away, so you lean in further, your voice lowering when you continue. “I keep coming back to you, back to this conversation. Every character I write has a trace of you, and I think it stems from the same reason why you feel the need to apologize. Kaitlyn O’Connor, do you want to know why I write about you? There was a lot of resentment that I had to work through - frustration, but it was wrong to direct it at you.” Tears are in her eyes. “But you were right. It was reckless, and I did the wrong thing.” “You couldn’t have known what the right thing to do was. And maybe this Addendum, what I’m writing right now, is just a form of forgiveness, but I think there’s something more that you showed me tonight, and it has to do with the pain you’re in now. Why are you in pain?” Slowly, she says, “Because, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” You grab her hand and say, “I understand. Kate, what you did, it’s so... painfully human.” What comes after this, you don’t know. Perhaps there is still some pain to be felt, but this is how you think of that night - how you think of her. In a way, you love her: she taught you understanding. She taught you empathy. You write about her because she is human, because she felt pain at causing someone else pain. You wish you could tell her that you forgive her for it, but she’s long gone from your life. Maybe the sad truth is that this story will forever be an addendum to what actually happened. Something for you to think about - sometimes. And maybe she still thinks of you as well.


There are few places Belinda Blackwell likes to lay down to rest more than upon her husband’s chest. He hadn’t been expecting her. Belinda hadn’t been expecting to be home so soon, either- what with the unpredictability of her father’s illness demanding open schedules from his children, someone on-call at all times lest the old man die without one of them there to hold his hand. When Oscar had come to join them a week early-- something about a case closing timely and a stiffening in his shoulders when Belinda enquired about her sister-in-law-- she pounced on the opportunity to bid her brother and father adieu and return early to the husband she so desperately missed. Finding Etienne still tangled in their bed covers, she had stripped down to her chemise and crawled atop him slowly. He had thrashed hard upon stirring and finding her there, his eyes foggy with confusion and fright, but she had kissed his face and rubbed his arms, whispering “It’s me, it’s only me” until he relaxed back into the sheets. Now they rest quietly, teetering on the line between half-asleep and half-awake, Belinda’s ear pressed to Etienne’s chest to hear the steady thump, thump, thump of his heart. “Well, I’m glad Oscar will be with him,” Etienne says appeasingly, having listened in silence to her stories from London. “Mmm. I think it will do him as much good as father. He seemed like he could use some time away.” “Away from what?” “I’m not sure...” Belinda plays with a loose thread on Etienne’s nightshirt. “I feel bad saying away from his wife, but all signs point to it being the truth. He seemed uncomfortable when I brought her up, but he wouldn’t tell me anything specific.” Etienne’s hand tightens where it rests on the nape of her neck. “Then I hope that time will serve them both well.” “I do, too.” She tilts her head to observe the strong profile of her husband’s nose. “And you?” she teases, “Has time away from me served you well?” “All I managed to accomplish was missing my wife.” He tucks his chin to look down at her. “Though I have been doing some research in your absence.” “Yes, I’ve noticed.” The entire walk to their chambers was an obstacle course of books and journals on every table top and cast aside in the middle of the hallway like he had thrown them down as he was walking. And before that, there was the cook coming to greet her in the foyer with concerns of her husband’s increasingly strange demands while Belinda was away- his supposed need for rabbit hearts and pitchers of salt water, bunches of fresh rosemary left to dry on the windowsill for exactly thirty six hours and demands of her and the housemaid to not disturb him when his doors are closed, certain tasks he’d undertaken where it was vital he not be interrupted. For the sake of goodwill, she gave them both the rest of the morning off. Belinda knows of her husband’s beliefs-- glimpses into a world of ritual and wardship, studies of augury and communion and necromancy that he prefers she not get too close to. Etienne shifts underneath her, and she reads discomfort in his movements. She strokes a hand down his cheek so he knows not to be ashamed of it all on her behalf. “What has prompted it? Have I come to see you while I was gone?” He’s told her, too, of the spirit that haunts him- the one that looks just like her, that follows him around the house and watches him from doorways and windows and stares at him unblinking, stares at him like he’s done something unforgivable. Belinda has never seen herself, and Etienne claims the spirit has never appeared while she’s in the house. She fretted for days over having to leave him when word of her father’s illness arrived, knowing what it might invite back into Etienne’s life, but there was no getting around the trip and besides, Etienne had sworn his confidence that that time was behind them. It would appear that he’d spoken too soon. His eyebrows tick up at the middle, like he’s attempting to contain his emotion. “I thought it was over,” he whispers. “It’s been so long. I feel like a fool, letting my guard down as I have been.” A deep ache swells behind Belinda’s ribcage. She squeezes Etienne tighter. “You’ve been happy. It’s not foolish to hope. What have you found?” “There is a ritual. One for banishment. I have been completing the prerequisite steps over the past week.” “Oh?” Belinda struggles to understand. “Yes. There is only one step left to do. It won’t be easy.” His fingers flex against her back, a signal that he is thinking hard. He seems to choose his words carefully. “The act won’t be physically challenging, but I fear the toll it will have on my heart and constitution.” Belinda frowns. “It sounds taxing. Are you sure this is the only way?” She considers not for the first time bringing up the possibility of relocation- abandoning this home that torments him so in favor of a fresh start, a life away from paranoia and body doubles she can’t see. Before she can muster up the right words, he’s saying, “It will be worth it. I want to do it. I want my Belinda to be the only Belinda in my life.” She smothers a grin against the column of his throat. “I’d quite like that as well.” Etienne is quiet for a long moment before speaking again. “I won’t pretend it isn’t terrible. But it is necessary, too. I want my wife to have a good life, and I need to be better to give one to her. I need to be rid of this.” A strong rush of affection surges through Belinda. Oh, she loves this man something awful. She’d follow him into Hell. “Then you will be brave. And you will be successful.” She rises and falls with the depth of Etienne’s answering sigh. “You sound so much like her,” he mutters. “Like who?” she asks. “Like Belinda.” Belinda’s thumb falters where it was rubbing a soothing path along his collarbone. “What?” A giggle bubbles out of her, confusion mingling with sleepy amusement. “It’s uncanny. You’ve never been this good before.” He doesn’t seem to register her stiffening, or he does and ignores it. “You’ve never come to me like this, lay upon me like this. You must know what I’m going to do.” “Etienne-” “It won’t work.” Etienne raises his voice, speaking over her. “I won’t let it.” Belinda lifts her head to look her husband in the eyes. A coldness cracks through her when she sees the resolution in his face. “Etienne, I don’t...” Her voice breaks off into a scared whisper. “It’s me.” He shakes his head. “My wife knows me better than this. She tells me when to expect her. You’ve misjudged. I know you’re not really her this time.” Belinda curses her attempt at being romantic. He thinks she's haunting him, not surprising him. She's never been so near him when he's in the middle of one of these supposed spectral visits. It's sobering. It's frightening. She tries to sit up, and grunts when Etienne uses his hand on her neck to ease her back down again. His hold is strong- not enough to hurt, but in her shock, she goes easy. Etienne’s mouth is at her ear. “My wife is not to be home for a few days yet. By then, all of this will be dealt with and done. It will be like it never happened. She won’t have any part of it. She will not have such a weak, nervous husband.” His voice shakes. “I will keep her safe.” It’s all the warning Belinda gets before the knife is plunged into her back. She jerks violently. Pain whips through her, fast and brutal. It’s like someone has dumped a full basin of water over her. No. No, the sensation is real and it’s not water, it’s blood, hot and wet and slick and spreading fast, sticking her chemise to her skin. She frantically shoves herself up, grappling for a place on her back she can’t reach, too low for the arm she stretches over her shoulder, too high for the one she stretches under. She arches, incapacitated by the pain, her mouth opening and closing like a fish thrown onto rocks, gasping into air that isn’t helping her situation, feeling inches from death. The knife digs into her shifting skin- or is her skin digging into the knife?- the awful, writhing, sawing sensation ripping through her. She's never been stabbed before, but this cannot be normal. Flashes of rabbit hearts and salt come to her, and no, of course this isn't normal. Not by Etienne's design. She hunches, trying to scramble away from the pain, but there’s nowhere to go that it doesn’t follow. She shoves her face into the pillow beside her husband’s stunned face, her hands fisting at the sheets. Etienne grips her hips tight. “...Belinda?” She can only answer with a whimper. She’s trembling so hard she can barely open her mouth anymore for how hard her teeth chatter. “No.” Etienne pushes against her shoulders. She doesn’t understand what he wants. She doesn’t understand what’s happening. “Dear God, no.” His touch moves to her face, and he wrenches her head back with his hands shoved up into her hair. “Belinda.” He jams his fingers under her jaw, ignoring her choking, feeling for something. Upon finding it, his face goes white. “Belinda.” Again, more urgently, wrestling to sit them both upright. “ Belinda.” It’s all coming to her in flashes- the horrible red smear on Etienne’s cheek, the wetness that’s dripping down the back of her legs, the sudden realization that she can’t support herself. She slumps against Etienne. Dazedly, she thinks of her parents, of all the men they’d wanted her to marry. A parade of surgeons and doctors with their deep pockets and upturned noses. Professionals who would know what to do with a gaping wound, professionals she had rejected for the love of a poet, her poet, who had nothing to offer but a quiet life and endless adoration. Etienne cradles her against him, rocking them back and forth. He's sobbing. “Why are you here? You weren’t supposed to be here. I thought you were the specter. Please believe me. Oh God, please forgive me.” He sounds wrecked. Belinda wants to comfort him, but she can’t pick her head up. Then darkness clouds her vision, and she can’t do anything at all anymore. -- -- -- Belinda blinks awake. The ground is uncomfortable beneath her back. What is she doing on the ground? Etienne is kneeling by her side, head in his hands. There’s something red all over his hands. Belinda pushes herself up, reaching out to touch Etienne’s knee. He jolts at the barest brush of her fingers. “Belinda.” He sounds relieved. He yanks her forward and she goes crashing against his chest. Why is his heart beating so fast? That red substance on his hands is getting all over her now, staining her crisp white chemise. Why does it smell so strongly of metal? Her head feels fuzzy. Really, why is she on the ground? A moment ago, she was laying in bed, gossiping with Etienne about her brother’s marriage. Did she fall out of bed? Did she hit her head? Is that why everything feels so... Off? “I’m sorry...” she murmurs slowly. “I'm not sure what happened. Did I fall?” “You...” Etienne is shaking. She must have really scared him. “I fixed it. It’s alright.” “Fixed what? How long was I out?” “It doesn’t matter. You’re alright. It’s all alright now.” Belinda frowns. “Etienne, is my head bleeding?” He winces. “What? Why are you asking me that?” “Blood.” She can’t think of anything else to say. She should get a cloth, something to clean him with. She pushes away from him, bracing against the edge of the mattress to stand. Her hand sinks into something cold and wet. Before she can search for the source of it, Etienne pitches forward, grabbing her by the cheeks and pulling her to look back at him. It makes her head spin. “Don’t look,” he says. He sounds gravely serious. Belinda’s heart stutters. “What?” “Don’t look.” Like a petulant child, Belinda can’t stop herself. She’s wriggling out of his grip before he can stop her again, ignoring his cry, turning to look at herself laying dead in a mess of blood on the bed. Herself. On the bed. Blood. All air leaves her. She jerks to her feet, stumbling backwards. She can’t look away. She’s just laying there- her hair stuck to her forehead and her chemise soaked through with red. Her eyes are still open. Behind her, Etienne remains on the ground. His voice is low, thick with grief. “There was an accident. I did what I had to. To fix it.” “What...” Her voice sounds like it’s coming from miles away. She doesn’t even know what to ask. She can’t look away. “I didn’t know if it would work. I had only read about the ritual. I’ve never attempted it. But the journals said I could comb through time, and bring something back with me." He looks up. "I brought you.” Belinda’s stomach turns. Etienne's face is wet with tears. Where is she? “You brought me... From the past?” “From before the accident. Yes. It was the only way. You were already gone--” his voice breaks, and he hangs his head. His shoulders are shaking. Belinda looks at him. She looks at herself. “But... What of the Etienne in the past? Are you the same as him?” “Our paths have diverged,” he says gravely. “Well. Then. What of that Etienne? Is he all alone now? How must he feel, having just had his wife taken from him?” Etienne shudders, his eyes darkening. “I know how he feels.” For some reason, that’s what does Belinda in. Her stomach lurches and she stumbles to the lavatory, shoving the door closed behind her before retching into the sink. Nothing comes up. It makes her feel worse. She looks up into the mirror. Yes, that’s her face staring back at her with wide eyes and tangled hair. But yes, that was her face, too, staring back at her from the bed. It feels like dying just to think of it. She can’t imagine what dying must really feel like, can’t imagine how anything can be worse than this terror that’s seizing her insides. Etienne’s voice comes from the other side of the door, muffled and pleading. “Please. I didn’t want this. All I wanted was you.” He nudges at the door, like a dog desperate to get in. She staggers over to open it. Etienne is still on his knees, still on the ground. When the door is open wide enough, he drags himself forward with his fingernails digging into the wood floor. He bends low to kiss her ankles. She closes her eyes tight at the sensation. “My love. My life.” His tears drip onto her foot. “I wish I hadn’t done it. I wish I hadn’t done it.” What did you do? A voice in her head begs her to ask. And somewhere deeper, somewhere darker, somewhere inside her that already knows-- somewhere she can’t reach, is asking, Which part do you regret? -- -- -- They bury Belinda in the garden. Belinda watches numbly while Etienne strips that other-her from the bloody chemise, re-dressing her in something soft and clean. He gathers her hair and fastens it into a braid to keep it off her face, and his touch is so gentle and reverential that this time when Belinda excuses herself to retch into the sink, she throws up the entire contents of her stomach. Belinda gets dressed herself, tugging on a gown, though her hands shake so hard that Etienne has to help her with the fastenings. She follows behind Etienne and stares at her own face, lax where it rests against her husband’s-- their husband’s?-- shoulder as he carries her down the stairs and out the backdoor. Is that what she looks like when she sleeps? They leave the bloody mattress as it is, for the housemaid to find. “We’ll say you were with child,” Etienne had said, not meeting her gaze. “They won’t ask questions if they believe you lost something.” Etienne is right, as he tends to be. When Belinda retires inside hours later, the silent vigil over the little upturned patch of dirt beneath her favorite tree becoming too much for her to bear, the housemaid, Miss Clarke, is already waiting for her, wringing her hands in the hallway. All it takes is just enough performance of Belinda’s averted eyes and a hand pressed to her stomach for Miss Clarke's face to drop. She coos sympathetically, fussing over Belinda so tenderly that Belinda is weeping before she can hold herself back. “We buried her in the garden,” Belinda croaks. “All by yourselves, ma’am?” Miss Clarke asks, sounding surprised. “We couldn’t bear to leave her.” Belinda says, and now she’s telling the truth. Then, she tells another. “I don’t know what happened.” -- -- -- Belinda looks out from their bedchamber, trying to ignore the sharp smell of vinegar and lemon, the bed stripped of its linens behind her, the way the mattress has been flipped. She watches Etienne as the sky goes from blue to orange. Hours pass and still he remains, bent over the grave of his dead wife while his wife watches over him. After what feels like an eternity, he rises, stretching his arms. He turns, shielding his eyes against the setting sun to look back up at the house. Belinda tries not to notice how he flinches when he spots her, feeling like a specter in the window.


Reedsy Contest #235: Springtime Flowers 4. Start your story with one character pointing out the first sign of spring to another. Spring By Mail I’m a pretty lucky kid. Nana and Gramps live just outside of town and I can walk there from school. I’m welcome to visit anytime I want, so I go a lot. Home’s a bit rocky with the folks and I don’t really fit in with the kids here. I don’t play an instrument or sports. Nana and Gramps are great. They let me drive their tractor, climb in the orchard and swim with the frogs in the pond. Sometimes Gramps and I fish. Sometimes we putter in the shop with Archie the barn cat. Gramps named him Archie for the stance he assumes when stroked. He is a friendly but scruffy orange and white beast with a very loud purr. Archie guards Gramps’ tool collection, hunts mice and sleeps on the roof of Gramps’ first car that is stored in the garage under an oil-stained tarp. Archie is not allowed in the house as Nana has a rule about farm animals. Nana thinks they’re dirty and should stay outside. She won’t even let Archie in her greenhouse, but I think Archie likes the shop just fine. Gramps is a skilled welder and sometimes we work on garden projects for Nana together. Nana is an avid gardener and a fabulous cook. I don’t think there’s anything she can’t grow or make herself. The house is full of her handiwork, knitted afghans, hooked rugs, baked goods, quilts, jams, paintings, and fresh flowers. There are always fresh flowers. Nana grows flowers all year in the greenhouse that Gramps built her. And every year she brings home multiple ribbons from the county fair. It’s no wonder that Gramps is smitten with her. But all that was before Covid, before social distancing, masks, self isolation and Nana’s trip to her sister’s house. Nana’s sister Amelia was sick and great aunt Amelia was a spinster, no husband, no kids, no one to nurse her back to health. So when Amelia called for help, Nana packed up and went, leaving Gramps with a healthy list of things to tend in her absence. Amelia’s health was serious when Nana arrived, but not grim. She was coughing a lot, spiking random fevers and really tired. The doctors said it was likely pneumonia and had started her on a course of antibiotics. But she wasn’t getting better. Her symptoms seemed to ebb but never really retreat. As Nana’s short nursing visit lengthened, Gramps became anxious to get Nana back home. A few weeks in, Gramps begged Nana to abandon the mission and leave Amelia to the professionals. News articles were cropping up about a new deadly virus and Gramps was fearful that Amelia’s symptoms were clearly identified. Gramps outlined the risks to Nana, but Nana stayed. It was her duty, she said. Gramps spent Valentine’s Day alone for the first time since he met Nana in high school. The call he received from Nana that day wasn’t the romantic greeting that he had expected. Nana had found Amelia unresponsive that morning and called an ambulance to their family home. Amelia’s breathing was shallow and she’d been admitted to the ICU at the local hospital. Nana wasn’t permitted to stay and the doctor’s prognosis wasn’t good. Nana was unsettled, but when Gramps offered to come for support, Nana declined. One way or another, she said, she’d be home soon. As Nana feared, Amelia did not recover. Nana called Gramps to tearfully break the news of Amelia’s passing. Gramps was sympathetic but urged Nana to come home, tempting her with the promise of spring planting and new flower bulbs. Nana was responsive, but there were burial arrangements to make and things to tidy up at the house before she could come home to Gramps and her flowers. Just a few more days, she said, and I’ll be home again. Amelia’s funeral was a small, private affair. Nana had discouraged anyone else from coming as travel risks were boldly splashing through the news. Stay home. Stay safe. Nana stood alone with the lily sprays that she’d purchased for the service. They were Amelia’s favorite. Gramps called Nana the morning after the memorial service to check Nana’s flight plan. Nana hadn’t finalized her itinerary, but admitted she was tired and ready to come home. She missed Gramps’ strong arms and firm shoulder, and though most estate items were settled, she needed to sign a few more papers with Amelia’s lawyer mid-week. She should be home by the weekend. Nana promised to let Gramps know when to pick her up as soon as she was done at the lawyer’s meeting. Gramps was relieved and refocused his energies to Nana’s ‘Honey-Do’ list, spending his time on anything having to do with Nana’s flower and gardening passions. Gramps trimmed, edged, mulched, weeded and turned compost. They weren’t chores, he told me as I pitched in, they were a welcome home gift for Nana. Early Thursday of that same week, Amelia’s lawyer called Gramps. The day before, Nana had cancelled their mid-week meeting. She wasn’t feeling well and she hadn’t felt well for a few days. She was so tired, she’d told the lawyer, perhaps they could reschedule. The lawyer urged her to seek medical advice and directed her to a nearby clinic. Nana called a cab, but when she arrived at the clinic the staff quickly arranged transport to the hospital for her. At the hospital, Nana was swiftly admitted and requested Amelia’s lawyer be notified of her situation. A kindly nurse made the call and explained to the lawyer that due to Nana’s advanced health compromises and her recent exposure to Amelia, she had been placed immediately in isolation with a suspected Covid infection. The severity of Nana’s fever and respiratory distress was dire. The patient would not be allowed visitors and would the lawyer please contact the patient’s family. He hadn’t realized how sick Nana was, the lawyer apologized to Gramps, but Nana had not survived the night. He offered to assist with any arrangements that needed to be made. Poor Gramps, he muddled through the next couple weeks sorting through the last of Amelia’s estate issues. Amelia’s lawyer was an enormous help, just as he’d promised, as travel was restricted and everything was handled by phone, fax or email. Nana was cremated and sent home to Gramps. She arrived in a pewter urn and he placed her on the fireplace mantle as he processed his goodbyes. At the same time, lock downs were mandated by the state. No unnecessary gatherings were allowed and with my father, a medical professional, there were no exceptions. A memorial service for Nana would have to wait and it was determined that I was a walking Petri dish. I was not allowed to visit Gramps. We spoke on the phone quite a bit, but it was not the same. Gramps was sad. Gramps was lonely. Gramps missed Nana more than anything. We all did. All things were not normal. My Mom took Gramps groceries once a week, whatever he asked for, but he never asked for much. She’d try to sneak in a few treats and she left everything on the porch for him. Gramps would wave out the living room window, force a weak smile and retrieve the bags after she drove down the driveway. I was not permitted to tag along. I’m not sure what Gramps did with his time during lock down, but he didn’t plant a vegetable garden. He did mow along the driveway and kept the front lawn down to a decent length, but he wasn’t much interested in flowers or any of Nana’s passions. I found myself worrying about the green house plants. Gramps would sidestep my questions about the orchids, violets and bonsai trees during our phone conversations, though once he grumbled that they would be fine. Everything in the green house was automated: the lights, the watering, the ventilation, the humidity. They’d be fine. The county fair was cancelled due to the state enforced limits on public gatherings. Gramps contacted a few fair officials who expressed their condolences about Nana and Gramps took the opportunity to sell Nana’s sheep. Gramps sold the bags of wool she’d collected too. She had wanted to learn to spin her own yarn someday, when she was old. Gramps had started making her a spinning wheel in the shop, but there was no urgency to finish it now. Gramps sold her chickens and the milk goats. I petitioned my parents to let me visit Gramps late in the summer, but my folks were steadfast against it. Mom couldn’t bear the thought of losing another parent to the pandemic, so Gramps had to stay isolated. At least, she admonished, you can talk on the phone together. My father was working long hours battling the virus in his clinic and volunteering at the nearby hospital. He was rarely home and when he was he couldn’t stop sharing the health cautions that he preached at the office. Wear your mask. Wash your hands. Keep your distance. Stay away from sick people. I read a lot of books and almost looked forward to back-to-school season. The local kids still didn’t resonate with me, but it was better than the online learning we’d been forced into last Spring. September arrived, but school openings were postponed again and again. Focusing on a lesson through Zoom was not engaging and I grew more disinterested in my studies every day. The routine was monotonous and claustrophobic. I suspected that Gramps felt the same way, trapped on the farm all alone with nothing stimulating to do and no one to share things with. The fall holidays were nonexistent for our family. Each occasion had a star on the calendar, but that was pretty much it for acknowledgement. I was too old for trick or treating, but I sure missed Nana’s mincemeat pie at Thanksgiving. There was nothing traditional about our Christmas either. All I asked for was the usual three or four day sleep over at Nana and Gramps. It had always been an annual event around New Year’s and I really wanted this one thing to be normal. Please I had begged, really, it’s the only present I want this year. The folks were still keen on the isolation thing, but Gramps stepped up and said it was the only thing he wanted for the holidays too. Surprisingly my folks relented and on New Year’s Eve they dropped me off at Gramps after dinner. There’d been a light snow fall and my folks were anxious to get home. Don’t stay up too late, my mom called out as she and my father drove away. We’ll pick you up in a couple days. Be good, she added as the tail lights receded into the brisk clear night. Gramps apologized that the spare room was still as Nana had left it. It was full of her unfinished projects. She had always promised to make it a proper guest room, but it was tradition for me to sleep on the couch. Quietly we made up the hideaway and spoke of nothing important. Gramps recognized the awkwardness and suggested we talk in the morning. I agreed. I woke to Gramps stirring about in the kitchen and Archie staring me down from the lazy boy by the fireplace. There was a crackling fire burning. It smelled familiar and comforting. Archie seemed to be enjoying it tremendously. Gramps wandered in with his coffee and stroked Archie until the old cat practically roared with pleasure. When Gramps realized I was awake, he announced that he had attempted to make sourdough pancakes. They were nothing like Nana’s, he warned, and we’d probably end up eating toast, but he’d crack open a jar of Nana’s special holiday apple butter if I wanted. Of course, I wanted! Gramps knew it was my favorite and I was happy to fetch it from the root cellar. It was where Nana had stored all her best stuff. Gramps and I spent the morning talking about happier memories, but I noticed that Gramps was shorter than I remembered as we washed the dishes together. Or was I just taller? I noted that Gramps moved older too. He was more mechanical as he reached for the dishes or his coffee and he shuffled his slippers across the linoleum. This year had aged him terribly and I realized how hard it had been for him without Nana. It was late morning before we opened the curtains and discovered that it had snowed again in the night. It had snowed quite a lot in fact and much of the winter nakedness of Nana’s gardens were draped in fresh white brightness. In years past, we would have already gathered eggs, feed the animals, cleaned stalls, milked the goats and tended to the green house plants. Nana would have cut new flowers to freshen the house bouquets and arranged them artfully about the house. Nana and I always searched for the first signs of Spring while Gramps readied the toboggan to tow me down to the mailbox to fetch the newspaper and any late holiday packages. There would be no sled ride this year, no fresh flowers and no signs of Spring. Gramps fetched his newspaper every day, so we bundled up and headed down the snowy driveway together. Nana’s dormant fruit trees stood starkly at attention on either side as we pushed downhill through the deep powder to the main road. It was magically quiet, except for the crunching of our footsteps and Gramps’ heavy breathing. No birds were singing. No wildlife was moving about. I remembered that the sled ride always seemed too short, but today the walk seemed a suspendedly long time. When we reached the mailbox at long last, Gramps retrieved his treasured newspaper and turned to go. Gramps, you forgot the mail, I reminded him. Dutifully Gramps reached into the box and began to draw out a sizable stack of mail. Look Gramps, I cried out excitedly. The first sign of Spring! Gramps looked around bewilderly. He searched the orchard trees and scanned the ground around his boots. Quizzically his eyes met mine to admit that he hadn’t found it. There Gramps, in your hand, I explained. Nana’s beloved seed catalogs. There are the first signs of Spring! Gramps' face slowly lit up with a youthful smile. So it is, he agreed and he hugged me firmly. Let’s go make some lunch and plan out this year’s vegetable garden. We can have hot cocoa with those mini colored marshmallows you like. I smiled back and returned Gramps' hug. I’m a pretty lucky kid.


Simon could feel the rough bark of the massive tree biting into the bare skin of his back as he pushed with all his might against it. He wasn't foolish enough to believe his piddling efforts had any hope of toppling it. The enormous oak had supposedly been there for over a thousand years. It's gnarled and unyielding branches had easily borne the weight of all the many supposed witches, dissidents and pickpockets who had been most unceremoniously hung from them. Their piteous fates had been doled out by a long lineage of tyrants who had ruled these lands with an unwavering lack of mercy. It was this very macabre history that made Simon's efforts far more grand than sending a tree to crash against the earth. His undertaking was to bestir a forest sprite who had long ago claimed the ancient oak as her home. The root of Simon's endeavors (pun intended) took place on a very tragic day in the boy's life, a day that would haunt his family for many years to come. He had just turned seven and was capering around the village square with all the exuberance of a child who had never known a single day of sadness. In his hands was a flute painstakingly crafted by his father, a birthday present young Simon thought to be the greatest gift anyone could ever receive. Well doted upon by his neighbors, they looked out of their windows, came out to stand upon their stoops, some even being so bold as to take a momentary break from their labors, all to watch this boy so completely given over to joy. They deeply treasured being given this rare opportunity to witness a child whose life had yet to be touched by cruelty, especially the near unrelenting cruelty so casually doled out by the despot whose castle could distantly be seen at the other end of the vale. It certainly didn't hurt that the boy seemed to somehow have mastered the instrument within a few hours of ownership. With pinpoint accuracy, he entertained his captivated audience with one well known ditty after another. Many chose to lend their voices to the familiar songs. Some even chose to caper with abandon. It was as if the child was wielding some sort of magic charm that had the power to exorcise any trace of grief or sorrow that lived in the hearts of all who listened. Just as the day was reluctantly giving way to a perfect pearlescent dusk, a maelstrom of pounding hooves could be heard galloping in their direction. Hooves had forever been the harbinger of doom to the inhabitants of the simple village, and this time was to be no exception. Mothers frantically tried to summon their children and brusquely order them to hide quietly in the cellars. Field workers quickly ascended their ladders so as to once again take up the task of filling up their already heavy baskets with nuts and apples, and most especially the tart, ruby red pears that their overlord so greatly favored. The blacksmith himself, a man as proud as he was mountainous, reluctantly took up his hammer and returned to pounding out a sword that would one day be used as a means of striking terror into the hearts of his neighbors. The well-armed squadron of guards came hurtling through the cobbled streets, the constant cracking of their whips urging on their steeds to an ever quickening pace. Occasionally one of their number would lash out at one of the cowering bystanders, taking heady delight in the cry of whosever cheek lost a thin, delicate strip of flesh. After moments that seemed like hours, they finally came to a halt at the well that marked the town's center. They leapt from their weary mounts with well practiced bravado, forming one perfect circle. Their captain, an especially crude and callous fellow, pulled out his cock and pissed into their precious water supply, laughing with as much gusto as he had the first time he had thought to do so, After he had shaken the very last drop from his member and buttoned up his breeches, he stepped forth to address the crowd that was loath to hear his words. "Peasants and simpletons all, know ye that I have come to you this day with the happiest of tidings. My fellows and I have come to take particular notice of one of you worthless chattel, and have decided that you might have what it takes to be of special service to your master. Beauty, you see, is quite the rare commodity among you toad faced lot. As such, we could not help but notice that this one budding lass has somehow managed to escape the litany of defects that plague the rest of you. So it is that I call forth one Rosie Cobbles. If the fortunate young maiden in question is not kneeling before me in a matter of seconds, I will be forced to burn down your precious mill. If I am not mistaken, without said precious mill, winter shall carry many of you off to your graves for want of sustenance. Come, come, my patience is already flagging and my men are just itching to light their torches........ Alrighty men, light em up and let the acrid smell of smoke envelop this sorry hamlet in a sweet caress." Just as the first of the guards lit up his torch and began his slow and arrogant strut towards the mill, a young maiden of unparalleled beauty arose from behind a cord of wood. In a calm and steely voice she addressed the posturing captain, "No need for flames or burning my good Sir. You and your brave men, with all your spears and axes, shall have to quench your barbaric need for amusement at another time. It simply isn't in the cards for you today." She then strode toward the captain with an unmistakable dignity, not so much as a single tremble to belie her fears. With a cutting, sarcastic grace she knelt before the man, a man whose hand had gone quiveringly to the hilt of his sword, Rather than demurely bow her head, as was custom with this oaf, she chose to meet his eye with a brazen look of derision. "Let us not take the usual tedious route today shall we' she intoned. "No tiresome and prattling speech detailing the horrific fate that summons me, most especially not from the syphilitic lips of vermin like yourself. Instead, be so good as to save us all from this most unnecessary boredom and take me to the swineherd you answer to without delay!" The seething captain would have ordinarily never tolerated such blatant insolence, and instead, rewarded such impertinent words with a few teeth sent scattering across the cobblestones. He knew; however, that she was to be taken unharmed. Were she to be seen with even so much a bruise defiling her lovely face, it very might end up in his beheading. He, therefore, had to make do with gripping a generous fistful of her lustrous russet hair, hoisting her roughly to her feet, and throwing her into the waiting arms of his leering comrades. The cowering crowd of assembled peasants finally began to squawk in dismay at this point, squawks most vehemently felt, but ever so softly voiced. Her father, whether coward or hero, finally limped forth on a gimpy leg. The outrage that had perhaps fueled his bravery was seeing his precious daughter, well silenced with a mouthful of hay, tossed over the back end of a mule. "I beg of you good sir, she is but a child, my first born daughter. Twasn't but a month ago that we celebrated her fifteenth name day. Please, please, if you only knew how kind she is, how sweet and..." The 'couldn't care less' captain cut him off with a hearty laugh and a swift arc of his sword that opened up the front of the father's neck as easily as a wheel of cheese. The unfeeling brute then leisurely sauntered over to the mother, a red faced cow who had foolishly given herself away with her unfettered screams. "My, my" intoned the captain. "what a truly hideous thing you are to have whelped such a prize. May I suggest you put an end to you keening before you meet the same fate as your poor and quickly dying beloved." This was quite enough to silence her. She had four other children to look after. That, she thought, had to take precedence over the abject horror she just had the great misfortune to witness, It was then that the newly seven Simon ran up to stand bravely in front of his mother, somehow managing not to slip upon the copious blood of his father along the way. In a terribly devastated and futile rush of breath, he attempted to beg, threaten and cajole the captain into releasing his sister. He stomped his dirty bare feet upon the ground in syncopation with his words, hoping to sway the man with some small level of intimidation. Needless to say, the captain was far from cowed. "Supposed I failed to do as you bid" he said as he lowered his face to meet the boy's. "Shall you beat me with your flute? Perhaps go on wetting your threadbare shirt with your wretched tears as thoroughly as you've apparently wet your trousers. Then again, fingers crossed, perchance you'll throw yourself to the bottom of the well and deliver us from your infernal bleating." Little Simon, though admirably bold for a boy his age, could no longer withstand the nightmare that had so recently unfolded. His spindly shoulders slumped and he turned to bury his face into the comforting woolen folds of his mother's skirts. "There now," said the captain. "The child seems to have come to his senses and wisely conceded that reality is not his to bend or shape. Now he has the luxury of a future, as meagre as that may be in this hovel of huts. Until. of course, he makes the dire mistake of crossing me again. Then he may lay blame at no one's feet but his own." With that, he caressed the boy's cheeks with an unseemly tenderness and then turned to jump and mount his steed. His men knew to do the same in short order, and so off they rode to what may has well have been the other side of the moon. The last despairing vision they had of poor, dear Rosie Cobbles was the useless and most heartbreaking pounding of her fists against the the hind of the beast of burden who carried her. Later that evening, as the moon made it's nightly ascension into a sky that had need of it's light, the population of the town stumbled around in the familiar haze of despair. Many rightly wondered if they would one day be able to heal from one calamity, before another one crashed down upon them like the insouciant waves of an angry tide. Some took to their beds, willing themselves to sleep, a sleep not fraught with the events of the day. Others chose to drink, emptying one flagon of ale after another, if only to soften the edges of what had befallen them. Simon; however, unable to deal with the unceasing poorly stifled sobs of his mother, sought something resembling peace at the feet of the oak that towered over the roofs of the town. He was playing his flute, sounding out the notes of every maudlin ballad he had ever heard. It was just as he was about to begin his fifth rendition of the gloomiest one of all, that he heard the sultry voice of a woman sitting on a branch a good fifty feet above his head. "Dear boy, you do play so beautifully. I won't begrudgingly give you the praise you well deserve. That said, must you put me at my wit's end with one depressing dirge after another. It makes me want to leap from the highest branch and put a dramatic end to it all. Alas, I am immortal and unable to find escape so easily. Is there nothing that can be done to lift your spirits or somehow compel you to play something a bit more cheerful?" "Who are you and why must you interfere in my attempts to dispel some small measure of sorrow?" "I am known as Leafy. Yes, I realize it's not the grand name you might have been expecting. That's what comes of having a mother who has given birth to far too many children. One runs out of imagination and options. So it is that I chose to live alone and thus evade those who would wish me to bear one of their offspring. The males of my kind make a sport of it. No matter how many times they have proven how virile they are, it is somehow never enough. Ah well, that is my own sad tale. Tell me a bit of yours. Clearly there is one and perhaps I can help you in some way. My woman's intuition is telling me you crave some sort of revenge. Has someone wronged you? Would you like to see them punished? I do have powers at my disposal to lend to such an endeavor. Besides, I'm bored and find myself in need of something to do." Young Simon recounted to the forest sprite the heinous events of the day, earnestly hoping that she would be able to give life to her boasting. "Ahhhh, yes, i can quite understand your need for vengeance. Who wouldn't want to make such villains pay! Know this though boy, if you seek my help in the righting of wrongs, you too must pay a price. I don't just do such things, no matter how much such evil men may deserve it. I will make it a simple bargain though young one. I do feel a pang of pity for you after all, and there is something I know that is within your power to offer me. Every night, when sister moon is half way in her journey across the heavens, I want you to sit right where you are now and play me a score of lullabies. With your gifts, perhaps I can put insomnia in my past. You must do this every night for a thousand nights. When you have dutifully marked down the nights of your servitude to zero, I will abet you in a revenge that will be the stuff of legends. Do we have a deal?"